"But it's a blow to my ego, sweetie," Shanda answered.
"Oh." Karen decided it was just as well she hadn't mentioned that she had made it with Paul.
"Well, back to the wars," Shanda said when the stage manager rapped on the door.
"I'm exhausted," Karen groaned. "I'll never make it."
"Just relax and let that partner of yours carry some of the load. He's itching for some camera time anyway. He's hoping some big producer will notice his performance."
"But he's so dumb," Karen blurted out.
Shanda chuckled. "Yeah, but hell have the answers this afternoon. I'll see to that."
Karen was beginning to wonder if anyone on the show was honest. "Going to be a long afternoon," she said carefully.
"Half-hour breaks each half hour this afternoon," Shanda assured her. "Three more shows to tape that means two breaks. You'll make it."
"I hope so." Karen sighed.
They walked slowly back to the studio.
Karen made her way to her seat, and gave her partner a shy smile.
"Hello there!" he gushed. Karen winced. He had been drinking heavily during the lunch break. His eyes looked a little glassy until they focused on her titties. His hand settled on her knee behind the podium, where the eye of the camera couldn't see. Karen decided it was going to be one hell of an afternoon.
CHAPTER SIX
"B-Baltimore," Karen managed to stammer out. She hoped her shaking, shuddering and squirming would be interpreted as nervousness. She wiggled her ass on her seat and shivered as a finger slithered up into her bare twat. The bright lights glared down on her. The unwinking eyes of four cameras seemed to be peering right into her soul.
And, beyond the cameras, shadowy and indistinct, was the studio audience. Their pale moon faces, a galaxy of them, rose into shadowy upper reaches. They were a concrete reminder of the millions of people the TV cameras represented.
Karen spread her thighs. Her lust roared higher. Her partner, the movie star, pumped his hand in her oozing snatch. His fingers fucked in and out of her cunt. He rolled and tugged her clit as he fucked her dripping twat. Five minutes after the taping had started, his hand had found her unprotected crotch, and he had grinned hotly at her. Now, halfway into the show, he was driving her mad with his hand.
Frantically, Karen battled to keep her mind on what Peter Sandier was saying. Her lead had been dwindling steadily, and it was the leader at the end of five shows that got to try for the jackpot. She had started passing the questions to her partner. But he was incredibly dumb apparently Shanda hadn't had a chance to give him any help. Anyway, he showed little interest in how she was doing on the show, though plenty in her naked crotch.
Karen slapped her buzzer and managed to give the correct answer to the question before a hot wave of lust swept ova her. The man's thumb was on her clit, and he was deftly rolling the squirmy nubbin against her pubic bone.
The master of ceremonies went on to the next question. Karen tried to keep her mind on what he was saying. But she was distracted by the hand in her twat. A finger was moving downward from her cunt, toward the crack of her ass, toward her shitter. She groaned and rocked on her chair, letting him touch her winkie.
"Chattanooga," she managed to groan, picking up another hundred dollars.
"Right!" Sandier cheered, then cast her a suspicious glance. "Please, try to speak up, Karen. All right, time for a word from the people who make all these prizes possible. We'll be right back after this message."
The red light on the camera went off. Karen let out a muffled moan as she relaxed and slumped in her chair. The most frightening thing about what was happening was how much she was enjoying it. And, mad as it seemed, she was enjoying it mainly because of all the people watching. She loved the idea that she was being felt up on a brightly lit stage while television cameras, technicians, and an audience, all looked on.
Her one regret was that she couldn't kick the podium over. She was sorry that she couldn't throw her legs wide, let the gleaming camera lens look up her thighs at her throbbing snatch, at the hand pumping in it. She wished that the gross image of her steaming twat could be carried into every home in the country. She knew that deep in her guts she was an exhibitionist.
"Better try to get in the game, Jason," Peter Sandier was telling Karen's partner.
"Why, this little lady is doing just fine, just fine," Jason drawled, not taking his hand out of her pussy. "She doesn't need my help. Do you, little lady?"
Karen wanted to snap that she wasn't his "little lady", but his grasp on her juicy pussy said otherwise. She was his, and everyone else's, it seemed. No more was she just her husband's woman she was the community twat. She had been had by the MC, the producer, the assistant, the make-up man, and now she was giving herself to her partner. Push the right button and watch the dolly flop on her back and spread her legs!
But it felt so damn, damn good! Mark had never done anything like this with her, ever. It was an incredible revelation to Karen that public sex, with many different people, was much better than fucking her husband in the privacy of their bedroom. She hived having everyone admire her body, loved being stimulated in every possible way. She loved sucking cock. She loved kissing ass. She loving having her asshole penetrated.
She reached over and unzipped her partner's fly as the cameras came back on. Peter Sandier began talking again.
Karen squeezed out the next answer just as she closed her hand around her partner's throbbing pee key. When the camera went off her, she looked down at the dick in her fist. She moved her hand up and down, felt the soft skin slither over the hard center. She felt pre-come sting her fingers. She wondered if the microphone could pick up the delicate erotic noise of her pumping hand. She hoped so.
Her partner hissed softly. His hips shifted and squirmed on his seat. He froze when the camera came back on them. Karen spit out an incorrect answer, saw her lead cut in half. Then she fought down a loud moan as she felt a finger press against her asshole. Her legs flapped crazily, open and shut, open and shut. She wanted to bring her knees up to her chest, to squat as if she were taking a crap in the woods, so he could bugger her bung more easily. But she couldn't do it. She had to sit there and pretend everything was normal while one finger pistoned in her twat, and another reamed her brownie. She kept on pumping his prick.
And all the time the lights were burning down on her, and the faces beyond the lights were watching. She imagined that she was naked, sitting on a high stool, with her legs spread wide so everyone could see. The thought made her crotch fountain come. Her tits were like red-hot marbles in her tight, confining bra.
She felt her bung slowly yielding to the drilling finger. She wondered, crazily, what he was going to do after he extracted his shitty finger from her butt. Where would he wipe it? A crazy giggle started bubbling up from her seething gut.
Of course, she was going to come. Right there on camera, on stage, she was going to come. And the need to look as normal as possible was going to make it a fantastic climax. The need to come absolutely silently was going to make it a high-pressure eruption. Because, the only outlet she would have would be the pleasure. She wouldn't have the outlet of screaming or groaning or writhing. All she would be able to do would be quiver, and enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
And what about her partner? What if he came? Christ! His jettings might spurt above the shielding podium. Right there on camera, pearly spurts of jism would burst upward. People would think there was a geyser hidden behind the podium. Then the semen would spatter down on his trousers, stain them so when he got up, even if he had his dick tucked back in his fly, everyone would know he had come.