Tracey is Famous
Fame is the spur, as they say, and Tracey had made up her mind to be famous. It seemed a much better option than living laborious days and a very much better option than the reluctant job seekers initiative.
The route to fame seemed obvious. One of those television talent shows. She entered for Britain's Got Talent, but her carefully rehearsed tap dance routine ended with Tracey sprawled on the floor, her legs in the air and her Hello Kitty panties on display. One of the judges, the nasty one with the spiky hair, suggested that she was perhaps a bit too broad in the beam for dancing. Poor Tracey was aghast. She had always thought her bottom her best feature, and here was some upstart suggesting it was too big!
She gave up Britain's Got Talent and applied for 'The X Factor'. She didn't even get as far as the auditions. Her friend Lucy was adamant.
"I'm not having people laugh at me because they've seen you on telly trying to sing!"
Tracey was distraught. Her plans might have been in tatters but Lucy had her own plans for her.
"Why not try for this instead," she suggested.
It was a flagship show from Channel XXX, the new cable and internet channel with a reputation for rather naughty shows. It promised to be 'cutting edge'.
"It's called the 'F' factor. It's on cable. Nobody we know will watch it."
Tracey was a bit mollified. It was at least a start. She sent off her application and a photo as requested.
She was delighted to be accepted for audition, but Lucy wasn't in the least surprised. Unlike Tracey she had read what the show was about and she doubted they'd get many applicants!
Tracey turned up for her audition. Rupert Chambers the presenter looked her up and down. A bit on the plump side, was his opinion. Still beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Name?" he asked.
"Tracey Smith."
"No, performing name."
"What?"
"Can't use your real name. You have to have a performing name."
"Oh? I haven't got one."
"Name of your first pet and mother's maiden name. That's what most girls do."
"Booboo Fotheringay?"
"Perfect Booboo," said Chambers, "what's your act?"
"I thought I might dance."
"Well of course you're going to dance. What's your angle, your gimmick?"
"Angle?"
"Yes, what are you going to dance with?"
Tracey was nonplussed.
"Can you explain exactly what the show is about?" she asked.
*****
"Lucy! Did you know what the 'F' factor is!" Tracey was not best pleased with Lucy.
"Well. Sort of."
"Do you know what the 'F' stands for?"
"Well sort of."
"Sort of my arse! You knew fine well. 'F' stands for fuck! It's the 'Fuck' Factor. Contestants have to do a striptease Lucy! They strip naked and the panellists decide which one they'd most like to fuck!"
Now gentle reader, you must know that our modest little Tracey was not generally wont to use words like 'arse' and 'fuck' as a normal part of her conversation. You can judge then that she was none too pleased with Lucy.
"And that's all?"
"Of course that's all. Isn't that bad enough?"
Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. Tracey didn't know the half of it. Not that it mattered. No girl as broad in the beam as Tracey would win. Surely!
"What's the problem Tracey, it's only some cable channel, nobody you know will watch it, and it's five hundred pounds pounds to the winner."
"But I wanted to be famous!"
"You will be famous. And five hundred pounds Tracey. Just for taking your clothes off and parading around."
"No way! I'm not having a panel decide if I'm fuckable!"
“So you don’t want to be famous?”
“Well yes.”
“And you don’t to go to Lanzarote?”
"But you were going to lend me the five hundred for Lanzarote!"
"'Was' being the operative word."
"But Lucy!"
“Well what are you waiting for.”
Tracey had no option. It had been her only chance of fame, and now it was her only chance of Lanzarote!
*********
“Tracey, do you really think nude tap dancing is going to win you the competition?”
“Well I’m no good at anything else.”
“Have it your own way, but don’t practice down the badminton club again, you’ll get us both chucked out.”
Tracey had been working hard on her routine, and decided that a dress rehearsal was necessary. Or rather an undress rehearsal. She had thought the badminton courts would be empty that time at night. She hadn’t realised the boy scouts used them to practice their gymnastics on a Wednesday. Still, she’d probably have been all right if she hadn’t run out into the street screaming. Now she was banned from the badminton club and was having to practice in the kitchen. It wasn’t a great success.
“Anyway, here’s your contract for the show for you to sign.”
“But you’ve opened it!”
“Of course. As your agent I have to check everything.”
Lucy was careful not to let Tracey look too closely at the page that committed the winner to the last part of the show. She didn’t think Tracey would mind. Not really, but perhaps it was better she didn’t know quite yet.
“Where do I sign,” said Tracey glumly, scribbling her name at the bottom and barely reading the contract. She was committed now. The contract had severe penalties if she backed out. Of any of it.
*********
It was with some trepidation that Tracey made her way to the run down back street studios of Channel XXX for the big night. She was committed to it now. She just hoped her friends weren’t watching.
She had perfected her tap dancing striptease routine. It might not have been elegant, but at least it was original. Grouped in the wings waiting to be led on were the other five girls in the competition. They were a motley looking bunch. Rupert Chambers looked glum. He had told the producer that five hundred wouldn’t attract much of a line up and he’d been right. Only the blonde one with the bottom was any good.
He did his best to look cheerful as he announced the contestants:
“Miss Tiddles McGonagle,” scattered applause, “Miss Fluffy Fanshawe,” even more scattered applause, “Miss Montmorency Sidebottom,” sniggers, “Miss Smoky Bacon,” downright laughter, “Miss Fido Dodds,” Fido? What was the girl thinking of? “and finally Miss Booboo Fotheringay.”
Ecstatic applause ringed the studio. Tracey looked round in horror. The whole of the badminton club had come to watch.
Tracey, or rather Booboo, was on last. She watched in horrified fascination as the girls in turn divested themselves of their clothes, writhing and grinding to a succession of sound-alike dance music. He heart was beating faster and faster. She was actually going to have to take all her clothes off. It was all too horrible.
Then the announcement came.
“And finally Miss Booboo Fotheringay will dance…” Rupert looked in astonishment at the piece of paper in front of him, “Forty-Second Street”
The music struck up. The song started.
Come and meet those dancing feet,
On the avenue I'm taking you to,
Forty-Second Street.
Tracey started tap-dancing. It was a routine she knew well, though she usually ended up on her well padded behind by the end, but it was ten times more difficult to perform while simultaneously removing her flapper costume. As each shoe came off, the applause got louder. As her top came off, it increased. When she was in her bra and panties it reached a crescendo. Removing the bra wasn’t so bad, but getting her panties down and off while continuing to tap dance was a feat worthy of Ginger Rogers herself. Not, gentle reader, that I’m implying that the divine Ginger ever removed her panties while dancing, that was Joan Blondell. Tracey had practised and practised until she could tap dance on one foot while pulling her panties off the other leg. But somehow as the panties came down the ecstatic response of the audience unnerved her.
The song reached its climax.
Hear the beat of dancing feet,
It's the song I love the melody of,
Forty-Second Street.
As her panties came off Tracey lost her balance completely. Her panties went up in the air, her legs went up in the air and she came down with a thump on her bare behind, legs in the air giving the subscribers to Channel XXX a night to remember for a long time.
Scarlet faced, Tracey scrambled to her feet and stark naked, save for a pair of tap dancing shoes and short white socks ran off.
**********
It was the time for the judges to give their verdict. There were four of them, the egregious Rupert, that footballer with the ears, that bloke who had once been in a rock band, and the comedian who had been on all those panel shows until his trial. It was the best Channel XXX could afford. The girls stood, completely nude, in front of them awaiting their corruscating wit. Their comments on Montmorency Sidebottom were castigating, their demolition of Fido Dodds reduced her to tears. Poor Tracey was terrified. What would they say about her performance!
She stood trying to hide her boobies and her vagina with her hands as the verdict was delivered.
“Well Booboo,” asked Rupert, "that was an interesting performance. Tell me, what do you think is your best asset?"
Poor Tracey, having to stand there with nothing on and answer questions, felt totally humiliated.
"My bottom," she mumbled.
"Your what?" Rupert was enjoying this.
"My bottom."
"Louder Booboo."
"My bottom," Tracey shouted.
"Don't you think it' s a bit well... Large?"
"No it isn't. No it isn't," Tracey was rather sensitive about the size of her bottom.
"I think we'll let the panel be the judge of that. Turn round Booboo."
Tracey turned round so that her bottom faced the panel... And the cameras.
"And bend over Booboo."
What option did Tracey have. It hadn't been supposed to be like this, having four men make vulgar comments about her bare behind, all on air. But what choice did she have? She'd signed a contract. She bent over and touched her toes.
Silly bint, thought Rupert, but at least the viewers would be loving it.
"Well what do you think panel. What have you to say about Booboo's ASS-et!"
"Cor!" it was the footballer's sole contribution to the discussion all evening. He had a penchant for ample behinds.
"Rock on Baby!" said the superannuated pop star, though quite what he meant by that nobody knew.
"I like to see girls as a whole," the corruscating wit of the comedian was fading, he felt it necessary to explain his joke, "you get it? 'As a whole - as a hole!'." The audience didn't get it and he lapsed into silence. Tracey did though, and did her best to keep her legs together as the camera zoomed in. Sadly she wasn't entirely successful.
The girls were made to line up again as the panel debated their decision and some girl band nobody had ever heard of mimed to their latest offering to the public. As lastly Rupert was ready to pronounce upon each deed, Tracey's heart was thumping, Lanzarote depended on the result, to say nothing of her quest for fame.
"And the result is as follows, in reverse order: third - Miss Smoky Bacon," desultory round of applause, Miss Smoky Bacon looked disappointed, "second - Miss Fido Dodds," slightly more desultory applause. Tracey's mouth had gone dry. Had she won?.
"And finally the winner of The F Factor 2011, the girl we'd most like to fuck! Miss Booboo Fotheringay!"
A mixture of pride, embarrassment and excitement swept over Tracey. She'd won! The money was hers! But what about the fame!
"And now Booboo. According to the rules of the game you must choose one of the panel."
Tracey couldn't remember anything about this in the contract. She looked at the panel. Oh well, may as well go along with it, it was harmless enough, "Him," she pointed at the footballer. Well he had been nice about her bottom.
Rupert looked disappointed.
"Well Booboo," he said, "now is the time to see if the panel have made a good choice. Off you go. We'll have a report back in..." he looked at the footballer who was looking rather pleased with himself, "...a few minutes I think."
The footballer didn't seem to get the joke as he and the bewildered Tracey were led away. Poor Tracey hadn't got the joke either.
Rupert turned to the camera.
"Now viewers - the moment you have been waiting for. The delightful Booboo will become the first girl to be fucked live on television and we will see if the panel made the correct choice! Sadly the legal spoilsports who determine what can go out on air have determined that only her face can be shown during the er... performance, but you will have the benefit of hearing everything that goes on, and you and our audience here can watch her face on the big screen."
He turned to where Tracey's puzzled looking face was now visible in startling close-up.
Tracey was indeed puzzled. What was going on. Why had she been bent over a table. Why was there a camera pointing at her face. It didn't take long for her to find out.
Back in the studio the audience roared with laughter at the look on Tracey's face. Her eyes had suddenly opened wide in a look of startled surprise. It was obvious what had just happened at the other end.
"Oh My God!" thought Tracey, as she felt a large penis inserted up her vagina. The scales fell from her eyes and she suddenly realised the meaning of all those comments. Why hadn't she read the contract in more detail! Too late to back out now. She'd signed a contract! She'd agreed to be fucked by her chosen panellist.
"Oooooooooh!" it was a particularly large penis! The audience roared and laughed at Tracey's trembling ears as the look on her face gradually transmogrified from surprise, to pleasure, to ecstasy.
And as for poor Tracey. She now realised the reason for the camera on her face. She was being fucked live on television. But what could she do. When a girl's being fucked she can only react one way. You know that don't you girls? You know what it's like when you're being fucked!
"Oooooooooh!" she was shouting louder now.
"Eeeeeeeeeeh!" she was getting near to a climax.
"Waaaaaaaaah!" she had reached a climax.
The audience roared and clapped. The look of ecstasy on Tracey's face as she was fucked to orgasm on camera was a sight to behold.
And as for poor Tracey...
********
Next day she came down to breakfast. A pile of a hundred five pound notes was on the table. Lanzarote was in the bag, but it had only been cable. She would never be famous. She picked up her copy of the Daily Jupiter. Her face, a look of ecstatic joy over every feature, stared back at her under the caption "Cor!" - the footballer hadn't managed to improve his vocabulary when reporting back, but the one word said it all.
Life for Tracey would never be the same again.