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Star Quality
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Warning--there is one quasi-nonconsensual sex scene, although I'm
not even really sure if you'd classify it as non-consensual. It's
more along the lines of biocybernetically-induced bottoming. Or
something like that.
MAM
Star Quality
By Melanie Miller
_I remember. . ._
Ben Grayson opened his eyes. He had been dreaming about
Lara Scott in a scene from their latest movie--smooth, blond Lara,
and wasn't it surprising when the dreamscene moved beyond an R
rating into censored territory? His fingers slipping underneath
the velvet strap of her monogown, exploring the feel of silky skin.
And then--
_I remember. . ._
An image of textbooks on a battered desk. Grassy lawn,
with blue sky above it. It had the taste of old iron, dread and
anticipation sliding him out of sleep into polished fear.
He rolled over, waiting for the dream to fade. Sensory
bleedover, the doctors called it--uncontrolled feedback from the
subconscious. Lara called them "morning's little horrors," and Ben
had to agree. Except that it wasn't morning, and the dreams were
slowly getting worse.
He glanced at the bedside clock--7:30 PM. Time to get up,
get ready for the party. As Maximillian would say, it wouldn't do
to keep the head of a major Hollywood studio waiting. Of course,
Ben would never do something as rude as that--as one of the acting
elite of the 20's, he was under formal contract with Maximillian
Hiller, the agent of the decade. And a favorite subject of
Maximillian's (never Max--he hated diminutives) was how members of
the Hiller Group worked with the studios, not against them.
Even with its director's quasi-feudal attitude, everyone
wanted to belong to the Hiller Group. The masses that streamed
into Hollywood would be sifted regularly, fine psychological mesh
screening the waitresses and busboys for talent, and only the best,
the hungriest, would be admitted to the fold. That was one of
Maximillian's proudest claims--all of his clients were standouts in
one way or another. Professional, other agents said with envy.
Maximillian never had to cover up embarrassing pasts, arrange
special hospital stays, pay off local law enforcement. The Hiller
Group were actors first and foremost, dedicated to their craft.
And part of that craft was to project an image, Ben
remembered. He rolled out of bed, heading for a shower and the
transformation that turned him into Benjamin Grayson, Superstar.
_Get ready, boy. It's showtime._
He arrived at the party just late enough to make an
entrance. The eyes of the crowd--all people involved with the
Business--crawled over his skin agreeably, feather-light massage on
the ego. Something clicked inside his head and he went into
automatic pilot: nod here, kiss a cheek there, get into the groove
of things. Project.. He saw Maximillian with Lara and waved
before being drawn into conversation with a leather-skinned mogul's
wife. And when a director intercepted him with a not-so-subtle
film offer, Ben managed to catch Maximillian's eye.
"Grayson, my boy, good to see you," the agent said, cutting
into the conversation. Briefly, the actor mused that Maximillian
looked like the ideal parent--six feet tall, a strong, kindly face,
dark hair edged with gray at the temples. The only thing that
spoiled the image was his eyes, an odd shade of flat, cold blue.
"Enjoying yourself?"
"Naturally," Benjamin replied, glancing at Lara (I
remember) and faltering. "Jorge and I were discussing his next
picture," he said, as if to explain the break.
"Which Benjamin would be perfect for," Jorge added,
delighted to have Maximillian's attention. "The part was
practically written for him, but he keeps dodging me--"
"Which he is supposed to do," Maximillian said smoothly.
There was a new undertone to his words now, a polite aural ice.
"All business deals are done through me, as I'm sure you know."
Jorge immediately became apologetic. "I'm aware of that,"
he said quickly. "I simply wanted to run the idea past Benjamin--"
"Which you've done. Benjamin, why don't you escort Lara
around, while Jorge and I discuss his idea." Maximillian handed
the actress to Ben, then guided the director off to a corner.
Lara glanced after them, the demure expression melting into
a smile. "This is the third time he's handed me off while he sets
up a deal," she said, half-laughing. "I'm starting to wonder if I
should ask for a cut."
"I don't think you'll get it," Ben said dryly. "Remember,
babe, he's the top hustler in town."
"I like it that way. It makes me feel more secure." She
had a voice that had been described variously as soft, lilting,
honeyed. Tonight, Ben thought, it was elegantly sweet; champagne
and strawberries. "By the way, he has some work for us
afterwards."
Ben nodded, understanding. The host, and probably the
hostess. It was part of the job when you worked with the Hiller
Group. The dream floated into consciousness again, overlaying the
party. _I remember. . ._
"What's the matter?" Lara asked. She looked up into his
face, smile turning down at the corners. "You faded out for a
minute."
"Nothing." He shrugged the dream off, back into his
subconscious. "You want that drink?"
"Of course. Then we'll entertain the peons."
Two hours later, he took a break from the mingling. Drift
from one group to another, be witty, amusing--even if you were used
to it, it could get tiring after a while. Lara was still
downstairs chatting with people in the vast ballroom, and Ben
wanted a chance to be alone with the night sky, polluted as it was.
He leaned out on a second-floor balcony, tracking faint traces of
starlight that made it through the smog. Memories started bleeding
through again, subconscious fragments:
_I remember. . ._
_Another time, another place. Farther east, where people
only watched the stars on holovision, never thinking to become one
of them. Maximillian had come to the campus right after
graduation, where he met Tim McCarthy for the first time. Benjamin
felt like a ghost, watching Maximillian and the boy walking on the
campus's quadrangle. The sky had been blue, very clear, and the
sun had been warm on their shoulders as Maximillian explained how
the boy could make a great deal of money in the entertainment
industry._
_Tim insisted that he wasn't an actor--the commercial had
been his girlfriend's idea. He wanted to be an agricultural
researcher. Maximillian demurred--acting talent wasn't necessary,
not with the technological options at his command._
"You look lonely."
Not moving, Ben tried on a small grin that didn't seem to
fit. "Not really."
He glanced sideways. Lara's profile was framed, outlined
by the lights of downtown L.A. Classically beautiful. He tried to
come up with the right answer, something that would describe the
dreams he'd been having lately, but nothing seemed right. They
stood there in companionable silence, the cool night breeze
ruffling through their hair, before he said, "Do you ever remember
what it was like? Before?"
Lara sighed. "I don't think about it," she said. "You
shouldn't, either. It only confuses you."
"I know, but sometimes I can't help it. It's like I'm
being invaded by memories."
Lara shook her head, moving away from him. She didn't want
to talk about it, he knew. Lara was the ideal actress--calm,
competent, perfectly adjusted to the change in her life. She had a
magic that critics kept comparing to the screen greats--Gish,
Hepburn, Streep. Great implants. Lara was never confused. "Maybe
you should go see Dr. Berringer," she suggested, brusque. "Have
him take a look at you. You might need an adjustment."
Unconsciously, Ben reached up and touched the skin
underneath his right ear, massaging it with two fingers. That was
where they'd gone in, with the surgical probes. "Maybe," he
agreed.
_A small surgical procedure, the newest form of wetware,
and Tim would have the skills of the greatest thespians at his
fingertips, Maximillian said. The silicarbon circuits would
interface directly with his brain, a biocompatible network riding
the limbic ring. All he would have to do is think about the
network, and it would generate controlled emotional states in
response to incoming stimuli._
_You mean it's an artificial persona, Tim said, quiet.
He'd heard about the procedure from friends, horrified at first,
then fascinated. It wouldn't be me, just some software riding
around in my head._
_You make it sound so nefarious, Maximillian answered,
smiling. Like it's a form of mind control._
_Well, isn't it?_
_And this time, Maximillian did laugh, the father figure
amused by a fearful child. Of course not, he said. You would have
control over your every thought, your every mood. Your implant
would simply allow you access to a greater range of emotions, the
skills you would need to be a great actor. Think of it as a
built-in acting coach._
"Anyway, I came out here to find you," she continued.
"Maximillian's waiting for us upstairs."
"All right." Ben turned, willing the vagueness to be gone.
He took control again, the smooth persona clicking into reality.
_Turn up the charm, boy. It's showtime._
He dug his toes into the satin, thrusting harder. The
woman beneath him moaned, winding slippery legs around his hips,
whispering obscenities under her breath to urge him on. Across the
hall, he thought, Lara was probably doing the same thing with the
studio head, unless the man got into something kinky. Not
impossible, but Lara knew how to handle that.
He jerked again, and again, until it was finished.
Naturally, he made sure the woman came first--he could even hold
back until she had two orgasms, sometimes even three. After love
(because with him, it was love of a sort--wasn't that programmed
into the implants?), he slid off to the side, holding her. The
apre-sex comedown that women needed, he told himself. If you were
going to do a job, do it right.
Her breathing quieted, finally slowing to sleep's pace. In
the still room, he could feel other thoughts sliding up to him,
demanding notice. Maximillian had said this would happen, even
gave tips on how to avoid the bleedover. But tonight, Ben was too
tired to fight. He let the memories come, shivering under their
weight:
_Why me, Tim asked._
_Because you're the American ideal, Maximillian had said.
They want your type, your voice--they'll love you. Maximillian
smiled, the cool charm turned up a notch. And because it would
make us both a great deal of money, he added gently._
_Tim flushed There weren't many scholarships for aggie
scientists anymore, and he had been living on loans and side jobs.
And with graduation, the loans would start coming due._
_Five years with the Hiller Group and you would have the
money for your bills, for a graduate degree, whatever you want,
Maximillian said. Five years with us, and you will have financial
freedom for the rest of your life._
_In exchange for five years of slavery, Tim said, horribly
surprised at a sudden, tiny desire to believe Maximillian. An
artificial persona was interesting when you were sitting around
with friends in a safe dorm room, your mind still your own. The
thought of actually carrying something like that in your head--_
_I wouldn't call it slavery, Maximillian replied. It's
simply acting, taken to the ultimate degree._
The woman eased into sleep. Only then did he slip out of
bed, gathering his clothes and looking for a bathroom where he
could shower. Luckily, the bedrooms were connected with a palatial
bath. Soundproof door, he noted, closing it behind him. Good.
Lara was already there, washing herself at the bidet. She
turned, looking over her shoulder, and gave him a cheerful smile.
"How was it?"
"Not bad." Ben went through his clothes, hanging them on a
towel rack. "Better than last time. At least she was in pretty
good shape. Yours?"
Lara shrugged. "About the same. He likes to be on
bottom."
Ben grunted understanding, stepped into the shower to wash
off the woman's sweat. After a minute, Lara slipped in. "You
mind?"
"No." He handed her the soap, and received a sudsy
washcloth as a prize. Like cats on good terms, they washed each
other. Asexual, friendly.
He was incapable of feeling any real attraction for Lara,
wet and slick as she was. He was sure she felt the same
way--Maximilian had suggested that a romance between them wouldn't
be in their best interest. He reached down to turn off the water,
when a shadow appeared through the steam, watching them.
"Lovely," the studio head whispered above the water's hiss.
"Lovely, children."
Ben felt Lara freeze, next to him. Waiting for the next
suggestion, he thought disjointedly. _Sure, we do requests._
"I'd like to see a love scene." The man leaned up against
the sink, his eyes slipping over them through the moisture. "Now."
Compliantly, Ben straightened up. His indifference melted,
changed to desire. His need was reflected in her eyes, blue and
eager, as she rubbed up against him, the water from the shower no
longer her only wet. He grabbed her roughly, the way the studio
head wanted him to hold her, the water beading on their skin.
_It had been the money that finally convinced him. A
guaranteed $100,000 the first year; after that, the sky was the
limit. Whatever his talent could pull in--a million and up wasn't
impossible, they had said._
_What if nobody wanted to hire me, he had asked. The
administrative section of the Hiller Group just laughed.
Maximillian hasn't picked a loser yet, they told him. Don't worry.
You'll be fine._
_And he had. After the surgery, renamed Benjamin Grayson,
he had co-starred in a fluff sitcom. Neilsons went through the
roof--the public loved him. After that, it was a string of
steadily bigger movies, until he was signed as the star for his
current 3-D, American Players. Women walked up to him everywhere,
offering him their bodies, anything he desired. Men wanted to be
like him. He was successful, a star, just as Maximillian planned._
_And his memories of life as Tim McCarthy were dimming._
The sun was a faint shimmer over the Hills when he finally
got home. Good party, he thought, throwing his jacket over the
couch. Another one for the record books.
The events of the night, after the party--well, they didn't
involve him, not directly. The sex had started after his first
movie, with the producer and his wife. Grayson remembered it in a
clinical way--the quiet summons from Maximillian, being delivered
to the hotel by limo. Wrapped up like a birthday present, he
thought. It had been his first experience with a threesome, the
feel of male skin next to his own. Maybe that was when the dreams
began to bleed over into his conscious mind; the ghost of Tim
McCarthy screaming, he thought morbidly.
He had asked Maximillian about the sex once. These people
were important in the Business, the agent had explained, and wanted
intercourse with the godhead of entertainment. Contact with
beautiful bodies, nothing more. And it was part of their job to
supply that contact to the right people, he'd added. Every member
of the Hiller Group did it. Nothing new--actors and actresses had
been doing it for years. The implants was an improvement on the
situation, a way to protect themselves emotionally. Let the
implants carry you through, Maximillian had suggested before taking
him up to that first hotel room. They'll know what to do.
Still musing, he poured himself a glass of orange juice.
Standard morning ritual--orange juice, vitamin. More suggestions
from Maximillian. Thank God we're not shooting until noon, he
thought, shrugging off the rest of his clothes, standing in his
briefs in the middle of the living room. At least I can get some
sleep.
_He wanted to talk to Lara afterwards, but she had gone
straight home. Instead, Maximillian had been waiting downstairs
for him._
_Lara told me you've been having some problems, he said,
slipping into the father confessor role. Like to talk about it?_
_And for the first time since Ben started acting, he
didn't. He didn't want to talk to Maximillian Hiller, father
surrogate, chaperone, super agent. He wanted to work the memories
out on his own. But Maximillian wouldn't hear of it._
_I told you that might happen, he'd said easily, on the way
home. Your body's immunological system is simply reacting to the
implant. We'll have Dr. Berringer look at it tomorrow._
_I don't want him to, Benjamin had said._
_But Maximillian insisted. It'll only confuse you if you
allow this to continue, Benjamin, he said._
_My name is Tim, he said irrationally._
_Maximillian was silent for a moment. In this place and
time, your name is Benjamin. In two years, when your contract is
up, you may decide to go back to that name. The agent smiled, and
Ben felt chilled by that smile. Or you may prefer the one you have
now._
_No, I don't think so. But the words brought a strange,
deep confusion. His life seemed to be a series of facets, beads
strung on a chain. Somewhere, those facets had changed, become
something new that was called Benjamin Grayson. Did that make him
real? And what did that make Tim McCarthy? Unreal?_
_He could imagine the resurrection. The chain would snap,
oh yes.
_I can make the appointment for you this afternoon,
Maximillian said. Just a suggestion, of course._
_Dully, he nodded. Make the appointment._
The implants were such a little thing, they had said, right
after the operation. Just to carry you along. And they'd led him
into a new life, something that Tim McCarthy had never imagined.
And the strangers? Midnight blending of flesh. It was
another part of the life. Nothing personal, he could hear
Maximillian say--it was only the body.
Changing his mind, Ben carried the orange juice out to the
terrace, cool morning air marbling his skin. He looked over the
sleeping city and imagined them out there--the audience that wanted
him to be what he was _now,_ not the repository of someone they
didn't know.
Suddenly, he felt lonely, wishing for the memory of blue
sky again. Wanting a past he knew was his own. Knowing, somehow,
that it would never be there.
_Oh, I remember. . ._
Copyright 1991 by Melanie Miller. All rights reserved.
And yes, this means you.
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