Divas in Dubai Pt. 02

Trish's first plan was to respond vigorously and truthfully, to admit she had female lovers and say so what? But Erin had unwittingly forestalled her.

Yes, Erin had issued a syndicated story worldwide that very morning in a week-in-the-life-of sort of a way. The thrust of it was very sympathetic to Trish. Readers were taken with her to the most important night of her life and not just abandoned. Instead, after sharing her untimely defeat, they were taken through the fallout of the following days, shown how she hadn't wallowed in self-pity after a stroke of bad luck that would have finished anyone else. Shown how positive she'd been; how strong.

All told it was a good, insightful article (as Erin's invariably were). It brought out Trish's personality as much bigger than the one seen on screens all over the planet. It also showed her as a lot nicer than her ring persona (who could occasionally be a pain in the ass). Indeed it painted her as a top lady: considerate, thoughtful and intelligent.

Sadly it also gave subtle hints that subject and writer been living together for at least seven days.

Perhaps at any other time such subtle hints would have slipped by, not unnoticed but unremarked upon. Not right then, though. Zillions of reporters worldwide immediately put two and two together and, quoting Erin and Croc Teeth with unrestricted, gay abandon, spun tale after tale.

Being exposed as a woman who had sex with women scared Trish. Leastways it did happening in such circumstances. Her universal reputation was awesome; it should have been well big enough to withstand slander of any description.

But this was massive. She'd once had a storyline that involved a fellow diva developing a crush on her. That had caught the viewers' attention for a few weeks, but publicity elsewhere had been practically zero. Now, with this "news" bomb-blasting into the limelight . . .

Well everyone wanted to know all the intimate details.

Right down to the most considerate, sexiest tongue-lash . . .

The publicity was colossal.

It was almost too big to cope with.

First thing she'd done was ring Erin. Quite predictably, to Erin all publicity was good publicity.

'But I don't want it,' Trish had exclaimed.

'I'm afraid you're stuck with it,' Erin crooned, 'I'm getting approaches from all over.'

'What do you mean?'

'Everyone wants me to sell them the inside story: "My Nights of Lust with Trish the Dish," that sort of thing. And some of those Brit papers are very persuasive.'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I am and I'm not.' Erin had laughed. 'Thing is, I can't deny anything because it's true. And they've got me to rights in those CCTV pictures. Nobody's saying that it's me but everyone knows it really is. They're all waiting for me to comment. It's one of those situations where I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. Saying nothing is probably less advisable than giving them a minor confession.'

'Well make sure whatever you tell them is very, very minor.'

'Don't worry your pretty head.' Erin laughed again. 'I'll talk up your clit-licking until it sounds even better than it really is.'

Brooding a while after that call, Trish had wondered why she so desperately wanted to keep a lid on the situation. She didn't have kids or any "significant other" who cared about her reputation. In fact she didn't really much care about her reputation herself. She was not ashamed of having sex with women per se, fucking Erin was something she was actually proud about . . .

And Erin wasn't exactly suicidal about being exposed, was she?

It was the lack of control. That's what got to her.

Why should newspapers openly gloat about her sex-life? Her sex-life was hers, not theirs.

Fucking California Star . . .

Set of bastards, all of them.

She had still been brooding when her phone rang. The caller was WWE's Chief Marketing Officer and she sounded excited.

'Trish,' she began, 'what have you done this time!'

'Sorry,' said Trish. 'I'll resign here and now if you like. Or have I already been sacked?'

'Resign,' the CMO echoed. 'Oh no, baby; your resignation is not accepted. How quickly can you get to my office downtown? I've got a new contract for you to sign and hundreds of opportunities to discuss with you.' She laughed. 'You want to see some of the proposals sitting on my laptop. I have never seen interest like this in anyone, not even Ric Flair.'

Chapter Three

Back in the present, back on her sundeck, Trish recalled the supportive reaction of WWE to the unanticipated "scandal". Everyone from the Commissioner down had been in touch to tell her they were on her side. And, with the exception of a couple of scriptwriters, they had all seemed sincere and not on the make.

Well, outside of admiring the mega public splash she'd made, a splash which benefited them all automatically, they'd not been on the make.

And in fairness, the scriptwriters were after all only doing their job. Perhaps encouraged by the Commissioner's two accountants/lawyers, Abrahams and Spenser, they had wanted to write the biggest story WWE had even known . . . based on Trish's real-life story.

Meaning the biggest, juiciest kiss-and-tell ever told.

Blonde superstar and acid-tongued journalist . . .

What was there not to like?

Sighing internally, she had politely sent them on their way and they hadn't been back.

At least they hadn't yet.

By now, almost a month after the big exposé, the blaze of publicity had abated somewhat. Trish was still subject to camera flashes everywhere she went, but there was nothing new about that. She was also subject to intimate questions being endlessly fired at her from all sides. So far she had managed to avoid press conferences, answering people who shouted out at her with smiles and waves.

That couldn't go on, though. In the three weeks since Sacramento she'd trained harder than ever while keeping as much out of the limelight as possible. Her single warm-up bout had been a low-key affair. She had simply turned up at the arena (smiling, waving and not answering questions), quickly won and then left (smiling, waving and not answering questions).

That couldn't continue, however. She was here in Dubai to win a title eliminator, not at the top of the bill this time, but definitely the most prime entertainer, the one that everybody wanted to see, the one in the very best suite. Not answering reporters' questions was not an option.

The press conference was scheduled for tomorrow, late morning, and she was dreading it.

Well on one level she was dreading it. On other levels she was keen to get back somewhere near to normal. She'd spent many hours thinking of the nastiest things she could be asked, thinking up smooth, professional answers to anything that could be thrown at her. She'd even devised multi-purpose answers to cover unpleasant surprises. As adroit mentally as she was physically, she was prepared.

But there were still a few concerns. Glancing at her dry water glass, Trish sighed.

Where had those ices cubes gone? Didn't they know they had a job to do?

Not bothering with a fresh drink, she considered her immediate future. Long-term she would stay as a WWE diva until she reached her sell-by-date. And then she would re-launch herself in some other sphere. On the personal front, she would carry on as always and nuts to all the scribblers.

I'm me, she thought defiantly. I'm me and they can take me or leave me.

Short-term that attitude wasn't necessarily so hard to live up to. She'd win the eliminator; that was a fact. She was also sure she'd win the unscripted title fight, be it against Molly or (preferably) Victoria. Okay, so that remained to be seen to happen, but in her opinion the outcome had been put into her hands. Lightning wouldn't strike twice. She'd see to that.

In other words, she would win.

Being her usual self over the next few days was the real issue, not recovering her temporarily lost belt. Quite obviously, now she was back with the rest of WWE, every branch of media in the solar system would be watching her every last move. So too would millions of people across the world, whether they were interested in wrestling or not.

According to WWE's Marketing team, her popularity rating had soared from "very high" to "off the scale". Carefully planned and timed statements had been made on her behalf. Initially it had been pointed out that Croc Teeth's accusations had been about match-fixing, not sexuality. Looked at in that light, Croc Teeth had got his wires badly crossed and she'd excelled to keep her cool.

Then, in a second statement quoting her as being "very proud to be a woman who has sex with women", they addressed Erin's article, observing that it was open and honest and neither she nor Trish had attempted to hide anything. Erin had, they insisted, been discreet in her revelations in the interests of her many younger readers, not because she or Trish were in any way ashamed.

The third statement came the day after Erin's more explicit follow-up article was published. Erin had been forced into writing a kiss-and-tell account, they said, thanks to the inaccuracies of the California Sun's unwarranted attack. Both Erin and Trish should be applauded for the way they'd handled the matter in the interests of womankind.

By then womankind was already on board. Most seemed to agree that Trish had been targeted in a sexist way, aimed at selling broadsheets at any cost. Or, rather, at any cost to Trish and totally as a money-making exercise as far as Croc Teeth was concerned. And his most basic premises had been wrong, hadn't they? He'd publically accused Victoria as well as Trish.

Locked away in a training camp Victoria hadn't been available for comment. She was, however, evidently as innocent of match-fixing as Trish. How bad must she feel about that? And, assuming she was straight, how bad must she feel about the woman-and-wife accusations?

Trish had chuckled at the idea of Victoria being totally straight. She'd also chuckled at the idea of her feeling bad about anything. Vic didn't get upset, she got even. Maybe Croc Teeth still had a surprise in store.

Not that the first blaze of publicity mattered anymore. Womankind had taken it as an assault on all women, not just an individual celebrity or girls with lesbian tendencies. They'd united and were a force to be reckoned with; a force Trish was proud to have backing her.

So there'd been no need to worry about Sacramento, had there? Everything had come out hunky-dory in the end. Except . . .

Commonsense told Trish it was madness to remotely contemplate having sex during this latest visit to one of the world's most regulated regimes. She would make headlines for years if caught in the act, and not necessarily positive ones.

But who were the scribblers to tell her what to do? They weren't all Puritans, were they? Did they have the right to dictate moral standards?

Mentally rebelling and doing something about it were different kettles of fish, though. Never mind all the snooping reporters; Dubai wasn't the easiest place to be a lesbian. Okay, it wasn't against the law, but having sex without being married was. And same-sex marriages were not allowed.

She frowned as she coaxed the last few drops of by-now tepid water out of her glass.

Quite frankly, sex in Dubai was a touchy subject, full stop. Kissing in public was illegal and could result in deportation. She had heard of plenty of such instances, mostly between straight couples, some of them genuinely husband and wife.

There was even a government warning/request in place: "Tourists should adopt a certain level of cultural and religious sensitivity for the duration of their stay". That had a lot to do with dress code and behaviour in public, of course; particularly intimate behaviour.

Oddly, even though having homosexual sex was illegal, actually being homosexual was not.

In other words nobody really believed that sex outside marriage didn't happen. As long as it took place behind closed doors, out of the public domain, the authorities turned a blind eye, the same way they turned a blind eye to the less obvious gay nightclubs.

An outrageously blatant club would soon get shut down; ones that ostensibly toed the line did not.

The same went for hotels. Most of them displayed signs advising the "only married couples" rule but did nothing to enforce it. The more luxurious establishments were very relaxed. And so far as all-female couples were concerned, sharing a room with twin beds happened all the time.

Here, in the most luxurious hotel of all, there shouldn't be a problem.

Well, not directly with the local authorities, not when she really came to think about it. It was those flipping reporters who could bring everything tumbling down after all. One global headline and the Dubai people would have to react; it would become a matter of honour.

And, if they did react, the penalties ranged from short-term imprisonment to quite heavy fines and that dreaded deportation.

During her previous visits Trish had been well-behaved. She wasn't a big drinker and had always been there to entertain in the ring, so she'd limited herself to the odd tipple in venues licenced for non-Muslims, usually her hotel. She'd never embarrassed the waiters by asking for wine if she'd been eating in a restaurant (licensed or not). The place was famed for its nightlife but she'd never indulged. When out of her room she'd always dressed modestly, showing minimal bare skin. And the kit she wore in the old squared circle was, to say the least, very demure.

She had, however, had sex.

Previously, being discreet and knowing there was minimal risk, she had been unable to resist the odd quickie. Restricting it to locked and barred hotel rooms and never allowing a stay-over. And she'd never allowed herself to stay-over if "visiting" someone else's place.

That had been then, though. That had been in the days when, reassured by the only-too visible presence of WWE Security and the lack of CCTV, the possibility of anything going badly wrong had seemed negligible. Now the possibility of everything going wrong seemed only too real.

What happened to Fred and his guys back in Sacramento, she wondered. And what happened in that CCTV room?

She supposed the security guys had been fooled by some hotel technician. Maybe there was a way to keep a CCTV camera running while it appeared to be off. These days that seemed likely enough. Fred's guys had probably made subsequent enquiries and learnt. They wouldn't ever be fooled like that again.

Or would they?

Trish would have called one of the guys for an update. But asking what they were doing to ensure her privacy might seem suspicious. Why should she care about CCTV unless she had mischief in mind?

Not that she thought WWE Security would ever sell her out. It was matter of paranoia as much as mistrust.

Why had Erin been snapped in the first place? Had Croc Teeth simply happened on one still and realized he'd fallen lucky? Or had he been after the main prize all along?

Come to that, why was CCTV available anyway? Had some pervert techie been recording where he was not supposed to and sold the results to the highest bidder? Or had Croc Teeth got to him first? And if so, had they been after WWE wrestlers as a whole or her in particular?

Behaving as she had after the exposé, on the surface calm and carefree but inside amazed she'd come out of it so well, she hadn't pressed for an inquiry. On the contrary, she'd made out she had no interest in the whys and wherefores but had right on her side.

Yet not knowing bugged her. There seemed to be invisible spies everywhere, watching her every move.

Before the shit had hit the fan, she had given Victoria certain assurances about Dubai. Aware of the strictness of the customs officers, they'd even joked about household objects they might use as makeshift sex toys, including aerosol cans and, as a special thrill, electric toothbrushes.

Victoria had a serious fight ahead of her, of course. Molly was no pushover and she would need a few days to herself, to prepare as thoroughly as she could. But to Trish a promise was a promise. Tarnished global reputation notwithstanding, she'd sailed through customs with as many as three different types of toothbrush, oscillating and rotating.

And they were going to be here for five nights . . .

Thirsty again, Trish left the sundeck, blinking to adjust her eyes to the relative darkness indoors before heading for the minibar, determined to stick to water. She was halfway across the lounge when a polite cough stopped her.

Shit, she thought, don't say someone's in here with me! Don't say it's one of those spies!!

Turning, she saw there was indeed someone in there; someone standing there in the doorway to the bedroom, stark naked.

It was Erin.

Chapter Four

'How did you get in here?' Trish demanded.

Erin laughed as she strutted across the room towards her, wiggling her skinny hips and bouncing her surprisingly large tits. 'You know me,' she said, 'I'm like a bad penny. I can turn up anywhere.'

'But Security . . .'

Trish's words were abruptly cut off as the petite woman grabbed her and hungrily mashed their mouths together. Erin was only half her size and ten years older but she was also an irresistible force of nature. When Erin kissed a girl she stayed kissed.

Without consciously moving Trish's hands had settled on Erin's slender ass. Erin smelt of sun oil, some expensive perfume and, above all, sex. Properly dressed as she was, Trish felt excitement surging through her. Never mind how she'd done it, Erin was here, unclad, hot and ready.

Arbitrarily forgetting the same-sex rules and all associated risks, Trish kissed back as fiercely as she could, conscious that she was being overwhelmed, not really caring. In Sacramento Erin had occasionally shown a glimpse of her tender side. Normally she went at sex pretty much like a bull at a gate . . . albeit a very skilful bull. Now she was clearly back to business as usual. Trish didn't complain.

Somehow, seamlessly, they were in the bedroom and Erin was taking clothes off her. Without hurrying but by no means dawdling, she first removed her light, long-sleeved blouse.

'I've missed your chest,' she said, squeezing her through her bra before unfastening her loose-fitting three-quarter length trousers.

Trish's heart was pounding. Her bedroom was air-conditioned within an inch of its life but she had a thin sheen of sweat all over her body. And her panties weren't just damp with perspiration.

'You're looking great as always,' Erin purred, 'and it's good to see you're only complying on the surface. Undercover you're as provocative as ever.'

That much was true. Beneath her prim and proper top layer Trish had gone for flimsy, if not downright skimpy. Unable to stay herself, her heart pounding harder than ever, her body now trembling with anticipation, she reached out and grasped one of Erin's tits. Erin grinned as she batted her hand away.

'Ladies first,' she said. 'Get on that bed.'

*****

Trish's bed was about half the size of a tennis court. In the blink of an eye she was on her back on it, suddenly naked and defenceless with Erin doing wonderful things to her breasts. Usually she preferred to be the one serving first (so to speak) but she wasn't about to protest. Not while Erin was being forceful and hot-blooded yet sweet and gentle at the self-same time.

Deep down she was aware this was different. With Erin she was used to bull-at-a-gate and, since losing her title, also the personification of tenderness. Being treated to both at once was . . .

Well, it was very nice.

And Erin had to be aware of the same-sex rules. Not to mention the mileage the media would make of them if they ever found out. The possibilities for banner headlines were endless.