Free Leading Lady by Leigh Ellwood

Chapter One
     
    Dina stared at the black-and-white likeness
of her younger self and poised a thick-tipped pen over the smooth
curve of her photographed bare neck. “Hello, darling,” she greeted
the wide-eyed man standing before her. “This is for whom, now?”
    He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
Thick, dirty blond hair hung in clumps over one brow. A large
button covering one breast of his Metallica T-shirt informed the
world that his phaser was always set for “stunning.” Dina imagined
the collective sigh of relief settling around the room from any
female conventioneers having seen that button.
    “Gr-Gregory,” he croaked.
    “Gregory. Thank you, Gregory.” The syllables
rolled off her tongue with seductive ease; she trilled the first R with her trademark purr, the same throaty growl that had
sent thousands of Gregorys into euphoric wet dreams over the years.
It was the satisfied deep trill that had broken color barriers on
television and had proved to a network skittish over the ratings in
backwater Alabama that, yes, a black woman had the talent and sex
appeal to attract a mass audience. That seductive power, coupled
with the skimpy costumes and lustrous fake topknot of flowing dark
hair, garnered Dina twice the fan mail of her white costars.
    Not to mention all the prime gigs at cons
around the world, and the prime fans -- top billing over movie
actors, even. This Gregory, looking so young, had to be a recent
admirer as opposed to one of the legion of first-generation
faithful, a fan who had come to know Mission: Jupiter through endless reruns on cable or the recent DVD releases of the
popular 1970s science fiction series.
    Either way , Dina thought, he’s
here, and so am I. He had forked over his ten bucks admission
fee and the five-dollar charge for the glossy photo her assistant
distributed from the stack at the next table. His presence paid for
at least one drink she had enjoyed last night at the hotel bar.
    He was cute, too. Maybe he’d be good for more
than his money.
    Dina smiled to herself and crossed her legs
tighter to counter the sudden desire flooding her pussy, rustling
the star field print tablecloth in the process.
    “I-I just wanted you to know,” Gregory
continued as Dina scribbled a random platitude and a loopy
signature on the photograph, “that you’re my favorite character on MJ .”
    “Thank you, Gregory. That’s so sweet of you
to say.” That’s what everybody called Mission: Jupiter these
days. Star Trek was referred to as either Trek Classic, TNG , or DS9 , depending on the proper
incarnation, and other popular sci-fi favorites suffered similar
abbreviation. Dina disliked it; MJ sounded more like an
illegal sex act performed in an alley behind a liquor store.
    She glanced at the photograph, giving it one
final inspection. It was a stock publicity photo of her
twenty-five-year-old self attired in her incredibly sexist Mission: Jupiter uniform. She had to laugh every time she
saw the action pose of Lieutenant Mayda Moran, wearing a
formfitting mini dress and white go-go boots with hoop earrings,
pointing a phaser at the camera like she meant business. The men on
the show had worn jumpsuits suitable for NASA; the women looked
like waitresses at a strip club.
    Of course, she was the favorite character of
all the Gregorys. Dina studied the photo. Look at the tits on
that phaser-wielding wench! This was a woman who had defied
gravity and laws of physics merely by slinking past fellow officers
along the corridors of the USS Jupiter every Monday night
for five years. Never mind that Mayda had been the only officer on
the ship capable of rubbing two brain cells together in order to
formulate plans to defeat the evil Narciscans, look at those
tits . These were the show’s biggest stars, pun intended. That’s
what Gregory was addressing as he complimented her, Dina knew.
    She sat up straight. The two biggest stars of Mission: Jupiter continued to defy gravity well into