Command Performance

by Annabel Joseph

  Command Performance

  Chapter One: Fucked

  Chapter Two: Despair

  Chapter Three: Smile

  Chapter Four: Temptation

  Chapter Five: Deal

  Chapter Six: Probably

  Chapter Seven: Close Dancing

  Chapter Eight: One More Day

  Chapter Nine: Cap Camil

  Chapter Ten: Not Alone

  Chapter Eleven: At Risk

  Chapter Twelve: Relax

  Chapter Thirteen: Party

  Chapter Fourteen: Prison

  Chapter Fifteen: Escape

  Chapter Sixteen: Haunted

  Chapter Seventeen: So Wrong

  Chapter Eighteen: So Right

  Chapter Nineteen: Peace

  Epilogue: Two Years Later

  A Final Note

  About the Author

  Command Performance

  Copyright 2012 by Annabel Joseph

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, shared, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This work contains acts of sado-masochism, anal play, BDSM punishment and discipline, and other sexual practices.

  This work and its contents are for the sole purpose of fantasy and enjoyment. Please exercise caution when participating in any BDSM activities.

  Command Performance

  by

  Annabel Joseph

  Comfort series #4

  Chapter One: Fucked

  Miri braced as he stalked to her. His face was pure malevolence, his lips twisted with malice. He put a hand on the collar of her shirt and ripped it down the front. The tearing noise barely permeated the wail of terror in her brain.

  She fought him, pushing, slapping, but it only seemed to inflame him. When she screamed, he laughed and forced her back onto the tangle of dirty sheets. She slapped at his face, kicked and connected with a shoulder, but no matter how she struggled he kept to his purpose. He squashed her, his huge hands holding her down. It shocked her to her core, the feel of him over her, against her. He unhooked her bra and grasped at her breasts while she cried out at the squeezing pain.

  “Stop, please stop! I’ll do anything, just— Please—”

  “Scream if you want. No one can hear you.” The low, placid tenor of his voice chilled her. He clearly felt nothing. No empathy, no remorse. There was no humanity in his gaze. Brutal fingers twisted in her hair, pulling her head back. His eyes were hard blue fury and hatred. He hated her. She was suddenly sure he was going to kill her, and she started to battle with the hysteria of someone who had nothing to lose.

  Her flailing didn’t stop him from ripping off her pants. Her panties followed, torn away like they were nothing more substantial than a tissue. He scratched at her thighs and she hissed and scratched him back, but he was too strong, his arms and body too big. His breath rushed against her face as he yanked open the fly of his jeans. When she tried to kick him again, he drew back and slapped her across the face. Not with all his strength, she realized that. But even so, it shocked her to momentary stillness as tears flooded her eyes. He capitalized by trapping her arms over her head and pinning them against the rumpled sheets.

  They were face to face. She stared into the eyes of pure sexual menace. She screamed, struggling, with no way to get free. His fingernails bit into her wrists as he spat epithets in her ear. You fucking whore. You know you want this. He moved forward, jerking his hips against her. She fought, her pleas ringing in her ears, and then she felt a new shock, a new awareness.

  My God. He was actually hard. He was actually—

  “Cut!” The director let out a long, harried breath, and every technician in the room seemed to breathe out too. “Cut, guys. Let’s take a break.”

  Miri’s screams died in her throat as Mason Cooke leaped off her. He turned away beside the bed and pulled his jeans closed. “Fuck.” He rubbed his forehead, pushing his dark hair back with visibly shaking hands. “That fucking sucked.”

  Miri shrugged into the robe the set assistant held out for her. She pulled it closed and hauled the belt tight, then tried to smooth her hair back to rights. Just nervous fiddling. In the next take he’d mess it up again. And that slap...

  Mason turned to her, the sinister mask of moments before transformed into his handsome, concerned movie-star face. “You okay?” For the fourth time that day he apologized. “I’m so sorry. Did I hit you too hard? I felt like I hit you too hard that time.”

  She licked her lips and tried to think of a non-offensive way to say yes. “It felt a little hard, yeah.” Like your penis. She risked a glance at the front of his jeans. The hard-on was gone, or maybe she’d just imagined it. Who got hard filming a rape scene? She didn’t want to think about the answer to that. She didn’t want to think at all until this day was over, this horrifying scene filmed and printed. But then everyone would see it, and...

  What would they think of her then? Wide-eyed, sweet Mireille Durand of the Durand twins, getting raped by Mason Cooke on the big screen?

  Honestly, she was traumatized, but it was just business. Moviemaking. She watched as grips scooped up her shredded clothes and set a fifth pair on the bed. She wondered how many pairs they had on reserve. The clothes had been specially designed to tear away just so. Before they began filming that morning, one of the costume assistants had shown Mason where to rip for maximum effect, and Mason, from the first take, had done it exactly right.

  There was that, at least. Mason Cooke wasn’t an egotistical, self-absorbed jackass; he was a professional. He was really nice, much nicer than she would have expected of an uber-celebrity like him. They only had a few scenes together in this movie, all filmed over the last blur of a week, but in that time, Miri discovered he was a kind and generous actor. It comforted her, considering the alarming crap he had to do to her on camera.

  Mason conferenced with Gareth, the director of Revelation, as they watched the playback. Miri chose not to watch. She’d watched the first round and for a second, just a second, she’d considered walking off the set and quitting her role. She’d never been raped. She was sure the reality of it was far worse than what she was enduring, but it was still hard not to run away screaming, even if it meant giving up this career opportunity, and quite possibly her career.

  No. Hell no. She’d come this far and she was going to see this through. She hadn’t had a decent film or TV role in a decade. This was an important opportunity, acting opposite Mason Cooke in a movie that already had a lot of advance buzz. Revelation was based on a moody, dark bestseller about a man spiraling into obsession and insanity. It could very likely garner Mason another Academy Award.

  Miri didn’t care about an Academy Award, or that her part was miniscule. She just wanted to be taken seriously from here on out.

  Thank God her father hadn’t tried to get involved in this project. He would flip when he saw what they were putting down on film. Miri had known, with an actress’s instinct, that what was in the script was gloss, understatement, but some part of her, some ashamed, secret part of her had wanted to do this scene. After she’d been cast, she’d watched every film of Mason’s, studied photos and interviews he’d given, and thought about what it would feel like when he came at her. When he forced her back on the bed and pressed against her...

&nbs
p; Well, now she knew what it felt like times four. Even an erection, this last time around. There was a classic line male actors said to their co-stars before they filmed intimate scenes. “Forgive me if I do, and forgive me if I don’t.”

  Not to be crass, but Mason Cooke had a lot to be forgiven for.

  When her father saw the scene, he would be furious. At one time, when she and her twin sister were the reigning kiddie actors in Hollywood, he’d carefully curated their image. The “family business,” as he’d called it, had depended on their girl-next-door sweetness and innocence, their shining blonde hair and big green eyes. They’d starred in commercials as toddlers, then advanced to playing adorable twin sisters in a television series when they were four. After that, they’d worked in TV specials and films aimed at the elementary school set, and then on another TV series, playing combative tweens, one sweet, one evil. That short-lived series had come pretty close to real life. Her father had chosen their projects to advance a wholesome, marketable image, an image he insisted was priceless with so much sex and violence taking over the world.

  “You remind people of what sweet young women are supposed to be,” he told them many times. “What young women were before the world went all wrong.” It made her sick when he said that, because she wasn’t that at all. She wasn’t the pure, gilded angel he wanted her to be, the angel she played in role after role. As she moved deeper into her teenage years, she suffocated with the need to break away from that image. Her twin sister did break away, with tragic results.

  Miri slid a glance at her co-star. He was still engrossed in the playback with Gareth. He looked more obscene in his low-slung jeans than he looked naked—and she’d seen him naked. She’d watched those scenes in his previous films over and over, and not just because she knew she was going to be working with him. Unlike her, Mason seemed utterly comfortable with his sexuality, so at ease in his skin. Well, of course all this sex stuff would be easy to him. He’d been married to Jessamine Jackson until last year, and she was the sexiest woman on earth.

  “Miri?”

  Gareth finished watching the playback and beckoned her over. She could feel Mason’s eyes on her but she was too nervous to look at him. She concentrated on Gareth, hoping for good news about the most recent takes. This wasn’t her first film; she knew how these things worked. They might have to do the scene five more times. Ten more times, until the director was satisfied—and Gareth Devane had a reputation for being difficult to satisfy.

  “I like the fear,” Gareth said to Miri. It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her performance, not the fear that had her biting her lip.

  “Oh, uh, thanks.”

  “We’re almost there, but I’d like to raise the intensity level a little more.” Miri’s eyes went wide. More intensity? “Just a little,” Gareth assured her. “Let Mason do the work, and you react. Just hang on for the ride.”

  She nodded, hiding her alarm. This ride was scary. Every time they filmed, her heart pounded, her adrenaline surged and she went a little bit out of her mind. Each subsequent take wore her down a little more, and her emotions grew a little more raw. In a few more takes, she wouldn’t even be acting. She’d be fighting him off for real, fighting for her survival, her sanity. Maybe that was what Gareth wanted, to push them to the point where they broke, just like the characters they played.

  Mason’s expression was pensive. As Gareth turned away from them to consult with the cinematographer, he asked Miri again, “Are you okay?”

  She managed a smile. “As okay as I can be, you know, right now.”

  “I’m sorry this is so intense. I’ll try to get us to that level he wants this time. You must be tired.”

  “You’re tired too.”

  He shrugged. “Tired or not, I don’t want to come back to this tomorrow. I’m sure you don’t either.”

  No, she didn’t want to come back, although she’d miss rubbing shoulders with him.

  “I just want to do it right,” she said. “I want to live up to your standards. You know, your level of performance.”

  Mason’s deep blue eyes crinkled in a smile and Miri felt embarrassed. She sounded like a suck up. Hell, she was a suck up. His star was so much brighter than hers, it was in a completely different galaxy. She toyed with the belt of her robe, remembering the roughness of his hands, the way he groped her breasts after he ripped off her bra.

  “We can do this.” He touched her shoulder and gazed down at her, all brisk confidence. “Don’t talk like you aren’t on my level. Don’t underestimate yourself. That’ll get you killed in this business.”

  Miri stared at him and nodded. “I won’t. Well, I’m trying not to.”

  “You’re doing fine. I feel a real—” Mason paused and waved his hands between the two of them. “A real connection. Like I trust you and you trust me.”

  “I do trust you.”

  Unexpectedly, Mason stepped closer and pulled her into a hug. It wasn’t a wimpy hug either. It was a warm, strong hug. Even so, she couldn’t have taken it wrong. It was a friendly hug, nothing more. After all the pushing and pulling and slapping they’d done, his simple embrace was like a soothing blanket, a bowl of homemade soup. A relief.

  Jesus. She was going to start crying in a minute. It would be the worst possible thing, to break down in front of him now. So unprofessional. So weak. He would feel he had to let up in the scene, when Gareth clearly wanted him to go harder. She steeled herself against the impulse, taking deep, centering breaths.

  Her tension caused him to pull away. He rubbed the back of his neck and then raked his hands forward through his tousled dark hair. She stared at his bare torso, at the gorgeous, defined muscles that were still a marvel to her, even after hours of him holding her down on the bed. “Hey, listen,” he said in a lower voice. “I’m sorry about my, uh, excitement in the last take. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I can’t always control it.”

  Miri felt herself go profoundly red. “It’s okay.”

  “I don’t know why it happened. Not that you aren’t attractive! You are. It’s just...this isn’t the most romantic scene. Well, I guess that might depend on what you’re into.”

  She cringed and held up a hand. “Listening to you try to explain it is actually a lot more uncomfortable than experiencing it.”

  “Okay then.” Mason clamped his mouth shut and touched his lips, a personal tic that made him look sexy, thoughtful, and authoritative all at once. “Still, I have a hard time with this. Going through all this with someone I barely know. Hurting you. Slapping you.”

  “So if you knew me better, it would be easier?”

  Her quip threw him off balance, and he laughed. “Yes, maybe. But...no. Probably not. I just hope you won’t remember me like this. Brutalizing you and everything. Maybe we should go out and have a drink or something, so you have better memories of me.”

  Miri laughed. He couldn’t have been serious about the drinks, but he did look awfully guilty. This was no easier for him than her, she realized—and he’d been in a lot more movies than she had. “Don’t worry.” She looked into those eyes women swooned over and saw, for a moment, a very vulnerable man. “I’ll remember you as a nice guy.”

  “I hope so. And I’ll remember you as a very talented actress. Maybe we’ll work together again soon. If you’re moving into adult films.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t mean adult films.”

  “I knew what you meant.”

  “You know, films for grownups. Not that you weren’t making good films before.”

  Miri stared at him. Mason Cooke, blushing and socially awkward? “I’m just thankful I had this opportunity to work with you,” she said. Ugh, she was sucking up again. It was an unconscious thing, because he was so famous. An awkward silence stretched out and then Gareth set things in motion again. The costume assistant came to take away her robe and get her into her tear-away clothes. The makeup people took a quick swipe at them both. One nice thing about scenes like
this—perfect makeup wasn’t the primary concern.

  Mason left her to wait by his mark, his easy, affable demeanor instantaneously replaced by the stark visage of the character he played. Wow, he was really good at this. Miri thought she should take a few seconds to draw herself back into her character, but she was already mostly there. Fear, check. Anxiety, check. Vulnerability, check.

  Rapetastic leer from Mason Cooke. Check.

  *** *** ***

  It was after ten by the time they wrapped for the day. Mason was aching for a shower and keyed up from filming the rape scene. The worst part was that he was keyed up in a horny way, not a horrified way. He should have been horrified. Well, he was...but only by how turned on he was from pretending to rape another human being. An attractive human being, but still. What kind of sick fuck was he?

  And getting hard over Mireille Durand? He used to watch her and her twin in Two Wonderful on TV. Somehow that made the rapey goodness even more delicious. And sick. Who would have imagined she’d grow into such a hot woman? She was all woman now. That made all this inappropriate lusting okay, didn’t it?

  Mason climbed into the studio car, a luxury he took for granted after ten years headlining movies. He wished he could tell the driver to head to LoveSlave, the elite underground dungeon his friends frequented. He wished he could pick up some horny, slutty subbie and fuck her senseless through a night of hedonistic play, but that was impossible. The tabloids paid too much for kiss-and-tell stories these days, and after a night with him, the woman would have way too much to tell. He didn’t dare hire a professional for the same reason.

  If it wasn’t for one very special friend, he would have lost his mind by now. After the chauffeur shuttled him to his home in Malibu, Mason hopped into his own car and dialed her number.

  After a few rings, a familiar voice answered. “Damn it, Mace. Do you have any idea how late it is?” Satya’s clipped tones sounded like music in his ear.