by Joey W. Hill
The edge of the stage was too close to where it fell and started to roll. Fortunately, one of the crew positioned in a crouch on the side steps as a spotter began to move, doing his job, but the Master was quicker. In one fluid leap, he was on his feet and brought the basket to a stop by planting his foot in front of it. He did it so smoothly, it looked as if it was part of the performance. His sub played right into it, her hands coming out of the top opening to caress his calf, wander up his leg.
He piped a shrill, commanding note, as if admonishing her for the unsolicited caress. She froze. He backed away when her hands flattened on the floor, stabilizing the basket. While he resumed the sensuous melody, she came out just as a snake would, in writhing movements along the floor, her body undulating in ways that Julie’s advanced yoga instructor would envy.
“Hell, we can go get a burger, Julie. They don’t need us.”
She smiled at Harris’s comment in her headphones. Des had said a good Dom was ready for things to go wrong, that the protection of the sub was the most important thing. This Master had heightened the intensity of the scene by injecting a powerful additive to it. Protection. Either they’d all taken the admonitions about safety to heart, or they already knew the importance of it themselves. Either way, she was impressed and reassured.
The sub was covered in spotted body paint intended to make her look like a sleek cobra. A harness over her shoulders and around her waist held the folds of dark cloth that became a “hood” when she lifted her arms in strike pose toward her Dom, advancing upon him and then falling back. The notes of the pipe, his focus upon her, made the shift between power and control clear. When the scene concluded, she was coiled around his feet, arms twined around his calf, head resting on his knee. Generous applause echoed through the theater as the curtain closed.
The next two scenes were also well-received and smoothly executed. With an ever more impressive costume each time, Billie returned to cover each break as props and scenery were changed out. Julie registered the responses of the audience to his discourse, but she was busy, pitching in with an extra set of hands a dresser needed for a costume adjustment, then helping with a large scenery piece that had cracked a support when adjusted. The stage hands put in a quick fix and the next group of performers went out only ten seconds late.
Billie covered the delay by sticking her head back out of the curtains, gathering them around her as if protecting her modesty in the shower.
“I know you were looking at my ass, you bad boy,” she chided, pointing to Logan in the front row. “This next scene is a public service warning about what happens to those who don’t mind their manners around Miss Billie Dee-Lite.”
Laughter rippled through the audience. Logan grinned wolfishly at Billie as the lights rose. This performance was closer to a real-life BDSM scene. A female submissive was strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross, prepared to experience several forms of impact play. As her Dom extolled her various infractions and what her punishments would be, the sub’s impish excuses flavored the scene with humor. She wore a cute school girl uniform, the Dom in the dour suit of a schoolmaster.
The whimsical note put the more vanilla audience members at ease about what was about to happen, as intended. As the scene progressed and became more edgy, Julie kept a weather eye on the rows she could see. While some of the audience looked vaguely uncomfortable, the role play appeared to have drawn them into the scene.
She and Madison had decided to purposely scatter more realistic scenes throughout the lineup, knowing those were the ones the mainstream attendees might have more trouble handling. They could have left them out entirely, but Madison had wanted them to have something to think about that couldn’t be dismissed as mere fantasy.
The next scene would be the fire players. They had a dramatic show planned, like a Cirque du Soleil offering. They’d bring the comfort level of the audience back to an even keel. After that would be a simple Victorian man-and-his-maid scene that would take place on the stage apron so Des could set up behind the curtain, since his performance would happen after that. He’d indicated he’d need about ten minutes to get Missive in place.
Julie wondered in which direction Des’s performance would fall, reality or fantasy.
“Miss Ramirez?”
Missive preferred to use surnames and honorifics. She called Logan Mr. Scott. Julie had noticed she called Des by his first name, a curiosity because she didn’t do that for anyone else.
“Yes, Missive?” While surprised at finding the young woman at her elbow, Julie masked it. She hoped she looked friendly and professional, rather than like a cat about to scratch someone’s eyes out. However, she purposefully kept the touch of “Remember, I’m pretty damn busy right now” in her voice to discourage chitchat. Though Harris and his crew didn’t need her right now, that could change. It didn’t have anything to do with her wanting to minimize her exposure to the girl. So she told herself.
Regardless of her motive, her effort was wasted. Missive didn’t seem to notice the brusque tone. Since the fire players were taking the stage, she could speak in a low voice instead of a whisper, because their scene was accompanied by the unfortunately named but thrilling “Night on Disco Mountain.”
“You know, people think I chose my scene name as a shortened form of the word submissive. It did work out kind of awesomely that way, but my real name is Ivy.”
Julie blinked. “That’s interesting, but…”
“When I was in middle school,” Missive continued, placing a light hand on her arm, “I had this very stern history teacher who would call me Miss Ivy. I had so many fantasies about him. I think he was my first Dom, though he never knew that. So though people say Missive the way it’s supposed to be pronounced, often in my head I hear Miss Ive, short for Ivy.”
Missive had been a big help throughout the week, always saying and doing the appropriate thing, so Julie wasn’t sure what her ill-timed conversation now was intended to accomplish. She kept a weather eye on the fire scene, but it was going fine. Nothing susceptible to sparks was close to the action. This scene had received more run-throughs than any others, due to safety concerns.
She could simply tell the girl she had to focus on the stage, that she couldn’t talk right now, but she wasn’t doing that. She didn’t know why. But she did feel she should point out the oddity of the conversation.
“Have you taken an excess of medications today, Miss Ive?”
The young woman laughed softly, and it sounded like chimes in a garden. If she had to be subjected to one more lovely thing about her, Julie would conk her over the head with a blunt object and bury her under the stage. Oblivious to that hazard, Missive put her hand on Julie’s arm again. “Des said you have a great sense of humor. He told me to come and tell you something personal about myself, something I’ve never told anyone in the scene.”
Ah, the light dawns. “Why would he want you to do that?” Though even as Julie asked the question, she knew. The damn man was too damn intuitive. She wanted to be mad at him, but the tactic actually worked a little bit. She was seeing Missive as more of a human than the object of her inner torment. But it didn’t change anything. She was doing that honorary restraining order text to that long-haired roofer as soon as this was over.
While their conversation had been happening, the fire scene had concluded. The man-and-the-maid scene didn’t require Billie’s transition. The curtain had closed, a dramatic silence descending after the applause for the fire players.
Since the curtain was closed, Julie could no longer see the scene, but she could imagine it from the run-throughs. The Dom in Victorian gentleman’s wear would be walking onto the stage, a follow spot covering him as he brought a single chair with him and a riding crop. His sub, dressed in frilly black and white maid wear, would be working her way over to him, looking like she was dusting invisible drawing room furniture with her feather duster.
Missive was too friendly to prop up Julie’s snarly feelings. “He didn’t say why
I should tell you that,” she whispered, “and I wouldn’t presume, but if you’re okay with an educated guess, I’d say he’s centered on you.” At Julie’s quizzical look, she lifted a pale shoulder, her silk robe having slipped away from it. Along the base of her collarbone was a tiny chain of tattooed flowers. Julie figured it had hurt like a son of a bitch, since there was little flesh there to absorb the sting of the needle, but it was a delicate piece of work.
“Centered is my word for when a Dom or sub finds someone they want as their hub, no matter what other scening they do with others. It’s kind of lovely to see it happen for him.”
This was not fitting where Julie wanted her mind to go right now, but she didn’t think it was appropriate for her to tell Missive the same thing she’d told her self-actualizing and self-conscious sides. Shut up you perfect, impossible not to like bitch.
“I’m sure you already know all this stuff about him,” Missive said in a confidential tone, “but what gives me a charge is watching him scene with subs who think he’s only a top. Soon as he opens up his Dom side, there’s no mistaking him for anything else. It pulls the carpet right out from under them.”
Missive gave her a mischievous wink. “He completely takes control, and his instincts are so good... He’s taken me places I couldn’t have imagined, and I don’t mean in the rope sense, though he’s astounding there. I mean inside myself. And he choreographs on the fly. He’ll have a concept for tonight, but it will be just the high points. He gets this flow of energy going and you trust him to direct the current.”
Hopefully he’d told the lighting guys that and they’d set up his light cues accordingly. Nothing gave a stage manager or director hives like an actor changing blocking so significantly nobody knew where he’d be on stage from moment to moment.
Oh hell, she wasn’t worried about that. Harris was thorough and as anticipatory of that shit as she was. Why was Missive telling her this? It made Julie want Des more, even as it reinforced all her earlier insecurities. It made her waffle, and she hated waffling.
Fortunately, her inner need for a primal scream of frustration had to wait. Des slid out from behind the curtain and gave both women his usual warm look, but Julie noticed it was more quick and distracted than she was used to seeing, as if half his mind was already on what he was about to do.
Des ran a hand along Missive’s arm and up behind her neck, drawing her to him with that cradling hold.
In a blink, his distracted look was gone. Missive had his full attention, evaluation and appraisal. With that touch, a similar metamorphosis happened to Missive. Her body, her eyes, all her energy, visibly centered on Des. Her lashes lowered and she went quiet and still, as if she and Julie hadn’t been in mid-conversation.
Julie wasn’t sure if she felt like a third wheel or a reluctantly fascinated spectator. She was all too aware of how it felt to be the focus of the attention Des was giving Missive. “Ready?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Missive said. “I’m ready.”
“Good. Go kneel in front of the display I’ve set up. Leave on the robe.”
The blonde moved obediently past him and disappeared behind the curtain. Julie wondered what she would have done if Des had told Missive to disrobe there. Offer to take the garment and hang it up? She had no frame of reference for this.
Maybe not, but some part of her understood it. Not only from her growing submissive orientation, but from watching rehearsals, going with Logan to his workshops, from talking to Madison. It was a culture, she’d realized, one that overlapped and lived inside, through and around the one she’d always known, giving it a different look.
“Hey.”
She looked up to see Des studying her. She wondered if he was about to say something. He didn’t.
He drew her to him, planting a hard, heated kiss on her mouth. He took his time with it, too, so her hand latched onto his shirt front and her head swam in a way that would not be conducive to focusing on her job. When he lifted his head, he stroked her hair away from her cheek and helped her straighten her head phones. She was wearing her usual theater performance night attire of black dress slacks and blouse, no jewelry to catch the lights and sparkle in the wings, distracting the audience. “Tell me you’re wearing something black and lacy under that,” he murmured against her mouth.
“White and lacy. I like contrasts.” She drew her head back enough to meet his brown eyes. “And you have to get your narrow ass in gear. That curtain’s opening in eleven minutes and the managing director will tear you a new one if you’re late. And then Harris will kick your prone body.”
He planted another hard kiss on her mouth. “For luck,” he told her. “Like Luke and Leia in Star Wars.”
"Except I'm not your sister," she retorted, not sure how to feel.
"Hope not. I used some tongue there."
Still smiling at her, he turned and moved back behind the curtain. When Julie shifted, she saw Missive kneeling before a shadowed rope form Julie couldn’t make out, because only the blues, or blue light, was on behind the curtain to ensure there were no leaks around it to distract from the Victorian scene.
Missive’s silhouette showed her head bowed, her body seemingly relaxed. Yet when Des had shifted her into a submissive state with one key touch, Julie had felt the sizzle of anticipation off the young woman. She thought of how she’d felt when she’d first seen those hanging ropes the other night and understood it better than she wanted to admit.
Des put his hand on Missive’s head and stroked her, speaking words Julie couldn’t hear. Then the crew needed Julie to move so they could stage another set piece. Julie registered the thrilling feminine cries of the maid as the Victorian Dom put her over his lap and spanked her with the crop, all while she tried futilely to follow his direction and polish his boots in that awkward position.
After the scene concluded, there were four minutes to go. Billie was doing the transition, and Des and Missive’s act would follow him.
Abruptly, Julie noticed she wasn’t alone. Some of the other performers were gathering in the shadows, staying out of the way but clearly wanting to get a good view of the upcoming act.
The minutes went by both fast and slow to her. Billie wrapped up his part and returned to her in the wings. He positioned himself right behind her, so she couldn’t see him, but she would have recognized him with her nose. He favored Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds perfume. When in drag, he always had a light mist of it clinging to him.
She turned to look at him. He now wore a bronze gown with an ebony wig that spilled silk to his waist and over his shoulders. He shifted to link his arm through Julie’s.
“What you’re about to see, honey-chile, is why we recommended putting him right before intermission,” he whispered as the lights went down again. “After his performance, the audience is going to need that wine bar in the lobby.”
Julie sighed. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to hang around to watch. I haven’t figured out how to deal with him doing this to another woman.”
“Just watch, baby girl.” Billie’s arm slipped around her, holding her close with a woman’s fragrance and a man’s strength. “You’ll feel better after.”
Or worse, she thought dourly.
In the dark, she heard the hushed conversations and shifting of the audience. She closed her eyes, drinking in that energy. The trundling sound told her the curtain was opening, and the light behind her lids told her the scene had begun. She opened her eyes.
The music cued was a woodwinds piece called “Pan’s Melody.” As it filled the speakers and poured into the audience, Julie imagined the Fae lord winding through the forest he loved, as much a part of himself as breath, blood and bone.
Light spread over the scenery like a rising silvery moon. The audience inhaled in appreciation, creating a rippling wind sound, echoed by the performers closest to her. While Julie automatically shushed them, she was as engaged as they were.
Des had used light brown jute against a dark
brown board suspended about seven feet above the stage. His rope was woven in the shape of a tree against the board, a complicated network of interlaced, spreading branches that twisted into a thick, knotted trunk. As the trunk cleared the board, the rope spread out into a nest of tangled roots, forming a cocoon for the bundle of precious life suspended in their cradle. The rope ends beneath the cocoon anchored it to the stage, more spreading roots.
Missive was in that cocoon, tied in a fetal position. Rope had been wrapped over her eyes, blinding her. Her hands were folded over her breasts, legs drawn up to her stomach. Since she was naked, light played over pale skin.
A cutout looked like the moon shining above. They’d talked about doing an ankle level fog, but Des had nixed that, not wanting anything to obscure his vision. Always taking care of his sub. It was a good aesthetic choice, though. The silvery light added the right touch of ambiance, nothing else needed.
Like Pan walking through the wood in truth, Des appeared out of the shadows of the opposite wing. He was shirtless and wore dark, close-fitting trousers and bare feet. The light played over his tattoos, darkening the sunburst on his back while etching out the dragon on his biceps.
He moved with grace and strength, with intense attention on what lay before him. Julie saw several people in the front rows inch forward in their seats, unconsciously drawn toward him, toward the unspoken messages of the scene, toward all of it. She was very conscious of Billie’s firm hold on her waist. She must have leaned forward, and he thought she was about to be drawn out to the stage, enchanted by Pan’s allure. She wanted to be amused, but she thought he might be right. She curled her hand around the edge of the podium.
Des circled the cocoon, suspended at eye level. He trailed his fingers along the curve of Missive’s shoulder, her flank, and curled his fingers over her ankle. He made a complete rotation around her, shadows dancing and drifting like they would if clouds were wafting over the moon. The effect was spectacular. She was so buying the light designer a keg of her favorite alcoholic beverage.
