Master Me
Page 1
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Master Me
ISBN # 978-0-85715-334-0
The Understudy ©Copyright Lisabet Sarai 2010
Paradise of Pleasure ©Copyright Trina Lane 2010
Neil and Obey ©Copyright Elizabeth Coldwell 2010
Ever Unknown ©Copyright Charlotte Stein 2010
Fresh Start ©Copyright Jane Davitt 2010
A Very Personal Trainer ©Copyright Justine Elyot 2010
Cover Art by Natalie Winters ©Copyright November 2010
Edited by Delaney Sullivan
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom
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Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.
MASTER ME ANTHOLOGY
The Understudy
Lisabet Sarai
Paradise of Pleasure
Trina Lane
Neil and Obey
Elizabeth Coldwell
Ever Unknown
Charlotte Stein
Fresh Start
Jane Davitt
A Very Personal Trainer
Justine Elyot
THE UNDERSTUDY
Lisabet Sarai
Dedication
To GCS…again.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Lincoln: Ford Motor Company
Fiddler on the Roof: Jerry Bock, Sheldon Harnick and Joseph Stein
Plaza Suite: Neil Simon
A Streetcar Named Desire: Tennessee Williams
Glenlivet: Glenrothes-Glenlivet Limited
Gitanes: Societe Nationale d’Exploitation Industrielle des Tabacs et Allumettes
Samsonite: Samsonite IP Holdings S.A.R.L.
Our Town: Thornton Wilder
Nine 1/2 Weeks: Galactic Films
Jell-o: Kraft Food Holding, Inc.
McDonalds: McDonald’s Corporation
StairMaster: Nautilus Inc.
Chapter One
“It’s him!” Adele tugged at my shirt, almost hard enough to tear it. “Look, Sarah!” She pointed to the shiny black Lincoln cruising around the corner. “I still can’t believe it! We’re really going to have a chance to work with Geoffrey Hart!” The wooden porch shook as my friend literally jumped up and down with excitement. Adele’s temperament matched her fiery hair.
Of course my own heart beat faster than normal as the town car approached the inn at a sedate pace. Geoffrey Hart was a legend in American theatre. Since his first appearance off-Broadway ten years earlier, he had won every award in the world of drama. He’d played every prestigious role from Oedipus to Willy Loman. One summer in Central Park I’d seen him as both Hamlet and King Lear. He was astonishing, equally convincing as the callow, indecisive university student and the bitter, world-weary old man. His magical voice, full of nuance and music, reached the back row without amplification. His body language was eloquent with emotion. In both plays, he’d made me cry. His performances were an inspiration, one of the things that finally made me settle on drama—much to my parents’ chagrin.
I’d been thrilled when the Berk Hills Playhouse offered me a place for the summer. I never in a million years expected that I’d meet the man who had been such a role model.
But why on earth was he coming here, to a little summer stock theatre in the rural hills of western Massachusetts? The last news I saw, he was lead actor and part owner of the Gotham Repertory Company. What could possibly have induced him to abandon the city for the sticks?
“I heard that he broke up with Anne Merrill,” said Adele, sotto voce, as if she’d read my mind. “She dumped him. He’s come out here to the country to lick his wounds.”
“What? Who told you that?” I recalled the actor’s handsome face and imposing presence. It was hard to believe someone would dump him—he seemed like the type to do the dumping.
“I can’t reveal my sources.” Adele’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But the word is that his heart is broken.”
“Oh come on!” I just couldn’t imagine someone like Hart moping about a woman. “Seriously?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?” She put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick hug. “And that’s not all. There are rumours about their relationship—that it was, well, kinky, if you know what I mean. According to the grapevine, she wasn’t just his girlfriend. She was also his slave.”
“Please! You shouldn’t believe every bit of gossip you hear.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Shush! They’re here.”
The town car slid to a silent stop in front of the steps. The uniformed driver opened the back door, then stood back to let his passenger alight. For a long moment nothing happened—like the suspense before the curtain rises. I realised I was holding my breath.
A pair of long legs clad in black emerged from the shadowy interior. A lean torso followed, wearing a white shirt open at the neck under a black jacket. Finally, I could see his face.
Up close—he stood no more than a dozen yards from us—he looked more rugged and less refined than he had seemed on stage. Thick black hair curled above a noble forehead. I had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to bury my fingers in those lustrous waves. He had a Mediterranean complexion and a proud nose with a slight hook. I remembered reading that he was part Armenian and part Italian, despite his British stage name. His square jaw suggested stubbornness, his wide mouth and full lips, sensuality. His eyes were set deep under well-shaped, somewhat bushy brows.
He turned those dark eyes on me and I felt suddenly faint. They were the eyes of a predator sizing up his prey. His lips twisted into a half-smile, displaying his pearly teeth. I wanted to run, but I was rooted to the spot. My cheeks burned. Sweat gathered under my arms. I realised my nipples were hard, pressing painfully against the constraining fabric of my bra, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d at least worn a bra today. At least he couldn’t see those brazen nubs. The way he looked at me, though, with that focused, cruel attention, made me feel completely naked.
I couldn’t look away. The moment stretched itself out. My disobedient body betrayed me more deeply with each breath. I felt him rifle through my thoughts, seeking my lewdest fantasies. I tried to empty my mind. I couldn’t banish the image that surged up without warning, a picture of him grabbing me and tearing my clothes off.
“Mr. Hart!” Adele broke the spell, rushing forward to shake the actor’s hand. “Welcome to Barrington! We’re all so excited to have you here…”
He seemed to notice her for the first time. He favoured her with a charming smile and an appraising once-over. My relief at being released from his scrutiny was tempered with irrational jealousy.
“Ah, thank you, Miss…”
“Adele. Adele Franklin. I’m the ingénue. I play Chava in Fiddler and Stella in Streetcar. Oh, and Mimsy in Plaza Suite. I’m just thrilled to meet you, Mr. Hart…”
She had not released his hand. She leant forward, almost on tiptoe, her lips parted, her body practically vibrating with eagerness. His smile was gracious but dismissive as he turned his attention back to me. Everything inside me seemed to melt in the heat of his gaze.
“And you are?”
“Um—Sarah Gladstone, sir. I play chorus and extra roles. I’m also the understudy for Adele and Ms. Stuart. This is my first year here.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Sarah. I look forward to getting to know you better over the summer.” His words were polished and polite. His eyes, however, told me another story. They stripped me bare and then challenged me to complain about his boldness. He knew that I would not.
The driver had removed Hart’s three suitcases from the trunk while we’d introduced ourselves. Geoffrey gestured for him to carry them inside. Adele and I trailed after the actor like groupies.
Mr. Wiggins, the innkeeper, came out from behind the counter to shake Geoffrey’s hand. “Mr. Hart, it’s an honour. I saw your Macbeth four years ago. Astonishing.”
“Thank you so much. I’m very happy to be here. The mountain air is so delightfully fresh. New York in the summer can be stifling.”
I scanned his profile. He didn’t look nearly as happy as he claimed to be. Maybe there was some truth in Adele’s story.
“I’ve put you in the Shays suite on the fifth floor. It’s on the corner, so you’ll get the cross breezes. And it has a lovely view of the town green.”
“I’m sure that it will be just fine.” Geoffrey signed the register and picked up two of his suitcases. He turned to Adele and me. “Bring the other bag, girl,” he ordered.
My friend and I looked at each other in confusion. What was he talking about?
“You heard me, Sarah.” He headed up the stairs without looking back.
Adele’s mouth hung open. I nearly choked on my indignation. Sure, he was a famous actor, a star, but that didn’t give him the right to tell me what to do.
He paused at the landing, looking back over his shoulder. Once again I felt the power of that dark gaze. My anger wilted. My nipples peaked and my legs turned to rubber. His impatience beat against me like a physical force. I didn’t want to obey, but I also did not want to disappoint him.
Mystified by my own emotions, I grabbed the suitcase and trudged up the stairs behind him.
* * * *
The Bingham Inn dates from the mid-eighteenth century. It’s a rambling place, a classic country hotel with a wide veranda and more than seventy rooms. The Playhouse rents the top floor each summer to house the primary members of the company. The stage crew and the other players—the ones that don’t live already in the area—stay in dorms on the theatre grounds.
I was quite fit, but four steep flights of irregular, colonial-era stairs, lugging a thirty-pound suitcase, had me panting by the time I reached the top. Hart strode upstairs as though his two bags weighed nothing, leaving me labouring far behind. He didn’t bother to look back; he was sure that I’d follow.
The fifth floor was quiet. Dust sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the landing window. I was grateful to discover that the suitcase had wheels. It squeaked as I rolled it down the hall towards Hart’s suite. No one emerged to investigate. The rest of the troupe was over at the theatre rehearsing. I was a bit surprised that Adele hadn’t followed me upstairs. Maybe she’d been as shocked by Hart’s command as I had.
The door to the Shays suite was half-open. I knocked anyway, swallowing my nervousness. Stop this silliness, Sarah, I lectured myself. Just be professional.
“Come in.” That voice, so full of music and power, sent chills through my sweaty body. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed the door wide and entered the sitting room, dragging the noisy bag after me.
Hart stood by the window with his back to me, appraising Mr. Wiggins’ view. “Took you long enough,” he commented without turning around.
I should have been annoyed, but instead I felt embarrassed and guilty. “Sorry—the stairs—and it’s so hot today…”
“Never mind. Just put the suitcase on the bench next to the other bag.”
I hoisted the case up onto the luggage rack to the right of the door. He still didn’t turn around. I took the opportunity to get a good look at him.
He was tall—over six feet, I guessed—and the low ceilings typical of colonial buildings made him look even taller. Although he was relaxed and still, his lean, athletic body suggested unlimited energy. He had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The tailored garment looked crisp and fresh despite the fact that the temperature must have been pushing ninety.
One hand clasped the other at the small of his back. His bare forearms were lightly furred with black hair, a touch of the animal that clashed with his aura of culture and sophistication. His trousers fit as perfectly as his shirt. I couldn’t stop myself from appreciating the swell of his muscular buttocks under the fabric. My nipples were swollen and painful. My jeans felt hot and tight.
The awkward silence lengthened. I took a deep breath and thought I caught a whiff of his cologne, something brisk and nautical, overwhelmingly male. My heart was a jackhammer in my chest. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself from the physical reactions Hart seemed provoke simply by being present.
It appeared he had already had time to do some unpacking. A stack of neatly folded shirts, all black, white or grey, lay on the sofa. Several pairs of shoes were lined up near the bedroom door. On the table near the window there was a fifth of Glenlivet, which I knew hadn’t been supplied by the inn, along with a pack of Gitanes, some books and a fancy-looking camera. A framed eight-by-ten colour photograph sat on the end table beside the couch, not far from where I stood.
I peered more closely at the photo. A pale, raven-haired beauty stared back at me. Her sultry dark eyes and enigmatic half-smile spoke of a passionate nature just barely held in check by convention. Luxurious curls tumbled over her shoulders but did not hide the ripe breasts swelling out of her burgundy velvet décolletage. Her delicate chin rested on the back of one hand. The graceful fingers were tipped with crimson enamel that exactly matched her lipstick.
I didn’t need to read the autograph to know who she was. Anne Merrill, Geoffrey’s long-time partner, the woman who, if I could believe Adele, had broken his heart.
My spirits sank even lower. It was easy to see how such a woman could captivate a man, even someone as bold and self-confident as Geoffrey Hart. When I compared myself to her—well, there was no comparison really. I was a short, unimpressive woman—a girl, Hart had called me—with plain brown hair too fine to curl and a B cup figure. I had no drama, no flair, nothing like this vivid, exotic creature who oozed sex appeal. So what if I had a master’s degree in acting from Columbia? I’d had almost no real-world experience. I dreamt about Broadway and London’s West End, but this gig at Berks Hill was my first professional job as an actress. And what was I? Nothing more than a bit player, an understudy to the stars.
“You’re still here, Sarah.” Hart wheeled to face me, breaking into my bitter internal monologue. “Good. After all, I didn’t tell you that you could go.”
Amusement lit up his handsome features. He towered over me, close enough that I could feel the heat emanating from his body. Embarrassment washed over me but didn’t quite submerge the undercurrent of arousal.
“May I leave?” I asked, my voice a weak quaver that disgusted me. Why was I asking, anyway? Who was he to tell me what to do?
“Not yet. I need your help unpacking. Go open the bag you carried up. It’s not locked
.”
No, I wanted to scream. But I obeyed him anyway, pressing the chrome-plated catch on the sleek grey Samsonite case and flipping up the lid.
I gasped when I saw the contents. “It’s true!” I blurted out.
Hart came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. He didn’t touch me, but his mere presence was overpowering. “What’s true?”
I heard laughter in his voice. I pointed at the leather restraints and the rubber paddles, my hand shaking. “That—that you’re kinky. Into S and M, just like Adele said.”
“I prefer the term ‘D and S.’ Dominance and submission. My focus is on the exchange of power, not the administration of pain. Though I’m not averse to using pain if that’s the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do?” I turned to face him, hiding behind my indignation. “Are you joking?”
He was close, too close for comfort, deliberately invading my personal space. I tried to step backward. I succeeded only in banging my shin against the luggage rack.
“Ow!”
His eyes drilled into me. “I’m completely serious. D and S is not a game, despite the way it’s portrayed in popular culture. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s much, much more, a new way of being in the world. A doorway into a new kind of relationship, deeper and more intimate than anything you can imagine.”
“Right,” I muttered. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I stared down at my sandals, feeling the blush crawling up my cheeks and across my chest. “I’m sure that’s what all the perverts say.”
He caught my chin under his forefinger and raised my eyes to his. I trembled when his skin met mine.