Inside Power Exchange [GypsyRose & Dane Stalling]

[Dane Stalling]

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Matt Damian crouched in the center of his Tenderloin apartment, a white t-shirt bunched in his fist. The casting people had made a horrible mistake. He dialed Donna again on an aging iPhone.

"Pick up, pick up," he said out of long habit, a mantra he shared with the majority of the civilized world.

Donna's easy voice came in clear on his phone. "Hey Matt! I did you good this time, right?" How did she always have perfect reception on her calls? Nobody else in the City did.

"Yeah, I want to talk about that. Look. I don't think I'm what they want in this role."

"Bull fucking shit, Matt. You should have seen the director's eyes when you hit her screen. They want you. Every perfect black curl of your hair, every fleck of green in your eyes. You have the look. They want you. Shit, I even want you and you know how I feel about humans that can grow beards."

"It's a documentary, Donna," he said.

"So what? Their dollars are just as green as everyone else's."

"About a dom in a BDSM club."

"You're an actor. How is this a problem?"

"You know what the problem is. I don't D or B or S or M. I don't have a clue about that scene. My last gig was the dolphin safe organic tuna spot."

There was a pause, and Matt could picture Donna behind her perfect desk in her perfectly cut suit taking a slug from her stainless steel flask. "You're so tedious when you're like this, Matt. Fucking do the research. Do the job. Get paid so you can eat in your microscopic apartment instead of just being able to afford to sleep in it."

"You know I even ask permission before I hug my mother," he said.

"Asshole," she said, "I'm not even going to dignify that with…" She hung up on him.

It had been four months since Donna had ended a phone conversation with him in any way that approached courtesy. She was an artist of the abortive call, though, and he admired her sense of timing. He set his phone on the dingy carpet and pulled the t-shirt on. It would be nice to eat something besides ramen for a change.

His phone rang. Donna. “So be at the agency by eleven. The producers want to stare into your eyes while you sign their contract. Oh, and they want to do a blood test, so bring your veins.”

“What? In your office?” Matt said, but she had hung up.

—•—

He walked into the agency with ten minutes to spare and punched the button for the sixth floor. Security didn’t even look up from his pink romance novel.

“There he is,” Donna said before he even got into her office. A man and a woman stood to meet him. “Joanie is directing and Pete’s the producer.”

“Matt Damian,” Matt said, feeling very much in the fishbowl. “So this project…”

“Inside Power Exchange,” Donna said.

“Yeah, uh, how authentic are you thinking, because Donna said something about a blood test?”

Pete nodded “Strictly a legal precaution. Your scenes will be entirely simulated and we’re shooting them all on a set. Just covering our bases.”

Joanie nodded. “You and your costar are mood and demonstration between interviews with club regulars. Spice.”

Donna pushed a contract across the desk. The number on the bottom of the page made his eyes widen.

“I’ve already asked all the hard questions for you, darling,” she said, "So shut the fuck up and sign."

 

[GypsyRose]

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"Where do I sign?"

In hindsight, she might have been just a little too eager, but it was the first offer she'd had for a genuine part rather than as an extra. It wasn't a series -- even on one of the stupid channels -- and it wasn't a movie, but at least it wasn't porn.

It was also better than waiting tables or exotic dancing, and if she didn't get some better paying parts, she'd end up doing one or the other soon enough, or packing up and heading back home with her tail between her legs.

It didn't matter that she didn't know much more about BDSM than could be learned from casual internet curiosity, and, of course, Fifty Shades of Gray. That sort of thing was hot right now, and it wasn't like she was going to be into anything heavy. As it had been explained to her, they wanted some pretty, personable faces, a sexy guy and girl next door that would bring in the curious. It was a documentary, but it was a documentary sponsored by some local clubs and retailers who hoped to benefit by making the culture more mainstream, safer.

It sounded like fun. Better yet, she was going to be center stage, and much of the dialogue was improv, little more than her thoughts, appropriately guided, on the outfits, the props, and the mood. Center stage, with a co-star, that is.

The blood test was a little off-putting, but it was slightly better than peeing in a cup.

Regan Howell smiled, turned her face to present the best profile, and rolled up her sleeve, presenting her arm, noting the look exchanged between Joanie and Pete and their nods, as if she'd passed some part of a test she hadn't even known that she'd been taking. It made sense, she supposed. If she was supposed to play the part of a submissive in this relationship, they probably didn't want someone who'd fuss over every little detail.

How hard could it be? She had the library. She had Google. She had ... cripes ... three days.

"You and your co-star are expected on Wednesday at the Power Exchange, 10:00am. We'll be shooting nearby, but we want you two to start with a look around without the regulars. Of course, we'll want some footage of the two of you inside the club as well, for authenticity, but that'll come last."

"Who's my co-star?

"Matt Damian." It was said with a look down at Joanie's i-pad, and a shrug.

Regan closed her mouth on the first comment that escaped her brain, and simply nodded and smiled. Professional.

Whatever else it was, it paid, and it was better than a bus ticket home.

The next days were busy, her time split between a commercial and her freelance work that helped keep the bills paid, and her research crammed in along with some of the available fiction available, Regan didn't have much time to wonder whether she ought to have had her head examined from jumping in so quickly. Really, it didn't seem all that hard.

Wednesday morning, she got up in plenty of time to get dressed, in a pair of black jeans, high heeled boots, and a lightweight white cable knit shirt that showed off her figure. Black and white, nothing too colorful, but also nothing that screamed the lifestyle. She caught a ride with a friend, and parked herself in a nearby coffee shop with a copy of the first book in the 'Masters of the Shadowlands' series, a recommendation from Goodreads based on an interest if Fifty Shades.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt fingered the little combination lock in his pocket as he walked the few blocks to Power Exchange, nodding to a few of the regulars that slept in the doors and in the alleys around his apartment building. He wore a beat up black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and jeans.

“Hey Jimmy Dean,” a toothless beggar teased, “You got a buck? Gotta get a beer, Jimmy.”

Matt grinned at him and handed a wrinkled dollar.

This part of the City was still waking up, even though it was almost ten in the morning. Matt could hear heavier traffic just a few streets over though. His initial concern about the job had been somewhat smoothed over with the first electronic deposit into his bank account. He had eaten pizza for the first time in months at Irving’s to celebrate. Now, though, in the cool morning of early summer, he wasn’t so certain any more.

He had spent a couple of awkward hours at the Public Library using their internet to do research, and what he found was all over the map. Some of the images he saw seemed to be outright abusive, while others betrayed a deep eroticism as well as the use of tens of thousands of dollars worth of camera and lighting gear. He thought the truth was somewhere in between. Reading about the lifestyle seemed to result in better information- complex dynamics between people, some of them counterintuitive. One thing that stood out to him from a dominant’s blog was his claim that the submissive always had the ultimate power in any healthy dom/sub relationship. He found the idea just odd enough to be intriguing.

The club was wedged between an inner city mission and a restaurant. The street facing side of the building was fairly unassuming, painted black with a red door and a marquee over the entrance that read “Power Exchange” in block letters, and underneath that in smaller letters “the end of every modest restraint.”

Matt pushed the door open.

He was surprised at how clean and bright it was. It made sense, he realized. They wouldn’t be using mood lighting and disco balls when they were cleaning.

A man with a squeegee was spraying glass cleaner on a mirrored wall along one side of the main room. “We’re closed, he said, not bothering to turn around.

“Oh, I’m not…”

The man squinted at Matt in the mirror. “Oh. You. Over there.” He tipped his head toward the far end of the room.

A young woman stood there, looking away from him next to a big X made with four by fours. The curve of her hip caught his eye, a white sweater, long dark hair down her back.

“Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder. “I’m Matt. We’re going to be working together.”

 

[GypsyRose]

In the daylight, the club didn't look all that different. There was a bar, and tables and booths, and a more casual area where people could sit and talk on more comfortable seating within sight of the entry door. There was recessed lighting in the ceiling, on the wall, and she could easily imagine what it would look like when the crowds gathered, colored lights, music, drink servers, groups of people standing, sitting, laughing, talking.

After making her way over from the coffee shop, Regan had run into Carole, a diminutive woman in a sedate business suit who'd been on her way in as well, and who had greeted Regan warmly but perfunctorily and ushered her in, past the street traffic who were just transitioning from the morning hustles and getting ready for when the lunch crowds would hit the pavement. Then she'd disappeared, drawn aside by the club manager to discuss the particulars -- leaving Regan on her own to shift from foot to foot as she tried to get past the initial discomfort and start immersing herself in the role while she waited for Carole to return, or for her co-star to arrive.

For a while, she entertained herself by eavesdropping shamelessly on the two employees who were cleaning as they talked about some of the club regulars. Of course, part of it was for her benefit, she was certain, but that wasn't all bad, and she made sure to commit their faces and names to memory as some who'd be worth talking to on a more casual level. Perhaps that was what they were hoping for, though she could have told them that if their aim was to be included somehow in the documentary, it wasn't the actors they needed to schmooze.

After a little bit, they seemed to decide that no excitement was to be found by her presence, and left her to examine the decor once more. Of course, she was aware of someone else coming in and the conversation, but ... to avoid looking too grateful for being rescued from feeling very much like a fifth wheel ... she did not turn until she heard his voice, felt the light touch.

Regan turned, smiling automatically as she held out her hand. The smile brightened by several degrees of wattage as she took in her co-'star' ... though 'star' was probably not the operative word for either of them yet. He didn't look like what she'd been picturing, really ... though she was well aware that her mental expectations were probably as unrealistic as Fifty Shades itself. Some heavyweight in a somber suit, perhaps, with a clunky watch, a tie, and a severe expression.

Matt didn't fit that bill, but he was decidedly good looking, but more in the 'hot guy next door' manner.

"Regan. Hi. Carole is off with the manager discussing ... something. She said when you got here, we should go ahead and look around, just stay out of the way of the staff. I don't suppose you've been here before? I haven't."

The guys cleaning had referred to 'playrooms' off behind closed doors, and she had both been itching to see what that meant, and nervous about finding out. Not being alone, though, certainly gave her more courage.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt smiled back at Regan as he took her hand. She was beautiful with a vaguely exotic look, tanned with smoldering blue-green eyes. He held her hand a little too long, and on an impulse, kissed it. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I was fairly curious who I’d be working with. Insanely curious, actually.” He had half expected dyed black hair and black lipstick. The producers were definitely trying to appeal to a broader audience with her though, and with him, he realized.

Matt laughed. “No, I can’t say I’ve been in a place like this before. I was too busy hanging out with the theatre geeks for a hobby as involved as… well, this. I mean, there was a buddy’s bachelor party once, but that was Stetsons and belt buckles and slipping fives into… yeah. Anyway. There were similarities.” Several circular platforms raised a foot or two above the main dance floor with highly polished brass poles dotted the dance floor as well as some of the more cozy sitting areas.

A neon “PlayPlace” sign that looked like it had been stolen from a McDonald’s decorated the back wall over a corridor. Several closed doors led off the corridor and each one was painted a different color- red, green, blue, black, yellow. Other than the color, there was nothing to distinguish one door from another.

“Well, let’s take a look,” Matt said, and entered the corridor. He stopped in front of the green door and grabbed the handle. “I really hope there’s not a body hanging in here.” He opened the door.

It was a classroom. A high school classroom with a couple rows of desks, a blackboard with chalk and erasers, a map of the world on the wall, a globe, a filing cabinet. A wooden desk with a padded leather top dominated the front of the room.

Someone had written what looked like an actual calculus integral on the blackboard.

“Huh,” Matt said, looking around, “If this had windows, it could be Miss Rodriguez’s math class. Almost.”

He noticed a row of rulers lined up precisely on the desktop, and a partially open drawer revealed a number of paddles of different shapes and sizes. The desk had another feature that Miss Rodriguez’s class didn't—metal eyes screwed into the wood.

“Did you ever have a crush on a teacher? Boy, I sure did. My trig teacher in high school and an economics prof at UCSF.” He grinned at the memory. “Sadly, they were both very, very professional.”

Well, he hadn’t actually managed to make his feelings known either, but that was neither here nor there.

“Let’s see what’s in another one.”

The blue door opened on a very different kind of room. Matt stepped down into a recessed space, all covered in white tile. The floor sloped faintly to a drain in the middle of the room. The air felt humid, and he saw why.

Along one side of the room were several coils of hose, several water spigots, a deep stainless steel tub, and a rack of whips and paddles. The center of the room was bare, but a large stainless hook hung from a chain directly over the drain. Along the side wall was what looked like gym showers, four in a row.

He had a brief vision of Regan, her hands tied over her head, her sweater soaked and clinging. He was going to have to keep that under control. Stay professional.

“Muggy in here,” he said, and touched what turned out to be a full body latex suit hanging on a pipe next to the door. He drew his hand away. The suit felt like an empty skin.

 

[GypsyRose]

Regan's eyes widened as her co-star lifted her hand and raised it to his lips, but the smile didn't falter. It was a sweet gesture, and one she hadn't gotten a lot of since coming to the city, since actors usually saved that kind of thing for those a bit higher on the totem pole. It could have been just for show, but there was nobody around to impress, and from the slight sparkle in those dark eyes gazing down at her, Regan thought that the immediate attraction between them was returned.

That would be welcome realization at any time, but it was good news for the production as well. Chemistry could be faked well enough -- there were quite a few series that showed just how much people could want to be fooled, and movies as well -- but the real thing was always better. It let the actors and directors focus their attention to other areas that needed it.

Her internal temperature raised a few degrees as her mind was flooded by images of what it would be like to act out some of the scenes called for, even though she only had a rough outline to go by. This job suddenly seemed like it might be getting paid to do something you loved even more than usual, and a big improvement over being on camera just so consumers could see that everybody loved Nescafe or AT&T.

"Me too. I hope you're not disappointed. I'm not." Regan had never been much of a one for beating around the bush or all that shy, and what little natural coyness she possessed had mostly been driven out as she worked to break in to a profession that seemed ... probably like most others ... to depend more on accident and luck than drive and talent.

Matt's laughter sent a tingle down her spine, and directed her attention to his lips, the flash of teeth, and reminded her to pay attention to what he was saying. Her smile broadened as he confessed that his closest experience to ... this ... was a bachelor party with strippers. "Was she wearing leather?" she asked with an arch look before letting a chuckle soften it.

Together, they moved off away from the safety of the main room. It was easier now that she wasn't alone to let loose the natural curiosity. The decor was tacky, but in a manner that was appealing -- almost like a nudge to indulge the inner child in something that was definitely not associated with coloring books and barbie dolls .... well, that last one, maybe...

The colored doors made her smile, but she didn't object at all as Matt led the way. That was, after all, her role, and it seemed she was suited to it at least in this. "Wrong genre ... I hope ..." Regan answered to his light-hearted quip, meant to reassure them both. At least for her, it worked. The nervousness was gone, replaced by an eager curiosity, and she let out a little bark of a laugh as they entered into the school room.

"Wow."

She took in the decor with wide eyes. "There was Mr. Davis -- Biology. I admit to a few indiscretions so he could keep me after class." Regan's laugh was mild but genuine as she wandered through, her fingers grazing the surfaces of desk, paddles, chalk, and an old-fashioned ruler that looked a lot more sturdy than the transparent version that she had used in school. Some capricious spirit led her to pose, briefly, over one of the desks, leaning over so that her ass strained against her pants, outlined by the fabric, almost begging for a smack. Admittedly, a few of her fantasies had taken steps in that direction, but Mr. Davis had never taken the bait, or even seemed to be anything but embarrassingly amused.

She grinned at Matt, then straightened, and they left that room for another.

This one looked, to her, more like the set of some old Nazi war movie or perhaps a horror movie, and she stepped a little closer to Matt as they entered, almost wishing that she knew him well enough to cling on to his shirt, a belt loop. "I hope the water is warm, at least" she remarked a little wryly, seeking to see something more in the props. Matt, hosed down, dripping ... well that had some possibilities, she had to admit ...

The latex suit had more possibilities. but given her co-star's expression as he pulled his hand away, it had affect him in much the way the initial view of the room had her.

"Just think Catwoman or Storm," she advised, giving him a friendly poke of her elbow. "But yeah, muggy. Let's see what's next."

The next door was red, and the interior that was revealed matched the door nicely, with a blood red rug leading to what was obviously the room's centerpiece, an overlarge chair reminiscent of a throne. In front of it was three flat cushions symmetrically placed. The sidepieces were wooden displays that reminded Regan of stocks from old-fashioned movies, holding a variety of props, crops, restraints, harnesses, and coils of thin rope and things Regan was almost afraid to guess at their use. There were also benches along the side, though whether they were meant for participants or voyeurs, Regan could only guess.

"I wonder how they decide ... who does what, I mean. Do you make reservations, like for a dinner -- though I suppose it makes it easier to come prepared."

Regan looked around, feeling a little silly ... though there was certainly something appealing about the sense of theatrics. "I suppose it looks different in the daytime, without the people. Can you imagine it, the lights low, strategic, positioned, I'd guess, so that the chair ... the throne, I suppose, is spotlit, the other props more softly lit, with colors. There's a low hum of conversation, the soft clink of ice in the glasses, low laughter, speculation. The benches would be dark, I think ..."

Regan's voice trailed off, the last few words slightly husky as she attempted to put herself in the mood of the place, to understand it ...

Her lightweight sweater seemed suddenly too heavy for the temperature, and she was very aware of Matt's presence in the room. She gave a low chuckle, and drew a deep breath ... bringing herself back to the present.

 

[Dane Stalling]

The exploration of the playrooms was proving educational. Matt realized that they were wandering through carefully designed theatrical sets, but ones with solid fourth walls. The actors were also the audience and the line between person and role could blur and shift. What would it mean for an actor to play such a part? Would it be possible to lose himself in the first level of pretense without losing himself in the other, deeper level? If they put a whip in his hand, who would he be?

Regan had a way of moving that drew his eye. The philosophical questions receded to the background. She posed a little, playfully, and the effect she had on him was immediate. He put a hand in his pocket, adjusted himself a little, ran his fingers over the tiny combination lock. He felt an urge to touch her, to keep a hand on the small of her back or her hip as they wandered the dark corridor of the club. He wondered what would happen if he took her up on one of her little invitations for a swat or a caress? They were not on set, not in character.

“I’ll only be disappointed if your safe word turns out to be ‘Ow.’”

He could tell she was considering her roles too, the naughty student in the classroom, getting a very personal lesson in anatomy; a trapped superheroine or villainess in the glare of the white tile struggling to keep a secret. The dead rubber suit would take on an entirely different meaning with Regan's body stretching it to a gloss. He hoped the documentary producers had considered the possibilities.

His contract had included what Donna insisted were standard costuming and nudity enhancements, although it looked like a free for all to Matt. He wondered idly what Regan’s contract had looked like.

The red room. Of course, a setting for corrupt and power-hungry royalty. There was space for a full cast of courtiers if the script demanded it.

I wonder how they decide … who does what…

Regan painted a picture with her words, the sounds, the darkness and light, the brewing expectation. How would they know what to do?

“I’d think they would have some sort of agreement about the setup, how much of a story, how much improvisation. With a lot of people, I guess you’d have to have some kind of code of conduct- a pecking order or rules of courtesy. It could be simpler than that, though. You could do it with almost no planning at all if it was just two people.”

There were five light switches on the wall by the door. Matt snapped them off, one by one, until only a spotlight lit the throne. The rest of the room effectively disappeared. Matt felt drawn to the big chair, walked behind it, rested his hand on the back. He felt a sense of power radiate from the seat. The symbol of the seat, a small, logical place in his mind corrected, but he felt it fill him.

It had happened before, on the stage sometimes, Matt felt the role fill him, and everything became effortless. He had his audience in the palm of his hand, the words natural and fluent on his tongue. It hadn’t ever happened so fast before though, or without preparation.

He raised his chin, took a breath and walked to the front of the chair, took off his jacket and flopped it over the back of the throne. He sat slouched, one knee draped over an arm of the chair and felt a monarch’s dangerous, careless boredom. He could order an execution just for the entertainment of it.

Regan’s soft white shirt attracted his attention. She stood with her boots just inside the edge of the spotlight. The hot light heated the top of his head, but it shadowed his eyes. He pointed at Regan lazily. “Off with her…”

But the Queen of Hearts had always seemed so wasteful. She could keep her beheadings and her croquet. He smiled to himself and looked at Regan with new attention.

“Off with her shirt,” he said, and the command in his voice surprised even him.

 

[GypsyRose]

Matt's response to her pose didn't go unnoticed, and she smirked playfully at him over his safe word comment. She knew what that was, of course, though in her own undertakings 'No' or 'Stop' had always been sufficient. At first, she hadn't really seen the point, but some of her research had at least opened her eyes to another way of thinking. She could see how it could be fun to say no, to pretend to say no, so long as both knew it wasn't really meant ... and how you'd need some kind of very clear signal when it moved to 'no' for real again. Particularly in some of these rooms ...

It was nice that Matt took her question seriously. A lot of people didn't. She was a pretty face with nice size tits and a curvy ass. Her brain was, at best, an inconvenience, especially if she asked questions they hadn't thought of. That seemed to be a little more true in the industry, though with certain people it'd always been true. It was something you just had to live with, when it wasn't worth the effort of butting heads -- or the loss of income -- but all the same, it made her like, and appreciate, her attractive co-star all the more.

With interest, she watched as Matt turned off the lights, with dramatic flair. The deliberateness of his actions seemed to highlight the darkness all the more, and lent an atmosphere of anticipation and foreboding all at once, especially when he walked toward the throne and moved behind it, an intent expression on his face that said her presence had been forgotten.

Regan wasn't insulted. It happened to her occasionally, though the roles she had been offered outside community theater hadn't been inspiring enough to warrant it much lately, and she recognized the signs. Matt was letting the role speak to him, even if he was doing improv rather than following a script -- unless he'd gotten one when she hadn't.

He was pretty good, too, taking on an air of command, of spoiled decadence like some Shakespearean king, or, for a more modern reference, The Tudors or Game of Thrones. She felt a little shiver run through her as he lounged on the chair, and the urge to do likewise, throw herself into the role and go to kneel before the throne, a supplicant eager for the king's judgment.

As if he'd read her mind, he made an imperious gesture, the light making his hair shine like a nimbus ... or a crown.

"Off with her ..."

As he paused, her mind completed the expectant line, feeling a bit of nonsensical disappointment, until he spoke again, with a rather different twist. His face was still regal, commanding, but there was a hint of softening, amusement, and something more in the directed light, made harsh by planes and shadows.

Her lips quirked, just a bit, as she decided 'what the hell', and threw herself into the spirit of things.

Regan put a note of uncertainty in her expression, imagining Matt now as some long ago king, stern, but not without humor, a man of passions and hungers. She looked to the left, then to the right, as if seeking some other that he must be addressing as she shaped her expression with both a hint of fear, and longing as well.

Taking the hem of her sweater in her hands, she lifted it slightly, letting it serve as a royal gown, and bent her knees in a graceful, slow curtsy. Then slowly, letting herself imagine the royal court gathered on the sidelines, attentive, whispering, nudging one another, Regan moved to the center of the room, her hips swaying softly, her hands crossed modestly in front, until she could kneel at the throne's foot, eyes suitably downcast.

Letting the tension build for a moment, she looked up, angling her face just so to catch a glimmer of the spotlight, and took hold of her sweater hem as she stared up into the face of her king, her lips parting in breathless anticipation and filled with the hope, and expectation, that her offering would bring him pleasure.

Slowly, she began to lift the garment, with just the hint of a smile, exposing her lightly tanned midriff, the toned abdomen, inch by inch, not stopping even when the sweater fabric dragged over the pristine white lace of her bra and the generous curve of her breast, her breath coming slightly faster.

"There you two are! I see you've been getting familiar with the setting. Excellent. We have a set where you'll actually be shooting, of course, but this is great atmosphere, isn't it?"

Carole didn't miss a beat as Regan let her shirt fall back in place and began to stand, reaching out to flip on the lights in cheerful, no nonsense fashion.

Regan wondered if Matt felt as disappointed as she did at the interruption.

 

[Dane Stalling]

She did it so well. With the easy gesture of looking left, then right, she filled the room with people. Matt was impressed. Such a simple thing could communicate so much and Regan had pulled it off with no preparation whatsoever. He was going to love working with her.

Matt had a curious double vision about what happened next. The king he was impersonating wasn’t surprised at all at her obedience and felt a mild amusement at her shyness. Matt was astonished that he could become so demanding and she could become so accommodating with little more than a lighting trick on a set.

She knelt just in front of him, face in shadow. She was so close he could have lifted her chin with his toe, but it wasn't necessary. She looked up at him, and he watched her, fascinated.

But the king and Matt both appreciated the tight, smoothness of Regan’s skin as she pulled the sweater up with excruciating patience. Matt’s fingers itched to touch, to feel the heat of her skin, to explore places he couldn’t yet see. He waited and watched though, curious to see what she would do, how far she would go in their little improvisation.

She looked him in the eye, amused, perhaps, or teasing, as she revealed the swells of her lace covered breasts. Further instructions began to form in his mind. Touches, further revealing of her beauty, things that might make her blush- or balk.

"There you two are!" Carole's interruption jarred him out of his role, but not before he considered sentencing her to summary execution.

The lights flipping on broke whatever spell was still left, and Matt took a big breath and let it out through clenched teeth. He hooked his jacket and stepped down from the dais. He held out a hand to Regan to help her stand.

"Yes, the atmosphere is amazing," he said, "as is your timing."

Carole squinted at Matt. "You were my third choice," she said, "after the hunk with the Van Dyke, but it wasn't my decision. You'll have time later to check out the rest of the club. I managed platinum passes for you, so you can skip in whenever you want without a pesky cover charge. I'm going to walk you over to the set. It's just about done. The lighting crew wants to get some skin readings."

Matt followed Carole out into the main dance floor. "Who was your first choice?" he said, "You know, ahead of the hunk with the Van Dyke?"

"I was my first choice," she said, without breaking stride. "I would have skinned you alive. You would have loved it."

—•—

Matt walked next to Regan and they let Carole get ahead.

"I'm glad casting didn't listen to her," he said, grinning. "Next time I'll throw the dead bolt. I didn't get to find out how loyal a subject you can be."

The set was in what must have originally been a mechanic shop a few blocks from the club. It had an old-style pit that had been covered over with railroad ties but it was clean and the set designers had built an artificial floor over much of the concrete floor. It had a high ceiling with windows around the top, painted over in black.

A set much like the red room at the club was set up in the center of the space, and two technicians were experimenting with different lighting levels.

"Hey Bobby," one of them called, "talent's here."

The calibration process was fairly straightforward, and they had Matt hold a color chart under his chin while they tried different lighting levels. The techs, Bobby and Coax, chattered about their pair of 4K cameras, shooting angles, white balances, and whether they'd be able to get the color right if they ran the lighting rig at 2800 Kelvin. He remembered some of the technical discussions from his film classes, but he had always been more focused on the acting side of the business.

While they checked Regan, Matt wandered around. The set wasn't permanent- he saw elements from some of the other rooms at the club stored along the back of the studio. There were stocks, racks, a four-poster bed, dozens of whips, paddles, ropes and other restraints. They could create almost any scene the producers desired. In a side room were racks of clothing ranging from fantasy costumes to outfits made entirely of leather straps. A table in the corner held thirty or forty sex toys of every size, shape, and color Matt had ever imagined, and several that he hadn't. Everything was new in the box, he picked up a shiny package with a dildo that seemed realistic in every way except that it was manufactured entirely in jungle camouflage.

 

[GypsyRose]

Carole's voice was not precisely strident, but it was forceful, a woman who was used to raising her voice to make herself heard in what was still a mostly male-dominated industry. She was like a dynamo, relatively small in stature but possessed of an indomitable will. She assessed the situation, with Matt and Regan, dismissed it as immaterial, and simply moved on with the matter at hand. Of course, she couldn't resist a little dig, but it was informative rather than mean spirited, and since she didn't bat an eyelid, Regan didn't either, but rather just pulled her sweater down and followed along.

Carole, of course, didn't wait for either of them, but it did give them a chance for a quiet word. "Me too." She gave a little laugh, and flushed lightly as she had a flash of her kneeling before Matt on the throne, her sweater half off, but her eyes didn't drop. She could still feel the little thrill of it, but whether it was was the atmosphere or just Matt himself, she didn't know. There'd be time to figure that out, though, so she just gave him a quick little smile, reminiscent of the one earlier, and then hurried after Carole before she could call for them to hurry up.

Though this was the first time she'd had any sort of major role, she'd been on enough sets that this one didn't phase her. The framework of the club was there, but it was a set, and the difference hit her rather markedly for the first time. In the club, everything was real and steeped in atmosphere. It would be even moreso, in the evenings, when the crowds gathered. The lighting would be muted, strategic, and there would be music and voices, whispers, laughter. The air would be redolent with the odors of fabric and skin, perfumes and colognes, alcohol, perhaps sweetened with the fruit of wine and juices, excitement and lust, hope, nervousness, fear, even boredom adding to the bouquet.

Here, the atmosphere would be created by the actors, aided by lighting, props, sound effects and the like. They would not have the benefit of an audience, save for those involved in the production, so it would be up to them to create the atmosphere that would draw people in with their belief ... be that belief manufactured or real.

Watching Matt out of the corner of her eye while they fussed over her, lighting, skin, wardrobe, makeup, she found herself quite looking forward to it. The moment in the club had been ... magical ... there was no other word for it. They had become the part, and if they could capture that on screen for the cameras ...

Not that it would make either of them instant 'stars' as the word was normally perceived by the general public. Still, it might well get recognition, and consideration for parts of more substance, more general appeal.

Finally, they let her escape so that they could discuss some other minutia of the staging -- camera angles, light filters, and exactly where the line was drawn between fascinating and tempting the public and putting them off. After getting herself a bottled water, she found herself wandering over to where Matt was browsing, at the props table.

A brief look gave her some sympathy with the opinion that there were certain facets of the sex toy industry that main stream America preferred to have their curiosity stroked but not publicly fucked. While Regan wasn't all that shocked or bothered, she imagined that there were several members of her family that might faint dead away if they'd seen Matt brandishing his camo dildo ... even if they'd be doing clandestine internet searches sometime later from the privacy of their laptop or tablet.

"It's the latest thing for surprise sex in the tall grass," she quipped, tapping the package with a tip of her water bottle. "They'll never know what, uh .... " she finished the sentence with a waggle of her brow, before laughing. "Or maybe it's for those with a fetish for military men."

As soon as she'd said it, she found she could picture Matt in the fatigue uniform of a soldier, perhaps with a little special forces beret and polished boots quite easily, and shut her mouth with a snap, though she kept smiling.

"I wonder where they got all these things. Either they've got a huge budget, or their documentary is being sponsored by Alibaba." She nodded to the prominent name on more than a few of the props.

"You know what Joey asked me ... he wanted to know if I had any piercings. He was disappointed that they won't be able to use the chains that attach to studs in the nipple. He seemed ready to demand that I get some until Carole told him that they wouldn't have time to heal before shooting. Thank God for small favors."

She sorted through some of the props, gingerly, taking care not to leave wet fingerprints from the condensation on the water bottle, and settled on a relatively safe looking pair of long black gloves, amusingly labeled 'Vampire Gloves'. It seemed an affectation, until she turned the package over and saw the little rows of teeth on the back, presumably made of the same material as the gloves.

"Have you ever used any of these things?" The question was light, but anything but idle as she gave him a sidelong glance. Some of the things she'd heard them talking about ... how much they could get away with showing ... had her a little nervous ... but not so nervous she was ready to back down.

Asking the question sort of obligated her to answer in turn if he asked. It was, she admitted in the silence of her thoughts, rather exciting to see all these things out in the open. She rather suspected that most women her age had used a vibrator or dildo at one point or another, but she couldn't remember it ever being the subject of a serious discussion with any of her girlfriends ... much less with a man she'd known for the space of a handful of hours.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt looked at the dildo with new appreciation as Regan suggested several uses. "It could be for those with a fetish for military women too," he added, sighting down its length like it was a pistol.

"Pow," he said, quietly.

"I think the whole thing is sponsored- the clubs, the gadgets, the costumes," he said, and set the box down. He put his hands in his back pockets to keep from picking something else up.

It also seemed sponsored because the producers had picked a couple of nobodies to play the candy scenes. It didn't bother Matt though. It was a paycheck and it was a hell of a lot more than he could make being the other man in a commercial. At least they had some talent between them and he found he wanted to smile every time Regan came near.

"Thank God for small favors," she said, and she had Matt trying to imagine her nipples with studs, without studs, wrinkled and pinched between his fingers, slippery under his tongue. He caught himself staring.

He raised his eyes and smiled. "I doubt there's anything anyone could do to your breasts to make them any more perfect," he said, "but I'd be willing to make an attempt."

He took the water bottle from her hand, cracked it open and took a sip. He handed the bottle back and watched curiously as she turned the package with the gloves over in her hands.

"Have you ever used any of these things?" she said.

"That depends," Matt said, suppressing a grin, "on whether you're asking if I've used them on myself or if I've used them on someone else."

He could have made her ask, to clarify. He thought he would, when he was in character, force her to say uncomfortable words that exposed her curiosity, that made her vulnerable. But now, in the dressing room, it just felt like it would be unnecessarily mean.

"Most of this stuff isn't really suited for my tastes or my anatomy, except for maybe those," he said, pointing at a few masturbators that might have gone unnoticed in the flashlight section of an Ace hardware. He held his hand up, fingers splayed. "It's hard to make toys much better than this for me." He wiggled his fingers. "Probably."

"I had this girlfriend my first year of college though, and she had one of those vibrators they sell in department stores... like this one." The Hitachi looked big next to most of the other toys. "She was funny—very proper in public. She probably ordered that massager from the Sears website. She might have even thought she'd just use it for her back, but wow, the stuff we tried with it." Matt shook his head slowly, remembering the exercise bike, the modified chair, the time he hid it under the sheets in her bed. "We burned it out."

"Yes, I suppose I've used one of these things."

He let the answer hang in the air for a moment.

"So which of these gadgets are your special friends, or do you prefer..." He wiggled his fingers in the air again.

—•—

Carole poured herself another burnt coffee in the break room at the warehouse and consulted the schedule on her tablet. Matt stared down into his styrofoam cup and watched oil swirls join and break apart on the coffee's evil looking surface.

"I don't want to have to be here at the ungodly hours you're expected to be here for makeup and sound check," Carole said, "Eight sharp. Joanie wants to start the shoot at ten, but that's wildly optimistic if you ask me. But nobody asks me. Some of the crew is going to get together at Spike's Bar and Grill tonight to celebrate their last night of freedom for two weeks. You can go... or not. I think I'll just pop into Power Exchange a little later. My riding crop is itchy. Whatever you do tonight, remember, no marks on skin. No scrapes, bruises, bite marks, punctures, or hickies. We're paying you for your skin."

 

[GypsyRose]

"Looks like you're shootin' blanks," Regan returned dryly, a smile twitching at her lips. Her first inclination was to think the display of toys rather ridiculous, but given that she didn't care for biting the hand that fed her -- a hard bite, anyway -- she re-focused and tried to come at things from a more balanced perspective.

Why should any of it be ridiculous? People liked what they liked, and why shouldn't they. If using a camouflage dildo lent some fun and excitement, who was she to poo-poo the idea. A weekend playing drill sergeant and recruit, camping perhaps, costumes and toys ... she wasn't even into all that army stuff, but it sounded kinda fun in her thoughts.

And if not camouflage ... glitter, glow in the dark, goth, punk, or, hell, gold and platinum plated for the sheik and his harem.

Regan found that she liked Matt's stare, and it didn't matter if he was looking at her eyes or letting his gaze wander southward. She'd taken a few trips down below the equator herself when his attention was otherwise engaged, and liked what she saw of both hemispheres, and that little flash of him getting into character, posing, lingered there in the edges of her mind like a craving for chocolate when she was trying to lose another five pounds to better her chances at a role.

His compliment added an extra teasing glow to her smile, and she cocked her head and looked from him down to her sweater-covered chest, fighting the urge to draw the sweater tighter. He seemed quite good at drawing out her playful impulses, which spoke well for a natural chemistry for their shots. Thank god for that, even if it lessened the acting skills required. Having her ass paddled for the camera by some jackass that she'd sooner slug than fuck likely made for long days.

"Your willingness is noted, as is the compliment, though you're basing that opinion on incomplete information." It was as bold a come-on as she'd ever delivered on such short notice, but once she'd said it, there was no horrified 'WTF did I just say?' moment. It was subtle enough, but it was certainly enough of an expression of interest that he could pick up on it or not, as he chose.

"Not the vibrating glove? ... cock ring? ... harness? ... mask? ... whatever the hell that is?" Regan ran her fingers over a couple of the packages, feeling an odd sort of tingle that probably had more to do with her attraction to Matt than any draw toward the items themselves. As he wiggled his fingers, her eyes did sweep southward again, finding it all too easy, and exciting, to imagine those fingers in action, perhaps in conjunction with her own.

"I'll admit to giving something like that a try when I was younger, but not with a partner, though. One of my friends had one of those ... sex toy parties ... about a year ago, though. It was silly and fun ... her cousin was selling these sex toys, some sort of Amway-kinda thing ... where they had naughty party favors and a penis shaped cake and 'aphrodisiac punch' and we played silly games. I'll admit to having bought a couple of things - the things you do for friends."

Regan picked up a large, pink, double ended dildo and gave a wry grin. "Not this. But we played this game at the party where we had to pass this thing around from person to person, between our legs, without using our hands. Turned out that my friend's mom was an expert at it ... It was hilarious, though that might have had more to do with the punch -- it was spiked."

She grinned at the memory, accompanied by a shake of her head as she put the dual cock in its plastic packaging back down and picked up a silver bullet-shaped vibrator. "This I could afford ... along with a sampler pack of massage oils. The oils are gone, but this ... this I haven't burnt out ... yet."

She didn't quite answer his next question, though she did wonder what he'd do if she took his fingers in her own and replied with a suggestive look of her own. Perhaps it was the subject matter of the job, rubbing off, though the feeling like she needed a cold shower would probably go away once it became more work.

~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~

Regan refused the offer of coffee. It was late enough in the day that her coffee snobbishness held greater sway than the need for caffeine. She got a diet Dew from the vending machine and nursed its cool, sweaty surface, holding the bottle to her neck for a bit of its coolness before twisting the cap and taking a drink as Joanie filled them in on the schedule.

Eight o'clock wasn't all that early for her, but she supposed that Carole was high up enough in the food chain that she could better choose her own hours. Still, she'd be there, probably even early as the excitement of starting a shoot -- even a mediocre one -- was always enough to have her eyes wide open well before they had to be. When Carole mentioned her offhanded invitation, she glanced over at her co-star. Cast get-togethers were always interesting, and she could hardly afford to turn down a chance to network, but it would be a lot more fun if Matt were going as well.

The thought of Carole in full dominatrix gear and riding crop was something of a scary one, and though she was really quite curious, perhaps putting that off until she had a day of shooting under her belt might be a good idea. There was jumping off into the deep end, and then there was jumping OFF the deep end.

With a last 'ta-ta', they were left at the table alone, Regan took another long drink and gave Matt a sidelong look. "Well, that prohibition leaves out about half the props, then, don't you think? Just as well. Are you thinking of going to Spike's?" She didn't even try to hide her interest in his answer. She was far too busy weighing the good of 'networking' against what might happen if she suggested her place and borrowing a couple of the props to 'try out'. Not seriously, of course ... not too seriously, anyway.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt fought off an urge to say “Yes, Mom” to Carole’s list of prohibitions. The contrast between her physical size and the size of her personality kept surprising him. Well, at least he knew he’d want to stay clear of her, at least for tonight. He felt a weight lift when she finally left the room.

“Well, I can’t get a black eye today,” Matt sighed, “and I can’t get in a bicycle wreck, so there go my plans for the evening. I guess I could chip a tooth or bite my tongue. Maybe I could get away with bumping my head.”

“Are you thinking of going to Spike’s?”

Matt shrugged. “I guess the question is if you have to work bare assed for eight hours in front of dressed people, how well do you want to know them? And more to the point, how well do you want them to know you?”

Just putting the question out there made up his mind. He had worked grip on a few shoots and he knew that crew tended to have a natural disdain for “talent.” Every time the word was used, he could hear a little irony. It made some sense though. Often actors commanded a lot of attention, but the crew, even on a lower budget shoot had to be highly trained, disciplined, and working together. He’d been on sets where all the real talent was off-camera.

“I think it’ll be best to go. I want to know their names, what they do. I have a feeling they can make things harder for us… or easier. And it will help if we don’t act like cast iron divas.”

He’d also get a couple more hours looking at those smoky eyes. The flirting had been light in tone, but frank and to the point and it left him with images of Regan swimming in his head, at the sex toy party, the long pink dildo flopping between her legs, running down the batteries in her little mirrored tube. What would she be like if she was interrupted? Angry? Desperate? What would her voice sound like if she was begging?

The front of his pants was feeling much tighter than normal and Regan’s attention didn’t make things better. He caught her again, her eyes wandering.

“Hey, I’m going to go home and get a shower. A lukewarm one,” he said, then shook his head and smiled. “A cold one. I’ll be at Spike’s around seven. Do you have anywhere to hang out in the neighborhood?”

 

[GypsyRose]

Matt's irreverence struck a ready chord with Regan, who preferred to approach even the career she was so passionate about with a sense of humor. It would be, she hoped, the thing that kept her from burnout or escapism. Alcohol, drugs, and sex - the actor's bane, and though she was a long way from Hollywood, the problem wasn't relegated to one location. Regan didn't ever want to take pills or shoot up to feel the excitement, and then drink or take more pills to unwind. Laughter, and hopefully a bit of good sense, was her armor against that.

"Well, you could look heroic, I suppose, with the black eye ... but given the subject matter, it'd probably push away the people who are working up the courage to give things a try rather than draw them in." She shrugged, and smiled broadly, her face a study in pure innocence for a moment before it was spoiled with a laugh.

"Always make friends with the crew," she offered, in the tone of one who'd heard it a million times. She had, actually, from the very first community theater director she'd worked with, while she was still in high school. Once he'd found that she was really serious about pursuing an acting career and not a rebellious phase, he'd loaded her down with a good bit of advice, and since he'd worked on some large productions before retreating into semi-retirement, she'd taken note. "You never know who they're related to, and a bad reputation is only an asset when you're already rich and famous."

Besides, it was a job. So long as they were seeing her put her best into a role, she shouldn't care what that role was, right?

"They're getting paid just like we are. And I don't know how to set up the lighting to get just the right mood. From the way they were talking, I think they do. It was all very professional, I thought -- though maybe porn sets are run very professionally, too."

That thought made her think of the bits in her contract about simulated sex. She'd read about how it was done in the movies, but even that seemed quite intimate to her. There was that one episode of NCIS where Tony and Ziva had pretended to be a couple, simulating sex in a hotel room as part of their cover ...

Regan stifled another giggle, blushing just a bit as she imagined them tangled together in the sheets, Matt's hips moving against hers. The temperature of the room seemed to rise a bit, and she had to resist the urge to fan herself, instead taking another drink of the warming diet soda. Even pretense could be pretty ... steamy ... particularly when there was attraction, though, of course, she had no way of knowing whether the actors actually felt anything for each other or not in the show.

Given that she was attracted to Matt, and he seemed, at least, NOT not interested, it was hard to imagine how it wouldn't be steamy on some level, even with cameras, lights, and a director critiquing and choreographing their every move.

"Great. Sounds like a good way to make things more comfortable ... or at least less awkward for tomorrow." She smiled brilliantly, half hoping that Matt would pick up on the reason for her heightened color and half hoping that he wouldn't.

Matt mentioned a shower, and again Regan smiled at his admission that it'd be a cold one rather than a warm one. When he asked about her plans, in a round about way, she wasn't truly sure whether it was a subtle come-on or just polite interest ... or even which she was hoping for. It was all too easy to let her imagination run rampant ...

"A shower sounds good ... " Her smile flashed again, as she took note of his expression, seeking more cues, but then she applied a little cold water to her own imagination and amped it down. Sexual tension between the two of them could make for some great sparks, and lead to more roles down the way. Rushing into something and finding that they matched about as well as Charlie Sheen and Selma Blair.

"Yeah, I'm good. I'll meet you at Spike's at 7:00?" Did that qualify as making it more than just a casual meeting of co-stars? And what was she going to wear? And why was her mind more on what would be under her clothes than what everyone would be seeing?

All valid questions, to which Regan had to reluctantly admit she had the answer to ... and while her motives might not be pure as the driven snow, she wasn't particularly ashamed of them, either.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Professional porn sets. It was the last thing Matt needed to be thinking about right now. Or Megan in a shower, in a shower with him, even a cold one, keeping each other warm.

“Seven o’clock,” he said, “It’s a date.”

The streets always seemed surreal after time on set, and the walk to his apartment was spent in a shifting fog of reality. Which world was real and which was the set?

Matt walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, stepping over the occasional sleeping transient, nodding at the regulars, but he felt disconnected. Seven wouldn’t come soon enough.

—•—

He wanted to pump his bike up one of San Francisco’s hills to burn off some of his energy, but no matter how careful you were, there was no guarantee you wouldn’t hit the pavement on any given ride. He settled for jumping rope between his kitchen and his futon until the downstairs neighbor banged his floor with a broom. The apartment seemed smaller than normal and strangely warm. San Francisco was known for cool weather, but Regan had gotten under his skin.

Skin. He wondered what would show on skin and how long it would last. He went to the tiny kitchen and found a bamboo spoon he used for stirring spaghetti and smacked his thigh with it. It stung, but not too badly. He pulled his pants down there in the kitchen and checked the place. It felt a little bit warm and had a red outline of the spoon. He’d check it again after a shower. He doubted it would still be there.

Taking a cold shower would be okay if he actually had a choice. The water heaters in the building were fifty years old, and under-capacity. You could be clean or you could be warm, but both at the same time? That was a rare luxury.

He watched the redness on his leg fade away in a few minutes. It made him smile, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. He pulled on an old grey roll neck sweater over some jeans and opened Miller’s Tropic of Cancer to a random place in the middle and started reading.

—•—

The impressive collection of beer neon in the front window of Spike’s Bar & Grill lit Matt’s face in warring yellows, blues, and reds. Bruises in light. He was a few minutes early, and waited for Regan outside, watching the city settle into its best time of day.

 

[GypsyRose]

Getting a ride back was more trouble than it was worth, but Regan had gotten good at public transit, even if her prior experience before moving to the city had consisted of the school bus. Having a car again would be nice, someday, but now it was an expense of it in the city was one she didn't need. For now, there was PT, Uber, a taxi or friends when public transit or her feet didn't suffice. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Power Exchange and the shoot, and, of course, Matt, enough that she had no exact memories of the faces traveling alongside her, save that a couple had mistaken her inner smiles as outwardly directed, but a quick, distracted wave, a 'don't mind me' shrug, and she had made her escape, her sneakers (her heeled boots now residing in her shoulder bag) making little rubbery thumps upon pavement and grate while she hurried.

Her roommate, Heather, was asleep or gone, so there was no one convenient to talk to as she dug into her closet, looking for just the right thing to wear. Club wear was a necessity, but she couldn't decide whether she should play into the theme of the shoot or not. Of course, her wardrobe was somewhat limited in that regard. The closest thing she had to some of the garb in wardrobe was a pair of leather pants and a leather skirt.

The memory of how Matt had looked at her when she knelt in front of him was very much at the forefront of her memory as she selected the skirt, and found herself reaching for a jade green top with a tight collar around the neck that left her arms and shoulders and back bare. In front, it was quite modest, save for the fact that you couldn't wear any sort of conventional bra, and it looked great with a necklace of shiny flat beads.

She didn't worry about over or under dressing - Spike's was a place that ran the gauntlet of attire from ratty jeans and T's to formal business wear from those looking to make a statement or just not bothering to head home to change from a day at the office. Nobody'd be surprised to see a struggling actress dressing to catch the eye -- it was another profession that was on call, 24-7, when that next big opportunity could happen from the most casual encounter ... or so 'they' said. It hadn't happened for her yet, but she supposed there was no reason it couldn't.

The sun was low in the sky, and the radio was already making noises about fog rolling in later in the evening when Regan headed out, her oversize shoulder bag again holding her black heeled boots and a few other essentials. She changed at the last convenient moment, putting the uninspiring black sneakers deep into the depths of her bag, and strutted off into the street.

The scent of spicy food from the street vendors was in the air as she made her way toward Spike's, and her stomach rumbled a little as she passed a bacon dog cart and hurried across the street on the light. The next corner had a small crowd of people gathered around a street performer and a Tamale Lady cart, and Regan was tempted to linger to hear at least a bit more of the performer's rendition of Hotel California, but she could see the neon lit signs that beckoned her on to her destination. Her heels picked up the rhythm of the music, as did her hips, and though she could no longer hear the slightly out-of-tune guitar, the song played well enough in her head that she kept the sway going until she spotted Matt standing there, lit by the remainder of grey-tinged light from the darkening clouds overhead and the warring neons dueling it out to catch the eye of passers by, enticing them to come in and spend their money, or perhaps earn some as well.

Regan came to a stop, waiting until his head turned in her direction before she started moving again, letting a hint of the anticipation she felt make its way to her expression.

"You waited for me. Thanks." It also put just a bit of a spin on their entrance that wasn't lost on her, and again she wondered if casting hadn't made the call right, not only for looks, but for inclination, at least in Matt's case ... and maybe in her own, as she wondered if he was going to add to that impression by offering his arm.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Regan looked ready to take on any room in the city, and Matt was certain she would have made a memorable entrance at any one of them.

He had a slight flash of disappointment at how much her top covered, but it turned quickly to admiration as her stride revealed free movement under her top. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Matt wondered briefly if it was a subtle means of staying in touch with her role.

He leaned in to kiss her cheek when she walked up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and walked around her. The open back showed so much perfect skin and tantalizing contour, Matt felt his face flush a little. “I’ve never seen a woman lead with her back,” he said, “but Regan, you’re pulling it off.”

He suppressed an urge to run his fingers up her spine as he considered what pulling that top off would be like. and offered her an arm instead. It would make a more impressive entrance if they looked a more formal couple from the front. Surprise would be her ally tonight.

The noise level jumped as they walked into the crowded pub. Someone had put a handful of quarters in an old jukebox and picked every Foreigner cut in the machine. The last notes of I Wanna Know What Love Is faded out and the unmistakable intro to Urgent lent a further air of electricity to the atmosphere.

It didn’t take long to find the crew. They had a comfortable rowdiness that subsided to silence as Matt and Regan approached the long table.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m Matt and this is Regan.”

He heard someone murmur “talent” to his right.

“God, I hope not,” he said, “Those prissy little shits give me a rash.”

He pulled a seat out for Regan and sat next to her. “What are we drinking?”

“We’re drinking IPA, but talent has to start with shooters.” Coax said, “It’s tradition.”

There were snickers around the table.

“You’re on camera, right?”

“That’s right. And you’re in chaps?”

Matt laughed and shrugged. “I’m wearing whatever they put me in.”

The cameraman nodded sagely, "Yes you are, and tonight you're drinking what we say," he said, and waved a hand to a server. "Four Blackballs for the talent and a couple more pints of this." He swirled the last of his beer in his mug.

 

[GypsyRose]

The look on Matt's face made her glad she'd dressed as she had. While she'd dressed for her, she'd also dressed for him, and the kiss on the cheek was less heated than she might have fantasized ... had she allowed herself to do so ... it was also very much in keeping with reality, interest without assumption. It made it easy to relax, and bask in his attention as he made a more thorough impression. While Regan didn't look down to check, she could feel that her nipples had hardened, and not only from the breeze.

Bad of her, maybe, but she hoped that he noticed. A top like that was, after all, meant to highlight the sensual, and few things were more sensual than a confirmation of desire, of arousal. Her smile took on something of a satisfied air as Matt's expression seemed to indicate that she'd made the impression that she had hoped, and she laughed outright at his comment. "I like the statement it makes - sexy, but leaves you something to work for."

While the 'you' was a collective pronoun, there was enough subtle emphasis that, rightly, might hold the flavor of an invitation, particularly as her fingers tightened for a moment around his arm. Whether it was anticipation, or nerves, that caused the eruption of goosebumps on her back, or both, it heightened her awareness of her own body, and likely improved the view from the front as well as they entered.

The music wasn't quite loud enough to resound through her body as it was in some clubs, for which she was thankful. The music was retro, but retro was in, and Rock of Ages had aroused her interest enough that she recognized both the song that was ending, and the one that was coming on, and the beat certainly lent itself to a little extra sway, the occasional bump, against Matt's hip, and she smiled brightly at the small crowd around the table. It was tempting to flush a little considering that some of them had seen her around the display of costumes and toys, but that was foolish.

Matt was good at putting people at their ease. He had been with her earlier, and it seamlessly transitioned over to the others as he both admitted and deflected the divide between actors and crew. Everyone knew that neither of them were big enough to have developed much of an ego, and she laughed right along with the light, friendly banter.

"Good thing I'm not driving ..." was her contribution as she sat in the chair Matt pulled out for her. "Thanks, Matt."

Though she would have preferred a beer, a little liquid courage to loosen up, start getting into the role, wasn't a half bad idea, so long as she didn't end up too drunk to walk and, more importantly, looking like shit for the camera tomorrow.

"Hey, wow, nice blouse," Kelly -- makeup and wardrobe -- commented, straining to get a better look as she huffed out a bit of a laugh. There was no real animosity in the comment, and the two of them shared a little talk about where they liked to shop for clothes, and discovering that they both had an eye for the little second-hand boutiques, where Regan had gotten this little number. The conversation split up into three or four little groups while they waited for another round of drinks, which came with a small basket of popcorn, which smelled delicious, and another of pretzels.

"Is this your first mockumentary?" the cameraman asked as he hoisted his mug, looking between Matt and Regan with a bit of a smirk that widened as one of the others warned, "Don't let Carol hear you call 'her feature' that." The dissenter looked around, then confessed with a grin and a chortle, "She's already threatened to shove the camera so far up his ass that he'd have to stick out his tongue to get a close up."

And all the while, as she slammed her shooter, as she participated in the banter and got salty fingers from the popcorn and pretzels, she was very conscious, in a good way, of the warmth of Matt's leg against hers, and the fact that neither made any effort to move away from the contact.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt felt happy and expansive, partially because of the beer, and partially because of the view. He found himself continually frustrated and fascinated, just as he had been the first time he saw Regan in the beguiling green top. He expected to catch looks down the neckline, and found instead that Regan was exposed in a completely different way. Each time he caught himself staring, it wasn't her skin that attracted him. It was her shape, the way her breasts moved as she spoke or reached for her drink, the way her nipples pushed out the thin fabric as it slid over her body.

Matt touched his fingers to the Regan's back at a moment when she was turned away from him, engrossed in conversation with Kelly. The techs were discussing data rates and had forgotten about him for a second. He ran his fingers down her spine slowly, feeling the silk of her skin and the muscles underneath. He was fascinated enough that he noticed after a lengthening silence that they were all watching him, the lighting guys, the camera operators, the grips. Matt didn't pull his hand away, but let it slide around the curve of Regan's hip. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "We have an audience. What are you going to do?"

Someone whistled and Matt grinned and kissed her shoulder.

"Save it for the set, talent," someone said, but with a little awe. "This might be the first mockumentary, uh, feature that actually generates royalties for me."

To Matt's surprise, a few of the techs got up to leave around nine o'clock. "You have to be beautiful tomorrow," Coax said, pulling on his coat, "But I have to be smart. Gotta catch my genius sleep. See you on set."

The crew left in ones and twos over the next fifteen minutes, settling their tabs and grabbing a last handful of peanuts.

Matt found himself alone with Regan at the end of a long table littered with bottles and mostly empty pub food baskets. Their conversation had wandered comfortably from music to childhood pets to favorite film performances. A busboy started clearing dishes and silverware into a grey tub. "Hey," he said, "You're all squared away tonight. Those guys took care of your tab."

Matt thanked him and left a tip for both of them. He took Regan's hand and stood. "If I go to bed now, I'll wake up at four in the morning. I need to stay up a little longer. Want to take a walk?"

 

[GypsyRose]

The shirt had been worth every penny of what she'd paid for it, even if it had stretched her budget a little more than she had wanted for a used ... or, rather, repurposed, recycled ... garment. Matt seemed to be more interested than he would have been if she'd worn her lowest-cut blouse, teased by the more subtle hints of shape and her own growing excitement. She was very much 'on', the fuse lit by a heady combination - an awakened interest in the subject, an attraction to her co-star, and the easy acceptance of the rest of the crew, and she chatted and laughed with ease.

Beyond the ease was something more that had nothing to do with anyone else at the table other than Matt. An attraction to someone she worked with was less common than most assumed. From her first drama class, she'd gleaned that it was trouble. The girls, and guys, who auditioned for a part not because they wanted to act, but because they wanted to be seen or capture the eye of the class instructor or a co-star never added anything to a production and usually just made it harder for the rest to cover for them in an attempt to keep their presence from being a detraction.

Regan had steered clear of that sort of thing, cultivating a professionalism that she hoped made her actual 'talent' rather than a pretty T&A holder that got the part based on somebody's juvenile wet dream.

It had been mostly easy before, but with Matt, the attraction was as strong as it had been immediate, and she didn't have to act when she felt his fingers trace down the bare skin of her back. She felt it, head to toes and everywhere in-between, an electric hum that seemed as if there ought to have been sparks flashing at the connection point. It took a few seconds to process that she'd let Kelly's question go unanswered a heartbeat or two too long, and that the sparks between them might not have been visible, but it had definitely been noticed -- and at least part of that was due to the very visible jut of her nipples against the jade fabric, visible confirmation for anyone paying close enough attention of just how Matt's touch affected her.

The stroke of his hand hadn't been tentative, or accidental. It had been very natural, and also ... claiming, and far from being insulted or bothered, Regan felt unaccountably elated, particularly when he leaned forward spoke against her ear, his breath warm and soft, the brush of his lips feather-light or perhaps a product of her own imagination, her little purr of appreciation lost in the whistles and commentary ... but perhaps not totally.

"For all of us, I hope," Regan found breath enough to answer, though right now it wasn't about the money, or even the chance at a moment of fame. Fortunately, the demand that they start with shooters hadn't developed into an outright attempt to get the talent drunk, so she could sip on her bottle of hard lemonade and smile enigmatically, which everyone seemed to accept with a laugh or snort.

Her heart beat faster as the little gathering broke up, but settled as Matt made no move to leave. Talking to him was easy, so easy that she was more than a little startled when the staff started displaying hints that it was time for them to relinquish the table for a more thorough cleanup. Everything was squared away, neatly, courtesy of the crew and then Matt, but the last thing she wanted to do was go home ... at least alone.

That Matt seemed to agree brought a slightly fuzzy smile, courtesy of the drinks, but one that was completely sincere. "A walk sounds perfect."

That wasn't all that was perfect. Her light jacket over the backless top provided a perfect cover, a perfect invitation, for Matt's hand to rest against her skin, the perfect slow burn for her to offer encouragement both subtle and more daring.

How it happened, she wasn't sure ... or was it that she just preferred not to think about it too closely in case it spoiled something that seemed quite spontaneous, quite natural?

Either way, she really wasn't that surprised to find that their walk led them to mostly dark building where the set was for their shoot. Casually, almost innocently, she looked up at Matt, her smile offering a little challenging, tipsy encouragement as she found herself suggesting what had been playing softly in the back of her mind like particularly effective mood music, so soft as to seem casual and unobtrusive.

"Hey, do you think there's anybody in there? Someone who might let us in if we'd forgotten something earlier?"

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt shrugged, smiled, and knocked on the door. The alcohol had him wrapped in a comfortable buzz, and the walk over to the temporary studio had been... intriguing. He had walked close to Regan, his hand on the small of her back under the jacket. Watching her walk was a pleasure, but feeling her rhythm was delightful. He had bumped her hip just to feel her move against him, and wasn't disappointed. Every step felt like a dance, and he led, like a dance, with his hand. He steered her around broken glass, stopped in front of a store window just to look at her reflection. Then pressed her back subtly to start walking again.

There was no answer at the door. He pounded a few times, but the building was silent and no light shone through the cracks under the door or in the few scratches in the blacked out windows.

"Nobody's here," he said, backing up and checking to see if any of the upstairs windows were open, "but you're right- what if I'd left my wallet in there?"

He pulled out his phone and dialed his agent. He put her on the speaker and grinned at Regan, but put his finger on her lips for a moment to signal quiet.

"Hey Donna, I need to get into the set. Can you call someone for me?"

"Fuck off," she said. He had awakened her.

"Seriously. I need to get in."

"What for? You don't have any lines to rehearse."

"I left something in there."

"You left what?"

"What do you care? My dignity. It's in there and I need it tonight. And my practice whip and I was thinking of sleeping in a leather mask tonight to get into character. Just call someone and get this place open for me."

"Back door," she said, and he heard a page flip on her ever-present notebook. "4872Y# on the keypad and never call me at night again or I'll shove your phone in a hot, tight place that will make you..."

She hung up.

"Love you too, Donna."

He repeated the code out loud, just to keep it in mind.

The back door opened on the first try and they went in. Matt felt for a light switch, found it, and the costuming room flooded with light.

He had seen the room earlier, but he had been focused on the toy table at the other end. He hadn't appreciated the number of costumes they had hanging on long rolling racks. It looked like they had raided the costume closets of every production in the city, and he found that someone had gone to the trouble of pulling costumes that were his size. He guessed that all of the women's costumes would fit Regan perfectly.

He picked the closest dress off of a rack and held it up to her.

"Too barmaid."

He tried a few others. "Too schoolgirl, too hippie, too housewife."

He took Regan's jacket off of her shoulders and hung it along with the costumes. He looked at her, watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. He wanted to push her against the wall and kiss her until she gasped for air, but he stood still and licked his lips. "Find one that would please a king."

He backed away a couple of steps, watching her eyes, then turned to see if he could find something that looked royal and decadent.

 

[GypsyRose]

What were they doing? Regan might care tomorrow, but tonight, she didn't. She'd had enough to drink that the world was bathed in a warm, fuzzy glow, and she didn't need a drink to know that the touch of Matt's fingers on her bare back made her want to feel them on more than just her back. She could have invited him back to her place, or suggested that he invite her ... and that was where the glow set in and messed with common sense.

She couldn't forget the way he'd looked draped over that throne, or stop wondering about all those props. It would be too strong to say that the thoughts had been in the back of her mind. A more accurate description was that it had been hovering around on the outside of her mind like summer fog rolled in off the ocean ... and somewhere between leaving the nightclub and now, the window had been opened to let it roll in and seep into the nooks and crannies.

It wasn't a cold fog at all, though. It was warm -- warm, and inviting.

Regan had to cover her mouth with her hands at Matt called Donna to cover the giggles. This was the kind of adventure that wasn't complete without a muffled giggle or too, but even so, she admired his aplomb, and his ability to improvise. She couldn't hear Donna's end of the conversation, but Matt's was enough to tickle at the roof of her mouth and behind her lips. If the fog of temptation hadn't been there to insulate against the desire to laugh, she might not have been able to restrain the giggles, but she didn't want anything to stop the adventure.

Once inside, the urge to giggle went away, but the warmth of gentle arousal and the heady haze of adventure stayed. She could tell herself, as the lights flooded on and they moved into the costume room, that this was no different from earlier in the day, that there were set designers and producers and cameramen just down the hall -- but she knew the truth, and also knew that she wasn't going to suggest they go anywhere else.

The costumes that Matt pulled out looked as if they would fit, but she was glad to hear him reject the first few selections. She wanted him to want her, and all of those first selections would have been caricatures. His fingers brushed along her shoulders, and then her back again as he helped her with the jacket, which had been draped cape-like, all the better to invite his touch as they had walked, and it would have been easy to just melt against the heat of his eyes. Was he thinking of backing her up against the wall and holding her there with his body as their mouths met? If he wasn't, then she certainly was ... enough that there was a mix of disappointment and anticipation as he directed her to find a costume, though his eyes lingered.

"Yes, your highness," she murmured softly, but the urge to giggle had gone. This wasn't a laughing matter, as the lightness in her stomach insisted, as well as the warm, growing tingle of excitement that had her nipples taut and pert beneath the shirt, all the more for the stroke of his eyes, the insistent pulse the apex of her thighs.

The Dress

She didn't know what was going to happen, not really, but Regan was certain that she wanted to find out.

The hangers clicked softly as she sorted through the outfits. Few of them seemed in any way meant to please a king, though they would probably rouse interest in any red-blooded heterosexual male. They were all designed to hug curves, and to leave nothing of form to the imagination. Two looked as if they might work - a shimmering cocktail dress cut to the navel that really needed jewelry to bring out the expanse of skin that would be shown, and a feminine floral dress that looked period, if you ignored the fact that the skirt with its two inch ruffle and trim of soft transparent lace would hardly come to mid-thigh.

The costume designer was, she thought, a leg man.

If she hadn't had the legs, would she have gotten the part? That was an interesting question. Maybe they had chosen the cut to fit the costumes.

Regan glanced over at Matt, who was engrossed in his own hunt, and quickly grabbed the black and white floral with its ruffles and the black satin bow-ties. One of the dust covers went over it while her body was still blocking Matt's view, and she was smiling, not quite meeting his gaze as she spoke. "I'll go get changed and meet you on the set. A dress like this deserves to be seen in its natural habitat."

The dress might not mind, but the memory of how it felt to kneel in front of the makeshift throne, with Matt gazing down at her as if he could snap his fingers and claim her ... that was something she wanted to feel again, never-mind the whys. It always felt good to get into character, but never before had a character drawn her into it so strongly on the front end -- and the funny thing was, as of now, she'd mostly invented the character in her own mind.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt flipped through a few costumes down the row from where Regan started. The little game he had started on the throne in the club had been tickling at his mind the whole evening, the way Regan had looked up at him, and the growing sense that she might have done literally anything he said was a strange feeling, one he wasn't used to. Maybe it was just the possibility of control of someone else, or maybe this was what it meant to thirst for power. It felt good.

And it scared him too. He had seen power wielded destructively, in families, in the entertainment business, in relationships, hell, in governments. He had always kept his characters distinct from himself, but he had to admit that playing a scrubbed face for a commercial wasn't really a temptation. This, though, was different. Playing a decadent king with a lust for power felt good, but that potential for destruction bothered his mind. He wondered if he would have thought differently if Regan hadn't impressed him not only with her beauty, but with her evident professionalism? Would he have been able, even in character, to harm someone he didn't care about?

He flipped through endless royal tights and purple fur robes. Costumes for old kings. He found a small closet, though, and when he opened it he found something much better. Leather pants and a loose, white silk shirt. A pair of boots sat on the floor. There was even a small box of jewelry. There were a few rings, mostly iron and silver, and when they had stones, they were not shining cuts, but flat, organic gems- turquoise, jade, and jet. There were leather thongs with smooth stones as well, and he chose a bloodstone on a length of leather for his neck and a few leather bracelets. He wondered what role had prompted such care and detail. The costume was not meant to look ceremonial, but luxurious every-day wear.

He dressed in a small dressing closet with a curtain. He wondered if most actors in this kind of production even used dressing rooms, but it had a mirror and tonight there was no costuming staff. He laced up the pants and looked at himself, letting his features take on a more arrogant expression than usual. It seemed to fit the costume.

The set was dark when he arrived, and Regan wasn't there, so he went to the lighting console and turned on a few warm overheads, then he saw that they had a smoke machine to catch atmospheric light. He turned it on. It wouldn't take long to fill the room with a mist burning in the lights.

He circled the throne again, as he had before, but he wanted to keep Regan off-balance. He wanted to control the situation. He stood and waited against the back wall in the dark so that she would pass him as she entered, her attention drawn, no doubt to the throne.

He would be able to seize her from behind if he wanted. He would be able to grasp her hair, shove her to the floor, or merely follow her silently, speak a quiet word. Power was in possibilities, and he wasn't entirely sure what he would do when she entered.

 

[GypsyRose]

There were butterflies in Regan's stomach as she took the costume away and found a place to change. Fortunately, mirrors were usually in ready supply when there was costuming or makeup to be done. The dual glow of the alcohol and desire insulated her from the flutters, because though she might be a bit nervous at what she was getting into, the excitement and anticipation were far stronger.

Such was the chemistry between them that there was not even a thought given to the fact that she was alone in a strange and isolated place with someone she'd just met, in the middle of the night, with nobody the wiser that they were here.

Her clothes came off quick and easy. She'd learned early the value of wearing things that didn't need a lot of attention to get into and out of when costume changes were in the offing. Granted, that hadn't really been a consideration when she'd chosen what to wear, but she'd at least flirted with the idea that her clothes would be coming off sometime tonight for reasons other than shedding them for bed. The maker of the dress had apparently been of the same mindset. It wasn't a period piece, as it closed by zipper rather than hooks or laces, and the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra wasn't specifically industry approved, but she wasn't planning on telling.

It was a good fit, more or less. It was a little snug at the top, pushing her breasts together and up so that her cleavage was pronounced, a contrast against the innocence of the color and the bows, and the waist was a bit loose once she contorted to get it zipped from bottom to top. It looked good on her, she admitted with some satisfaction as she shed her pants and slipped back into her shoes sockless, twisting to see her reflection in the mirror. Then there was the question of her hair. Would it be better down, pulled back, or left flowing over her shoulders. The cut of the dress seemed to beg bareness, and as she didn't want to sacrifice the buzz for something more formal, she found a couple of black chopstick style pins and gathered her hair into a twist in the back and used the pins to secure them in a mix of elegance and informality that seemed to compliment the costume's idea.

For jewelry, she had selected a simple black collar, its surface bearing a ribbon-like fabric sheen. It too fit the style, a mix between innocence and invitation.

The expression was next, and the last part. Regan stood in front of the mirror, and took a deep breath, letting the line that separated her from this imagined character blur. She was a young woman of the court, and she must catch the eye of the king. Her father ... no, her brother ... had acted foolishly against the king's interest and awaited the king's judgement. He could be forgiven, or he could be banished from court, a disaster for him and for her family. And yet ... that was not the only reason. She had heard stories of the king, and she had felt the heat of his gaze. She cared for her cause, but she also wanted what he had to offer for herself.

There was confidence in her demeanor, but not certainty or arrogance. She knew her own appeal but the king was not a man easily swayed. She hoped that she had read his interest aright, but knew that he might well harden his heart rather than his manhood if it pleased him to do so. There was a touch of fear, both for failure, and success, but just a touch.

When she thought she had it, she exited the small room and clicked off the lights and went in search of her king.

The staging area with the throne was dark, and the dim safety lights of the hall where she was revealed the soft swirl of mist, vapor that caught the faintly yellow glow of the safety lights. Regan almost smiled, but that would have been out of character. Instead, she looked around, and again lost herself in the character in her mind ... nervous, excited, her heartbeat ticking up, her palms dampening, and that unmistakable feel of of her own growing arousal in every nervous step, the skirt swishing softly against bare legs and setting the mist to roiling as she moved into the room with uncertain steps.

"Your highness?" she ventured, as she headed toward the throne. Her voice came out low, husky, with a faint tremble in hiss of the final sound.

 

[Dane Stalling]

Matt breathed the odd sweetness of the artificial smoke. If he let his mind wander, he could just imagine that it was the scent of a mead bowl. He waited, breathing slowly, waiting. He felt excited, both because of the unknown of the immediate future, and because he had some control of what that future would hold. He let his eyes half-close. He could hear Regan’s steps, both brave and afraid, and her fear, whether it was an act or not, gave him another kind of excitement. The thrill of the predator before a kill.

It would be too easy though, over too quickly just to attack. It wasn’t about the conquest, he realized, it was about drinking power in delectable, luxurious sips. It was about making his prey aware of that fact.

She walked by him, close enough to smell her scent, her perfume. She took a few steps beyond him and he waited.

“Your Highness?”

The light from the throne spilled onto her as she advanced toward it, where he should have been. The dress spoke volumes. She was no simple gift to him. No, the complicated relationship between innocence and blatant invitation made clear that whatever he thought he would get, there were strings attached. What those strings consisted of, he would find out soon enough, but he would not be manipulated easily. If he gave something, he would give it without compulsion. If that meant that strings needed to be broken, so be it.

He stepped behind her quietly, put one hand on her right hip and the other on her left shoulder.

“Still, woman,” he said, “Do not turn. You know my voice.”

He touched the back of her neck with the tip of a finger. The lifting of her hair revealed a most shapely throat, and he slipped his finger under the black strap around it.

“Is it now acceptable to enter my throne room without an invitation? I have sent subjects to the whipping post for less.”

He let the hand on her hip fall to the back of her thigh. Her skin was smooth and warm. He wanted to taste it, but this character refused to kneel, or even to lower his head below the level of hers. He touched his cheek to her hair.

“You’re a sweet treat, aren’t you? But I wonder what compels you into my presence? And what poison do you hide under your tongue? Or do you have it hidden elsewhere? My wine taster would relish a tumble with such as you.”

At one level, Matt was surprised at the things that were coming out of his mouth, but the actor in him fell further and further into the character, and it seemed natural to speak arrogantly, as though he were used to possessing.

“Or do you also burn, I wonder?"

He pressed against her back, pulling back on the strap around her throat, and bit her earlobe.

"Tell me what you wish for, woman," he said into her ear, "and what you will do to get it. Speak now."