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Inside Power Exchange [GypsyRose & Dane Stalling]

The soft, swirling smoke made the room look impossibly large. The lights were wrong -- part of her insisted that they should be warm and golden, set high, to mimic torchlight or a twist of burning rushes coated to give off smoky, slow burning light. These were blue and cold, but it suited the atmosphere perfectly, more-so than authenticity. What it lacked, it more than made up for in adding a dash of surrealism, a perfect backdrop for the idea that anything ... anything monumental ... could, and most surely would, happen.

Regan's skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arm lifting as she made her way into the room. The soft swish of the fabric punctuated her steps, barely heard over the loud rush of blood as her heartbeat ticked up. She could feel his eyes on her, adding to the excitement, the known and the unknown swirling about her feet as surely as the smoke.

Regan jumped at the touch, sucking in a great gasp of air that she held as he spoke. Without thought, she obeyed, her only movement the slight tilt of her head as breathing suddenly became more difficult. His hand on her shoulder touched skin as well as the ruffled cloth, warm as a brand, strong, assured ... the hand of a man who had the right to touch her as he pleased.

Regan, the actress, slightly tipsy, aroused, sure in her profession and her own desirability, slipped away. This was Regan, subject to the King, a man whose desire could assure her future, whose displeasure could break that future just as easily as his fingers could snap the bones of a bird served up for his meal.

His hand on her skin swept beneath her hair, revealing the line of her neck. In response, her head tipped minutely, acknowledging his right, the soft sigh of her breath as his hand slid from skirt to skin, his welcome.

"Forgive me, my king. You are much in demand, and those who love you well jealous of your attention. If I am bold, it is only because great reward requires great risk."

The calm in her voice, the certainty, surprised her. Regan was no stranger to improv, but never before had it flowed so smoothly off her tongue, without thought or considered plan.

"I would not offer you harm, my lord. I would give you only the sweet wine of my kisses. No blade but rather the soft touch of my hands, if it would please you."

If she did not burn before, she did as she felt the press of his body against hers, the tightening of the collar at her throat as he used it to arch her shoulders and head, her moan at the hard, hot press of his teeth on tender skin held only by his command that she speak.

"Your favor, my king, and your kindness. There is nothing I would not give, nothing I would not do, eagerly, to obtain it."

The words did not even evoke a mental snort from the normally practical Regan, who had never fallen for anyone, even a little, that she would fawn over, so deep had the character taken over, bolstered by her own hungers, and the desire to give over her will to his, to see where it might lead them.
 
"It is true that I am in demand, though most who court my affections desire the impression of my ring in the wax of a profitable decree. Some pretend love. Many."

He walked around in front of her, openly appreciating the swooping neckline of her dress. He let his finger trace her skin at the edge of the fabric, then held his ring out for her to kiss.

"Trusting kings die young, Pretty. You say you desire kindness, yet I am not reputed to be so. And it was you that let slip the word 'blade' from your mouth. A slippery word for lips such as yours."

He pulled a short dagger from the belt at his waist.

Matt had met costume designers. Perfectionists, and when a script required the marring of their creations, they preferred to make the marred copies themselves. He had a small pang of regret for what he was about to do.

"A supple blade will curve around a woman's waist and the handle of a dirk can hide behind a bow," he said, and picked the stitches of the black bow on her left arm with the tip of his own blade. It wasn't sharp, but it didn't need to be for tearing thread. He pulled the bow away, breaking the last thread, and dropped it. He did the same with the bow on her other arm, pressing the flesh of her arm as though he was searching for a weapon.

He put his blade away and rested his hands on her waist, let them move over her ribs, under her breasts. He filled his hands with her softness.

"What reward?" he said, his lips just brushing hers. "What reward is worth the risk of my sword, Pretty?

He backed away from her a step, then two, his eyes on hers. He mounted the throne and sat,

"Come," he said, "You are harmless, I wager."

Matt watched his own fingers beckon Regan to the foot of his throne, fascinated. He untied the first knot at the front of his pants with the other hand. His cock strained against the leather laces, and in other circumstances, he'd have been loosening them as fast as he could. Now, though, he waited. She had claimed her hands had a soft touch.

"Unsheath yourself," he said, and let the corner of his mouth twitch upward in anticipation, "and then see if I've got anything for you to unsheath."
 
Matt was good at improv. Or was he acting? Was she? At the moment, it didn't seem to matter. All that mattered was the fact that her heart was racing, and she felt flushed with heat, a heat that warmed her as the smoke swirled, adding certainty to the shadows and half-done set that she was not in Kansas anymore.

She was holding up her arms for the oncoming swirling cloud, all but begging it to sweep her up and carry her away.

It was hard not to move as she paced around her, his head surveying her as if he were truly deciding whether she was threat or treat. Regan couldn't get quite enough air through her nostrils, but parted lips made up from the deficiency, and she was not acting as she gulped in a breath of relief as he held out his hand with the ring prominently displayed, a chance to prove herself.

"I do desire your kindness ... and if you were always kind to all, then there would be no favor in attaining it, Majesty."

Coy words, and yet Regan was certain it was true. She was also certain that Matt would not hurt her, yet, the sight of the dagger still had her heart skipping a beat. The part of herself that was not lost in the moment was aghast that he would damage the costume, even in such small ways, though she excused it with the reassurance that it was easily fixed, the bows not tightly held.

Her head shook, mutely, back and forth as he postulated what harm she might have in store for him, but no words came. Instead, she felt only the warm press of his his hand, swaying forward into it even as she tried to stay still. Yet, as he moved to glare down demandingly into her eyes, his lips tickling hers with promise, she knew that she had won the desired prize ... his desire. It was not yet a consuming flame, yet it would be, for them both.

Eyelashes swept demurely down as judgement was rendered, and her legs dropped easily into a low curtsy. The rest of what she wanted, her supposed reason for approaching him, did not matter now -- only having him, being had by him, being possessed, consumed ...

Harmless? No, she was far from harmless ... yet the thought of harming him seemed to go against her very being. "Never to you, Majesty," she vowed, her voice but a whisper of agreement before she rose, her eyes sweeping upward and drawn like a magnet to his hand as he undid the knot, but stilled.

Good.

Her hands were moving from his first utterance, behind her to the very modern fastening that the cameras would never see. She felt the freedom of flesh, of her breaths, as the teeth that held the garment in place, but worked it down in slow movements, as if she were undoing a much more complicated set of fastenings. For a moment, the press of her arms held the gown in place, and then it slipped, slid, baring her breasts to the nearest of the light, her body angling just enough to compensate for the absence of the lighting crew's expertise. She felt both hopeful, and elated ... and her desire for him was clearly displayed by the pert tautness of her jutting nipples, aching already as she stepped from the dress and folded it, moving forward in nothing but slippers and a surely anachronistic pair of lace panties, white as innocence and bold as a strumpet as they painted her curves like another layer of skin.

"May I approach, Sire?"

He had given her permission already, but the words wanted to be said, even as her fingers itched to follow his command.
 
"I've already ordered you to approach. Do I need to repeat each of my desires?"

Matt smiled, although he remembered to cast it haughtily. "I'll give you more than kindness if you please me."

She was beautiful. No feigned king's arrogance would have denied it. Mist swirled around her as she moved, embracing her. He twitched with jealousy for the swirling cloud. He stopped short of forbidding the cloud to touch her and contented himself with the thought that he would enfold her in a more solid embrace when he had his way, for the king always had his way.

He had just met Regan that morning. How had things progressed this quickly? Were they oddly compatible or did the suggestive circumstances of their employment cause them to change, to fall into these highly sexual roles? He wondered if they would ever broach the subject in the real world. As if this wasn't real in its own way. Wasn't it a kind of honesty to demand what he wanted? Maybe it wasn't polite, but he felt free in that moment, in the lights and the smoke to ask for anything he wanted without fear. He felt free to command.

"Tell me your name, forgetful girl. I will not call you by any plain word. But do not forget that I can use a name as a whip as well as a caress. Tell me true or you will stain stones in my dungeon."

Her hips swung slightly one way, then the other as she stepped from the dress. White. Matt had never learned what women wore for undergarments in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. He was certain they had nothing like what Regan wore in front of him. Lace. It would have been a priceless luxury all those hundreds of years ago, the quality of the lace she wore. He let his eyes travel the curls and flowers of it, the scalloped edges. He would feel it under his fingers soon, he thought. He rubbed his chin to keep from reaching out to her.

"You have a bosom to enchant the hardest man," he said, and chuckled, "and perhaps I am that man tonight." He let his eyes flick to the leather laces of his pants.

"You speak sweetly enough, and with downcast eyes. Come to me and do as I have commanded you."
 
Had Matt said "I'll give you more than kindness if you please me" to Regan, she would have laughed, or rolled her eyes, and responded with a joke of some kind. It wouldn't have been planned or rehearsed -- but rather instinctive.

Desire, on the other hand -- for that, she had come to know, was her name, though there was no consciousness of having chosen it -- did not have any such response. Instead, she was flattered, pleased, and very, very determined that she would please him ... not out of fear or need but pride.

It was easy if she just sloughed off herself and let herself be the role. It was far deeper than any costume, particularly now that she had divested herself of all but her one remaining garment which was hers alone.

"Desire, Highness. Could my name be any other, here before you as this?" Never in her life, as herself, had Regan even dreamed of saying anything like that, but it was true. The desire she felt encompassed this persona and enveloped it, but she was there in the mix, her own attraction to Matt blending seamlessly into the commanding figure of the king. Would Matt have flaunted his scarcely concealed erection like this? Would she have stared as boldly as her chest heaved as if she had climbed a flight of stairs to stand half nude before him.

At his praise, she flushed, her eyes daring to seek his for a moment, to betray a hint of her smile at his praise. This time, when he spoke, she did not hesitate or demur, but walked upon feet bare, the mauve paint upon toenails another anachronism, matching her hands Without speaking, she slowly lowered herself to her knees, not wishing to appear ungraceful before him, until her eyes were level with the strain of his crotch. That was worth a long stare, and then some ... but he had commanded her to unsheathe him as well.

There was no hesitation in the lift of her hands, though she did allow herself to dare to begin her exploration on the insides of his thighs, a finger light touch that traced the fine seam to its joining, and then proceeded to the leather thong, pulling the tie loose and then slowly, carefully, withdrawing the laces from the eyes. She could feel the firmness of his cock in the swell, and the heat, almost a brand upon her fingertips.

She dared a look up into his eyes, seeking impatience or approval, so as to know whether she should indulge her own eagerness or rein it in. It was not every day one had the pleasure and privilege of undressing a king ... and though Regan knew that he was still Matt, beyond the mien of command, he was more ... and that made it possible for her to be more as well. It was a heady sort of realization, and one she was eager to pursue ... along with the unlacing.

He had said to unsheathe him ... and that she could not do further without a much more intimate touch ... she was eager for that as well, her hands cupping, delving, to push aside the cloth, to slide into it and find the eager shape of him, and gently drew his erect member, the royal blade, free, though it needed scant urging to jut boldly. The warmth of him ... she could feel it upon her cheek, and breathed deep of the soft musk, a masculine scent that had her lips parted as she reluctantly withdrew, leaning back and composing her expression to await what he would have of her.
 
"Desire," Matt said, and let his gaze fall to Regan's perfect breasts again as she knelt. "I doubt any mother in this kingdom would name her daughter thus," he said, "but it is a wise name, and apt. And you've set a mystery for me. Do you name yourself for your desire or for mine?"

His desire pounded, constrained, squeezed hard between his own belly and leather laces. Regan's hands... Desire's hands on his thighs made him moan in spite of himself. She played at being at his mercy, and he wondered if she would try to play him out of his throne. As she freed him slowly, he felt her light touch turn to flame in his belly.

She freed him finally, and he swelled with his desire. Her cheek brushed his member, a gentle touch indeed, and smooth. Her eyes gazed on him with what looked like hunger, her lips opened and he felt every inch the king.

"My desire or yours?" he said, "Look at mine. It dips its head with every beat of my heart. Watch it nod for you. Watch my dew pool at the tip."

He watched her lips as she watched him, open, moist. "You are hungry, Desire, aren't you?"

He stood, the tip of his cock an inch from her lips. He walked around her, the knuckles of his left hand brushing her shoulder. He stood behind her, and the tip of his member touched the back of her neck. He closed his eyes for a breath, then looked down at his subject, kneeling, her breasts rising and falling. She was stunning at any angle, this Desire. He left a small slick spot on her neck, just above her shoulders. On an impulse, he bent, put one hand around her throat, and licked his excitement off of her skin.

"Your desire or mine?" he whispered, and walked in front of her, let his cock touch her mouth for an instant. He left a clear, shiny drop on her lower lip.

"Do not disturb it," he said, and caressed her chin with his fingers. "Not yet."

He watched it tremble there for a moment, then sat again. He licked his lips. "I taste like steel," he said, "and like my own skin mixed with yours." He put the tip of his little finger in his mouth. "Yes. That is what I taste. Now," he said, and pointed to her lip, "Tell me what your tongue says. And if I have been miserly with my flavor, feel free to gather more. There are fountains where that came from."
 
"For what I wish from you, and what I feel for you, Sire." She had always been good at improv dialogue, but as deep in the moment as she was, Regan garnered something of the magic of the tableaux. She was not trying to convey any emotion other than her own, but there was a degree of safety in the pretense, a comfort in knowing that they could push things as far as they would, but no farther. Even so, it required a degree of trust, an intimacy that broke through barriers and inhibitions far more effectively, far more completely, than the scope of their acquaintance might otherwise conventionally allow.

His groan as her fingers brushed his manhood was music to her ears, and brought with it a swell of pride. It was in her eyes, and Desire did not attempt to conceal it. This was not the swell of hubris, but rather the delight in having evoked his desire, a first step in earning the name she had chosen for her own this night.

He commanded her to look, and, indeed, it seemed impossible not to. The member of a king, her king, engorged with desire for her. It seemed larger than it was, immense, though the part of her mind that was observer of the play knew her guilty of a hint of aggrandizement. It seemed that she could see the urgency of his need in the tremble of the taut skin, the glisten of the drop of moisture at the tip.

She was hungry, almost ravenous, but it seemed almost impossible to move when he had not given her leave to do so. The beat of her heart was fierce and strong as he moved around her, teasing her with the proximity of his cock, its heat, the silken smoothness of the skin that called to her lips and fingers alike. She was his, his desire, and her desire was him ... to please him, to earn his desire, to please him and thus be granted her desire.

Eager gooseflesh formed on her skin as the heated head brushed the delicate skin of her neck, intensified as she felt his breath, the wet tickle of his tongue. There was small regret that she was not a bystander in this, able to see his movements, her eager waiting, but she would not have given up her place as his desire for a prime spot in the audience -- even the brush of the thought of it brought a wave of almost jealous envy for one who would be in this place besides her.

Waiting was hard, particularly when the head of his cock brushed her lips, a delicate little bob. There was a small spot of coolness on her heated lips in its wake, a taste, and Desire ached for the taste of him, more for the smooth, slick, live feel of him sliding between her lips, into her mouth ...

The sensual heat of the moment was intense, her arousal a steady throb at the apex of her thighs, all the more prevalent for her kneeling position. She was jealous of his finger, inserted in his mouth, jealous of his mouth. Regan, the part that had not been lost in the role, was conscious of her own surprise, and the wonder if this was the result of chemistry mixed with too many cocktails ... Matthew himself, or the thought of giving herself over to his pleasure, for all that it seemed her own as well.

Finally, he released her from her stillness, and eagerly her tongue rushed to follow his direction, licking away the salty drop that he had left there. "The bite of a knife, savory and sweet at once, Sire. Delicious." She hesitated for a heartbeat, and another, her eyes darting from the swollen rosy head of his cock, up to his eyes, and back. "You could never be miserly, only generous. It is I who am greedy."

Indeed, she was, leaning forward to do as he had allowed, even if she obeyed the spirit rather than the letter of his command. No doubt he would set her straight if he found it not to his liking.

Her tongue found him, laved slowly over the head, probing softly at the tip for the salty flavor, before abandoning it for the silken feel upon the flat of her tongue. Eyes held his for a moment before closing in bliss as her head bent, tongue flattening to guide her lips over him, hardly daring to breath in case it prompted him to deny her the treat ...
 
The flavor of a knife. In the dark corners of the room a nightmare daydream of dungeon toys lurked, lending dark and exciting possibilities to their little game.

The king, of course, had had many women bow their heads into his lap in hopes of favor, of wealth, or just bragging rights in the marketplace. Matt had had only one. Two now, a distant accountant in his brain ticked a box and was quickly overwhelmed with Regan's skill, the way she probed him, teased him. He felt a tension leave his body that he hadn't even been aware of. Up until this moment, he would not have been surprised to have the game broken off. Laughed away. Now there was a change in the air. They had crossed into new territory.

He slid his fingers into her hair even as he sighed with the pure luxury of her tongue on him, tasting him, making pleasure spread through him like heat. He felt like he might come if she licked his thumb, or squeezed his ankle.

Her breasts brushed the insides of his knees, her hair fell over his thighs and added its silky caress to her warm, wet attentions.

"Your greed," he said, between gasps, "will be the envy of my kingdom." He gripped her hair in his fist to slow her a little. She had him so close to the edge.

A bang startled him. The back door slammed open in the costume room.

"Is anyone here?"

"Damn," Matt said under his breath. A security guard.

He stood and took Regan by the wrist and pulled her across the studio into the dark next to the door. "Quiet," he said, and kissed her as he made a quick knot in his pants, "I'll see if I can get rid of him."

Matt stepped into the costume room door. "Hey, you startled me, man. What's up?"

The security guard looked young, pale. He had a huge flashlight in one hand, but he was holding it like a club.

"Saw a light in here," he said, "and the site schedule says nobody should be here until nine."

"Oh, yeah," Matt said, leaning against the door frame. He could almost feel Regan's heat next to him. He could have reached out and touched her where she stood. "Well, I'm with the production." He pointed to the rack of clothing with "Damian" scrawled on a piece of paper taped to the stand. "I'm getting used to the lighting setup."

"Well I'm going to have to take a look around."

"Of course. Sure. Come in here. You should see the way these fog machines work, man." Matt turned and went into the studio, and walked into the center of the light and fog. The security guard followed him, cautiously.
 
Despite their roles, there was a certain amount of power imbued in the giving of pleasure, particularly with fellating ... that would be how a king would refer to the act, she thought, though royalty had never automatically guarded against crudity.

It was something that Regan enjoyed, and she was certain that Desire would enjoy it, take pride in every groan, every shift, every catch of breath, every lift of the recipient's head, every swell of the flesh beneath her tongue, captured by the ring of her lips. It was something that required only the thinnest of lines between actress and role, which she found incredibly sensual, as arousing in its own way as the silken texture of Matt's skin in the most vulnerable, the most intimate of places.

By rights, he should have been tipsy enough to prolong the tease, but it seemed that her character's name was aptly chosen. The grip of his fist in her hair was like a benediction, an acknowledgement of her power ... however subtle ... over man or king. Envy, indeed.

And all too soon it was over, though not as she had both anticipated and hoped, and Desire dissipated like mist, the knocking and voice an unwelcome intrusion that acted on the illusion like a sobering dash of cold water.

The heat of Matt's cock, the silky skin, slipped from her mouth's embrace, and she started a hurried scramble for her clothes. Matt's hand arrested the process, calmed, as did his quick kiss on her lips already regretful for opportunity missed. Yes, hiding was a better solution than trying to get dressed, especially in the borrowed clothes. Her own was back where she changed, but neatly folded. Hopefully they would not attract attention -- and if they did ... would the company be angered or simply hopeful that the chemistry between the two would enhance their production?

However she might be inclined to answer that to herself, it was a question she preferred not to pose. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Of course, blending into the shadows would have been easier if hair and bare skin hadn't contrasted with the walls. Thank God for the smoke machines. Heart thudding, and stifling the urge to giggle inappropriately with a hand across her mouth -- her mouth that still tasted of steel -- she pressed herself against the door. Beneath her palm, those lips moved silently in admonition -- "Be the wall." Unfortunately that prompted another struggle to hold in a giggle, and only Matt's quick thinking ... his conversation with the guard turned to cough ... covered it.

If the studio used this place often, the guard was surely used to the fact that few productions REALLY worked a set schedule. Even in Regan's limited experience, she was sure of that. It was a dog-eat-dog, highly competitive world, and most people were eager to get that little edge ... a little more practice, a little something special with the lights, that perfect adjustment to a costume. Regan suddenly pictured the whole horde of the production descending on them, and that, at least, ended the urge to giggle as Matt led the guard away from the door.

Now ... the only question was to try to brazen it out, or try to duck out and get to her clothes.

Valor won over discretion. Regan eased out from behind the door, reassured by the guard's back, and the flashlight that seemed to be auditioning for its own lightshow on the backdrop of the smoke. Wide eyes looked at him, then Matt, and quiet as a mouse, she tiptoed out the door.

Her smile, the euphoria of having escaped detection, of putting one over on the 'establishment' blossomed just a moment too soon as her cell phone, back with her pile of clothes, began belting out her 'Hooray for Hollywood' ringtone. Fuck.

"Hey! Who's that?" The security guard's light swung out into the hall like a searchlight, and Regan bolted.
 
Matt fought back a grin as Regan covered her mouth. He wanted to get back to that mouth. The guard was shining his flashlight ineffectively, making beams in the smoke, but not really illuminating anything in the room. Matt saw Regan slip into the costume room, and he was about to lead the guard around to the back of the throne set to help him check the place out when the ringtone went off.

"Hey! Who's that?" The guard started toward the costume room, one hand pointing the flashlight, the other taking out his pepper spray.

Matt was puzzled for a moment- where was the music coming from? Regan's phone. A series of questions formed in his mind as he raced the guard to her pile of clothes. Who would call her at this hour? How was he going to keep the guard from finding her? Hooray for Hollywood?

Matt snatched the phone up and in a panic, pushed the answer button instead of the reject call.

"Hey Donna," he answered, using the first name that popped into his mind.

"Who is this?" The woman's voice on the other side of the line spoke tinnily into his ear. "Where's Regan?"

The guard looked at him oddly.

"Look Donna, I appreciate your concern, but we're going to have the light cues nailed for the shoot..."

"Let me talk to Regan right now. I swear, if you've hurt her..."

"Of course, of course. We have safety ties on all the instruments. Everything's fine. You don't have to use that kind of language."

Matt looked over the tops of the clothes racks, trying to find Regan, but he couldn't see her anywhere in the room. Maybe they would get away with this after all. As long as his phone didn't ring too.

"See you in the morning, Donna. Regan's a peach to work with. Everything's going to go great."

He hung up the phone.

"Give me that," the guard said, and held out his hand.

Matt tucked the phone into the back of his pants, cursing the lack of pockets. "Get your own phone," he said, "or is it my agent you want?"

He walked over to the toy table and picked up an evil looking paddle. "She's always looking for young talent. She'd eat you up."

The phrase reminded him briefly of Regan, her tongue driving him crazy.

The guard looked at the paddle, his eyes widening. Then he noticed the rest of the table. Handcuffs, whips, studded leather masks.

"Oh. Uh," he said, fumbling to put his pepper spray away. "No, I don't really..."

"Come on," Matt said, and picked up the camouflage dildo with his other hand, wiggled it experimentally. "You might have what it takes. How much can you take?"

"I gotta," he said, backing away, "I got another... I have to finish my rounds." He bumped into the door and dropped his flashlight. It rolled under one of the clothes racks and Matt thought he saw Regan's bare foot for a moment in its beam. The guard started to bend over to pick it up, but stood up again, not wanting to present a target for a paddle. Or a dildo.

"Look, just make sure your little night practices are in the schedule from now on, okay?" The guard backed through the door, leaving his flashlight behind.
 
Regan, her bared assets bobbing, ran on the balls of her feet as fast as her tipsy, protesting legs could carry her, her balance still impeded by a hand over her mouth to make sure none of the giggles still welling up inside could escape. If she'd have tripped, she would have lost it right there for certain. That'd be the end of her too-short career, almost certainly. She could picture the faces of the crew gathered around her, mostly naked and giggling like a loon, and the conjured image made it all the harder not to laugh, or heave in a great snort of air through her her nose.

Her phone, the traitor, was happily ringing as she dived behind the costume rack and pulled down a folded square of faux fur to cover herself hastily with, though the maneuver did require her to hope that her tightly clenched lips would keep her from giggling enough for the guard to hear. No sooner was she concealed than Matt and the guard burst into the room, and Regan did her best to stay still and quiet, just another part of the set.

Damn, it was hard, though, especially when Matt rescued her phone and answered it. The only person who'd be calling her at this time of night, barring some medical calamity, was her roommate ... making sure she hadn't been kidnapped or murdered or sold off into white slavery -- or all three. Matt's impromptu conversation, which she could only hear one end of, only contributed to the suppressed hilarity after one brief moment of 'Who the hell is Donna?' What she didn't, couldn't, know was if he was talking to a probably incredibly confused Heather, or had disconnected the call ... in which case, Heather would probably be dialing back mid outrageous lie ...

Her ribs were going to be the death of her ... especially as Matt turned the guard's attention to the props scattered around.

The guard's footsteps were loud as they retreated, and Regan was finally able to draw in a long, much needed breath ... though the giggles still threatened as she concentrated on keeping silent, keeping still, a few minutes longer.

Finally, when she could not hear footsteps any longer, she straightened up and poked her head out the fur, a broad and admiring smile on her face as she, inexplicably, given what she'd been doing before they were interrupted, wrapped the rest of it around her in bath-sheet fashion. "You deserve an Oscar for that ... no, no wait ... an Emmy!"

And finally she could laugh, though she still tried to cover at least some of the sound ... even though she suspected it would take machine-gun fire or the sound of falling walls before he'd come back this way again.

Her phone started ringing again, the music of the ringtone somehow more insistent than it had been the first time.
 
"It's only an Emmy if it's on TV," Matt said, picking up the guard's flashlight. It was heavier than it looked. "What you see before you is a Tony award winner, for exceptional performance in front of a live audience."

The fur contrasted with Regan's skin, dark against cream. Everything about her begged to be touched, skin, hair, and the fur. He pointed the flashlight at her foot and watched it light up her toes, her calf, the place where the shaggy garment began halfway up her thigh.

He felt her phone vibrate against his waist even before it began to play that annoyingly happy song again. He pointed the flashlight under his chin and gave himself the classic villain lighting scheme for a moment before snapping it off. He glanced at the screen briefly. Heather. He touched the answer key and handed her the phone.

He put his finger to his lips as she took it, and grinned, an idea developing in his mind. He backed her against the wall between the racks of clothes and pressed his lips to her neck. The fur tickled his throat as he nipped her skin. He found the edge of the garment and slipped a hand inside, over her hip, over her ribs, smoothing over her flesh luxuriously. He felt like every moment he had ever spent not touching her was wasted.

He watched her eyes as he slid his hand over the bottom of her breast, feeling its weight, then catching her nipple between two of his knuckles. He kissed her chin, then pulled the fur away from her body.

Matt put his lips next to Regan's ear, the one that wasn't pressed to the phone.

"Do not end this call," he said. He licked his lips and dropped to his knees.

Her belly against his nose was infinitely smooth, he breathed in her scent and slipped his fingers into the edges of her white panties and listened, fascinated, to her voice.
 
Perhaps the oddest thing about the entire night thus far was the fact that nothing had dampened her arousal, even the thought of getting caught. Despite the laughter, part of her fully expected Matt to say that they'd tempted fate enough for the night and it was time to go home ... perhaps separately, perhaps together ... but she didn't want to leave. It seemed that a retreat now would not only be a momentary retreat from the heat that had been building between them, but a retreat from ... the excitement garnered from letting themselves go, freeing themselves to take on whatever role struck their fancy.

Yet Matt didn't say that, or nor did he retreat. The light of the discarded flashlight made its was from his hand to her foot, up her leg, highlighting the fact that the fur hid little of her relative nakedness. The memory of where she had been, his hand in her hair, the hardness and heat of him in her mouth, the hint of steel, didn't bring embarrassment or awkwardness, but only a flush of desire... now interrupted by her phone.

Heather, of course. She'd likely be torn between anger and worry, given the strange conversation she'd just been treated to, and if Regan didn't answer, she'd probably call out the cavalry. That ... now that would be embarrassing, in more ways than one.

Matt, despite the comical little view of his face given a sinister cast by the light, handed the phone over, and Regan was bringing it up to her ear when Matt herded her back against the wall, back where the clothes would potentially shield them from the returning guard, and she gasped as his hand slid beneath her impromptu cover, catching the groan between her teeth as he stroked her, and then pulled the fur so that it slid down between them, his lips making a light brush of reassurance, promise, threat alike.

"Do not end this call."

His whisper was the command of the king, and Regan, who had forgotten for a second or two that there was a phone, a Heather, or a call, found herself nodding, even as she felt the tickle of wetness between her thighs intensify.

Heather's voice was a tinny, distant sort of yip-yap. "Damn it, you put Regan on the phone right now or I'm calling the police, do you hear me?"

"He ... hello." She got out a word, swallowed, and took a breath as her head tilted up, trying to focus despite the distraction of Matt kneeling before her, his nose like an 'x-marks-the spot' center of focus, granting her the picture of him, his dark hair, those mesmerizing lips, those eyes glinting with purpose, whether she looked or not.

"Heather, it's okay. No, no, sorry about that. He's my co-star ..."

Regan gasped as Matt's fingers slid down into her panties,her thighs parting in pleading invitation despite the fact that she didn't know how she was going to be able to talk with him touching her ... there ...

"on the production, Matt. We were rehearsing, and we were supposed to have left the set ... "

Regan tried to be still, but she couldn't. Her hips pushed at his fingers, coaxing them, even as her lips parted. Heather would know ...

"...the guard came when your phone rang, so he just pretended he was talking to the production crew."

And Regan didn't care. All she could think about, beyond the increasingly demanding throb between her folds, was whether Matt was still as hard as he'd been captured in her lips ... and what he would do next.
 
Matt grinned into Regan's belly and pulled the edges of her panties down, slowly, letting his hair tickle her belly button, the smooth fascinating skin below it. He looked up at her, caught her eye and smiled. He let his tongue show a little, barely touched her with it, just a little lick up one petal and down the other, and backed away.

He stood, enjoying Regan's flustered and flushed face, the way every one of her moves was toward him.

He took the phone and tapped the speakerphone button. "Come with me," he whispered.

"...kind of production is this anyway? Nobody rehearses at this time of the morning. What is it, Regan?"

Heather's voice sounded frustrated. And relieved, and that was probably why she sounded angry too. She had been frightened for nothing.

"Tell her," Matt mouthed, "the truth."

"Well?" the tiny voice from the speaker said, "This better be good."

Matt held the phone in his open palm between them and backed away down the row of costumes, left, to the door to the studio. He flipped the lights in the costume room off and the warm lights from the throne room were visible again, inviting them to play. Smoke rolled as they walked through it. He set the phone in the center of the throne, an odd little modern thing in the tiny world of the historical fantasy.

He positioned Regan standing in front of the throne, naked and perfect. The light seemed to wrap around her in the swirling cloud. He stood close behind her, his forehead between her shoulder blades, listening to her voice, to her breathing, and began to untie his pants again. They were uncomfortable and his cock needed space. The ends of the leather straps touched her skin as he loosened them, and he went ahead and pulled them completely out of their eyes. When he was done, the pants sagged, fell to his knees.

He took Regan's right wrist and brought it back, caressed himself briefly with the soft back of her hand, then wrapped her fingers around himself. He wrapped one end of the leather tie around her wrist in a loose loop and cinched it snug. He dragged his teeth over her left shoulder. He wanted to bite her, leave a mark, but something far back in his mind warned him not to do that. Not yet. Instead he reached around her waist and took her other wrist.
 
Was it possible to faint from sheer excitement? Regan had never been frail or delicate, one of those girls who people rushed to open doors for, to carry things, to usher her into the shade during hot summer days, so she hadn't thought so. With Matt's dark hair brushing her bare stomach, the feel of his hands on her skin, and the throbbing ache in her core, she was beginning to wonder, especially when his tongue touched her, light and delicate as a feather. She shuddered, half pleasure and half pure, unadulterated need, the physical manifestation eliciting a sound from her lips that she caught and turned into a cough.

"Heather, I'm ..." and then Matt stood, his finger tapping against the sensitive glass surface of her phone and putting it under his spell as easily as he had her.

Heather wanted to know what kind of production this was ... and, somehow, she knew what Matt was going to say before his lips moved, even if no sound emerged. He didn't need sound, and Regan knew that he wouldn't be angry if he refused. He likely, being a red-blooded all-American male with the chance to get lucky, wouldn't even bring things to a halt.

It would, however, bring an end to the game, and the wonderfully electric charge that joined with the very natural attraction and chemistry between them would fade, possibly to be lost or at least delayed until another impossible moment like this arose.

"It's a documentary, about modern lifestyles ... " she said as she followed Matt, her movements almost unconscious, her eyes fastened on his movements, the grace, the presence. The guard had been cowed, and again he was the king in his throne room, unthreatened in his demesne, supreme, majestic ... masterful.

"What sort of 'lifestyle'?" Heather's suspicions were clearly audible, not even needing the camera function to know that something was going on. The suspicion was no longer tinged with worry, though, and the tone was one she recognized easily. The instinct that roommates, friends, often developed was in full bloom, and now Heather was looking for confirmation.

"It's about bondage, you know, BDSM. We went to this club downtown, Power Exchange, this morning and looked around, talked to some of the employees."

She was very much aware of Matt's movements, his closeness both welcome for its warmth in the swirling coolness of the smoke, his heat calling to hers. How far was he going to go? Regan found, more and more, that she didn't really care ... so long as he didn't stop. She no longer felt light headed or giddy, just expectant, excited, and .... more turned on than she could remember being since ...

"You ARE shitting me!" Heather's voice rose, the slightly tinny sound masking a bit of Regan's low groan as Matt's forehead pressed into her back, his breath just tickling the skin. She could feel his movements, the faint brush of his hand as he undid his pants again, and the muscles in her sex gave an involuntary, almost violent clench.

"And now you're on a deserted set made up like a BDSM club in the middle of the night, with your fucking hot sounding, smart and likely sexy co-star? Are you wearing leather?"

Despite the situation, her own arousal, the lingering buzz from the alcohol, the surreal excitement of the setting, Regan couldn't help but smile as she answered with the truth. "No, Heather, I'm not wearing leather."

"Is he?!"

She wondered how much this little game was contributing to Matt's excitement. His breathing, the little movements of his head, and her own senses said that he was as aroused as she, but damn, did she want to break off the call and turn and find out for herself ....

... and yet, she didn't. She wanted to keep pushing it ... just as far as it would go.

"No, Heather, he's not wearing leather either."

"What is he wearing then?" Heather's voice was a touch impatient, knowing, and envious all at once.

"Not much of anything ..."

Regan closed her eyes, and swallowed. How could torture feel this good?

His hand found hers, and guided it back to the by now familiar, welcome heft of his cock, and her fingers closed with eager obedience around the girth, only her thumb moving in an almost lazy stroke.

"Regan?" She could hear Heather's breath over the speaker, as her roomate was drawn into the moment, captured as readily as Regan's other hand.
 
Matt wrapped the end of the leather thong around Regan's other wrist, and looked down. His cock was in a soft, tight cage of her fingers. She smoothed her thumb through the drop of slippery moisture at his tip and he groaned.

"Don't stop. I love that," he whispered into her ear, and ran his hands up to her breasts.

"Heather, I'm Matt, and I'm very, very pleased," he said, "to meet you. You know, we've been rehearsing but I believe we've forgotten something very important."

He pushed his palms over Regan's nipples, pinched a little, then a little harder. He felt her fingers tighten around him reflexively and he began to thrust into them slowly, absently.

"Heather, are you listening? This is important."

"Um, yes. But if you..."

"Quiet, Heather," he said, and let a silence stretch for many long seconds. He slipped his right hand up, over Regan's throat, over her mouth.

"We haven't picked a safe word," he said. He slipped his middle finger between Regan's lips. "If we don't do that, she won't be safe, will she, Heather?"

"No."

"I have my hand over Regan's mouth right now. She can't speak, but you can. I think you should choose a safe word for her. Let's make it the next word you say."

He bit Regan's earlobe, gently, and withdrew himself from her fingers reluctantly. He needed to remember how good she was at that. He smoothed his cock over her pussy, collecting her moisture, and pressed just the head into her and waited.

"Choose wisely," he said.

Regan was ready, he could feel her welcome. More than that, he felt something akin to a demand from her body. He felt it himself, an overwhelming desire to be absorbed into her, to be one but that was not his role. He envied her her freedom in that moment. She was free to lose control, but he was not.

He felt Regan's body twitch and squeeze. She was molten around him and he buried his face in her hair to try to stay quiet. He groaned though, in spite of himself. He growled, his chest against Regan's back so she would feel him with her body. He wanted a sound from her, some grunt or scream, some way of betraying her arousal, some way to hurry Heather in her choice. He took his hand away from her mouth, circled her nipple with his wet finger.

He moved his lips to Regan's other ear. "I will make you forget your name," he said, and pushed himself into her in a single smooth stroke.
 
Regan could feel the light pressure of the leather around her wrist, but at the moment that was less important than the silken heat enclosed by her fingers; it was certainly less important than his soft groan and the hot breath in her ear bringing with it a thrill at the command, and the knowledge that was pleasing him.

Regan shook her head, then nodded, her thought processing going haywire as warm hands slid from her wrists, to her hips and upward, not stopping until he cupped her breasts. Her hand did not still, short slow movements over his cock while the thumb spread the slickness of his pre-cum over the tip, as if coaxing another drop. She hadn't forgotten Heather, but for the life of her, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

That was all right, though, because Matt's voice ... or was it the king's sovereign voice, which was certainly deeper, more assured than that of her co-star on the first meeting. He sounded calm, unruffled, despite the fact that she could feel the quiver of his cock as she stroked him. Regan bit her lip to stifle a moan as his fingers moved to her aching nipples, brushing and then pinching in a way that made interior muscles clench, despite the hungry ache. The movements of his hips, his cock into the curl of her hand, made her knees weak and her focus waver, but Matt's voice brought her back, even though he was speaking to Heather.

Oh, her roommate was caught in the spell, too. She responded to the command in his voice as readily as did Regan, and her roommate's protest died away, just as did Regan's. Matt's hand sliding up over her mouth was welcome assistance, her thumb still moving over soft, slick skin.

Head tipped back, not to escape Matt's covering hand, but to lean against him as her body shuddered. She swallowed, her breath catching for a moment as the need for more of his touch made her forget that she could get air through her nostrils as well, Matt's voice a counterpoint to the storm gathering force in her body. She could feel the moan rising from deep down in her diaphragm, and wondered what Heather was thinking even as she willed her to say something, anything, while the hard smoothness of Matt's teeth tugged at her ear, her fingers loosing reluctantly from the hot vibrancy of Matt's erection.

The seconds felt endless, the faint tickle of wetness gathering almost maddening. Matt's growl joined with her low moan, and from the speaker, she heard Heather's voice, a little breathless but forceful all the same.

"Envy. Jesus Christ. Fuck."

The little red 'call ended' notification popped up, but Regan wasn't watching or listening anymore. She was doing nothing but feeling, her body bracing a little in expectant eagerness as she felt welcome hardness and heat sliding teasingly into position, the press and promise. Matt's whisper tickled her ear, followed by the brush of his lips, and Regan moaned again as, finally, he filled her, forcing the breath from her lungs though there had been minimal force in his entry. Her muscles clenched around him, holding .... and dimly she wondered what he was talking about.

She remembered her name. It was ... Desire.

And she was ablaze.
 
"Envy," Matt said into Regan's hair, "the most invisible of the deadly sins, except perhaps lust. A pity your friend is gone, Desire. She had lust enough for all of us."

He held himself deep inside her, becoming accustomed to the texture and heat of her pussy. She was delicious, hot, sweet, strong. He felt her in his chest, in the arches of his feet, in his gums. The spice and syrup of her saturated him.

"Lust is my favorite, although I think you'll remember that safe word, Desire, the word that will end all of this, the word that gives you your only power."

He pulled out slowly, thrust into her again with a grunt. Her fingers pressed into his belly. They had nowhere else to go. She would have no balance without her hands. If he let go of her, she would fall into the throne, face first.

"Trust me, Desire," he said, and gathered her hair in his hand. He gripped, held her firm.

Matt felt himself split between the king and just Matt. He was curious how this character, this made up person had taken him over. He didn't feel alarmed. To tell the truth, he was grateful. Maybe the king had always been there, hiding under his very earnest and proper surface.

He pounded her, using her hair as leverage, feeling her nails dig into his belly sometimes, when she forgot, or maybe when she remembered, that she could injure him.

He had wrapped the leather thong loosely around her wrists and as it began to unravel, he helped, pulling the center with his other hand and letting the ends unwind slowly. He pushed into her spice, her tightness, the smooth and textured wetness and heat of her.

He could form no commands, no words. The way their bodies pressed and smacked against each other spoke enough. More than enough.
 
Desire nodded, but it was to the sound of Matt's voice, and the feel of him inside her. She could hardly breathe for the sensory overload, intense and all encompassing. She'd forgotten Heather, the guard, the studio, the documentary. She hadn't quite forgotten that she was also Regan Howell, but Regan seemed distant, more a mental voyeur the way that Heather had been an auditory voyeur a few minutes before.

Her hands twisted in the ties around them, not trying to escape, but just moving because she couldn't bear the stillness without some distraction. The stretch of him inside, the angle, filled her to a sweet discomfort that her body said could only be allayed by movement. But it was not Desire's place to demand, though the clench of her muscles did not agree, ramping up the hungry ache.

She remembered the safe word, uttered by her roommate in a voice that had held but a portion of the emotion that she had claimed as a namesake, but she could think of no reason to use it, not when her desire, Desire, was being filled.

The words he spoke were less important than that he spoke, his voice as much a tie as the ones around her wrists, keeping her steady. Later, she would marvel at them, wonder if that might not be much of the secret of the lifestyle's appeal. At the moment, seemingly, Matt held all the power, but if she said the word, the safe word, he would stop. How much did it matter if you had only one power, when it was the ultimate power of creation, destruction.

Despite her body's unguided protest, the clench of her walls, he slid from her, reminding her of the truth of her musing. "I do," she answered, the simple words oddly formal, reminiscent between another more familiar relationship. That made it easy, and Desire was content to simply be, powerless and powerful all at once, her body dependent on Matt's grip for balance, as well as the shuddering, shivering waves of pleasure that rocked her like a raft anchored to the ocean bed, buffeted by the storm, only dimly aware of the leathers slipping free as her body was shaped.

She moaned, without intent, and called him by his name ... or at least the only one that seemed important in the moment. "Sire."

Regan had been drawn into pursuing a deeper understanding of the role she had agreed to play by that thing Matt had said was his favorite, lust, as well as curiosity. She had not expected to be whelmed by its power, nor Matt's.
 
The game was unraveling, turning itself upside down, inside out. He was out of control.

"Stop," he said, and slowed, hands on her hips. He held still, steel deep in her velvet, his body at the edge of rebellion against his mind.

A new idea budded in his mind, an understanding of his role that he had not anticipated. There was pleasure, of course, and part of that pleasure could involve causing pain. He knew that part. The part he hadn't realized that the pain might be his own. That maintaining control required sacrifice, delay, patience.

Maybe there would be a time to let go, like this, to allow her to own him, but he could not begin there, in that place.

Her body, though, every move hungered for his own movement. He pulled out, pressed in, savored her, then he pulled out, stepped back, her hair still in his fist. He felt like yelling out his need, his frustration, but he kept his teeth clenched, hissing his breath through them. Control.

"Some gifts are earned," he said, hardly caring what he said, "with a proof of devotion. You say you trust me. You know what I want. What my body wants- to explode with you, in you, over you. As many times as we are able. It wants release, and you could do that with ease. But will you do what I order? Even if you know it is not what I want?"

He turned her around, caressed one of her breasts and sighed. Perfect, full, taut. He would wait. His cock brushed her hip and jumped of its own volition.

"Sit here," he said, "where you do not deserve to sit. In my place. Sit here and satisfy yourself. Do it in front of me, in obedience to my will instead of obedience to my body. Do you understand?"

He could have done anything then, thrown her on the bed, on the floor, taken his pleasure from her in any way he could imagine. But he was weary of certainties. He longed to see the struggle in her eyes, in her body. He longed to be the cause of it.

He stood in front of her, held her eyes as he wrapped the leather cord around himself, looped around and around, and waited for her obedience or her disobedience. Longing for either, dreading both.
 
There was a moment of confusion when she was told to stop, but Desire complied, panting, her chest heaving with the build of tension, the need for release. The heat, the fog, of that desire receded, then pressed back, receded as he gave a few more thrusts, and then pulled away.

She glanced back, once, and then again at the expression on his face, arrested. Her breathing slowed, and she, for the first time really felt the pressure on her hair. It didn't hurt, but it spoke all the same. Some of the warm, heated fog receded, and Desire faded, waking Regan from something that seemed, suddenly, like a dream, or perhaps just the realization that a couple of drinks and a healthy libido might not be the best of guides.

His voice was cold, the voice of the role and not the Matt that she had heard. There seemed to be no playfulness in it, and had she not found herself out of the role that she had been so eager to take on, she might have felt a niggle of fear. Yes, to explode ... that was what she had wanted, him, and her, together.

What he asked, no ... demanded ... Regan did not want. With that realization came, hot on its heels, something close to sobering up -- not that she'd been drunk, no. She'd known what she was doing, known the trouble they could get in, the potential loss of a gig, but that had faded to the background for a number of reasons, some of which still existed in the blend that was the persona she had adopted, and her own. Had she really just told Heather what she was doing? Regan's cheeks blazed, and burned away a bit more of the bravado.

"No." She shook her head, pulling against his grip. It wasn't so much a refusal of him as it was an admonishment of herself. She didn't understand. She had, or had thought she had, but what had seemed daring, freeing, just a moment before now seemed something different ... and she couldn't quite figure out why or what had changed, only that it had.

Matt seemed to have realized it too, though she couldn't read his expression ... or maybe it was just that she didn't want to, and didn't want to have to work out how much of it was his, and how much belonged to the role.
 
Whatever Matt had expected, it never entered his mind that she would just flat out refuse.

He found himself in an awkward position, half Matt, half someone else he wasn’t sure he liked, who he had enjoyed being. He didn’t know who Regan was refusing, but there were rules in this game.

He touched her stomach with his left hand, slid his fingers between her legs and watched her eyes as he slipped two fingers into her, wishing this were a different kind of game, with different rules.

“’No’ is not in your vocabulary,” he said, and picked up her phone with his other hand and swiped the camera on with his thumb. He slipped his fingers from her and turned her around, gripped her hair again. He pressed against her, pinning his cock between their bodies, and took a picture. The side of her face showed a little, his fist around her hair, two fingers slick and shining in the light. It showed nothing and everything at once. It was filthy.

He pressed share and selected Heather’s name from the list. He sent it.

“Never tell me no,” he said, pulling her head back against his cheek, the softness of her body against his still intoxicating. He remembered seeing some people in the lifestyle insisting on the title of master. It seemed too much of a formula. He wanted something personal, something intimate.

“I am Matthew to you, and it means master when you say it. Do you understand?”

He turned her again, pressed her onto the throne and took a picture as soon as she sat. She was flushed, maybe angry, maybe something else.

“Do you want me to send this one to Heather too?” He held the phone so she could see the little screen.

“Stay here. I’m going to find something you’re going to hate.”

He turned his back and went to the toy table. Maybe she would leave, but he didn’t think she would. He had a finger on the send button. He found the long handled vibrator and switched it on. It had fresh batteries.
 
The fog that Regan was feeling cleared a little more, enough so that she could again distinguish that in the atmosphere.

In disbelief, she watched as Matt used her phone to take a picture of her, her hair captured in his hand, his voice taking on a menacing tone as he told her she wasn't allowed to tell him no.

This time, though, there was no desire, only anger, and a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. She had, after all, invited this. That didn't stop her from glaring at Matt as he threatened to send another photograph to Heather.

Regan realized that she was somewhat afraid. It was hard to reconcile this man with the one she had met in the studio ... but then, she supposed there wasn't a lot of the woman she had been in her current pose.

She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but her heart was beating too fast, and the sick feeling in her stomach was too heavy, threatening to spill out and upward where there had been only heat. Nobody had forced her to come here, nobody had forced her to anything at all ... and it was time for her to get the hell out, before there was anything else to regret.

When he turned, moved away to the toys, Regan slid her ass off the throne, took a deep breath, and closed the distance between where she was and where her clothes were .... her clothes, not the discarded costume, which she left where it was.

She bent, picked up her pants and the sweater and quickly shrugged into the cabled knit, and slipped her feet into her shoes before glancing back at Matt. With the reminder of who she was, what she was, scratching softly at her skin, she was able to breathe easier. "Envy," she said softly, then snorted softly before heaving in a louder breath.

God, she was never going to hear the end of this. Maybe she could blame it on being drunk.

But right now, this was nowhere she wanted to be.
 
"Regan?"

But the door clicked shut behind her on its industrial spring. Matt put the toy down and stood for a moment, hands at his sides.

"Stupid," he said, and fumbled for the light switch. He found his clothes and pulled them on. The smell of the bar still clung to his shirt and it made him slightly nauseous.

It was the eighth deadly sin, stupidity. Maybe it was the first sin of a whole new set. You didn't mix acting with relationships. Everyone said it over and over. You didn't drink the night before a gig. You don't be stupid.

Shit. The gig. He turned off the fog machines, the lights. There was no way they'd be able to work together now. Not on this set. He pulled out his phone to call her, but he didn't have her number.

He sat with his back to the door for a long time. She thought he was an asshole, and maybe he was, maybe he had been tonight.

Fuck. He dialed Donna.

"You better be bleeding," she said.

"I'm not bleeding. Trying not to be an asshole."

"Did you break something?"

Matt took a breath. Let it out. "Yes."

"You're fi..." and she hung up on him.
 
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