What is wrong with me! I haven't felt like this since my first deflowering! Deflowering? What a perfectly delicate euphemism. My body is on fire with lust, but for whom? My heart is pounding. My nipples feel like bullets. I'm panting like a bitch on heat. I feel that my knickers are squelching inside my slacks.
It's not even that I'm in a situation conducive to thoughts of sex. I can't think of anything even remotely romantic about what is happening to me. My wrists and ankles are manacled and linked by a chain. I can barely take a step that's two thirds the length of my normal stride. Two very unsympathetic men are forcing me along faster than I can comfortably walk by long poles attached to the metal band locked round my throat. And still I'm as horny as rabbit in season! I must concentrate!
Oh it's so hard to do that. At the end of this frog-march, the man will want answers. I must speak the words that I have to, and mean every word of them if they are to be believed.
The interview is over. Despite my inner struggles, I had remembered what had to be said and how it had to be said. I think everyone is pleased with me. I hear the word that will allow me to relax. Relax as much as is possible in my chains and collar.
"Cut" shouts the director.
Will we have to shoot the scene again? My bonds are getting decidedly uncomfortable, but more important I need to get back to my dressing room to try and make sense of why I'm feeling so strange, why I don't mind being uncomfortable in these restraints and even though I almost dare not think it, why I'd be so disappointed to be relieved of my fetters.
"That's a wrap, everyone!"
Damn! The previously unsympathetic men are suddenly very sympathetic and are freeing me from my 'ordeal'. Why is it that I'm almost in tears? As soon as I am freed I rush away to my sanctum, my dressing room.
Shooting is over for today. I've just finished taking my make-up off. There is a knock on the door. I'm not sure that I want company, but I guess I must be polite.
"Come in..." I respond.
There's Reg. Reg is the Props man. He sources, obtains, maintains and delivers everything that is used on the show, barring costumes, make-up and technical equipment such as camera's and microphones. If you want a sword, a suit of armour, a bicycle, a bunch of roses, Reg is your man! Talking of roses, Reg is standing there with a bunch of obviously fake flowers, a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Evening Gwen! I'd give you fresh flowers but it's too late for the florist. Will these do?" Reg is sweet. Romantic in a way. His smile is radiant, so I'm quite happy to accept the fake flowers with a conspiratorial laugh.
"I hope too, you'll join me in a glass of wine, Gwen. I've a suspicion that you need one." Despite believing that I need time to think, the thought of a glass of wine is appealing. Besides Reg is a nice person to kill half an hour with.
Reg makes small talk for a while, until I've finished my first glass and he's poured me a second. The seriousness of his conversation ratchets up a notch.
"That was a very difficult scene for you to play today. I couldn't help but notice how it effected you..."
"It wasn't so bad really," I bluster.
"Tell it to the marines, dear! You kept your voice and your face straight, but you couldn't hide the prominence of your nipples, the pace of your breathing, a slight flush to your face and a crafty wriggle of your hips when you thought no one was watching you."
I'm furious with him! He's seen right through my mask of objectivity. It's as though he's just stripped me of all self respect. I want to tell him to go, to leave me, but my mouth won't obey the brain. I just sit here feeling very vulnerable that he's pierced my armour so effortlessly. Indeed, I sense the possibility, no, the definite start of the itch that could so easily flare up into the kind of need that I'd felt on set, when ensconced in the chains and was being manhandled so.
Reg leans forwards oh so gently, as though to kiss me. If that's what he wants, I'll give him a gentle peck on his cheek. His lips however don't touch me! I'm quite startled when suddenly he reaches for my left wrist. Grabbing it, he pulls it round to the front by my right one. In less time than I can conceive, I feel cold metal encircling my wrists and hear the clack-clack-clack of the ratchets of the handcuffs! I'm startled and consequently not as sharp and cutting with my wit as I would normally be. I can barely croak out the cliché.
"What are you doing? Why have you handcuffed me?"
Suddenly the sweet innocent friendship that Reg normally embodies is no longer there. Instead I'm sensing depths in him that most people wouldn't see and I'm suddenly apprehensive.
"How long are you going to lie to yourself Gwen? It was plain for all to see that your passion was ignited by your chains during today's shooting. How Bill can direct a show like this when he's clearly so blind as to miss the obvious, is beyond me". He waits a moment and continues "Look yourself in the heart and tell me you want me to remove the handcuffs. I'll do so if you truly want me to."
