Bacstage Dalliance

The more I tried not to think about him, the more I thought about him.

It was absurd, really. I reminded myself constantly of all the things I didn't like about him. His bafflingly strong interest in football. His utter lack of modesty. His frankly unhealthy obsession with his ex-girlfriend's cats, whom she had left in his care after making good her escape to New York.

But none of this knowledge changed how much I thought about his eyes. His wit. His charm. His intelligence. His surpassing skill as a performer, and his voice, warm and sweet as spiced mead.

I hated my thoughts for writing shitty romance novels about him in my mind, but what could I do? I couldn't get away from him. We were both actors, it was a small town, and there were only so many performance opportunities. My own skill as a performer was not easily dismissed, so we were often cast opposite each other. In our first play together, I had found myself playing a character who was madly infatuated with the character he was playing. I found him charming and easy to work with, perhaps a little overly-concerned with his method, but that kind of dedication to performance was attractive in itself, in a way. It wasn't until first dress that I came to the sudden realization that I was not just acting, but actually madly infatuated with him.

It was the damn pants. The costumer had unearthed a pair of faux-snakeskin trousers, and since the character he was playing was drunkenly full of himself, the pants seemed a natural fit for the role. The pants also were an equally-natural fit for his ass, and he knew it.

After catching myself stealing admiring glances all through the dress rehearsal, I realized with a sinking feeling that I was developing a full-blown crush on this impossible man. I disliked the feeling immensely, as it made me feel powerless and under his control, so I tried to ignore it. When that didn't work, I tried writing sonnets. When that didn't help, I tried remembering how to flirt, as I was rather out of practice. When I'd botched that, too, I tried to avoid him, but avoiding another actor in the same company is harder than avoiding rain in the Pacific Northwest. Failing all of this, I settled on trying to hate him as much as possible.

I was miserable through the remainder of the run of that show, and well into the rehearsal process of the next. Misery, I reasoned, was much easier to deal with than awkwardness. Occasionally, I caught myself smiling too much at him and laughing too loudly at his jokes, but I would withdraw into my script as soon as possible to flee the upwelling of feeling. Rehearsals weren't nearly as fun, and I struggled with learning the role in a way that I usually did not, but I persevered in the practicality of my hatred, carefully hoarding negative facts about him, stacking them carefully as a wall between myself and my feelings for him. He didn't read very many books. He posted too many selfies on Facebook. He always looked slightly anxious in his pictures, with grimacing smiles that never reached his eyes. He spent more money on unnecessarily fancy headphones than the contents of my entire paycheck. It was an admittedly very flimsy wall, but I did my best.

I must have been less than subtle about it, because he took me aside after rehearsal one day, pulling me into the relative privacy of the hallway near the dressing rooms. I inwardly cursed myself for not making some sort of excuse, but I had been too startled by the request to do anything but mutely follow him.

"Look, Sarah." He paused, the corners of his eyes crinkling in thought. "Have I done something to piss you off?"

I'd somewhat expected this question, considering my carefully-practiced coldness towards him. Even so, my prepared explanation sounded lame and flat to my ears. "I'm sorry if I've seemed distant or unkind. I'm just going through a rough patch lately. Thanks for your concern, though, Ben. It's sweet." I turned to leave, prepared to make my escape. This conversation was rapidly headed towards awkward truths I felt were better avoided.

His hand on my shoulder brought me up short. The unexpected contact was difficult to bear. "Are you fucking with me?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

This reaction was far off the script I had written for this inevitable conversation in my head, so my only response was to gape at him and his hard blue eyes. "What?" I asked stupidly.

"During the last show...I mean, did you intend to lead me on?"

I tried very hard to keep the blush from creeping into my cheeks. "Ben, that was just my character. The director asked for all that cleavage."

"The director didn't ask for you to put that cleavage in my face, though. Nor did she ask you to flash me what was frankly a very unnecessary amount of leg backstage every night." Perhaps in response to the furious blush creeping into my cheeks, he amended, "Not that I didn't enjoy it."

I felt angry now. I expected the anger was in response to my mortified embarrassment, but being angry seemed preferable to bursting into tears, and I was pretty sure that those were my only options at this juncture. "And I suppose that the director told you to grind your crotch into me during our final dance," I snapped. I was rewarded with the barest hint of red on his face.

"Why are you pretending to hate me?" he asked bluntly. I didn't have an immediate answer, so he pushed further. He was very close to me, looking down at my upturned face. "Neither of us is stupid, so let's just agree to not dance around this issue with any bullshit." He pinned my gaze with his own. "I think about you constantly, and it's driving me crazy. I'm confused, because it seemed pretty clear for a week or two that the feeling was mutual. Then you started ignoring me. So I will ask again: have I done something to piss you off?"

I suspected my face looked like a beached fish, mouth and eyes all agape. I didn't think it was probably very attractive, but I simply wasn't sure how to respond to this. He was uncomfortably close to me, close enough for me to feel the heat of him. He smelled earthy. His eyes were far too blue. I could barely think straight.

So I kissed him instead.

It was easy to accomplish; his face had been inches from mine. It was a relief. I had spent so much effort trying to ignore how much I wanted him. It was easy as drowning. I stopped struggling, leaned into him, and crushed my lips hungrily against his. I felt my chest tighten with terror as he stiffened against me, and for a second, I feared I had made a dreadful mistake. Then, to my profound relief and pleasure, he pulled me closer to him, and the kiss became demanding and insistent. I buried my hands in his hair to pull him closer, something I had been aching to do for ages. He tasted wonderful.

Eventually, we had to come up for air. I had mussed his hair quite badly, but I was certain that mine looked no better. We stared at each other for a moment, unable to do much more than breathe. "Do I seem pissed off?" I asked lightly, once I had the air to accomplish words.

He laughed, then had to catch his breath again. "If this is you pissed off, I'd love to see you...angry." His voice dropped dangerously low on this last word.

I smirked. "I think I could arrange that." I ducked under his arm, spinning playfully away from him to the door of the women's dressing room. I cracked the door to make sure no one was inside, then looked back at him. "Care for a little demonstration of my fury?"

He was deliciously scandalized. "In the girls' dressing room? What if someone comes in?"

I shrugged. I was past caring. "It locks. Besides." I leveled a serious expression at him, and spoke honestly for the first time. "I've waited long enough. I think I'd explode if I had to pretend any longer."

He followed me into the room and stood by the bank of lockers as I secured the door. "Why did you pretend, then?" he asked.

I wasn't sure I could put it into words. "Certainty of rejection, I suppose. Also, a relationship of this nature isn't exactly what one could call practical."

"Fuck practical," he responded with careful enunciation.

And then he was kissing me again, and though I don't think he stopped kissing me, my shirt was somehow unbuttoned. I marveled at his dexterity and slipped my tongue into his mouth. He groaned deep in his throat, a vocalization that I found thoroughly erotic.

He broke the kiss, panting, and let his eyes trace my breasts through my bra with frank admiration. "I'm not going to lie, getting to stare at these every night was the best part of being in the last play."

I smiled wickedly at him. "If you enjoyed looking at part of them so much, how shall you ever survive gazing at them in their full glory?"

"I don't know. Let's find out." He kissed me again, but only to distract me while reaching around under my shirt and unclasping my bra. My breasts tumbled free from their necessary confinement, and he reached forward to cup them gently. He moved his thumbs up to graze each nipple, and I whimpered appreciatively. He smiled smugly, and moved his thumbs in slow, opposing circles around my nipples. If the door hadn't been directly behind me, I think I would have fallen. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes rolled back slightly in my head. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

In one fluid motion, he pulled me away from the door and lifted me easily to sit on the counter by the sink. This brought my breasts closer to his face, which allowed him to continue to tease one nipple between his fingers while the other disappeared between his warm lips. "Fuck," I whispered appreciately. I felt him smile into my skin as he continued his ministrations. I contented myself with running my fingers through his hair as he pleasured me, but soon I grew impatient. I pulled his face away from my breasts, and silenced his protest with another kiss. "My turn," I explained, and hopped off the counter. I patted the place where I had been sitting. "Up," I commanded. He already knew better than to decline.

I worked the fly on his jeans open with little trouble and worked my prize free of his boxers. He was twitching with excitement, and I smiled to see the effect I had upon him. It had been an age since I had last practiced my cocksucking skills, but I was confident that they were still up to snuff. You never really forget how to do something like that.

I tasted him, gently at first, barely touching him with my tongue. His breath hissed out in surprise; I doubt he was expecting me to give him head. I love being unexpected. I took the head of his cock between my lips and spiraled my tongue around the head, the same motion he had performed upon my nipples not five minutes before. His precum tasted salty and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. I popped him out of my mouth, and ran my tongue along his underside from the sensitive area at the base of the head to the top of his balls. I spent a little time running my tongue along the bottom of the head, making him writhe at my touch. Men can never resist that sensation. Then I took his entire length into my mouth and down the back of my throat in one smooth motion. He made a strangled noise that might have been very loud if we'd been somewhere more private. As it was, it came out more of a yelp. He clapped one hand over his mouth, and twisted the fingers of the other into my hair. I stayed very still, his cock enveloped in the warmth of my throat. He twitched helplessly. "Holy shit," he finally managed, "don't you have a gag reflex?"

I slid him out of my mouth, and smirked up at him. "No," I responded. "I do not."

I provided no warning when I deepthroated him for a second time, forcing him to gag himself with his hand once again. This time, I constricted the back of my throat around the head of his cock, squeezing it with the muscles in my throat. I was very pleased by the noises he made in response to this. I bobbed up and down the length of him, thrusting his cock repeatedly into my mouth up to the hilt. I didn't gag. I rarely do. His whole body stiffened, and I slid him out of my throat quickly, grasping the base of his dick firmly in my encircled fingers. He was rock hard and twitching rapidly with every racing heartbeat. I licked my lips and fixed him with a steely gaze. "Was that too much to handle?" I asked innocently. "I don't want to break you. I'm not done with you yet."

His eyes focused on me. His face was slack with pleasure. "You had better get your ass up here and fuck me," he growled. "Otherwise I am not going to be able to resist shoving my cock down your throat again."

"Your wish is my command," I answered, grateful that I was wearing a skirt today. I slipped my now-soaked panties down around my ankles, and stepped easily out of them. He scooted back and leaned against the mirror, and I lifted myself to kneel above him on the counter. I barely had the presence of mind to worry that our combined weight would send both the counter and the sink crashing to the tiled floor, but it seemed sturdy enough. I lifted my skirt, and rested him against my entrance. Our combined heat was feverish. I rubbed the head of his cock up and down my slit, coating him in warmth and wetness. He groaned and strained towards me. I held him still. "Are you ready?" I whispered.

"Fuck me," he demanded. "Now."

I leaned forward to kiss him, as I speared myself on his hardness. I moaned into his mouth and clutched at his shoulders. "Shit!" I exclaimed, breaking this kiss. "Fuck!" I exclaimed again as he thrust up into me with unexpected force. His hands dug into my ass and pulled me as close to him as possible. I ground myself into him, reveling in the feeling of him inside of me. My hands clutched convulsively at his head. He nuzzled at my breasts as he pumped his hips to meet mine. I was so turned on by this point that I felt myself already teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

I nipped gently at Ben's earlobe, and between moans, I spoke softly in his ear. "I am about to come," I informed him matter-of-factly. "My cunt is about to squeeze your cock like a vice, and I expect it will be immensely pleasurable. I expect you will want to come." My voice lowered to a growl. "Do it. Let me feel it."

I felt my orgasm begin to ripple through me, burning up from my core through my body, thrumming through my brain. All of me shook, and I cried out, "Fuck! Ben! Yes! Fuck!" I was certain that I was being too loud, but to was difficult for me to stifle myself. I felt myself clench around Ben's cock, emphasizing his hardness. He let out a terrific groan, and managed to choke out, "Shit! Sarah!" before I felt the heat of him spurting into me. He twitched inside of me, a sensation that extended my own orgasm. We grasped at one another's bodies, overcome by the intensity. I bit my lip to keep from screaming The strength of my orgasm was overwhelming, and when the shuddering pleasure at last subsided, I panted against Ben's shoulder, sweaty and spent. I felt his heart racing against my bare skin. I softly kissed his neck. He sighed and relaxed against me.

I almost fell asleep, tangled in Ben's limbs on the dressing room counter, when the sudden sound of the backstage door opening caused us both to stiffen in alarm. The Goddamn security guard! We exchanged wide-eyed glances, though my mouth quirked upward in a suppressed smile. A giddy laugh at the utter ridiculousness of the situation bubbled through me, but I directed it to my eyes rather than my voice. Ben rolled his eyes at me. We froze in stony silence until we heard the door between the backstage hallway and the front of the house clang shut, and then scrambled to dress as quickly and quietly as possible.

We took care to leave the theatre silently and separately, but as I opened the dressing room door to make good my escape, Ben pressed a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it into my hand. He grinned and mouthed, "Call me." I smirked at him. I most certainly would. I blew a kiss, and slipped out of theatre, a spring in my step.