A Night at the Theater

This is a tale of sheer fantasy in all respects. Much of the behavior depicted here is psychopathic, and should in no way be emulated. In real life, it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

* * * * *

For some time, I had dreamed of having mind-control. Sexual mind-control to be precise. The kind where you can exert your mental power so that the beautiful girl who hardly knows you exist suddenly strips naked in the middle of your college seminar, or pulls you behind a tree to suck your cock, or just can't wait to take your dick up her ass. I had thought about it so hard for so long that I'd even begun to dream about it; until at last the idea obsessed me—crowding everything else out of my waking mind, and filling my nights with feverish visions.

Then, one day, when I was still taking acting classes at CUNY, I suddenly realized that my fixation was not without a basis in fact. I understood, in an instant, that I was special (an evolved specimen of humanity, perhaps), and that, for me, mind control—or, more specifically, the ability to arouse, shape, and direct the erotic energy of others—was actually possible. I don't know how, exactly, but I just knew, with utter certainty, that this power was already latent within me, and only needed to be brought to the surface and exercised.

I remember it as clearly as yesterday. I was riding a bus downtown when the realization first struck. There was this hawk-nosed, frizzy-haired young blonde sitting across from me at the time. She was slightly-trashy—trying for the 'sexy-professional' look, but with skirt cut too high and blouse plunging too low to pull it off—and I decided she would do nicely for my first experiment. By all appearances, her innate resistance to my psionic suggestions would be lower than the norm.

I thought it best to start off with something simple; so I began by staring, intently, demandingly, at the V of her top, focusing all my attention on the exact spot where a bit of bra showed beneath. I cleared everything from my mind, everything, except for my will that she should show me her tits. I allowed that singular idea to reverberate in my brain, swelling and intensifying and redoubling to an awesome crescendo. My brow furrowed, and I transmitted my mental commands with an intensity I had never known I possessed: unbutton your blouse, pop open your bra, flash me. I could hardly breathe as I heard the blood rushing in my ears, felt the electricity crackling across the empty space between us, and waited for her to comply...

Which she never did, of course, because mind control is hooey. After enduring a minute or two of my undivided attention, the woman got up, snarled, "what are you looking at, pervert?," and moved to a different seat. After that, I decided maybe I'd better stick to scoring the old-fashioned way. I spent the rest of the trip developing pick-up lines that I could use on that cute girl in my scene-studies course—the one who had just broken up with her boyfriend...

* * * * *

OK, so maybe mind control is a dud. Still, if you are assertive enough, and you are with someone submissive enough, then that can be almost the same thing. I learned that with Marie. Marie and I were the leads, one summer, in an off-off-Broadway play.

Learning to Accept

, I think it was called. It was a somewhat experimental (that is to say, pretentious and slightly tedious) production, directed by this crazy Slovak method-guy named Pavel. I remember that when I met Marie at the first read-throughs, I wondered how she had ever been cast for the part. It's not that she didn't know her stuff—she was a serious and competent actor, better than most that I've worked with. Still, although she was pretty in real life terms, she didn't strike me as gorgeous enough for a leading role in even the outer fringes of New York theater. She was the type of female who normally landed parts like 'cute maid,' or 'supposedly-plain best friend.' Really, to put a finer point on it, the issue is that she was so nondescript. She just seemed too quiet, too within herself, too shy, too free of personality to ever make it in this business. I assumed at first that she had slept with Pavel or one of the producers to get the role, but over time I came to believe that probably wasn't it. No, I think Pavel had intentionally chosen someone extra-pliable, so he could mold her performance, and thereby 'prove' his genius, if only to himself.

As for me, well, I guess I was pliable enough in my own way, too—not by nature, but because I just didn't care enough about this rinky-dink production to waste energy arguing with the director. I'd show up, mouth my lines, and pocket my meagre pay, while filling the time until something better came along. In truth, I figured the whole thing would fold in a week anyway. To my surprise, though, we actually had a pretty good run. It was no bang-down-the-doors hit, but we got decent notices and filled most of the seats over our three-month schedule. It turned out that Marie and I had pretty solid chemistry. She was adept at reading and reacting to my interpretations—playing off my lead, as it were.

Outside of the theater, I was bored that summer, and didn't have anything better going on, so before very many rehearsals I had already decided to screw Marie. She was undoubtedly, despite a touch of mousiness, the most fuckable woman in the cast. It turned out she was even easier than I expected: after just a few corny lines—and not taking no for an answer—she was spreading her legs for me. After a couple more weeks, I moved into her apartment, too, saving a bundle on rent.

But, all good things, etc., etc. By the end of the summer, the production was winding down, and my agent had scored me a part on one of the Avengers movies ("Heimdall Guardian 2" to be precise; I hope you appreciated the pathos I brought to the role). I was more than ready to roll out of town, but Marie was starting to get needy: we can keep this going long-distance, how often do two soul-mates find each other in this world, yadda yadda yadda. I had no intention of dragging Marie along with me up the ladder of success, and had been looking forward to the opportunity for a clean break when the production ended. Now, as the final performance approached, I began to think that I'd need to end things with her on a note of serious finality, perhaps even cruelty, in order to get her to leave me alone. One day, while I was musing about what it would take for Marie to hear me and let it go, I recalled that time on the bus when I had briefly believed I had mind-control powers. Somehow that got the wheels turning, I put two and two together, and some truly wicked notions began occurring to me as to how I might ditch Marie and get some kicks and free PR at the same time. Looking back now, I'm not proud of what I did; and yet, once you've listened to my story, I think you'll agree that I really couldn't pass up an opportunity like this.

* * * * *

The day of the final performance, I had a number of preparations to take care of ahead of the big show. First of all, I made sure my suitcases were packed and loaded in the trunk. I didn't plan on sticking around long after the final curtain to deal with the fallout.

Next, I had a little talk with Marie over brunch. "Hey, Pavel's been giving me some notes for our big scene together in Act IV. Since this is our last performance, he was thinking we should take the opportunity to open things up. You know, really push the characters to their limits; let it be raw and real."

"Are you sure, Tom? I feel like we've been in a really good groove, and maybe we shouldn't upset the apple cart for our last show"

"Well, this is what Pavel wants, Marie. He feels really strongly about it. And I think he's right—even after all these performances, we still haven't quite gotten to the heart of these characters. You have to admit that's true. He feels like we need to do something really radical to break through, and that this will be good for our development as actors. I trust him, and I'll be right there with you to help you through it."

"Well, OK Tom, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on Lillian," (her character), "but I'm always ready to learn, and I know you and Pavel still have things to teach me."

"Oh, and Marie, one other thing, unrelated. This is a special night, and to celebrate, I'm gonna fuck you like I've never fucked you before. And you know I like it when your pussy is bare and beautiful. So be sure to be ready for me!"

"Jeez, Tom..." She blushed and looked down, but the corners of her mouth raised in a little smile. I knew she'd take care of business.

Later, at the theater, I touched base with the director to tie up the loose ends on his side. "Pavel, I wanted to try something different for my Act IV scene with Marie. Something truly avant-garde, where the characters really strip themselves bare and expose their raw emotions to the audience."

This was right up Pavel's alley—"Yes, yes, this is vat I've been tellink you all summer Tom—you and Marie are still too constraindt, too inside yourselves—you've got to let go!"

"Yes, I know Pavel, your direction has been brilliant, but it's been hard to really confront such deep emotions. I feel like now, with your help, I'm finally ready." Blah blah method-acting blah. "And, to be honest, I think Marie has been holding me back. She's so uptight, it's been really hard to get her to let loose. What I want to do tonight is challenge her with some hardcore improvisation, pushing her to go beyond her boundaries and expose her truest self to the world. Can you have a word with her before the performance, maybe tell her this is your call, tell her to follow my lead and be ready to take things beyond her comfort zone? It will benefit all of us—you, me, the art, and her career."

"Yes yes! After I talk viz her, she vill be putty in your handts!"

Finally, I flagged down the house manager. "George, I'm sorry to hit you with this last minute, but I told about 20 guys from my old frat, Beta-Kappa down at CUNY, that I'd leave them tickets for tonight's show."

"Damn it, Tom, wish you'd given me some notice! The hall's is going to be pretty full tonight, but I guess we can fit them into the balcony."

"Thanks George, but I promised them great seats. I was wondering if you could squeeze in a temporary section right down there." I pointed to where a narrow platform, almost like a fashion runway, extended out from the stage into the middle of the house seating. It was used at several points in the play for actors to deliver intimate monologues directly to the audience—gimmicky, in my view, but Pavel had insisted it be built specially for the show. "We don't need that aisleway around the thrust-stage George—you could stick some chairs in there. It's good energy for the actors when they're right on top of the audience anyway."

"Hmm... Fire Marshalls would pitch a fit, but it's our last show, so what the hell. The tickets are coming out of your check, though."

"You're a lifesaver George. I won't forget you when I make it big. Oh, and a couple of other things. Pavel and I have a few changes planned for Act IV. Can you let the set guys know to add a full-length mirror to the props for my scene with Marie? And also, the lighting folks need to spotlight Marie for that scene—illuminate her brightly, from all angles. Pavel wants the audience to see how exposed and vulnerable Marie, er, Lillian, really is. Got it?"

* * * * *

We had a nice crowd for our last show, and things hummed along smoothly. I saw George had indeed crammed in some seats for my old frat bros. Their chairs butted right up against the projecting runway (it was seats like that that made actresses think hard about what they put on under their skirts). A lot of the BKs had been skeptical when I'd called around to invite them—

Learning to Accept

wasn't the kind of entertainment they typically preferred—but I told them that if they stuck it out 'til the end, they'd be in for a treat.

Time flew, and before I knew it, we were taking our places for Act IV. The entire act was one long, intense sequence, which portrayed the final break between Lillian and Larry—lovers and kindred-souls, but also broken people, who were able to help each other find happiness, but not with each other. The critics seemed to buy it, but to me it all seemed like a bunch of pop-psychology dreck and half-baked innuendo. This time, at any rate, I planned to turn the subtext into text (or, maybe just into sex).

The scene would mark my final appearance of the night. My character, Larry, was absent from stage during the final act, which followed Lillian as she tried to pick up the pieces of her life—using her love and loss of Larry as a springboard toward a relationship that was more lasting and meaningful. But first we had this intimate scene together, just the two of us, out on stage for long minutes of emotion and dialogue.

The blocking had us start out close together, half facing each other, at the center of the stage. Behind us, the set was spare, and was intended to represent Lillian's kitchen—a simple wood table, a couple of matching chairs, a few abstract cupboards and appliances, and now (somewhat incongruously) a full-length mirror. Our dress was muted and down-to-earth too. I had on a dark turtleneck and pea-green dungarees (no boxers today). Marie was wearing a simple, stone-blue blouse and faded multicolor-plaid calf-length skirt. We'd done every performance barefoot, over my vocal objections, because Pavel felt strongly that this would allow the energy of the audience to flow into us through the soles of our feet (what did I tell you? nuts!).

As I said, Marie was nice looking, though not a knockout in show-biz terms. She had big hazel-blue eyes, auburn hair cut in an unkempt bob with spiky bangs, and clear, pale skin, with just a smattering of freckles. She was medium height, and had a nice willowy figure, albeit with breasts a bit smallish for my taste. Her bare feet were dainty, but other than that, her costume did little to highlight her assets. I planned to do something about that before much longer.

As the lights came up, Marie started us off on our dialogue. "Larry, why do... d..." She paused, momentarily taken aback, as the intimate lighting we normally used for this section of the performance continued to grow and swell, until the finally illumination reached a truly garish level of intensity. Spotlights located all around the theater were turned up, converging on her figure, seeming to pin her down at the heart of a gauzy spider's web. Marie's already pale skin was washed out, and every minute detail of her face and figure was picked out by one or another of the probing beams, with no nooks or crannies left in shadow. She glanced at me, eyes slightly dazzled, mouth and eyebrows set in a quizzical expression, presumably wondering if there had been some glitch with the technical crew. Then she took a quick breath, put it out of her mind, and continued. "Larry... why do you keep doubting me? What can I do to show you how I feel? I've given you everything—shown you everything about myself, but it's never enough for you."

"Lillian," I said, picking up a pair of scissors I had pre-positioned on the table and stepping toward Marie, "I know you believe that's true, but it's not. You've never really shown me what lies beneath that armor of yours. But tonight you will. You will let me truly inside. You simply have to let down your guard and allow it to happen." As I said this, I reached out, took up the placket of Marie's blouse, and began methodically cutting off the buttons, letting each one rattle across the stage as it dropped. Her eyes widened, and her lips tightened. She clearly wanted to flinch back from my hand, and the snipping blades, but she was puzzled and unsure how to respond. Anyway, we'd run through this sequence so many times that I think she found it difficult to deviate, even just by a few inches, from her mark.

"Uh... ummm... but Larry," her voice pitched a note higher than usual now, with an apprehensive edge to it, "I don't know what you're talking about. What armor?"

"This armor, Lillian, right here." Any other night, I would have gestured theatrically toward her heart, but now, instead, I flicked aside the dangling halves of her sundered blouse, left, and then right, to expose her dainty breasts, all tucked up in a modest pale-pink bra. Then I tapped her chest right at the shallow cleavage between her tits, allowing my finger to linger on her bare skin for a long second, before I circled around behind her. "I'm talking about the layers of armor you've built up over your heart, trying to keep yourself from really loving, trying to keep yourself safe. Not anymore. We're going to cut through those layers, here, now, together." So saying, I calmly and deliberately sliced her blouse up the back, and then pulled the two halves off her arms, allowing them to drop to the floor.

Although I was standing behind her, I could see a flush travelling up her bare shoulders and neck, and imagined how winning it would look as it landed on her cheeks. After a moment, she craned her neck to peer back at me, a slightly wild look in her eyes now.

"Larry..." she gritted out, obviously with an effort, "we all have our scars, our defenses. But I've let you inside mine. You know that."

Then she stopped short as she felt cold metal against her back. I saw her shoulders tense at the 'snip' when I cut open the back of her bra (so much more satisfying than just unhooking it). She wheeled around to face me, giving me an even sharper look than before, and hissed ever so softly, through barely moving lips, "Tom, what the hell are you doing?"

I grasped her bare shoulders and leaned close, to murmur in her ear. "You heard Pavel, Marie." My back was to the director at the moment, but I was pretty sure the nutty Slovak was giving her a grin and thumbs-up from the wings. He probably thought this was terribly cutting-edge. "Just go with it. Follow my lead. It's only the two of us here, now, no one else."

This may have been the crucial moment of the whole night. I figured it was 50-50 that Marie would run off the stage, then and there. I could almost see the gears turning in her head as I continued to hold her near, hands cupped lightly on her shoulders, our cheeks all but touching. She was looking past me now, straight forward into the wings, glassy-eyed—maybe trying to erase the theater and its hundreds of spectators from her mind, I thought. Finally, I saw her head, still staring off into space over my right shoulder, twitch downward slightly, in an almost imperceptible nod.

I pulled away. "No, Lillian," in stage voice again, "you have far more to give than you even realize. And tonight you are going to share it all with me." I reached over and snipped one shoulder strap of her bra, and then the other, and allowed the tattered remnants to slip off her chest and fall to the floor. Lustrous beams of light spilled across Marie's tits. They were small and perky, though not without a touch of gravitas. The nipples were half-dollar sized, ruddy pink, with a slightly vertical oval shape. And, although the theater was warm, they were at full attention, their cute, nobby center buttons pointing slightly skyward.

"I... I...," she stammered, "uh... I... I want to have more to give you Larry, but I don't know how. I don't have the key to unlock some inner-me. Do you?"

"I am the key that can fit your lock, Lillian, if you will allow it. Just give yourself over to me, and we will break down your barriers, one by one." I reached out and grasped her left breast in my hand, massaging the nipple and teasing the nub with my thumb, tracing exaggerated circles that I assumed the front-row spectators could not miss. Then I tugged on the breast to pull her around to face the audience directly, before moving to place myself behind her left shoulder.