by Lisabet Sarai, Trina Lane, Elizabeth Coldwell, Charlotte Stein, Jane Davitt, Justine Elyot
Adele’s cheeks grew pink. “Good morning,” she gushed. “I’m fantastic, thank you very much.”
“And you, Ms Gladstone?” There was that mocking tone, teasing me, making me weak.
“Adele knows about us, Geoffrey.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “I told you that you should be quieter! But never mind. That’s just fine. I had been thinking that it was about time for me to claim you publicly.”
He slipped one arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a robust kiss. I tried unsuccessfully to keep it decent. His tongue wormed its way into my mouth and tangled with mine. After a moment, I gave up any resistance and let his scent and taste carry me away the way it always did. His hand cupped my breast. I was bra-less under my blouse, as he required. One finger flicked over my jutting nipple, sending bolts of electricity racing to my pussy. I jerked in his arms as the pleasure struck deep.
When he finally released me, I was breathless and damp and Adele’s eyes were like saucers.
“From now on, I want everyone to know that you’re my girl.”
I was grateful he didn’t say, “my slut.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I managed to croak. “I am.”
Chapter Five
It didn’t take long for everyone to view Geoffrey and me as a couple. Adele told me that cast relationships were pretty common in summer stock. In fact, once she saw that Geoff was taken, she hooked up with Harry, the bespectacled, intense grad student who was our prop-master.
Geoff and I didn’t spend every night together. He told me that I needed time to recover from our sessions, and he was right. That didn’t stop me from wanting him all the time. I lived in a sort of dream world, constantly aroused. I could hardly remember what it had been like to wear panties and have a dry pussy.
Each time we met, Geoff pushed me further. I came to know the bite of those silvery clamps constricting my nipples, and the agony of the blood rushing back when they were removed. He introduced me to his flogger and his paddle. One night he shackled me hand and foot to the headboard and drizzled hot wax onto my breasts and belly. Another evening, he blindfolded me then stroked me with various articles, making me guess their identity. Every incorrect answer earned me three lashes from the crop.
He kept up the psychological pressure too, forcing me—inviting me—to share my darkest fantasies. We’d sit in his bed while he toyed idly with my pussy and grilled me about my reactions to public punishment, group sex and knife play.
After a week or two, he moved our games out of the bedroom. I never knew when he’d come up behind me backstage, raise my skirt, and wiggle a finger into my ass. Keeping his promise, he had his chauffeur drive us to Boston for a shopping trip. I spent practically the entire trip with his cock in my mouth and returned with a black satin corset and a red lace garter belt. When the theatre had its Fourth of July picnic at LakeMansfield, he dragged me into the woods, tied me to a tree, and fucked me within fifty feet of the beach and the barbecue pits.
He was outrageous, unrelenting, insightful. He knew what I wanted before I knew, myself. Usually he’d make me ask—no, beg—for it. Even when drunk with his own power, though, he was never cruel. He let me come at least as often as he did. He praised my willingness, my endurance and my honesty. Without being told, I knew that I pleased him, but he didn’t hesitate to say so.
Never, though, did he say he loved me.
As for me, I tried to live in the now and not worry about the end of the summer. It wasn’t too difficult when I was in his presence. Lost in submission, in thrall to his will, I found that time had no meaning. Had he been beating me for minutes or hours? I couldn’t tell. Alone in my room, however, I ached and cried, berating myself for my susceptibility. But how could anyone not fall in love with Geoffrey Hart?
All in all, if I just kept my mind on the present, I was happy. After all, my master enjoyed and appreciated me. What more could I ask for?
We opened Streetcar to universal acclaim. We had people coming from Boston, New York, even D.C. to attend performances. Each night, looking on as Eunice the neighbour, I marvelled at the way Geoff inhabited Stanley Kowalski. With his confidence, strength and earthy sexuality, Geoff was born to play the part. When he bellowed, “Stella!”—when he swept up Adele and carried her offstage—I was as thrilled as anyone in the audience. Even more, perhaps, because I knew first-hand the way it felt to be cradled in those powerful arms.
I was offstage at the start of Scene Seven, watching the action. Stella was decorating the table for Blanche’s birthday. Stanley had dug up some dirt about Blanche’s past. He was bitter and sarcastic as he gloated, while Stella defended her sister. I shivered. I wouldn’t want to face that kind of rage.
“He calls her, you know.”
I started and whirled around to find the source of the hoarse whisper. It was Jack, costumed as the unfortunate Mitch.
“What? Who? What are you talking about?” I whispered back.
“Your precious Mr. Hart. He’s still in touch with his old flame. Anne something?”
“Anne Merrill.” I felt suddenly chilled. Intoxicated by Geoff’s company, I’d almost forgotten my rival. “Why do you say that?”
“I heard him talking on his cell last night. Calling her ‘Anne, baby.’ I couldn’t hear everything he said, but from the serious look on his face, I’m sure it wasn’t just a casual conversation.”
I didn’t answer. I hadn’t seen Anne’s photo since the night I spied on Geoffrey, but how did I know he didn’t bring it out on the evenings when I didn’t visit? Maybe that was the real reason he insisted on breaks between our sessions.
“I just thought you should know, Sarah. I was concerned. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“What? Oh, thanks, Jack.” I murmured.
I don’t suppose your concern has anything to do with jealousy or revenge, I added mentally. I resolved to ignore Jack’s insinuations. He was hardly a neutral party. Anyway, there might be a thousand innocent reasons why Geoff had called Anne—if he had.
I wished that I dared to ask Geoff about her. If I did, though, he’d see through me in an instant. He’d mock my jealousy and remind me that my only responsibility was to please him.
He would be right, of course. I was fortunate to have Geoff as my teacher and my master. I had no claim on his heart.
* * * *
Someone was yelling and pounding on my door. I yawned and stretched under the sheet. The residual sting from the previous night’s flogging made me smile. Geoff had been so sweet, so solicitous of my well-being, praising my obedience while massaging ointment into my welts. That’s probably why it didn’t hurt more…
“Sarah! Wake up!” It sounded like Clarissa. What was she doing making such a commotion at—eight in the morning?
I threw on my robe and padded to the door. “Hi, Clar. What’s up?”
“It’s Adele. They just took her to the hospital.”
My good mood evaporated. “The hospital? What’s wrong?”
“She’s sick. Food poisoning, they think. She and Harry both.”
“God! Will she be okay?”
“Probably. But you’ll have to take over for her, for tonight at least. Arthur wants you at the theatre for a special rehearsal as soon as you’ve had your coffee.”
“I’ll be there.” I was already halfway to the shower, my mind whirling.
We were rotating three shows now, Our Town, Fiddler and Streetcar, while rehearsing Plaza Suite during the day. Tonight—tonight Streetcar was on the bill. That meant I’d be playing Stella—opposite Geoffrey Hart.
Excitement hummed through me. I felt bad about Adele’s distress, but this was the sort of break every actress dreamt about. If I managed to do well, I had a chance to be noticed by people who made a difference. I might even have some hope for a New York gig in the fall.
You’ve got to pay attention, I told myself sternly. Dig down and feel the part, the way you were taught. No mooning o
ver your master.
Nevertheless, when I got to the playhouse and saw him wearing Stanley’s tight jeans and dirty tee shirt, my heart did a little flip. He gave me one of his million-dollar smiles.
“Sarah! Thank God!” The unflappable Arthur looked unusually harried. “Do you know Stella’s lines?”
“Of course. That’s my job.” For the first time, I felt proud to be the understudy.
“Great! Let’s start at the first scene then. Clarissa’s going to take over as Eunice. Jill will play the nurse.”
I stepped behind the set, into the “interior” of the Kowalski’s apartment. Geoff strutted on stage.
“Hey there! Stella, Baby!”
* * * *
The rehearsal went like clockwork. My excitement had subsided to a pleasant buzz, leaving me clear-headed and confident. Arthur congratulated us all around and gave us the afternoon off. I decided to walk the two miles to LakeMansfield. I wanted to be alone, to settle my thoughts and prepare myself for the night to come.
I sat on the grass at the edge of the woods, knees to my chest, watching the kids jump from the raft into the rust-coloured water. The hum of honeybees mingled with their glad cries. A warm breeze ruffled my skirt and teased my bare pussy. July was almost over. Only a month or so left of the season.
Then what? I’d always been a planner, setting out the alternatives, weighing the pros and cons. Now I had no idea what lay ahead. I couldn’t imagine living without Geoff—yet I knew I’d probably have to give him up. Maybe he’d call me occasionally, when he got bored, and invite me to come play.
It wasn’t a game for me. I was sure now. I loved him. He’d claimed me and now I was his, body, mind, and soul—whether he cared or not.
I thought back to our times together. I’d become so much more open, more trusting, under his tutoring. Relax, he’d tell me, as he beat me or fucked me. Don’t fight it. Just let go.
That’s all I could do, I realised. Let go and see what happens. I couldn’t control him. I could scarcely control myself. All I could do was trust and hope for the best.
* * * *
I huddled inside the set, on the darkened stage. Clarissa and Hatty crouched on the steps below. The house lights went down. The murmuring of the audience died away. Strains of honky-tonk piano filtered through the air, falsely cheerful.
The curtain rose. The spotlight hit the set.
My rough, tender Stanley sauntered on stage, calling my name.
I came to him, drawn by love and animal passion, finding his crudeness thrilling after the pale refinement of my youth at Belle Reve. I tried to protect my sister from his insults and his rage, but what could I do? Ultimately, I belonged to him.
Near the end of Scene Three, Stanley hit me in a drunken rage and I ran upstairs to shelter with Eunice. But he called me, bellowing for his Stella, his baby, and what could I do but come down, into his arms, and let him bear me away?
There was an intermission after Scene Three. Geoffrey carried me backstage and kissed me deeply. My heart slammed against my ribs. He tasted like whisky and smelt like sweat. “That was great, baby,” he murmured, nuzzling my throat. “You’re fantastic.”
I kissed him back, high on his touch and the applause. “We’re fantastic,” I replied.
* * * *
Two minutes to curtain. Scene Four opens with Stella and Blanche inside the apartment. I peered between the heavy layers of velvet, checking out the audience.
The house lights were still on. Every seat was occupied, even the ones way in the back behind the support pillars. My simmering excitement ratcheted up a notch. This was everything I’d dreamt.
Then I saw her. Sitting alone in the front row, a vision in scarlet chiffon and green velvet, jet curls cascading over her full bosom—Anne Merrill. She looked at her watch and a little frown twisted her ripe, red-painted lips.
I felt as though the earth had opened beneath me. What was she doing here? Had she returned to claim my master?
Letting the curtain fall back into place, I concentrated on breathing deeply. Of course she’d be interested in seeing Geoff play Stanley, given all the publicity he’d gotten. It was nothing. I would not allow it to affect me.
The curtain rose and I was back in the play, back in Stella’s body, feeling the kick of her unborn baby and the heat of her lust for her husband.
The next interval came after Scene Six. I went looking for Geoff, wanting, I admit, another kiss, or anything else he cared to bestow. I was still in character and I wanted my tough, hungry Pollack. I craved, “all those coloured lights going,” that Stanley talked about.
He wasn’t backstage or in his dressing room. I headed down the corridor to the back door. Maybe he went out for a breath of fresh air or a cigarette.
I heard their voices before I saw them. Out in the yard, silhouetted by the lights on the shed, Geoffrey and Anne Merrill were holding a muted but urgent conversation. Their heads bent close. I couldn’t see their faces, but I was pretty sure she was holding his hand.
I didn’t wait to see more. I couldn’t anyway, not through my tears. I raced back to the stage and sank down at the table inside the Kowalski flat. Breathe, I told myself. Let go. I dried my eyes on my sleeve. I could do this. I had to. There was nothing more important than the play.
Still, when the curtain rose once more, my disappointment and anger flowed into Stella’s breast. As Blanche sank deeper into self-delusion and Stanley became more determined to destroy her, Stella began to hate Stanley as much as she loved him. When Stanley grabbed Blanche—“Oh, so you want some rough-house? All right, let’s have some rough-house!”—and dragged her into the bedroom, I felt sick with simultaneous desire and disgust.
I played it well. Hell, I was brilliant. I didn’t allow my grief through, or only enough to make Stella more poignant and real. Geoffrey gave me a puzzled look, but that was Stanley, too, not understanding that he was killing Stella’s love through his cruelty to her sister.
Finally, the curtain fell. The honky-tonk piano swelled, then faded away. Applause thundered in my ears.
Geoffrey snatched my hand and pulled me in front of the curtain. The audience roared. We bowed, smiled, bowed again. Helen—Blanche—emerged, looking tremulous and frail, to more clapping and cries of, “Bravo!”
The cast bowed together. Helen stepped forward and made a perfect curtsey. More applause. In a daze, I let Geoff lead me forward for yet another bow. Before I knew what was going on, he lifted me like a doll and gave me a feverish kiss.
The crowd went wild. “Stanley!” they howled. “Stella! Kiss her again!”
“Put me down,” I hissed in Geoff’s ear. Startled by my vehemence, he obeyed.
We smiled and bowed through three more curtain calls. I’d never felt such pain.
As soon as the lights came up, I ran.
* * * *
Still in costume, I raced out the front of the theatre and up the drive. I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had to get away, away from Geoffrey and his lover, away from the treacherous Stanley who’d raped my poor, fragile sister and sent her away to an institution.
I sped past the green and down a side street bordered with neat clapboard houses and well-trimmed lawns. It was nearly eleven. Barrington was mostly asleep. Televisions flickered blue behind drawn blinds. A cat wailed at the half-moon.
A few blocks down, I slowed to a walk. No one was following. Why should they? I passed BarringtonElementary School on the right. On impulse, I let myself into the fenced playground and sank into one of the swings.
My eyes had been dry through my flight, but now I let the tears come. I wailed and sobbed, cursing both myself and the devil who had seduced me.
Why had I let this happen? All through college and grad school, I’d guarded my heart. Even when I’d had lovers, I’d never let go. My career came first. Nothing could compete with my burning desire to be a successful actress.
Then I’d met Geoff and I’d thrown it all away—willingly. H
e had never forced me—all he did was invite me to surrender. I had rushed to kneel at his feet, diving head first into his well of dark fantasy.
I couldn’t blame him, not really. He’d never promised anything. He claimed me as his fuck toy, nothing more. It was my own fault that I’d fallen in love.
My chest ached. My throat was raw. Finally I became quiet, listening to the summer night, strangely peaceful after the storm of my weeping.
Metal clanked on metal as someone entered the playground.
“Sarah! I’ve been looking everywhere!”
I refused to let that rich voice melt me. I ignored his worried tone. “Go away.”
“What’s wrong, little one? The play was a triumph. Come back and celebrate with us.”
“There’s nothing to celebrate.” I stared at the ground, not wanting to see his handsome face.
He sat on the next swing and took my hand. “Not true, sweet. You were incredible. I never appreciated how talented you were.”
“No, I guess not.” I couldn’t keep the resentment out of my voice. “The only talents you cared about were my ability to take a beating and suck your cock.”
“What?” He sounded genuinely shocked.
I pulled my hand away. “Go back and celebrate with her. With your Anne. I saw you together tonight, all lovey-dovey. I guess she’s willing to take you back. You won’t need me as a stand-in anymore.”
“Are you crazy?” Geoffrey’s laugh was edged with bitterness. “Anne doesn’t want me. She thinks I’m sick, perverted. She told me months ago that she couldn’t stand it—that my interests disgusted her.”
“Huh?” I looked up at him. My tears gave him a halo. “I thought she was your lover, your perfect partner…”
“My partner, yes. But not my lover, not now. She never really gave herself to me in any case. It was all just a game for her, a novelty. When she realised how I felt about dominance and submission, how serious I was, she got scared. She sent me away.”