His Firm Direction

by Alexis Alvarez

  She nodded. “It would.” She clenched her thighs on his lap.

  “So you’re going to take the time and work out your schedule to avoid that.”

  “I will. I’m sorry.” She shifted. “Can I rub it?”

  He shook his head. “You know the rules.”

  “But it’s so sore!”

  “You rub before I give you permission, and I’ll bend you back over for at least five more. You know you don’t get to touch your ass until you finish the rest of the punishment.” He raised an eyebrow. “So let me know when you’re ready to continue.”

  “I need water first,” she whispered into his neck. Her ass was pulsing with the beat of her heart. Still, even through her discomfort, her desire was growing, and she wanted him so badly now that she would have been happy to beg him to fuck her.

  He reached down beside him and handed her a chilled water bottle, which he had waiting. “Here you go.”

  She drank deeply, then capped the bottle and wiped her lips. She could feel him, hard, under her. “I’m ready.”

  He took a cushion from the couch and tossed it to his feet. “Then get on your knees, Cleo. Hands behind your back, you know the position.”

  She did, and a new surge of arousal surged through her body and she got into the pose he liked. The stinging on her ass combined with the need in her core was nearly driving her insane, and when he undressed and stood before her, his cock hard and thick, she took him into her mouth without hesitation. He fisted the hair on each side of her head and moved her mouth back and forth to find his pleasure, and she moaned around him, licking and sucking in the way she knew he loved.

  When he came, he let out a guttural cry, and she worked to relax her throat and swallow his essence, only daring to wipe her mouth once he’d collapsed back onto the couch with a growl of utter contentment. Then she grabbed the water bottle and finished it, and then, eyeing him carefully, reached back to rub her ass with relief.

  “I see what you’re doing,” he said, his voice lazy and sated.

  “I finished my punishment,” she murmured. “So it’s allowed.”

  “You’re supposed to wait for my command.”

  “I thought your orgasm was my command.”

  He laughed. “Come here.” He patted the couch beside him, and she eagerly scrambled up into his arms, the two of them moving and arranging limbs until they found a comfortable mix. “You’re so fucking hot, Cleo. I love you.”

  “I love you too.” She nestled into his arms. “Do you love me enough to touch my pussy right now, please, please? Pretty please?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know if you deserve to come just yet. We made the rule about waiting after your spankings to ensure that it’s really a punishment for you, you know. I want you to feel your ass stinging all evening before you get your pleasure.”

  “But now I’ve atoned,” she pleaded. “And I made you feel so good.” She gave him a sweet smile. “I think I definitely deserve to come.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and she took that as an invitation to continue. “How about a deal. If you let me come now instead of making me wait, I’ll do anything you want after dinner. Like, another blowjob. Or ass stuff. You can tie me up.”

  His fingers strayed to her thighs, and she slid her legs apart. “I’ll do the thing you loved last time, with the mouthful of ice and hot coffee. Remember that? When I alternated on your cock, hot and cold?”

  He groaned and slid a finger inside her pussy. “Yes, I remember it very well.”

  “Which did you like better, the ice or the hot?” She grabbed his other hand and sucked his index finger, and felt him stir to life beneath her.

  “Both of them were pretty fucking amazing.” Yes, he was definitely getting hard again. She sucked his finger harder. “Do you like it when I lie backwards on the bed and let my head hang off, and you fuck my mouth like that? I can do that for you, if you promise to let me come.”

  He growled and flicked her clit softly, making her cry out. “You know what? I’m going to fuck you again right now, and you can come as many times as you like. But we’re going to go into the bedroom, so we can have more room for all of those things you mentioned.” He gave her a slap on her still-pink buttocks to punctuate his sentence.

  “That sounds good to me,” she murmured, winding her arms around his head and finding his lips. And the rest of the evening turned out very well indeed.

  Chapter One

  Three months earlier…

  “No, no, and no!” Axel Masters’ voice cut through the scene like a whip, slicing the actors apart. Martin lifted his hand from Cleo’s body, and she felt him tense up. Behind her, Cleo heard a prop designer drop something with a clatter, and she let her breath out in a long, measured sigh, fighting for patience. She pulled herself from Martin’s lap, tugged down her skirt, and sat on the hard, dusty couch beside him.

  “Ms. Martinelli, your face is a plaster cast. A clothing mannequin could show more emotion during the scene. You’re not just lying there; you’re an active participant in the action. Yes?” Axel ran his hands through his thick black-brown hair and knelt in front of Cleo and her partner, Martin, but his pose was anything but reassuring. “Up here on the stage, Ms. Martinelli, you’re meant to be larger than life. You’re showing the audience the core emotions of submission and arousal. If you don’t feel it, we don’t see it. And if we don’t see it, the play is garbled words and lost time.”

  What the fuck was she supposed to say to that? Nothing, apparently, at least not yet, because Axel wasn’t done. “I hired you because of your skills at emoting, at connecting with the material. So show that to me, now.” His voice was a command and a plea.

  “I’m trying.” Her voice came out thin and whiny, and she cleared her throat to try again. “I’m sorry. It’s an off day.” He only called people ‘Ms.’ or ‘Mr.’ when he was seriously pissed—the fake respect was an ironic reminder that he’d lost it entirely.

  “Since we started rehearsing the dominance and submission scenes, every day has been an off day, and that’s unacceptable. We all came here today ready to work. We can’t do it if you don’t join us.” He narrowed his dark eyes and locked onto hers.

  She spoke without thinking. “Well, maybe if you’d written the part to be more natural, I wouldn’t be having such an issue. I didn’t have a problem emoting,” she put emphasis on the word and did air quotes beside her head, “when I took the lead in Sex and Candy in Venice earlier this year.”

  The theater was empty with pockets of actors sprawled across seats or in the back of the stage, but a murmur rose anyway, a wave of voices that skittered around the vast room like mice across glass. Cleo heard a cough from backstage where the stagehands were setting up different props—her friend Laska did that when she was nervous.

  Axel didn’t speak for a moment. “More natural? Please, tell me more.” His voice was silky, dangerous, but Cleo was raging. He’d done nothing but criticize her for weeks now.

  “Yes, that’s right.” She crossed her leg, and for a second, as his eyes followed the curve of her calf, the flash of her thigh, she felt something other than anger inside her, and the spark of arousal both surprised and alarmed her. “Nobody spanks their wife these days for disobeying them. And the way you wrote the character, to decide that she actually likes it? I’m having a hard time getting into her head. And besides, you are not helping. How can a person concentrate when all they hear are snippy bitch-slaps all the time? Mannequin? Plaster? Please. That’s the opposite of inspiring. The problem isn’t me.”

  Then, suddenly sure she’d gone too far, to a place from where there was no redemption, she crossed her arms over her chest in alarm. Nobody contradicted star director Axel Masters like that, not if you valued your job or your reputation. As the hottest off-Broadway playwright and director in the United States, he had his pick of actors and venues. He’d been rude, but she had, just yesterday, called him a ‘twat waffle.’ Under her breath, yes, but there was probably
no mistaking her facial expression.

  Axel’s eyes were still directed right onto hers, and she swore she could see more than anger burning in them. But yeah, he was pretty pissed. “Everyone, we’re going to take fifteen minutes and then we’ll regroup.” He stood and looked down at her. “Ms. Martinelli, we need to have a talk. I expect you in front of my desk in five minutes.”

  He walked off without looking back, and once he was off the stage, Cleo buried her face in her hands. “Shit. I’m so dead.”

  “It was nice working with you.” Martin rolled his eyes. “Cleo, what were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know!” she replied, tapping her foot. “He’s going to fire me. Right? Oh, my God.” She ran one hand through her long, silky black hair and the smell of her shampoo rose up, a brief flash of flowers in the middle of her panic.

  “He might,” Martin agreed, tugging his cellphone from his pocket. “And I’m going to be pissed.” He leaned in and whispered, “You know I can’t stand Chelsea, and if you leave, she’ll be bumped up to lead. I don’t want to have my hand on her hand, let alone her ass.” He gave a fake shudder, but his scowl was genuine. “You’re an actor, Cleo. Just—let yourself into the role. It’s not like I spank my boyfriend either, but it’s a part. Get into it, and then you’ll get out of it later, and it’s all good.”

  “I know that.” Her voice was low, and she picked at the hem of her skirt.

  “I mean, am I hitting too hard? You never said anything. Do we need a thicker pad under your skirt?” He blinked at her. “You need to tell me if it’s not right, Cleo. Yeah?”

  “No, it’s not that. It doesn’t hurt. The pad makes that loud slapping sound when you hit it, and I feel nothing but a little pressure. It’s—I don’t even know.” She shook her head. “He’s just so… smug. So perfect, all the time! Why can’t he be a little more sympathetic?”

  Martin hissed his breath out through his teeth. “I don’t know, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that you have a temper tantrum at him like this, oh, say, twice a week? I mean, I love you, Cleo, but it’s like…” He paused. “Okay, I’ll just come out and say it. You’re so much fun. But sometimes, when you narrow those green eyes of yours, and start in like that? Everyone is all, oh God, because we know he’s going to get in a mood, and rehearsal will take that much longer. I wish you could just… get along with him. That’s all.”

  “You think I’m a diva?” She was so startled that she forgot her anger at Axel.

  Martin looked away from her and bit his lip, then rubbed one hand over the other. “Well, I mean, not a diva exactly. But, Cleo. It’s like, we all suck it up and try to get along, right? He’s kept us late every day this week, and some of us have stuff in the evening. You know?”

  “And you think that’s my fault?” Cleo’s voice rose.

  “Well, isn’t it?” Martin didn’t meet her eyes, and Cleo felt a sick lurch in her stomach.

  “Oh, Martin. I’m sorry. I figured we were just… working extra.” She glanced at the actors lounging in the audience seats in the front row, but nobody met her eyes.

  “Yeah, no, it’s not, like, a huge deal. Just—I don’t know.” He shrugged, shoulders stiff. “I gotta call Mike and let him know I won’t be home on time for dinner. Again.” He got up and walked off stage left, pushing a button on his cellphone.

  Cleo bit her lip, then got up and smoothed her skirt, needing to steady her moist palms. She kept her back straight as she headed off stage right, but she cursed as she passed a half-built wooden backdrop and several cans of paint on a wrinkled dropcloth.

  “Cleo?” Laska materialized out of the gloom. “You okay?”

  She shrugged, looked around to ensure privacy, and then whispered, “Laska, am I that horrible?”

  “Oh, Cleo, you’re not!” Laska hugged her friend with her upper arms, leaving her painty hands free in the air, before letting go. “I hope I didn’t get teal on your pretty top.” She paused and picked up a rag to blot the patches of brilliant blue from her fingers, and brushed at her brown ponytail with the side of her hand to move stray strands out of her eyes. “I mean, your outbursts are kind of surprising, because you’ve never been the crazy Godzilla type actor. You’ve never been this way with anyone else. It’s, I guess, unusual for you.”

  “I’m not that kind of person!” Cleo was horrified. “I’ve never wanted to be a spoiled brat. I just can’t stand Axel’s attitude, and someone needs to call him on his general prickiness. Don’t they?” She trailed off.

  Laska bobbed her head. “You better go talk to him and apologize. I don’t want you to get fired, either.”

  “He won’t really fire me. Right?” But she wasn’t sure. Chicago was a huge city, and if he couldn’t find the perfect actress here, there was the rest of the world on her heels, fangs ready to rip at her skin. And her understudy, Chelsea, would be first in line, snarling through her pink frosted phony lips, lips that Chelsea clearly wanted wrapped around Axel’s dick, from the soulful looks she gave him and his crotch at least once a rehearsal. Not that Cleo cared about Axel’s anatomy and whose mouth engulfed it. It was just—who even wore frosted lipstick?

  “The eighties called. They want their lip gloss back,” she muttered. Laska shot her a curious look, and Cleo gave a small laugh. “Nothing. Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg,” said Laska, giving her a thumbs-up.

  Cleo returned a wan smile. “He might break both of them.”

  The passage to his office was through a winding maze of crates and dusty equipment, and on the way, she felt her heart start to hammer, then buzz, a hummingbird of nervous energy. By the time she got to his half-opened, battered door that said ‘Direct’—the remaining letters having disappeared long ago—she was jittery with nerves.

  She raised her hand to knock, and his voice rang out. “Come.”

  His long legs were up on the desk, and he leaned back in his swivel chair, arms across his chest. “Cleo. Six minutes. Even simple directions elude you.”

  She bit back a reply, although she couldn’t keep her eyes from narrowing at him, and breathed out a long breath to catch herself before she said something else she’d regret.

  His dark eyes burned into her. With his arms up like that, she could see the muscles of his body outlined through the shirt. Damn, he had a nice physique. He’d been an Olympic downhill skier, and he’d stayed in shape. Her eyes glanced over his thighs, powerful in his jeans, and his broad shoulders. He seemed tall for a skier, but she’d watched old videos of him that someone on the lighting crew had played at the cast party at Mike’s house, and—fuck. He was pure animal speed, grace, and power combined, and she’d felt a tingling desire deep in her body, an ache, a need that surprised her with its ferocious and sudden onset.

  But when she’d glanced around the room and noticed the same rapt expression the face of every other woman, she’d felt sour, small. Her feelings were far from unique, and he had the entire world at his disposal, ready to be chosen. And that, somehow, irritated her even more than his attitude while directing.

  “Close the door and sit, please.” He pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

  She wanted to argue on principle, but she sank into the bucket seat, flushing at the way she had to look up at him, over the desk. He probably liked that, the bastard.

  He pulled his legs from the table and leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, piercing her with his gaze. “Cleo. It’s time we had a talk.”

  She swallowed. “Okay. What did you want to talk about? If you’re starved for topics, may I suggest the new exhibit at the Art Institute? I hear that the new Van Gogh display is dynamite. It’s called ‘Bedrooms.’ All about his bedroom paintings. There are only three, but they fill the room with their presence.”

  He didn’t speak, and Cleo flushed hot. For some reason, a vision of Axel in her bedroom flickered in her mind. He was shirtless, and his abs rippled as he reached out his arms to pull her to his chest. His lips were hot o
n her neck and she could feel his—

  She shook her head. “Just sayin’.”

  A smile tugged at his lips, then his displeased look returned. “How old are you?”

  She frowned. “What? I mean, I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”

  He returned her stare. “I’m thirty-five.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a folder. “Your resume. Your acting credentials.” He let the papers spill out over the desk, and one of them glided almost to the edge, arresting itself just in time to avoid cliff diving. She stared, entranced, at his long fingers, as he tapped on the top of the papers.

  “Cleo, you have impressive experience for someone of your age. And you were outstanding in your last role. Why are you unable to do this part for me, here, today?” His eyes were direct.

  She dropped her gaze as he continued. “Your attitude is not what I expected. I heard from my peers that you were eager and helpful, energetic and a good team player. Inspiring to others. Imagine my disappointment to find out that instead of what I was promised—” he raised an eyebrow, “—I have to babysit a whiny, petulant child.”

  Ready with an angry retort, she looked up at him, but his expression deflated her. He wasn’t angry; he looked curious and disappointed. She cleared her throat. “I just need a little more time to get into the character’s head and mindset. I mean, domestic discipline is pretty out there, Axel. It’s not your everyday routine for normal people.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, the truth making her nervous. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m, whatever, argumentative. And I shouldn’t have called you those names the other day. And, ah, the day before that. And also the day—well, getting back to the point.” Her voice was more combative now. “I just think the part is… not based on real human nature. That’s all. Normal women don’t like that. So it’s a challenge. Which I will master, obviously, given—I just need more time. That’s all.”