Pretense

Pretense (n): an attempt to make something that is not the case appear true.

It must be a pretense. There is no way I can ever reveal my true inclinations.

There's just something about him -- everything about him turns me on. The curve of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, those puppy-dog eyes you can get lost in for days.

I would have sworn, once, I caught him staring, lusting after me... could have sworn I heard a desperate, breathless confession falling from his lips that he tried so desperately to hide.

Of course, I was imagining things.

The show is finally over -- the set is struck, and I am just waiting for the TD to finish up -- he's also my best friend, so that helps. He's heard ALL about my crush on the leading man, lectured me, listened to me lecture myself; I'm a lost cause.

"I'm gonna run up to the cats and finish a few things up, then we can ree-lax for the rest of the afternoon." By 'ree-lax', we mean the post-show ritual of getting completely fucked up and gossiping about the past two and half months of Dram-ma.

"Yus! I HAVE to show you this Disney show. We can watch it from the beginning, but there's this ONE song in Season 2, you'll love it." We're two peas in a pod, I already know he's gonna love it without him even telling me.

"Awesome!" He, astonishingly enough, has come around to this fact.

Anxious to leave, feeling his presence lingering in the space, I ask, "Is there anything I can do down here to speed up the process?"

"Oh, not really, maybe just shut off the lights downstairs..." Did I just see a mischievous wink?

"Is it all clear?" The distrust in my voice is apparent in the annunciation.

"I dunno, why don't you go check?" That 'innocent' tone is officially starting to put me on edge...

So, dutifully, I go downstairs and check out the lighting situation - they're on in the Costume Hall. Fucking... Crossing the Greenroom, I swear I hear a noise down the hall, further. Without checking, I agree I am imagining it, and go to shut off the light.

...only to find out, the fucking storage room light got left on, for some reason. Shit... Probably thought there would be more coming down, or something. So, I flip the hall light back on and venture into the-

"Hello?" Could have SWORN I heard someone laughing, that time.

Cautiously, I creep down the hall. Theatres are known to have ghosts -- that's just a THING; nut up, Emily. About the time I get to the light switch at the very end of the hallway, I notice the chain-link 'door' that separates the storage from the rest of the hallway. It looks like... ropes are hanging down off of the top pipe.

Well, fuck me. My hand switches off the light.

"Hello, back."

I jump -- jump AND scream; he laughs, walking out from the short stairwell that led... well, I still don't know, actually.

"Fucking Christ, Dude, I have PTSD, you can't fucking do that kind of shit to me." I struggle to gain control over my body, again.

"I'm sorry," he sounds -- and looks -- genuinely sorry, for an actor, before switching into an offhanded, "I just wanted to get you back." Threat Level: Elevated. His legs look powerful -- a summer of tap-dancing up and down the stairs probably didn't hurt.

"Really? What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing -- that's just it." The tone in his voice turns to match the sinking feeling I have in my gut. "You ignored me." Genuine... something I can't quite place. Annoyance? Anger?

"Just being polite," returning his nonchalant tone.

"Oh? It's polite to ignore one of your co-workers while you go about being pleasant to literally everyone else?" So, it wasn't just my imagination -- he really was checking me out, right back.

"If engaging with them would be more impolite than ignoring them, yes." If wanting to fuck them is impolite, yes. If continuing to talk to them when you know they have a girlfriend and they might want to fuck your brains out is impolite-

"Huh... and what would be... impolite... about engaging with me?" As if he can read my mind, he smirks. Out of either admiration or annoyance at his confidence, I shake my head, breaking eye contact, giving the best poker face I can muster, scoffing.

"Jeez, you ask a lot of questions."

"We've never gotten to talk, before. You always bolted the second I came around."

"Yeah, well..." I eye my freedom, of which he just so happens to notice and starts to cross in front, impeding my access, arms crossed.

"Well, what?" The fire behind his eyes is burning hotter than I can remember ever seeing.

"Well, Blake's upstairs finishing up, I'm just trying to get the lights off, here, so..." Is that a pair of scissors in his back pocket?

His frame whips around to face me and my eyes widen, pulse jumping in my throat. "So, what, you don't have a second to talk?" His body inching closer to mine, hands going to his hips.

"Not here." I approach the corner to go back down the hallway, he holds his hand up and stops me, using my aversion to touching him as a barrier, feet matching mine in a perfect dance.

"Why? What's wrong with here?" There it is, again... that smug look in his eyes, that smile of victory. The desire to bolt was quickly rising.

"I think any conversation we have would be better suited for the strike party... where your girlfriend happens to be, this very moment." He takes a step towards me, I retreat; he smiles in response to my skittishness.

"I thought you said you weren't going to the strike party." Damn it, he's got me, there. Without my fully realizing, he just keeps coming, like a tiger stalking its prey. "Guess we have to talk now." Next thing I know, the clang of the chain-link door hitting my back fills my ears, and he blocks my movement to freedom with his arms on both sides of my body.

"There is nothing I have to say which would necessitate my being wedged between you and a door." As soon as my hand touches his chest to push him away, one wrist is tied in one corner of the doorway -- metal wedged into cement -- the other held in a steel vice-like grip the second I go to free myself. "Are you fucking crazy?"

"Tell me you don't want me," desperation in his eyes, "right now."

"I-" all the words caught in my throat, completely overwhelmed by the reality of my fantasies coming true.

"That's right -- because you'd have to compose yourself first, right?" Still holding my free wrist, he continued, "So, tell me, is she the only reason you're resisting this?"

"I -- I dunno! You -- you can't be SERIOUS-" His free hand grips my chin as my other hand is pinned to the door almost too easily, eyes boring into my soul.

"Tell me why you're fighting this." He already knows, why not come clean?

"FINE! I admit it!! I can't have you, you're hers," a look of relief washes over his features, "this isn't alright, I'm not that person, anymore."

"So, it is just her. If I were single, you'd be all over me, right now, right?" Even after the admission, it's too much to keep affirming the truth.

"Probably, I don't-" suddenly, I am completely strung up, hands too far away to loosen the other's knot. The more I pulled, the tighter they became.

"So, this way, I'm the bad guy, right?" His fingertips trace the edge of my t-shirt sleeve on top of my shoulder, taking the pair of scissors from his back pocket. Without thinking, I go to kick him. He easily catches my leg, the pain on my pulled wrists too extreme to consider trying to raise up to kick him again, the rope too short to grab on to, the bar too close to the cement doorway.

"Fuck, please don't."

"Don't worry, I'm sure we can find you SOMETHING to wear home... unless you decide to be naughty, then I'll let Blake find you like this, first."

"I wish you would, you son of a bitch." A look of pain flashes across his features, before a cold, cruel smile replaces any trace of humanity.

"Good -- it's settled, then!" with a couple of cuts, my shirt is gone, ripped open down the middle for dramatic effect. A few more snips, and my nipples touch the cooler air of the basement, hardening almost immediately. I am not the kind of girl who shaves, but he doesn't even seem to notice, so enraptured at the sight of my breasts. "I mean, Karen's are big, but her nipples are so small. These breasts -- these are perfect." He's mocking me?

"You're fucking sick, you know that?" The smile is wiped from his face -- Good.

"No, admiring your body isn't sick," he grabs a handful of my hair and holds it in the scissors. "Telling you to keep your comments to yourself if you don't want a fucking makeover...?"

If my hair didn't hold a cultural family significance, I might let him, knowing he'll use them. Instead, he starts tracing the metal over my skin. He opens the scissors around my nipple, holding it there until fear starts to flood through my body at the sound of it slowly closing.

"There we go -- that's a good girl. Now, I could be mean... I could hit you, or choke you, but I'm not going to do that." The scissors are put in the back pocket, again, and replaced by a warm pair of fingers. "Instead, we're going to play a little game, like an... acting exercise. Do you understand?"

Fuck, he is actually good at this. Maybe I can give in -- I mean, he did erase all culpability... but he wants to punish and humiliate me...

The nipple is pinched painfully between his fingernails.

"I asked a question, 'Miss Martyr'; do you understand that you're going to have to participate, now?"

"Sure."

A much darker sound, but he laughs. "Alright, fair enough." Maybe if we stall long enough, Blake will, I dunno, catch him in the act, or something... "I'm going to do whatever I want to you, and you're going to give me a 'hot'/ 'cold'; ready?"

"Okay."

"Good... now, your breast, is this warmer or colder?"

Fighting back a gasp of pleasure, I responded, "...colder."

His eyes narrowed considerably, and he twisted -- hard.

"Ah!!!! COLD!! COLD!!"

"See, that's better. At least this time you told the truth."

"What the fuck does the truth have to do with-" I saw the scissors from the corner of my eye. "Okay! I'm sorry, I just- this is hard. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Emily, look at yourself... completely helpless, worried about hurting people. Just let me worry about me, and you worry about playing this game." My pants were yanked by the waistband, a pantleg being sliced all the way down.

"What the fuck?"

"I warned you. Blake's gonna find you like this -- if I were you, I'd stop now."

"Fine. Let's just get this over with."

And like that, I found myself in nothing more than my panties.

"Of course, Darling." His hand found its way to the front of my panties, lightly massaging the lips of my pussy, fingering the spot where the dampness was forming. "Warmer or colder? Breathe..."

"Warm." It was all I could get out, and the biggest grin formed on his face.

"There, that wasn't so hard, now, was it? Just give in, for me." His fingers pushed my panties to the side, plunging the tip of his middle finger in, flicking it around, making me ache for his cock. "Fuck, you're so wet and hot... warmer?"

"Mm-hmm," biting my lip, closing my-

His free hand is on my chin. "Keep your eyes open, I want every last bit of this." Almost as soon as I comply, his mouth is on mine, and my eyes close, again, out of reflex. My mouth opens as he slides his fingers inside of me, curling them upwards. "Warmer?" he murmurs against my neck.

"Tony..." his hand is deeper, harder.

"Say it again."

"Tony, fuck, I love that your fucking fingers are inside me, right now."

"Fuck, Emily..." The panties are cut away from my body and he is inside me. I don't even think about birth control -- I'm IUD'd. All I think about is how his cock is buried inside me, his arm is holding me up, his mouth on mine, muffling the gasps and groans, the wet slapping of our bodies no doubt echoing down the hallway.

"I don't think I've ever wanted to fuck someone this much in my life..." he murmurs against my ear, before nibbling, scoffing at my attempts to keep quiet, switching between looking me in the eyes as I am pounded again and again and watching my tits jiggle.

"How the fuck did you know I needed you to tie me up?"

"I just... had to have you... fuck."

Then... just like that, he collapses on top of me, filling me with cum, sweating against my cheek, catching his breath.

Lightly, without much conviction, he slaps me on the cheek and recites, "That's what you get for... for... being a fucking bitch."

...and, of course, albeit robotically, he leaves me right there.