Rehearse Your Lines: "Use Me If You Must"
It was a Victorian drama, and Stacy just couldn't get her lines right.
She thought she'd had it. After two rehearsals and two very embarrassing slip ups, she'd practiced two nights straight and still couldn't get it right. There was just something about the phrasing her brain refused to get.
Stacy felt her cheeks flush as she walked offstage, her hands in angry fists.
It was a political drama too, with lots of intense scenes. Yelling and grabbing and shaking. It was supposed to be powerful. Which meant every time she forgot her lines, the tension they'd been building in the scene just...evaporated.
She knew the rest of the crew were talking about her. And it was only a matter of time before they'd sack her for being a train wreck.
Stacy had heard the gossip. That she'd only been chosen because of her big tits and thick legs. She looked damn good in a dress.
And yes, her tits looked fantastic.
But that wasn't the point. She wanted to be a great actor. Not some floozy.
So, she stayed after the rest of the crew had gone home and sneaked into the big dressing room. She took her time picking out a dress, stripped to her black panties and bra, and climbed into it. It was rather snug around the chest, but short on the length. Her legs looked good, and her tits looked great.
She couldn't suck in a full breath, but that didn't matter.
With her lines written on a paper, she stood in front of one of the makeup mirrors and began to rehearse her lines.
"You will not control me. You will not take my life from me." She set her jaw, making herself posture.
"Use me if you must."
She said it again.
And again.
Until her head hurt.
Until those words were seared into her brain.
Stacy didn't know how much time passed. Or how many times she said the words before she moved onto her other lines.
It didn't matter.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she panicked. She'd had a date tonight. Date number two with a nice guy from the coffee shop she liked.
Too bad,
her mind said.
This is more important.
She liked to look at herself in the mirror, dressed like this. The long curls of her hair fell down to her shoulders. Her cute, button nose and big, brown eyes. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips full.
She was made to play this part.
The part of a lady, put under hard times, made to do things to survive.
Her character was strong, just like her.
"Use me if you must."
Stacy made those words Her's.
Then, as if on cue, the door opened. She stared at the doorway through the reflection. A tall figure stood there, watching her.
"Stacy?" it said, its voice deep and gravelly. "Is that you?"
Luckily for her, she recognized it. It was Jon's. Her lover in the play.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, stepping into the room.
"I could ask you the same thing," she shot back.
He was wearing a pair of expensive black slacks that hung loose off his lean frame. On top, he wore a deep blue polo shirt. His hair was curly and his eyes dark and brooding.
It was annoying how good looking he was because he was also a dick. He'd not been nice to her for messing her lines up.
"I came back to get my phone," he said, checking his watch. "It's almost midnight."
"I know."
"I heard you talking..."
"I'm practicing my lines," she said sheepishly.
"Ah, good." He paused, coming further into the room. "Can I help?"
Stacy dropped onto the stool. "I-well-"
He closed the door and came over to her. "I'd like to help you, Stacy."
She stared into those dark eyes. "Yes."
He stood behind her, his hands landing lightly on her shoulders. "I'll start." He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
"I have made you mine. Is that not enough?"
"You will not control me. You will not take my life."
He raised his chin. "No. I will not. But you belong to me. Don't you?"
