Two Ovations, One Night

I am laying on a bed made of only wood and blankets. He is leaning over me, his hands wrapped around my long throat. I struggle, protest. There is no yielding in his hands. They are pressed against my airway and I struggle for air.

I am in a professional touring company of Othello, by Shakespeare, playing Desdemona to my costar's Othello. I have spoken to the director about this scene numerous times. My co-star's acting is derived from method acting, which frightens me. His hands around my throat, in a moment of method acting, could prove disastrous for me. The director only assured me that he had talked to Darrin, and all precautions were made. After all, he mused, it is pretend.

However, as we played out the scene this night in Santa Barbara, California, my fears came true. In my final scene, Othello comes to kill the wife he assumes to have been unfaithful. We circle around the bed.

"Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!" I scream and plead with him.

He stares at me, daggers in his eyes. "Nay, if you strive-"

"But half an hour!" I cry, panic truly overtaking me, seeing such hatred in his eyes that acting could not produce so easily.

He grabs me and throws me on the bed. "Being done, there is no pause."

"But while I say one prayer!" His hands are around my throat. His body straddling mine.

His hands close around my throat. He sadly laments, "It is too late."

I hear the rest of the scene unfolding as I struggle, grabbing at his wrists, scratching him—not in the blocking. Truly struggling, truly gasping from breath:

EMILIA. [Within.] "My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord!"

OTHELLO. "What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?" My hands weaken and still, but are still grasping tightly. I feel his weight against my hips. He is—no—yes, he is grinding his hips against mine.

OTHELLO: " I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so."

I can feel his hardness rub against my mound as he restricts my air passage. My arms fall from his, and I feign dead, not only for the script, but for my own salvation.

EMILIA. [Within.] "What, ho! my lord, my lord!"

OTHELLO. "Who's there?" he bellows as his hands loosen but a bit on my throat.

EMILIA. "O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you!"

OTHELLO. : "Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead." He releases his hands from my throat, and I gasp for air. Luckily his body hides this from the audience. He is pressing his bulge harder in me now. Humiliated, and frightened, I know that I am wet underneath my skirt.

'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death.

The noise was here. Ha! no more moving?

Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good?

I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do?

If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife.

My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife.

O, insupportable! O heavy hour!"

He lays upon me now, sobbing uncontrollably, but his hips moving against my limp body. I cannot fucking believe this.

The scene plays out, and the play ends to uproarious applause. We take our curtain call, and as Darrin and I bow, he turns my head to his for a kiss. I could have smacked him right there, had there not been an audience. I step up to curtsey, and he runs his hand along my ass. There is going to be hell to pay.

We take our final bow, the curtain closes, and he states with obvious joy:

"That was fucking amazing! Best final scene we ever did, Emma. Kudos!"

He heads off to his dressing room as I am stunned into silence. My hands come to my neck. I sit on the bed as the others go out to greet their fans. I cannot tonight.

I begin to cry and know that I must not continue with this tour. My agent must get me out of my contract.

I must have sat there in the peace of the empty, dimly lit stage for an hour or more. The stage manager walked by, eyed me strangely. "Great show Emma."

"T-thanks," I stutter.

The next thing I know, Darrin is on the stage with me, his ebony chest bared, his jeans unbuttoned, but zipped.

"Still thinking about it, no?" He smiled.

I lost it. I went at him with such ferocity, I couldn't even believe it. Nails scratching, fists flailing, I screamed: "You fucking bastard! You could have fucking killed me! And you were getting off on it! You filthy, rotten sack of shit!"

He had my wrists in his hands now, warding me off. The venom was in his eyes again. "Shut up, Emma! You are hysterical, you bitch!" He pushed me down on the bed, probably just trying to get me to calm down.

He held my hands above my head. I stared at him, quietly now, but with fear deep in my eyes. His position now much like the one we were in on stage, though his hands were strangling my wrists rather than my throat. "Please," I cried, "don't."

"Don't what? Give you what you've wanted for the past eight months? I see the way you look at me, you cock-tease. Don't say you don't want it." He grabbed both my wrists in his one hand and ripped the skirt of my costume until his hand was at my mound above my panties. I whimpered as I looked into a stage light, blinding me. He wrenched my legs apart just enough to touch the cloth covering my pussy.

"Ah, you say you don't want it, but it's right here, Emma" he says, stroking my pussy. "You are wet for me. Your fear is not of me, but your own desire, isn't it?"

I shook my head furiously, tears overflowing my eyes. My sobs were almost choking me.

He slipped my panties to the side and pushed a finger into my wet passage. "Isn't it?!" he yelled.

My legs parted at the sudden thrust of his fingers. "Y-yes," I sobbed.

He lay on top of me, restricting my movement. His finger slowly working in and out of my tight pussy as his other hand stroked my face. The contrast of our skins must have been quite a sight, I remember thinking. "Such a sweet little slut. Turn the men on, and close your legs. But no more, right, my sweet cock-tease?"

"R-right" I gasped, as his finger brushed against the tender skin of my g-spot. I was so ashamed. He was treating me like this, and I was all but begging for it.

He undid the bodice of my dress and opened it. The dress did not allow me to wear a bra underneath, as it pushed my breasts up and together for the much desired effect of cleavage. As my breasts were smaller, they had had to duct tape them together.

He ran his fingers over the tape. "This will hurt, my little slut, but I'm sure you can handle it." He suddenly ripped the tape from my breasts and I screamed from the pain. He quickly covered my mouth. "Now, we wouldn't want anyone to get the idea you don't enjoy this…only screams of pleasure, hon."

The pain was still shooting through my breasts, screaming now in my mind. He had two fingers in my pussy now, and the pain began to subside, as arousal mixed with my fear and anger.

He straddled me now, like Othello, grabbing my neck, but not strangling me. He once again ground his harness into my pussy. "Yeah, that's it, my little wanton bitch, make my jeans wet with your want." The roughness of his jeans against my pussy hurt a bit, but intensified the heat inside me.

He grabbed at my breasts, kneading wildly. I lay, pinned beneath his weight, his hands mauling me, when I realized that Karl, the stage manager was watching from the wings. I could tell he didn't know whether to run for help, or stay and watch. He looked at me for an answer. I hesitated too long. My cry for help would no longer be convincing, and I was beginning to wonder if I wanted help. I cried in my confusion.

Darrin's head bent to bite a nipple, hard. I cried out, half in pain, half in pleasure. My eyes cleared and I could see Karl rubbing at his crotch.

"If I get up, you will stay where you are, you understand, my sweet little whore?"

I nodded slightly.

He got up and shed his jeans and boxer briefs. His ebony cock looked massive. I became scared again. "Darrin, please, I don't know…"

"You do know," he hissed. "You know you want me." He straddled me again, stroking his cock. I looked, and Karl was doing the same.

Darrin straddled my chest and ran the wet head of his cock against my aching nipples. I gasped. "Tell me you want it, my little slut. Tell my why you gasp for it."

I said nothing. He rubbed his cock against my nipples some more, spreading his precum against my nipples and breasts. My head thrown back, I arched upwards for firmer contact. "Tell me what you want, my little Emma-slut."

"I w-want…I want you to m-make me come."

"Tell me how!" he demanded hotly.

"I w-want you to make me cum with you inside me."

"No, dear little slut. I need more than that from you. Show me what a slut you are." His fingers grazed my clit, and he pressed his cockhead against a nipple."

"I want your cock in me," she whispered. She saw Karl, stroking his cock in the wings. She felt dirty and wanton and confused.

"Louder, my little cock-tease."

"I want your cock in me!" I yelled it, shocking poor Karl, who came at the sound of my brazen voice.

Darrin looked over his shoulder and saw Karl. "Ah, my wanton bitch likes an audience." He stepped over to Karl and whispered something to him. Karl nodded and left. I was writhing on the table, my fingers plunging in and out of my pussy.

"Look at you, you cock-hound. Frigging yourself to cumming. Let's see you cum, Emma. Cum for your Othello."

I had never been able to cum from masturbation before, but I was trying. I was rubbing my clit hard and fast. I was plunging three fingers into my dripping pussy. But no orgasm for me.

"Ah, the bitch has to have cock to cum, eh?" Darrin asked, almost maniacally.

"Yes," I panted. "Fuck me, Darrin. Fuck me now. PLEASE"

"As you wish," he replied. "Curtain up!" he screamed. Astonished, I watched as the curtain rise, and most of the cast and crew were seated in the house. I sobbed.

"If it is an audience you want, an audience you will get. Tell them what a hot bitch you are. Tell them what you want."

I looked at the audience, and my clit throbbed with want. "I want my Othello to fuck me while you watch," I projected.

He carried me to the edge of the stage, and lay me down on the hard wood floor. He lifted my legs obscenely over his shoulders and thrust into me swiftly. He stopped, stunned by what he had discovered.

"You were a virgin?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

My eyes squinted with pain. "Yes," I cried.

He looked at our audience and leaned down to whisper in my ear. "I am so sorry Emma…so sorry."

Now I was confused as hell, but ever the actor, he let the performance go on. "Watch my little cock slut here as I fuck her for the first time, ladies and gentleman. Othello is fucking his virgin slut, Desdemona."

With that he began to fuck me hard and fast. I arched up to meet his hips, his balls slapping at my skin.

"Fuck me, Othello! Fuck your Desdemona!" I couldn't believe the words coming out of my mouth. I stiffened, and everything inside me seemed to swirl into explosion. My orgasm took over my body violently, but my voice was silent. Only a series of gasps and expulsions of air. Tears ran down my face as he thrust into me one more time. I felt him tighten and cum in my pussy.

For the second time that night, we got a standing ovation.

I didn't know what to think of that right away, but as Darrin and I delved into our new relationship, I realized that it had to be taken from me to give it up, but I had wanted to. Since then, Darrin and I have replayed the scene a couple of times, and we often have sex in public. But his profanity and condescension are only acting.

Oh, and I broke him of that awful method acting…for the most part.