23 - Bound for the Stage #4
Benny nodded, reclined in his seat, then pitched forward again. “Isn’t it funny how different our jobs are? Like, not just actors compared to normal people. Even me and you. How different acting jobs can be.”
“It really is,” Paloma said, dropping her bag on the seat next to him. “I couldn’t do screen work. I’m too self-conscious of how I look on camera. Plus, not going in sequence and having to switch between scenes like that. I don’t know how you do it.”
“And here I am thinking that you stage actors are all nuts. Performing live, being out there in front of all those people with so little between you and a disaster.”
Paloma laughed. Not just because of what he’d said but because it reminded her of a story her mother had told her about moving from the Midwest to the East Coast and being scared of hurricanes.
All her new neighbors couldn’t believe someone who had lived through tornadoes could find hurricanes scary at all.
To them, hurricanes were a season, so they hunkered down and kept on going.
But talk to them about tornadoes, and they acted like it was the finger of god touching the earth.
“We’re both crazy,” she said after a moment. “That’s the long and short of it. We’re both crazy people who picked a crazy career.”
“Can you do me a favor?” Benny asked.
“Probably.”
“What we did yesterday? Can we do it again?”
Paloma scanned the darkened theater. “Now?”
“Yes, but also on opening night.”
Paloma beckoned, and Benny got to his feet, trotting behind her. She could feel the pulse of his excitement, feel the air of his gait as he walked with purpose and vigor.
“Get naked,” she told him once they were tucked away in the wings. She dug into a rack of costumes and pulled out several belts. “Naked and on the floor.”
Benny did as he was told, the lower half of his body as beautifully built as his chest. He was already completely hard. Paloma wondered if he had been walking around like that since yesterday.
She bound his wrists in front of him then wrapped the other belt around his neck. When she pulled it tight, she heard Benny sigh.
“You like this feeling, don’t you?”
“I never thought I would, but I do.”
Paloma caressed his at-attention cock, stroking the shaft slowly then fast, then stopping entirely. Benny whimpered but didn’t dare say anything.
“What if I make you come this time?” she asked. “Will you still be happy, Benny?”
“You can do what you want to me.”
“Very good.”
Her mouth dropped to his chest, her tongue snaking out along the muscles in his pecs then his abs and the sculpted corners of his hips. When she sucked him down her throat, he lifted his hips and, like the day before, she shoved them into place. He exhaled happily through his nose.
“Now, remember, I’m the one with the control here,” Paloma told him, but instead of mounting him immediately, she had something else in mind first. She moved to straddle his face, positioning her knees on either side of his head.
“Stay perfectly still,” she commanded, lowering herself slowly until she could feel his breath against her. “You’re going to be my chair now.”
She settled her weight onto his face, feeling the contours of his features against her most intimate places.
His nose pressed against her clit as she rocked forward slightly, then back, letting him breathe.
The sensation was intoxicating—having him completely beneath her, supporting her weight, his mouth and tongue available for her pleasure whenever she chose.
“Maybe I’ll use you like this every day,” she murmured, grinding down gently. He nodded as much as he could manage, his eyes bright with submission and arousal.
Only when she’d taken her pleasure from his eager mouth did she finally move to straddle his hips, ready to take him inside her.
“You’re my toy,” she told him as she positioned herself over his straining cock. “Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She mounted him. He filled her as perfectly as he had at her apartment, stretching her from the inside out, nearly too big to fit neatly in. Paloma lifted and dropped her weight, her hand pressing into his chest and keeping him pinned to the floor.
“You want me to fuck you on opening night? Tie you up and treat you like a sex slave right before you have to go on stage?”
“Please.” His voice begged as hard as his eyes. “I need it.”
Paloma smiled, arched her back as she pulsed her hips. “I’ll consider it.”
Benny’s bound hands rested on his naval, and Paloma held them with one fist like the bridle of a horse as she humped while the other fist kept a hold on the belt around his neck.
This time, she knew what she was doing: she was riding.
The swimming, flying, floating feeling had faded.
Now she was on a sweaty beast, and their bodies were moving together toward the same destination.
A swirling churn spiraled up from the depths of her; it climbed her spine in fluid steps. She felt a tightening in Benny’s body under her.
“You better hold on one more fucking minute,” she commanded. Her climax crept in liquid and electricity from her hips to her brain. “You better not come just yet.”
She thrust her hips forward hard and felt the buildup release, flooding her body with chemicals it happily devoured. Another hump, another motion, and Benny lifted his pelvis off the floor with a throaty moan.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, dropping back down. “Who knew this was going to be my introduction to live theater?”
Paloma hunched on the floor next to him, watching his waxed chest rise and fall.
She liked that he was still bound, that his massive cock was splattered with fluids and shrinking into itself.
He looked so helpless, almost innocent. His face had a thin sheen of sweat across it, and she could see where she had made a mess in the curls of his pubic hair.
“You probably shouldn’t come on opening night,” she told him. “Now that I think about it, neither should I.”
“I know. I’ll fall asleep on stage.”
“Yeah, then I’ll have to yell at you.”
Benny smirked. “Oh, well, now you’re making me hard again.”
Paloma laughed and undid the belts. Neither of them moved to get dressed, or cleaned up, or anything like that. Instead, they both stayed in the quiet abyss of the wings, listening to each other breathe and glowing in the darkness.
Over the next three weeks, their arrangement became routine.
Benny would arrive at the theater early, sometimes an hour before call, and find Paloma waiting in the wings with whatever props she’d decided to use that day, ropes, belts, sometimes just her voice and hands.
Their sessions were brief but intense, just enough to remind him what surrender felt like before he had to step into the lights.
The transformation was remarkable. In rehearsals, when Marcus changed blocking at the last minute, Benny would simply adjust. When props went missing or lines were dropped, he’d flow with it instead of fighting it.
The other actors noticed—whispered comments about how much more present he seemed, how his energy had shifted from rigid control to fluid responsiveness.
Paloma watched him evolve with a mixture of professional pride and personal satisfaction.
She’d given him the tools, but he was doing the work.
And if their eyes lingered on each other during particularly intense scenes, if there was an undercurrent of shared knowledge in their stage chemistry it only made the performances better.
Opening night arrived with the usual pre-show chaos—last-minute costume adjustments, final line rehearsals, the electric buzz of an audience filing into their seats. Paloma watched from the wings as Benny stood center stage during final checks, and marveled at the transformation.
Three weeks ago, he would have been pacing, checking props, questioning every lighting cue. Tonight, he stood perfectly still, breathing deeply, his hands relaxed at his sides.
“Five minutes to places,” the stage manager called.
Benny caught her eye from across the stage and smiled—not the cocky, controlling grin she’d first met, but something softer. Grateful.
The play unfolded flawlessly. When the prop table was slightly off its mark, Benny simply adjusted without missing a beat.
When another actor dropped a line, he smoothly improvised, keeping the scene alive.
Paloma watched from the wings, mesmerized.
This was what surrender looked like in practice—not giving up, but flowing with whatever came.
During intermission, he found her backstage.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, his hand briefly touching hers. “For teaching me how to let go.”
She smiled, remembering how he’d looked tied up on her floor, finally peaceful. “You already knew how. You just needed permission.”
The second act was even better. Benny had found something she’d never seen in his screen work—genuine spontaneity. The audience was captivated, leaning forward during his monologues, laughing at moments that had fallen flat in rehearsal.
When the curtain fell to thunderous applause, Paloma understood what she’d really given him. Not just better stage presence, but freedom from the exhausting need to control everything. He’d learned that some of life’s best moments came from surrender.
And maybe, she thought as their eyes met during curtain call, she’d learned something about the power of control herself.