Stage Fright

Most nights, I was just a silhouette above the lights. I liked it that way -- invisible. In control. Rigging cables, checking dimmers, adjusting angles while everyone else played their little drama games below. The theatre wasn't mine, but the shadows were. And I was good at staying inside them.

Until tonight.

I was coiling a cord backstage when I heard her voice. That high, breezy, singsong tone -- the one that never matched the scene she was in.

-- Little tech boy still on duty?

Lana. Of course.

She appeared between the curtains like she'd been summoned by tension alone. No spotlight, no script -- just her. Hair twisted messily like she'd done it mid-monologue. Cropped turtleneck clinging to her small chest. A sheer wrap skirt tied loosely around her hips, slipping open enough to flash one long, pale thigh. She wore platform sandals, absurdly tall, giving her an almost marionette posture -- toes pointing, ankles angled, like she was balancing on her own performance.

-- Forgot my purse. Or maybe I forgot to thank you for last week's perfect blackout cue. Still deciding.

She was already walking toward me.

I straightened up, cord still in hand, heart already picking up speed.

-- You shouldn't be back here alone, I said. Stage crew's off-hours. They lock up in thirty.

She smiled like I'd said something cute.

-- Then you'll protect me, won't you?

She stopped a meter away, head tilting.

-- Do you act, tech boy?

-- No.

-- Ever want to?

-- No.

She pouted. Not like a flirt. More like a child denied a toy.

-- Shame. You've got a good face for tragedy. All angles and shadows. Plus, you're skinny enough to read as tragic even without a monologue.

I clenched my jaw. She saw it. Her eyes lit up.

-- Oooh. Did I poke something?

I turned away, pretending to fiddle with the cable reel.

She stepped closer. Her voice dropped.

-- I have this scene. In a one-act I'm directing next semester. Gritty. Minimalist. The male lead is humiliated in silence by a woman who never touches him. All power, no hands. Want to help me block it?

I exhaled hard through my nose.

-- Lana, I'm not an actor. I'm here to fix the--

She pressed a single finger to my lips.

-- Just stand. Here.

She guided me, light as air, onto the stage. The house was empty. No seats occupied. No crew. Just the echo of our shoes and the dust of the curtains.

-- You're in his place now. The ashamed one. Alone. Lights up.

She clicked the floor switch. A white cone of light beamed down onto me. Harsh. Overexposed.

She circled.

-- You've got his posture already. See that? Hunched. Defensive. Like your dick shrank the second I touched your mouth.

My throat tightened. She was circling again, like a cat. Or maybe a stage manager before opening night -- eyes sharp, cruel only because the clock was ticking.

-- Take off the jacket, she said. Not a question.

-- Lana, come on--

-- We're rehearsing. Don't be disrespectful to the text.

There was no text. I knew that. But something in her voice -- that casual command -- made my hands move. I slipped the jacket off.

-- Now the shirt.

I hesitated. She narrowed her eyes, then suddenly shrieked -- high and nasal, a caricature of stage melodrama:

-- OH, YOU POOR THING! ARE YOU SHY?

The words echoed against the rafters.

I flinched.

-- Lana. Stop.

She dropped back into a whisper.

-- Then do it, mouseboy. Or I scream again.

I peeled the shirt off. Cold air bit my chest. She studied me.

-- Jesus. I didn't think rib cages could tremble.

She walked up, chest to chest -- or where her chest would be, if she weren't so damn tall on those stupid shoes.

-- Now the belt.

I swallowed.

She leaned close. Her breath was warm.

-- The audience can't feel your shame if they can't see it.

My fingers moved to the buckle. Not because I wanted to -- but because she was watching. Not just with her eyes. With her whole body. Like a director daring me to break character. Or maybe a predator giving me one last chance to crawl.

The belt clinked. My jeans sagged, brushing my thighs, catching at the knees. I stood there in plain black briefs. Nothing fancy. Too tight. Too honest. And already slightly tented in the worst way possible.

Lana didn't smirk. That would've been cliché. No -- she cocked her head, studying the fabric like a critic in a gallery.

-- Hm. Stage note: costume doesn't match character. Looks like you thought you had something to hide, but... it's not exactly working, is it?

I instinctively brought my hands down to cover myself.

She raised her voice -- not loud, but sharp, like a line snap in rehearsal.

-- Don't block the light.

I froze. Arms at my sides again.

She circled behind me and tapped her fingers on my shoulder blades, rhythmically.

-- Slouched. Still closed. You're supposed to be ashamed, yes, but not protected. Think: opened. Presented. Exposed.

Then I felt it -- her fingers sliding under the waistband of my briefs at the back. I twitched.

-- Relax, actor. I'm not undressing you. Just checking the fit.

She gave a single, slow yank upward. Not aggressive. Just cruel enough. The fabric pressed between my cheeks, dragged upward, stretching tight against my balls.

I gasped.

-- There we go.

She stepped in front of me again. Her eyes were fixed below my waist. The tip of my erection was now straining against the cotton, small and desperate, every throb betraying me.

She crouched suddenly -- a slow, elegant squat in those ridiculous shoes -- bringing her face level with my crotch.

Her voice dropped to a confessional whisper.

-- God, this is adorable.

She wasn't mocking. Not directly. It was worse. She sounded like someone discovering a kitten too sickly to adopt.

-- Is this really your full tragic arc? Curtain up and... this?

I whimpered. A real sound. It escaped before I could kill it.

She tapped my thigh with two fingers.

-- You're hard from this? From being looked at?

I said nothing. Couldn't.

She stood. Towered. One of her sandals bumped against my shoe -- her foot was longer. That shouldn't have mattered. But it did.

-- I once did a monologue about a dying lover, she said, almost wistfully. Guy had a ten-inch prosthetic strapped to his thigh under the costume. No one saw it. But we all felt it in the room.

Then her gaze dropped back to me.

-- You, on the other hand... You're like a footnote. A stage direction. "The boy fidgets."

She stepped closer. I could feel the platform of her sandal against my bare toes. Her skirt brushed my thigh, sheer and soft. She didn't touch me -- not really -- just the air between us did.

Then she slipped something from her wrist. A silk ribbon. Black. Long.

-- This? Prop from the last show.

She looped it around my neck and tied it loosely like a choker. Then -- gently -- tugged the ends forward, leading me toward the curtain.

-- Come now. Let's practice the final scene.

I stumbled forward, forced to follow. The spotlight faded behind us. The theatre swallowed us into its dark lungs. She guided me by the throat-ribbon like a dog on parade.

-- You're not an actor, she said. You're a trigger. Something the audience gasps at before the real scene begins.

We reached the side curtain. She pulled it aside, revealing the side mirrors, the makeup counter, and the reflection of me -- half-naked, underwear wedgied, erection twitching pathetically, a black ribbon at my throat.

She whispered behind me:

-- And that, my sweet little cue mark, is what true stage presence looks like.

The mirror didn't lie.

There I was: pale, wiry, standing under a rattling ceiling fan, briefs dug high into my ass, erection curled awkwardly forward against the fabric like it was trying to beg for attention. My arms hung at my sides, limp. My face -- flushed, hollow, my mouth slightly open. And around my neck, a long black ribbon, tied with a neat little bow.

Behind me, Lana stood tall. Not in height -- she wasn't that much taller -- but in posture, in weight, in gravity. One hand on her hip, the other tugging the end of the ribbon like she was reeling in a catch. Her mouth was twisted in an expression that wasn't quite a smile. Not amusement. Not disgust. Something more abstract. Like she was trying to memorize how humiliation looked in real time.

-- You see that? she asked softly. That reflection? That's art.

She stepped around me. One of her platform sandals slid between my bare feet. Her skirt brushed my knee again, and the ribbon shifted across my throat with a whisper.

-- I don't think you ever wanted to be behind the lights.

Her fingers traced the air near my shoulder.

-- I think you wanted this. All of it. Just not like the others. Not clapping. Not bowing. Just... like this.

She let the ribbon go. It hung down over my chest like a leash no one was holding anymore.

Then she crouched in front of me again, calm and precise, until her eyes met my bulge. She stared at it. Just stared.

I twitched.

-- Tell me something, she said quietly. You ever been touched by someone in full costume?

I shook my head. My voice had long since gone useless.

-- Ever stood fully clothed in shame while a woman laughed at your size?

I blinked. Wrong answer.

She slapped the inside of my thigh -- not hard, but fast.

-- Answer me, cue mark.

-- N-no...

-- Good. Then this is your first real scene.

Her hand moved -- not toward my dick, but to the waistband again. She pulled -- up, slow, digging the briefs deeper, pressing them between my balls and lower belly until I thought the elastic would slice me in half. My knees buckled. She held the fabric there.

-- Look at me, she said.

I did. Her eyes didn't blink.

-- You're gonna go home with red marks. A stain in your underwear. And no applause. No audience. No climax.

She let go.

The snap of the waistband echoed louder than it should've.

I gasped. My cock throbbed uselessly against the now-wrinkled front of my briefs. The ribbon hung like a funeral tie. My mouth was dry.

Then she smiled. Softly. Warmly. Her first real smile.

-- Curtain.

She turned, stepped away, grabbed her purse from the vanity like it really had all been just an errand. The heels of her sandals clacked against the wooden floor. She reached the door, paused, and looked back over her shoulder.

-- Rehearsal's over, actor.

I didn't move.

She slipped out and left me there: cock pressed forward, underwear twisted cruelly up, body trembling under the fan, and the mirror still watching.

I wasn't ready to leave the stage.