Educating Becca 12: Stage Play

Leo texts me the address in all caps, followed by "NO REALLY IT'S THE OLD THEATER BASEMENT YOU HAVE TO GO AROUND BACK SEE YOU SOON" and yeah before you say anything it was in all caps for some reason, and it had zero punctuation for some reason, and no i don't know either of those reasons but I was beginning to suspect some form of neurodivergence. Then again, he's a theater guy. Fish, meet barrel. Anyways, the rehearsal space is as old as the campus, maybe older. I half-expect to get murdered, or at least to contract tetanus from the handrail guiding me down into the basement under the theater. The stairs creak awfully as I descend, but nothing actually breaks, and the railing is so well used even the rust is polished to a shine.

At the bottom of the stairs, there's a battered fire door with an old "THIS WAY TO ORGASM" sticky note pointing left, and a "FIRE EXIT, NO ORGASM" note pointing right. I snort and turn left down the hall. Leo is waiting at the end of said hall for me with a flashlight under his chin, horror-movie style. His grin splits his face, cartoonishly bright in the gloom. He bows, one arm sweeping out behind him. "Welcome to the Underworld, Persephone." I'm tempted to roll my eyes at the melodrama of it all, but I'm enough of a theater nerd that I can't help but giggle instead.

I've seen Leo at KKO parties, at open-mic nights, at various weird artsy open house things, but I've never really been alone with the guy. He's taller than I realized, like he was always a little hunched over till it was just me standing next to him. He's also shockingly thin, and I get the impression he forgets to eat lunch most days. His hair is a faded lavender, and I realize with a start it's the exact shade of my grandma's hydrangeas. I get a wild urge to introduce them just so I can watch her face as she struggles to be polite and not poke fun. He wears a mesh shirt, black jeans, and a silver chain with a theater mask pendant, the greek play masks, one smiling one frowning. The whole getup is very on message.

"So glad you came," he says, ushering me into a room that is a set designer's fever dream. There are racks of costumes, mismatched plywood boxes, old set pieces stacked like Jenga, and a rolling whiteboard that reads "REHEARSAL, 7 PM" along with a bunch of notes about when various bits and bobs need to be constructed by in time for various performances.

I ask if anyone else was going to be coming by, but Leo just smiles. "Tonight, it's just us." He gives me a careful, searching look. "I want to show you something. Something that's not for an audience, not yet."

My pulse goes choppy. "You... want to show something with me? Or do you mean rehearse something with me?" I try to keep it cool, but my voice has that 'please validate my existence' edge I am ashamed to say I always get around people like him.

He gestures to a battered leather couch, then takes the space next to me, not too close, not too far. "You know how, in theater, we're always talking about 'emotional truth'?" he says. "About living honestly in a scene?"

I nod. "Yeah. It's the first thing they try to beat into you."

He grins. "Most people fake it. They fake being angry, or sad, or horny, and that's fine, but you can always sort of tell, right? But when someone actually surrenders to the scene, everything gets electric. It draws the audience in as well"

I nod again, leaning in myself, "Sure."

"I think you could do that," Leo says, voice dropping to a lower register, "In fact, I think you already do, but you hide it. I want to try an experiment, if you're game."

My stomach flips. I remember the way Chris' voice grew deep and rough when he first told me to 'improvise' with him, the way Marcus made me feel like a butterfly pinned to velvet, the way I wanted, more than anything, to stop pretending I wasn't this anxious, nervous person. The way, when I was with them, I could sometimes just let go.

"I'm in," I say, almost before he finishes, "What's the experiment?"

He claps, delighted, "Okay. First: I need you to do exactly as I say, as long as you feel safe. If you ever don't, you can stop at any point. You can leave, or you can say 'blackout.' That's your word. Got it?"

Do I have a sign on my back or something? Is there a pheromone I'm... pheromoning? Why does every single guy anywhere near this school with the least bit of dom in them seem to know what I've been thinking about lately? But whatever, fine, just because he seems to have me figured out doesn't mean he's not hot as fuck right now, "Got it. Blackout."

"Perfect. Now, I want to show you something about power." He stands, then looks at me expectantly. "You're going to stay seated. That's your only rule. Agreed?"

"Okaaaaaay," I say, clutching my knees.

He paces back and forth in front of me, hands behind his back, then stops and fixes me with a look so intent it's almost a glare. "Most people think being in control is about being mean," he says. "Or rough. Or loud. But that's amateur hour. Real control, the stuff that hits you deep, is about permission. Specifically making someone accept permission for things they never willingly give themselves."

I swallow. My whole body is a humming wire.

Leo points to a wooden crate nearby, just out of reach. "Hand me that."

I get up instinctively, then remember and sit down, cheeks flushing. I point. "You mean the one with the paint cans on it?"

"Exactly." He keeps his hands behind his back. "Drag it over with your foot."

I do. It's heavier than it looks, and I have to stretch out, leaning back. I nearly topple it, but I get it close. He doesn't help, just watches.

"Now, open the lid."

I lift it. Inside is a bag of props: silk scarves, a metronome, a glass bottle with a cork, and... a ball gag. I look at him. "Is this...?"

He shrugs, then sits beside me, closer this time. "They're tools. Just like a script, or a light cue. They're only as interesting as what you do with them."

He picks up the metronome, winds it, and sets it ticking on the floor in front of us. The tiny click click click echoes in the room.

"Now, I want you to look me in the eyes and not look away, even if you want to, or get uncomfortable with it. If you don't say blackout, you're not allowed to look away."

I meet his gaze, and instantly feel the urge to look anywhere else. His eyes are an unnatural blue, almost wolfish. He waits, and I hold the stare. The metronome ticks, ticking off seconds, then minutes. I feel my breath deepen, quicken. Then stop.

Finally, he leans in, voice just above a whisper, "Done. You're good at following directions."

I break the stare, suck in a breath, "I like clear instructions."

"Most people do," Leo says, "But especially you."

He puts a hand on my shoulder, gentle but decisive, "I'm going to touch your neck now. May I?"

I nod, unsure if I'm supposed to speak.

"Say it," he says, not unkindly.

"Yes."

He traces a line from my jaw to my collarbone, feather-light. "If you want me to stop, say 'blackout.'" He watches my reaction, then continues, "There's a difference between being directed to do a thing and someone understanding you need to do a thing," he says, still tracing circles on my neck with the tip of his thumb, "I suspect you enjoy each... and I want to give you both."

I laugh, but it comes out shaky, "That's a lot to promise."

He grins, "That's theater, darling. Always go bigger."

He takes the silk scarf from the crate and holds it up, "May I?"

"Yes," I answer, throat dry.

He wraps it around my wrists, not tight, just enough to gather my hands together. Then he rests my hands in my lap, holding them there with one hand as he sits close beside me.

The metronome ticks. My heart keeps time with it.

"There's another path, you know. Do you want to be told what to do, or do you want to have your choices taken away?" he asks, offering options.

I don't know how to answer. I want both.

He seems to sense this, "Ah. Maybe you want someone to make you do the things you secretly want, so you don't have to feel guilty for wanting them?"

I nod, tears pricking my eyes for no good reason.

He kisses my forehead, slow and deliberate, then releases my hands and sits back, "That's it," he says. "That's what I wanted to show you."

I stare, dazed, "That's it?"

He laughs, sharp and bright, "That's it. There's a power in knowing what you need. Didn't feel small, did it?"

I shake my head, dizzy, "I mean, no, but..."

He kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his. His voice drops again, "You have a gift," he says, "You make it easy for people to be themselves around you. You never ask for anything, and so people want to give you everything. I see it all the time when you're running scenes. You open yourself to people, and they open themselves back."

I want to say thank you for the complement, but I can't make the words come.

He stands, offering a hand to help me up, "Come here," he says, walking to a patch of empty floor at the center of the stage. I follow, compelled.

He gestures for me to kneel, and I do. The floor is cold, hard, but I don't care.

Leo circles me, never touching, just watching, "You ever hear of 'directional dominance'?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"It's not about hurting, or tying people up, or even commanding them to do things," he continues, "It's actually an art term. It's about focusing attention. You can make someone feel like the center of the world, just by giving them a little structure."

He kneels behind me, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck, but not quite touching. "You want to know how it feels to be truly helpless?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Somehow I'm not surprised," I can hear the grin in his voice. He leans in closer, "Stay still."

He brushes my hair away, exposing the nape of my neck. He runs a single finger down my spine. My whole body tenses in anticipation.

"Now," he says, "you're going to do nothing unless I tell you."

I hold perfectly still.

He takes the bottle from the crate, uncorks it, and holds it under my nose. It's sharp and herbal, like peppermint and pine. "Scent is memory," he says. "You'll remember this every time you smell it."

He drips a single drop onto the scarf looped around my wrists. The scent is overwhelming.

He wraps an arm around my waist, the other hand pressing against my sternum, holding me upright but not constricting, "Breathe," he says.

I do. My nose fills with the odd fake christmas tree scent.

He tightens his grip, just enough to give me a sense of his strength, "This is also not about fucking," he says.

"I could fuck you, right now. And you'd let me. But it's not about that, it's about giving you permission to exist without apology. Because you *want* to be fucked like that. For someone to pin you down, enter you, use you. And that's fine, but you fear it, you're ashamed of it, so you push it out of your head. Now, any time you smell this smell, you're going to imagine it. Imagine me pushing you to the floor and fucking you into a quivering mess."

I bite my lip, trembling in his hand.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

He releases me and stands, hands in pockets, "You can move now."

I do. My legs are jelly, and I can't feel my hands.

I look up at him, "That was..."

He tilts his head, a hint of concern in his gaze, "A lot?"

I nod, laughing.

He shrugs, stepping away, sprawling back onto the couch, "You can try anything here," he says, "Nothing is off-limits. You can be as weird or as boring as you want. I won't judge. And I won't actually take advantage of you in any way we don't agree to."

I find myself sitting next to him, then leaning into him, needing the contact.

He puts an arm around my shoulders, drawing me in, "My favorite part of helping someone get into subspace is the aftercare," he claims. "People just don't like to cuddle other adults otherwise, you know?"

We stay like that for a long time, breathing together, until my nerves settle.

When I finally stand, I look around at the chaos of the rehearsal space. It feels weirdly cozy, and I know I'm going to come back if he'll let me.

Leo grins at me, watching.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, "Well that was fun," he says, "You're always welcome here." Then he hands me the bottle, "Use sparingly, it'd be a terrible perfume to wear to class."

On my way out, he calls after me, "Hey, Becca?"

I turn.

He gives me the most gentle smile, "You're not a freak for the things you want."

I float up the stairs, the scent of pine and peppermint still burning in my brain, the warmth of the theater wrapping me tighter than any scarf.

The café is everything the theater isn't: overlit, crammed, and just this side of too loud. I snag the last clean table next to a potted fake ficus and spend the next five minutes nervously drumming the tabletop with my hands until Chris arrives. I watch his progress weaving between the tables, the way he shrugs off the cold, eyes only on me in a sea of grad students and baristas.

He waves, then sets down his stuff and claims the chair across from me with that kind of oversized confidence only a specific brand of large guy seems to be able to pull off. His glasses are fogged at the edges from the heat of his brow. He checks his phone, then folds his hands, waiting for me to start.

"You got my text." I say, voice awkwardly shrill with tension.

He nods, serious, "Of course. So. How was your date with the theater kids?"

He says it without an ounce of suspicion. If anything, there's a glint of curiosity.

I take a breath, "It was... kind of amazing, actually. But not kids, it was just Leo."

I launch into the story: the staircase, the darkness, Leo's directional dominance theory, the peppermint oil and metronome and the way I melted at a single 'good girl' I tell it all, in full Technicolor, expecting at least a flicker of jealousy or a snarky jab, but Chris just listens, sipping his cup of steaming americano with both hands.

When I finish, I sit back, braced for commentary.

Chris sets his cup down, purses his lips thinking, then says, "That's some advanced stuff." His tone is equal parts impressed and amused. "He went full Stanislavski on you."

I blink. "A. I'm kinda surprised you know about a hundred year old russian theater director, but we can dissect that later. B... uh... You're not mad?"

He shakes his head, grinning, "Becca, you are not my property. I'm not interested in controlling your extracurriculars." His voice dips, mock-serious, "If anything, I want to know if it was better than what we do."

I blush, playing with the edge of my sleeve, "It wasn't better. It was just... different. More like... more of a mental thing. Less about the act, more about the headspace."

He tilts his head, dropping the banter and considering my response, "You want that with me?"

I think about it, "Sometimes? Maybe? I don't want to mess up what we have, but I like how Leo helped me understand what was going on in my head, even when I felt helpless."

Chris tilts his head, "I get that. With us, it's more about, whatcha call it, Utility?"

I bite my lip, "Free Use was the term you used. But I like being useful to you. It's just..." I trail off, unsure.

He fills in the gap, "You want different things. A simple lack of control with me, a complex cerebral persuit with him. A pawn and a queen, depending on the board."

I snort, but it's painfully accurate.

He laughs, "What Leo's doing, it sounds like he's creating an artistic exchange. Every move, every instruction, it's about emotional resonance. Very performance art. With us, it's about your usefulness to me in a specific way. Primal, transactional. Not better or worse, just... genre difference."

I nod, chewing on that.

There's a lull, the clink of silverware and the whoosh of espresso machines filling the space. For a second, I want to lean across the table and kiss him, but that's not how our thing works, and besides it was too public and he was too recognizable as an actual teacher at my damned school. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though.

Chris stands and slings his tote over one shoulder. "I need to go to the restroom before we walk back," he says. "Join me?"

I know what this means. I nod, pulse racing, and follow him past the row of laptop zombies and the counter, to the corridor where the single-stall bathrooms wait.

He opens the door, checks it's empty, then gestures for me to enter first. He locks it behind us, then leans against the sink, arms folded.

I kneel instantly. The linoleum is sticky, the air smells of urinal cake and lavender spray, and my heart is pounding so hard it's a wonder the whole café can't hear it. It feels dirty and right. My heart is pounding.

Chris unzips, the motion businesslike. He pulls his cock out, guides himself into my mouth, no warmup, no ceremony. It's not aggressive, just efficient, as if this is what mouths are for. I take him in, greedy and grateful, feeling more an object than ever. He holds my head with one hand, not rough but not gentle here either. Just exactly enough to remind me who's in charge.

I suck, and revel in the sensation of his cock sliding forward and back on the flat of my tongue, of his body tensing, starting to quiver. He finishes fast, grunting quietly. I swallow the pulses of cum that try to fill my mouth, then sit back on my heels. My mouth tastes like coffee and salt.

He tucks himself away, then runs a thumb across my cheek, wiping a smear of gloss. "Good girl," he murmurs, softer than before. Then he helps me up, washes his hands as I check my face in the mirror.

"You look radiant," he says, voice light again.

I laugh, "Well I don't know about radiant, I *do* feel happy."

We exit separately, just in case, and meet on the corner outside, where the wind has picked up and the sky is already going gold at the edges with approaching twilight.

As we walk back to campus, Chris doesn't talk much. He just matches his pace to mine, hands in pockets, chin up as he watches the sky.

I, on the other hand, can't stop replaying both scenes: the soft, artful, cerebral surrender with Leo, the blunt, grateful, physical service of Chris. The two very different acts don't contradict each other. It's a palette, a spectrum, a whole taxonomy of wants and needs.

I'm not a weirdo with mismatched kinks, I'm not a weirdo for *any* of my kinks and neither is anyone else. I'm a person with layers, each one revealed by the hands, or words, of someone who knows how to look for them.

When we reach my building, Chris pauses.

"Next time we start up a new campaign, probably late spring" he says, "You're going to be my co-GM. I want to see what you do with all this new found self expression."

I beam, feeling a foot taller, "Deal," I say, and reach out, shaking his hand. I can't smell it for real, but my mind fills with peppermint and pine.