“Aww, are you going to cry? You look like such a pussy in front of all these people. What’s she going to think of you, such a pretty girl, with you crying here because you are so humiliated?”
A Special State of Mind
While it was probably part of Elena’s job to torture Nick, it really was also part of her livelihood. Nothing gave her more passion, energy and sexual satisfaction, at the core than seeing him totally vulnerable, suffering, shaking for her. So you could say they were indeed a match made in heaven.
Nick was an actor. He wasn’t a very good actor, truth be told, but he earned somewhat of a living at it, doing the occasional theater work and sometimes capturing a small bit on a television show or in a film that went straight to DVD. He still had another job, as a bartender, but when he was acting, he was generally more pleasant to be around.
Elena was a historian of sorts and spent most of her time researching and reading books and writing papers. From the outside, no one would assume such a couple had an entirely explosive sex life, but they did. Because she was so unforgiving, cruel and relentless, and he was constantly looking for ways to suffer for her.
On February 14, Valentine’s Day, he was working on the set of a small made-for-tv movie production and she was buried in his modest trailer proofreading her latest papers and napping. She was doing more napping than anything, because she was incredibly bored, as often happened on these long days on a set. Her presence there was a necessity though.
The director understood her and understood her relationship with Nick, but that’s as far as it went. To everyone else on the set, she was an odd character, almost like a vampire, that lurked around from time to time, dark and mysterious, sexy and alluring. No one talked to her or even tried to befriend her – it was as if her presence was somehow ominous but necessary.
On Valentine’s Day, Nick entered the trailer with such a look of self dread and anxiety and such an intense vibe that Elena literally woke up from her catnap, squinting at him. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked – but she already knew. She already knew that this was one of those times – and he was so full of angst and dread and self-doubt that the air was thick with it.
Nick was wearing jeans that were dirty and full of holes with a belt undone and hanging around his hips, his hair disheveled and wet, his face bruised and red with makeup that seemed so incredibly awful in the flesh but always appeared better on screen. He was breathing hard, just a little. “I’m so fucked. I can’t do this.”
“This,” she knew, was whatever scene they were working on, and had been working on since 5:45 am when the sun came up. She didn’t know what “this” really was, other than some stained, wrinkled pages on the script that was sitting in the trash can where he’s deposited it the last time he came into the trailer to complain that he could not do it.
Elena stood up to console him but they both really knew what needed to happen, and she really wasn’t in much of a mood for it, her head was in her work. If Nick was there, though, it was because the director ordered him to go back to his trailer and “get his head out of his ass and into the scene,” while the crew sat idle being paid time and a half as the clock continued to tick.
“I have no time – I have, goddammit, I have ten minutes – I have less than ten minutes. I can’t do it, Elena, I’ve totally fucked it all up.” Nick was spinning.
She took him by the shoulders and then the face and tried to center him, to get him to stop and at least look at her. His face was pained, so full of emotion that the fake bruises almost seemed real for that moment, the blood, smeared now on her fingertips, seemed to flow. It was mixed with sweat.
If they had time, really, she’d just spin him around and pin him to the wall of the trailer, pull his hair and reach between his legs to grab him by the crotch, hissing the right words, telling him what she’d be doing to him, before shackling him into an uncomfortable hogtie and doing what most would consider unspeakable acts, cruel acts, until he was a quivering, timid mess. Then she’d send him out of the trailer where he’d walk, like a zombie, the 25-second walk, his eyes straight forward, his chest still heaving, his head still there, so he could slip into the role he needed to be in and convey every last ounce of terrified vulnerability they wanted from him.
For at least ten minutes. Then he’d snap out of it, and come to grips with himself, ass still store, body aching, erection throbbing. But at least they’d have the scene; ten seconds, sometimes only five; whatever they were seeking at that moment, some essence of terror or fear or helplessness that the director absolutely needed to make his b-movie horror film masterpiece “complete.” It was all garbage to Elena anyway.
“Why don’t you just do romance movies,” she’d tell Nick later when they fucked in the trailer, as he commented on the emotional hangover and his inability to even remember clearly what was so difficult about that emotion he could not bring to the surface was it not for her ability to rip through his outer protective wall as if using sharp fingernails to tear through weak cellophane.
But this time, they had no options. Nick had his eyes shut tight, breathing hard, and all they could hear were the voices of the crew assembling and milling around outside their door, the footsteps of the director and then the knocking on the door.
“Nick?” his voice came.
Nothing in response.
“Nick, man, we gotta do this. We have one more chance. Come on out.”
**
Elena walked with Nick through the set, and there was a hush. Some of the crew members whispered to one another. A few of the young, college girls, who worked as production assistants or interns, brought clipboards up to their lips to lean toward each other and speak in a hushed tone about what they were observing.
The mysterious, elusive Elena was a rare sight on the set – and her relationship with Nick was a mystery. Some said he was her “slave,” and others said she was a hypnotist. Still, others said she was a well-paid escort because she was so incredibly beautiful and often towered over Nick, who was somewhat forgettable, while ‘cute,” at a mere 5”7 with a lean build and understated ‘nice guy’ good looks.
Elena was nearly 6 ft in her high heels, always dressed spectacularly, even for a day spent inside a trailer reading. They were walking with the director, who knew what was going on, even though they didn’t talk about it. The set was well lit, with tons of fake light pouring down over a center area that was already well illuminated from natural light, which was rapidly decreasing as night drew near.
The director handed Elena a damaged, scribbled-on copy of the script, peeled open to one page with notes written all over it, but she just pushed it aside and looked at the wooden pole that seemed to be the center of the shooting.
Shirtless, wet, fake-bruised Nick turned around and stood up next to it, putting his hands behind it, while cameras were positioned and lights were adjusted, people milling around and making comments. Elena heard none of it, cared about none of it, just focused on him standing there. She soaked in his essence and stared to let it all sink in. The director had told her that all they were shooting was his face anyway, they’d completed everything else, but every time he managed to get the lines right he didn’t have the emotion, and whenever he had the emotion right he couldn’t do the lines. That’s all she needed to know.
“Take off your pants,” she ordered Nick. It was loud enough that not only he heard her, but everyone on the set did. There was an uncomfortable silence.
Nick hesitated only briefly then removed his belt and went for the zipper on the tattered jeans he was wearing.
The director apparently was going to agree to anything, but still turned around and announced, “Clear the set!” obviously following some Hollywood protocol that protected the privacy and rights of the talent and also reduced the number of prying eyes.
“Don’t clear anything,” Elena turned. “They can stay. They won’t be seeing anything, trust me. Everyone stay,” she ordered, turning to make eye contact with a few of the crew who were picking up their things to leave. “Everyone. Stay.”
Nick was now visibly uncomfortable, as he had every right to be, stripped down to nothing in front of peers, co-workers, and an assortment of interns and staffers who all were going to see just about anything they wanted of him. But he complied, dedicated to the task, trusting in her, and knowing, most of all, that he really had only one more shot before turning this project into a colossal disaster.
So he stood there, naked, as someone hustled over to collect his pants, belt and boxers and carry them off the set. He stood there naked as Elena walked up to him and just stared, mostly at his crotch, before reaching out and fondling him a little. It was entirely, incredibly inappropriate and uncomfortable for everything, but fortunately, she only did this for a moment.
“Tie him up,” she ordered. “Tie him up to this pole, it said in the script he was tied up.”
“We’re only shooting his face,” someone responded, “So he doesn’t need to –“
“Tie him up,” the director interrupted. “Do as she says. Just hurry it up. “
Nick looked at her, solemn, just standing there as a few production assistants moved behind him, muttering about where the rope went, trying to fumble through and get the job done. Elena stepped around to supervise their work, pointing at a few knots and having them tightened, reaching over to pinch Nick’s naked butt cheeks once for good measure.
When she moved around to face him, smiling every so slightly, he just stared back at her. It was as if no one else was even there any longer. That was all she needed.
**
No one was close enough to know what Elena said to him. But she whispered something into his ear and he was visibly uncomfortable, struggling just a little bit in the bonds. That seemed to amuse and entertain her, and then her hands were painfully in his hair, she was biting him somewhere on the shoulder, and the more he seemed to be uncomfortable, the more she seemed pleased.
It wasn’t until she turned to one of the young, petite female production assistants that anyone heard her speak. “Give me your panties,” she told the young lady.
Quite possibly it was the strangest thing anyone had ever heard, and as the young girl looked around for approval, for a response, anything, Elena just held out her hand and snapped her fingers. The young lady, probably terrified of missing her big break in Hollywood by being seen as difficult, handed her clipboard to the lady next to her and leaned over, reaching under her skirt, shaking her hips as she eased down a little white thong.
Elena took the thong from the girl who seemed to reach over and almost on tiptoes hand it to her, trying to stay as far back as possible from the activity as if reaching into an animal cage. Elena promptly balled it up in her fist and took Nick by the chin, shoving it into his mouth. He responded with a groan of sorts, humiliated, uncomfortable, perhaps a little shocked. She reached out to a stagehand and said, “Tape.”
The crew members seemed to respond in a zombie-like fashion, watching and participating in a sort of surreal train wreck, most of them shocked at what they were seeing and the rest wondering why a director would allow such a display to continue. But to Elena, it was clearly working, because Nick had his eyes shut tight and was visibly nearly torn down to that place he needed to be. She knew, deep down, that it would become very apparent when he was just right there – “there” being what the director needed – what the crew needed – and what he needed to be.
Tape was finally delivered to her and she tore a piece off to place it over his lips, then took the entire role and decided to wrap it all the way around his head, with each pass telling him how pathetic he looked, and asking him how those panties were tasting.
“Look at her,” she ordered. “Open your eyes and look at the girl,” Elena said this soft enough that no one else could hear, and her command was met with a ton of resistance. He had his eyes shut tight and was turning his head away. It took grabbing him by the chin, digging her nails into his flesh, and applying more and more pressure until he succumbed and opened his eyes, searching the group of strangers for the girl.
Elena didn’t look to see what the girl’s reaction was, as much as she wanted to (out of sheer curiosity) because her eyes were trained so firmly on his expression. She was reading the pain in his eyes, the vulnerability, the shame, the agony. It was always the eyes, she knew, that would tell her if she was almost there yet.
Or the shaking.
Nick was starting to shake – first in his shoulders and then in his chest, and she felt the shudders reverberating through her grip as she held him by the chin and he blinked, keeping his eyes trained where he was ordered until they started to well up with moisture.
“Aww, are you going to cry? You look like such a pussy in front of all these people. What’s she going to think of you, such a pretty girl, with you crying here because you are so humiliated?”
He shut his eyes but she dug her nails in harder so he opened them again, breathing hard through his nose, his own sweat, and now tears, smearing the makeup and creating streaks of blue and pink down his face.
“He’s ready,” Elena said matter-of-factly, stepping out of the way and wiping her wet hands on her dress. “Do what you need to do with him.”
They huddled around him and she looked over her shoulder as the crew assembled quickly, someone putting makeup back on him someone carefully removing the tape, a stagehand coming out awkwardly holding a balled-up white thong, seeming to be painfully unsure of which lady to hand the panties to – the one that demanded them or the one that gave them up?
Elena solved the problem by holding out her hand as he approached, noting the young lady surely would not be putting them back on. The greasy-looking fellow placed the panties in her palm and she made a fist around them as she watched Nick try to pull himself together, ironically, as the last touches of makeup were put on his cheeks and he blinked the tears out of his eyes. She watched the monitor to her side to see the image they were capturing on screen, and he truly did look beautiful, and perfect. The vulnerability in his eyes was authentic. As she watched them capture the sixteen seconds of film she smiled.
**
Elena was back in the trailer when Nick returned sometime later, back in the torn jeans, his hair still wet and disheveled, his eyes slightly puffy. He didn’t say anything when he walked in, and she looked up from her book just to watch him for a moment.
He was moving gingerly, carefully, appearing withdrawn, emotional. Elena smiled. “It looked very good,” she complimented him.
Nick stopped and shut his eyes, pressing two thumbs to the corners near the bridge of his nose as if shutting out a terrible migraine. “I’m so…..humiliated.”
His words were sharp – painful. He stopped and inhaled, his breath shaking, Elena stood up and walked to him, put her arms around him as if to comfort and console him, but immediately let them slide down to the front of his jeans. He was hard; visibly, physically hard.
“You loved it,” she whispered. He was shaking again. “You loved every minute of it; being watched, being used, being naked, having those pretty girl’s panties stuffed in your mouth, having to look at her. Everyone knowing what a pussy you are for me, how you will degrade yourself at the mere snap of my fingers…you love it – you love it more than acting itself…”
He was visibly uncomfortable by what Elena was saying but undeniably turned on. As she started to move her hands over his body and kiss his neck he resisted her advances, despite the obvious arousal. “I can’t right now…I’m so tired, I have to lay down for a little while Elena, please…”
But it was useless. She was coming onto him, wanting him, and her own sexual lust from watching his vulnerability unfold was too much for her to keep in check. Nick probably thought she was just going to make him fuck her or eat her out, but soon he realized she had something else entirely in mind.
Elena had pulled the all-too-familiar leather harness from her bag, and the slick, black dildo was already mounted in place. He pushed her aside as she made advances, urging her to reconsider. “Elena, please, I can’t right now, people will be coming – people are going to wonder where I am – I –“
She slapped a hand tightly over his mouth, shoved him against the wall and whispered into his ear, “I got you where you needed to be. Now you need to get me where I need to be, Nick. Bend over.”
Her tone was unforgiving, relentless. He cried out in pain when she dug her nails into his neck and bent him over a small countertop. When he reached around she slapped his hands away, pulling his pants down. In a matter of seconds she was shoving her fingers into his mouth to silence his protests, but to also make him suck on them – it was clear she wasn’t going to use lube and was using his spit to coat the dildo that she’d strapped around her hips.
Soon she shoved the familiar panties back into his mouth, now dry, obviously no long fragrant and sweet-smelling as they had been when they were freshly removed from the cute young PA’s crotch. Instead, he gagged on them, eyes shut down, bent over awkwardly, as the dildo, coated with traces of his own spit, pushed and prodded at his asshole. He knew that there was no sense in resisting, Elena always got what she wanted.
She was so hot – so turned on – that the resistance from his ass was simply a minor inconvenience. After a few painful, carefully directed thrusts she pushed the head of the dildo through his hole and he cried out as best he could, his pleas muffled by the panties that he dare not spit out. She had him by the hips, hissing nasty words into his ear from behind as she wiggled her body to get the dildo firmly lodged all the way up inside him.
The thrusts got longer, deeper, and her moans of pleasure became louder, drowning out his muffled whimpers. His eyes were shut tight, watering, and he only opened them when she took him by a fistful of hair from behind and forced his head up, painfully and awkwardly, so he was facing the mirror, his face eventually smashed into it while she fucked him.
From behind, she looked at him in the mirror, at his bruised and bleeding face, holding his head back so she could see him more clearly, telling him she’d done that to him, she’d been the one to bruise and batter him for resisting her advances. Of course, she was only weaving a little fantasy out loud, but it got her wetter and wetter as he grimaced and groaned for her, opening his eyes on command and looking at her, blinking innocently when she started to cum through the thrusts.
The last few slams of the dildo into his ass were painful and degrading, but as always when she fucked him, all she needed to do is reach around and feel his crotch to find a hard, stiff cock. The motion, the lust, the feeling of the cock and the moans of her cumming were enough to keep him hard and horny, despite being exhausted and emotionally spent.
Elena finally let go of him, slid the cock out of his ass and comfortably slid back into the couch in his trailer, sighing contently. By the time he composed himself, pulled up his pants and turned around, wincing and moving gingerly, she was pretty much asleep. He stuffed his stiff cock into his boxers before zipping up his jeans and looked at himself in the mirror, unable to determine which marks were smeared makeup and which ones were fresh from his encounter with Elena. With a bit of a grimace, he sighed and let out his breath at the same time. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said softly.
She was sound asleep.
