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I wish that I could say that my erotic experience with Mr. C had changed me into a new woman. I would have loved to wake up on Monday morning and see the reflection of a sensual femme fatale peering back at me. Then I would happily prance off to my temp job at the latest corporate prison, prepared to give sassy attitude to all of the corporate assholes with their control issues. And then I would set the world on fire with my acting and singing. Finally, those paying jobs in my chosen profession would come in. The agents would show up. My name would be in reviews. I would move from Off-Off-Broadway to Off-Broadway. And from there, there was only one more step to my Big Dream.

As it was, I woke up, looking pretty much the same as I always did. Even worse, I saw a single gray hair on my head and a burgeoning zit on my cheek. Only I would be so fucked up as to have aging hair and teenage acne at the same time.

For much of Monday, I spent time just gazing at the computer screen saver (the one with swimming fish) in a trance. I knew that I needed to bring in a new song for the next class. That is, if I even intended to go back to class…

Truth be told, I simply did not have the first idea of how to handle the situation, emotionally or otherwise. For so long I had dreamed of Mr. C. And for the fantasy to become such a kinky reality was just too weird. There are just some lines that should not be crossed. There was a part of me that was terrified to step back into that room. It seemed that no matter what happened, the outcome would be a bad one. If he ignored me, pretending that nothing had occurred at all, it would be devastating to my self-esteem. And yet, if something else were to happen…I didn’t know how I would deal with that either. The situation was just so unbearably awkward.

When I thought of just not going back to the class at all, I became horribly depressed. After all, I didn’t ask for all of that trouble. And damn it, I liked the class in a masochistic sort of way. I didn’t want to leave. Then this other side of my personality, a stronger side who I thought of as the “Actress”, would not allow me to leave.

I know that I must sound a bit like Norman Bates from PSYCHO when I talk this way. But it’s the way that I am.

Ever since I moved to New York, there seemed to be at least two sides as to who Maggie Spencer was. The little girl from Texas, the one who had been trampled on and beaten to a bloody pulp by hurtful people. She was the dreamer who thought that Mr. C was speaking to her through his song on the radio. And then there was the Actress who had clawed her way out of the ashes, for better or worse. The pain inflicted on her was simply used as a fuel for her scene work in acting classes. And she was always in control, always in the driver’s seat. And she said: “Grow up. You know that such things are just part of the Business. So you got finger fucked by the man of your dreams. Was that so awful? Cry me a river! He got his jollies off. You know that he got yours off. Pick a song and go back to class. Don’t be an idiot.”

So after much soul searching and staring at the computer screen, I left work and went to the New York Public Library, scanning through the sheet music for something to sing for the next class. The problem was that I felt paralyzed with even picking a song. I did not want to sing another romantic ballad. I had already done Time After Time and My Ship. I simply wasn’t in the mood. So what would I sing?

I wanted something upbeat and snappy. As I browsed my way through song after song, I saw All That Jazz from CHICAGO. Yes, something like that would be just what I needed to do. Something that was just about having a good time…and fuck everything else. But I knew that any song from CHICAGO would be instant death in class. For one thing, since the movie came out, any song from the musical would be overdone for audition purposes. Secondly, I was as far away from the character of Velma Kelly that a person could get, both physically and emotionally. And third, All That Jazz was not just a song that you could stand up there and sing with your thumb up your ass. You had to have some sort of fancy choreography to make the song work at all.

With a plaintive sigh, I kept turning pages of sheet music.

But wait a minute…

What about Roxie Hart from CHICAGO? She was much more my speed. Someone who was not the Glamour Queen like Velma Kelly, but she sure as hell wanted to be. She was ambitious, wanting to be Somebody, even if her fame came through committing murder. I could play that and have a damned good time.

The name on everybody’s lips is gonna be…Roxie…,” I hummed as I made my way to the Xerox machine, relieved that I had made a choice.

On the subway ride home, I started to worry again.

Before Mr. C, I had been studying with another teacher. Not Musical Theater, just straight shoot-from-the-hip Scene Study class. Let’s just call this teacher Mr. B. I actually took a break from güvenilir bahis studying with him to clear my schedule to devote all of my time to Mr. C’s class. And I did feel a little guilty, as Mr. B was also a good teacher. And I knew what he would say to me right now. I was picking the material to suit my mood rather than using my past experience to suit the material. That I was working too much from my emotions in the present and not from the past. This is always a dangerous thing for an actor to do because the present is mercurial and changing, so you cannot rely on those emotions to still be there by performance time.

Shut up, Mr. B! I’m not taking your class right now, am I? So much for that worry.

And what about the material itself? CHICAGO is still going to be overdone, no matter how much you want to sing the song. And everyone will be watching you and thinking about Renee Zellweger.

Well, so be it! Mr. C’s always preaching about taking risks. OK, I’ll take a risk. I want to do it, so I’m going to do it! I already have audition pieces anyway. Besides, I was wasting no one’s money but my own by using a class to sing an overdone piece. Right?

As I made my way off of the subway, I noticed two National Guardsmen standing at the subway exit with their large bomb-sniffing dogs and guns. Apparently, there were more threats about another terrorist attack hitting New York City. I had heard about it on the news; and I had been seeing more policemen around. Again, I recalled that sickly smoky smell of 9/11. Again, I remembered running down Canal Street in a panic as one of the World Trade Center buildings collapsed with all of the rumble of an earthquake.

I tried to fight off a case of the post-traumatic shivers.

Well, at least, my neurotic worrying about my song kept me from worrying about the next terror attack. And from worrying about sexual relations with Mr. C.


One benefit from my unwillingness to deal with real life was that I was much more focused in the world of Roxie Hart and CHICAGO. I even made up a character bio for her which is something I usually only reserved for my Scene Study classes with Mr. B.

I even discovered that working on Roxie Hart’s bio at my boring temp job saved me a lot of hard work. You see, if corporate assholes see a temp doing nothing, they will find the most menial things that they don’t want to do and give it to them. I’ve always felt like it’s the working force equivalent to hiring a streetwalker and degrading them to the utmost level in order to get their money’s worth out of them. If you are a temp and are caught reading a book, you will then get sent to the filing cabinet pronto. And if you finish that, then you are expected to tell them that you are finished so they can then find something else for you to do like faxing reports or making copies. But the corporate assholes really don’t care about what you’re doing, as long as they don’t think that you’re enjoying yourself, because then they will look like they’re not doing their job…which they’re not, most of the time. So while I was typing away at Roxie’s bio, they thought I was hard at work and left me alone. I had a much fuller interpretation of who Roxie Hart was and my feet got a rest. The corporate assholes thought that I was slaving away over their exciting profit reports. In short, everyone was happy.

As I rode the subway to Tribeca, I felt pretty jazzed about my song. I wore a skin-tight slinky low-cut top of beige and black. I thought of it as my “Marilyn Monroe” top as it looked just like something she wore in BUS STOP. I knew that Mr. C would not like it, but I wore my fuck-me shoes. I just couldn’t sing as Roxie in flats, no way. And I wore a knee-length black skirt with roll-up stockings. And no underwear…as per Mr. C’s dictum. Somehow, the forbidden nakedness underneath my skirt just added to the wildness of Roxie Hart. So it was okay.

Listening to my headphones, I kept playing different sexy songs in order to prep myself up. Not from CHICAGO! That really would have been self-defeating. But whatever sexy ego-boosting stuff took my fancy. In this case, I was listening to a lot of Madonna songs. Her music is great for prep work if you can get your mind off of the Madonna publicity machine and simply listen to the words. Particularly her earlier stuff.

I kept listening to the music, all of the way until I made it into the classroom. Even when I took off the headphones, I let the words reverberate through my mind. I hummed lyrics as I hung up my coat. I dared not think on anything else or I would return to reality and lose my nerve.

“You made it back alive!”

The smiling blonde jolted me out of my Roxie Hart heaven as I made my way from the coat rack. Although she seemed sincerely friendly, she was just the sort of Cameron Diaz/Charlize Theron wannabe that drove me nuts. I tried not to hold her good looks against her.

“Yes…out of the jaws of death!” I joked.

“I never knew Mr. C could be güvenilir bahis siteleri so cold and brutal,” she whispered, sitting next to me. “He looked just like he did when he played that famous villain part. What was it?”

I answered the inane trivia question, secretly thinking her a bimbo. That ‘famous villain part’ was only the most famous role he ever played! Hello?!

“Yes, that’s the one,” she giggled.

Then she leaned over to me, whispering in my ear.

“But he looks so sexy when his eyes narrow like that and he gets all sadistic, don’t you think so?”

I pulled away from her as if I had been burned.

Of course, the other women in class found Mr. C sexy. They would be dead if they didn’t. But I didn’t want to have to hear about it. And I didn’t like the possessive feelings that were already taking over. Last week meant nothing, I told myself. It was just an experimental thing, just a little fast fuck, if you will. I had no right to make it anything more. And for my health, it was best that I didn’t. I still wanted to bitch slap the bimbo though.

“What’s your name again?”


Somehow, that was a perfect name to suit the bimbo.

“Well, Tammy,” I said coolly. “I need to go over my lyrics for my song so if you’ll excuse me.”

“Sure thing,” she winked.

Once again, I yearned to beat the crap out of her.

Use it, the voice in my head said. Wouldn’t Roxie Hart like to beat the crap out of her? Damn straight she would!

After a few moments of pacing around in the hallway and getting back into Roxie mode, I was raring to go again. When I entered the room, there was Mr. C, looking fuckable in a green sweatshirt and jeans. Green was his best color. It set off that Irish red hair of his and made his eyes light up. Why did he have to wear green today?

So the fuck what, Roxie Hart said to me. He’s just another man. He’s not Jesus Christ, for Pete’s sake! He’s just another lamebrained actor. He’s no better than you. He just got lucky, that’s all. Now stick with me, honey, and we’ll have some fun! Pay no attention to that sonofabitch!

“So who’s going to get fried first?” Mr. C asked with a playful grin.

I rose my hand instantly. Roxie was ready to go. In fact, I would burst soon if I couldn’t let her have her way.

I saw the glint of interest in Mr. C’s eyes as he nodded. Obviously, he liked the slinky top I wore.

Of course he does, sweetie, Roxie said. Don’t be a dope. He’s a man, isn’t he? Shake ’em at him and he’ll be eating out of your hand, honey pie. Cause deep down, you know all men are jerks that only think with their dicks. Men are all lousy rats! But don’t worry about that. Let’s go, honey! LET’S GO!!!

The music started. And there was no more Maggie. There was only Roxie. The class didn’t matter. Mr. C didn’t matter. All that mattered was letting Roxie revel in her egotistic glee and her dreams of fame. When you’re really into the character to the point where you’re almost oblivious, there is nothing in the world like it. It’s an incredibly freeing experience and more addictive and devastating than crystal meth. Once you reach that high, you spend the rest of your life trying to recreate it again. And for some actors, they can never get there again. That’s why you see some of them making the same movie over and over again under different titles, trying to capture the magic of that first time.

I was still coming down from the high of Roxie when the song was over and I was in the ‘hot seat’.

The energy of the class was completely different than I had ever seen it before. Most of the time, even when they had good things to say, it was sort of with a grudging jealousy factor going on. Prying complements out of them was like pulling teetch. But this time, they couldn’t say enough good things about it. They had really enjoyed it!

And when I looked at Mr. C, he had one of those big grins from ear to ear. One of those concert curtain call grins. I was melting. Roxie, Roxie, where are you when I need you, I pleaded weakly. But she was gone with her song.

“Well, that was fun,” Mr C laughed. “It felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted shyly, having lost all of my Roxy.

“Maggie, that was the best thing I’ve seen you do so far,” he started. “I don’t think that I need to tell you that. I think you also know that this would be risky as an audition piece.”

“Yes, I just wanted to try it out.”

He nodded.

“Well, this is a class and experimentation is welcome here. But you know, it’s also a business. What you need to shoot for at this point is to find a song that gets you in that same place that isn’t overdone. Then you will have a very strong audition piece that may open doors for you. Something to think about. Good work. Bring in something new next week.”

I felt rather in shock. That was the best critique I had ever seen Mr. C give anyone in the last five weeks. And it was for me!

The rest of the class, I was still high from post-performance euphoria.

When iddaa siteleri class was over, I moved to get my coat. It was best just to leave while I was ahead, escaping any unnecessary embarrassment. All the while, students were telling me how much they had enjoyed my song. My head was getting so big with all of the praise that I felt as if I would explode. I could get used to this all too easily.

“Maggie, could I speak to you for a moment?”


The soft Irish tones stopped me in my tracks.

“Sure,” I smiled, putting my coat on one of the chairs of the risers.

When all of the class had left, we were alone at last. He locked the door behind the last straggler. My nerves were frayed. If he was going to apologize for last week, I was just going to die. I wondered if I should just speak up. Say, Mr. C, I know that last week was just a flash in the pan thing. Let’s just forget it, okay? No hard feelings and all that, okay?

I said nothing, but just waited. Right now the only character I could have played was a lamb being led to slaughter.

“I wanted to tell you something else, but it would not be appropriate in a classroom setting.”

Since when was the belt-lashing Mr. C concerned about appropriate behavior?

“Really?” I asked.

“If you’re going to play it sexy, you need to commit more to that.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You were halfway there, if you’re going to play it that way, then do it. Don’t just strike poses. It’s not always easy to do in front of an audience, but that’s what the character demands.”

He was talking about the song. It was so confusing with him. I never knew if he was talking about sex or performing. And there was no translator to help me out.

“You need to get in touch with your sensual nature. I could help you with that if you’ll let me.”

The room was very quiet, so quiet that you could hear the classrooms on the other floors.

“Will you let me?”

So here I was again at the crossroads.

“What will happen if I say no?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he shrugged.

“You wouldn’t kick me out of the class?”

He answered haltingly.

“No…I wouldn’t…Last week, I suppose I got carried…”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “Help me.”

Mr. C’s eyes narrowed and seemed to darken. He did indeed look like a villainous character. And he knew what I needed from him. I did not want apologies from my teacher. I wanted him to dominate me, to guide me and teach me, to reward me when I was good and to punish me when I was bad. I suppose since I had gotten a taste of kinkiness, I now realized that I wanted more of the same. And he knew that I wanted it that way. And I knew that he knew it. And he knew that…oh, it didn’t matter. I wanted him so badly.

“Help me…” I asked again.

“Help you, what?”

I almost smiled in relief.

“Help me, sir. Please teach me.”

Mr. C’s eyes were alight with anticipation as we fell back into our game. He sat behind his desk and propped his feet up.

“There is a stool behind the curtain where the props are. Get it.”

“Yes, sir.”

I dragged the stool to the center of the stage.

“Sit down on it.”

I did.

“Good. Now close your eyes and relax.”

I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t relax.

“Breathe in and out…deep breaths…”

I listened to the melodic tones of his voice that I knew so well. And they comforted me, despite the fact that he was the reason why I was so on edge.

“Put your hands behind your back and spread your legs wide.”

This was something I had never done before. Tentatively, I followed his instructions. I blushed when I remembered that I wasn’t wearing panties.

“Wider!” he commanded.

I spread them until my skirt almost rode up to my waist. Oh, all I needed was a pole and I could have been a stripper.

“Beautiful…” he crooned. “Now arch your back and thrust out those tits.”

“Yes, sir,” I panted. I loved it when he was crude. And I was getting all wet.

“Are you feeling sexy?”

“Yes, sir.”

I tried not to smile or giggle.

“Sing some of the song…just a few lyrics…”

I sang the song, feeling sexiness oozing from my pores. Sleazy sultry Hollywood sexiness…

“Much better, my dear. You should be rewarded. Would you like that?”

Again, he was asking permission to use me like a whore. And again, I gave in.

“Yes, sir…please…”

“Keep your eyes closed.”

I heard the sound of his boots as he walked over to me. For the longest time, he just lingered there, keeping me in suspense.

A cold finger stroked my lips. Eagerly, I began to suck at his finger, feeling my insides heating up like a furnace. I know it is strange to say but his finger tasted good. As I kept licking away at it, I could hear his heavy breathing. Knowing he was turned on only turned me on more.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when his other hand grasped at my breast. The silk of my top somehow made me feel more sensitive than I would be if I were naked as he pinched and pulled at my nipple. And I heard him kneel down in front of me. Oh, I wanted to move so bad. But I didn’t dare. I felt my skirt creep up my thighs and the cold air hit my exposed thatch.

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