Acting The Part

“So will you try it?” Derek asked.

I looked at Mikhail again. He smiled and raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. My eyes rested on his mouth. I imagined those full, wide lips on my actual, real, sensitive breast—not a prop, my breast.

“Oh God,” I whimpered. “Fine.”

“That’s our girl!” Derek slapped me on the shoulder. “Now remember, it’s not binding. We don’t have to use the scene. We’ll shoot it both ways and see what works.”

“OK.” I was down to monosyllables.

The three of us walked back to the staircase.

“Places everyone,” Derek yelled. Everyone scrambled, leaving Mikhail and I on the set.

“So remember,” Derek instructed, taking his place beside the cameraman. “You’ve just been forced to sit through an interminable dinner with the king. Marcel is furious with you, Sandrine, for entertaining the king’s advances. You can’t risk being caught with him or the gig is up. Ready?”

Derek waited a moment while I tried to concentrate myself into character. “OK,” I said.

“OK, quiet everyone. And…rolling!”

“What in bloody hell was that?!” Mikhail growled, grabbing me by the upper arm as I took my first step up the staircase.

“Get your paws off me! No man has, nor ever will, own me!” I squirmed away and went to take another step.

“This is not about ownership, and you know it!” He had me pinned against the wall, his mouth inches from mine. I could feel myself flitting in and out of character: brazen Sandrine one moment, breathless Lydia the next. I thought I detected Mikhail doing the same. We should have ended the scene and started again, but neither of us called it.

He went to kiss me. I dodged and turned my head to the side, as planned. He grabbed my bodice by the front laces with one hand and made me stare into his eyes. His knuckles pressed against my sternum, making the bodice constrict my breathing even more. I clutched at his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarled. “If he catches us, it is done.”

“So be it, then,” he said, twisting the fistful of delicate silk so that the fabric gave.

I had expected my breasts to pop right out of the bodice. They didn’t. The stiffness of the bodice made it stay in place, my nipples still covered. Mikhail looked surprised as well. We stared at each other, both of us clearly out of character. Then Mikhail slipped one hand into the bodice and cupped my breast, pressing me even further against the cold wall with his thighs. I continued to stare at him. My heart was pounding. His eyes felt like knives. I was on the verge of calling for Derek to cut. I knew it was Mikhail touching me, and not Marcel. I knew this was us playing the scene.

He ran his thumb gently, slowly over my nipple. I felt it spring to life under his touch. He angled the tip of his thumb so his nail grazed the erect nub back and forth. We both knew that no one else could see this—this was not for the eventual viewer’s pleasure. It was for mine. I leaned my head back and moaned, just as the script demanded. I was absolved of responsibility for my reaction.

Suddenly popping back into character, Mikhail squeezed my breast harder, tugging the bodice with his free hand. It slipped completely off, pinned between my hips and the wall.

“I don’t care if you bed the fucking emperor himself,” he said against my lips. “It will never change anything between us.”

I still had a flimsy white batik shirt on, ripped down the middle, exposing my cleavage. Mikhail let go of my breast momentarily, seizing me by the shoulders. In one swift motion he pulled the shirt down around my waist, pinning my arms against my sides with the sleeves. I was completely topless down to the waist. The wall against my back was freezing. I tried not to flinch. This felt so overwhelming, the last thing I wanted to do was start the scene all over again. I forced myself to stay with it.

“Stop this Marcel,” I tried to squirm away again, my voice hinting at the emotional torture of wanting something so bad you’re ready to go to hell for it, but stopping yourself nonetheless.