Butterflies

The set looked like a real bedroom, a macho guy's bedroom. The bed itself was large and had a dark, Spanish style headboard. The walls behind and to the side were gray, and had colorful abstract paintings above the bed and to the side. Lights were angled discretely casting shadows, and soft gel filters muted the light to a dusky, warm sensuality.

Embarrassingly for all, everyone ceased talking as she walked up.

Randall was there, wearing his robe and waiting.

The set was a little chilly, but she knew it would be warm enough up under the lights.

Max stepped up. "Great, we're all here," he announced loudly. "We're going to have the small crew for this. It'll be Mike on camera, Marge for make-up and continuity, John on the dolly, me, and oh yeah, of course Randall."

He touched Sally shoulder and tried to look serious or maybe sympathetic. "You ready?"

"Sure Max," she heard her voice say. "I'm ready as I'll ever be."

Everyone else left, most of the production assistants dragging out slowly in a hangdog shuffle, and the set doors were closed. Max outlined how he wanted the scene to go, reminding them that they were going to do it three times, each from different camera angles. Listening to Max's instructions today for some reason was all so unreal to her, almost as though he was speaking in a foreign language that only sounded like English. She heard him and knew how the scene was to progress, but hearing him say things like, "Caress her breast with your left hand first," and, "Sally, once he's been on top for a bit, turn him over and you get on top." It all made that fluttery knot in her stomach that much more cold and queasy.

"Okay, everybody, let's go for a take," Max said, clapping his hands. "Positions everyone!"

She removed her robe, feeling the cold studio air. Randall had done the same and was standing on his mark in his black Speedo swimsuit. Sally moved up to him and stood on the little piece of tape that marked her spot. Marge, holding the slate in front of the camera, called out the scene name and number, then clacked the arm down and stepped back.

"And action!" said Max, kneeling behind the camera like an umpire at a baseball game.

Sally looked into Randall's eyes, and saw a delight there that was more than professional. He gathered his strong arms around her and held her close. Her nipples, already so stiff, pressed against his hard chest and she felt the bulge in his swimsuit press solidly against her tummy. He kissed her, deeply and slowly. She artfully returned his passion, thinking of the camera, responding, opening her mouth to his. His hands went to the string of her bra around her back and pulled the loop loose. The strands fell away, only the pressure between them holding it to her. She felt alive, and scared, and self-conscious, and excited. She knew all eyes were on them.

He stood back, and her top fell away. Randall hooked one arm up and under her butt, picking her up off the ground. He set her on the bed and once again kissed her deeply. This time, growing bolder, she put her tongue in his mouth. The camera had dollied around to the opposite side of the bed to gain the best view. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it rise up on its pedestal, taking a position slightly above the bed.

Randall knelt on the bed and hooked his fingers into her bikini bottom. He closed his hand and ripped it from her. The silence on the set was deafening. Only the whirr of the camera dared to make a sound. Her heart was pounding in her ears. It didn't matter, she was sure no one else on the set was breathing either.

For a long moment the camera tilted down, the lens rotating as it zoomed in, taking in her naked form. She suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness flood over her. For some reason she couldn't help picturing the view of her sparse pubic hair, knowing her little lips were completely exposed and open to view.

Now caught up in it totally, Randall stripped off his own bathing suit, and lay down next to her, leaning up on his left elbow. He placed his hand on her right breast and rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger. He had become stiff as the proverbial rod; she felt it hard against her leg.

He delivered his line on cue. "You want it all, don't you, baby?"

"I want you," she cooed, surprising herself. "I do." She had been sure her voice would be gone.

He ran his hand down slowly from her breast. She felt her stomach tighten as his fingers passed lower. Ever so carefully his middle finger parted her lips and he found her little spot.

The line escaped from her, "Yes, Frank, take me," she moaned. "I want you to."

"This is too much," she thought frantically. "Acting is acting, but this guy has his hand on my pussy and is rubbing my clit. He has a huge hard-on and has to be enjoying it. Oh my God!" It hit her. "What if he comes?" At this, her vagina went wet, and another thought flooded in, "Oh God, I'll leave a wet spot on the bed. The camera will see and they'll all know. They'll know what?" she argued to herself. She answered that, deep inside. "They'll know I like it."

She reached her left hand up, and put her fingers deeply into the thick hair on the back of his head, pulling his face to hers. She kissed him. She kissed him again, and this time she let her tongue taste his mouth. She pulled him down on top of her. Holding him down on her now thoroughly sweat soaked body.

The camera dollied out and pedestaled down, now level with the two of them on the bed. This was her moment of truth. She didn't know if she could do what came next. It was supposed to be only acting, but oh, it felt good. Knowing the others were watching her, watching them, this heightened her excitement tremendously. His erection was big, and real, and hot. She was wet, steamy wet, and starting to lose her ability to remember that this was only a scene. His tongue and hers were impassioned; kisses, kisses that wouldn't stop and only kept feeling better and better.

She stole the briefest of glances toward Max and the camera. He was completely mesmerized, holding his fist clenched before him as though he had just captured something out of the air. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open. Marge was standing in back, her face red and flushed, and one hand was clasped to her throat.

Randall was panting, his body feverish. She could feel his abdominal muscles ripple and clench as he ran his hands all over her. Her breasts, her hips, her legs, her throat, he touched her everywhere and paused nowhere. It was time. Now she would do it. She was too caught up in the moment, so she just let herself go. She shifted her hips and parted her legs, spreading them wide. It was delicious.

Randall gasped; she felt him swallow. A moan stole from his mouth only she could hear. The swollen and sticky head of his erection was there. It was there for real. All he had to do was push in, move his hips forward ever so slightly, and they would be screwing for real. Would he do it? Oh God, she wanted him to. It was right there. When it slid down the last little bit, between her slick lips, rubbing over her pounding clitoris she'd thought she'd almost come. And now, there it was down in the cleft of her vagina.

The camera was up, almost over them now, and still it whirred as it recorded all. No one other than the two on the bed dared make a sound. He was kissing her madly now. This was no longer acting in a scene; it was too intense. He was hard and naked on top of her, and she was wet and now, oh, so willing. She had been so worried about accidental penetration, and now this was what she craved. She raised her legs straight up and then brought them down around his butt. She locked them around him and pulled him in.

He opened his eyes; she saw the fright and excitement boiling in him. She had seen eyes, which looked like that her very first time, that night in the car when she had lost her virginity. The naked and overly excited boy from drama class and Randall the experienced actor were now one and the same.

He was all the way in, locked deep, deep within her. It was so hard and it curved up just right, touching exactly what needed touching. It arched in to just the right spot. His balls were squeezed tightly against her butt, and the pressure on her clitoris was exquisite. Involuntarily, she arched her hips up into him trying to press him in even more deeply. Looking into his eyes all those same signs were there. She knew it. All his pretense and machismo had evaporated. She had him.

"Oh God," he moaned, his mouth at her ear where surely only she could hear. "Oh God, you're gonna make me come."

Suddenly, she had a flash of reality, realizing where she was and what she was doing. "There are people watching me and I'm fucking this guy. I'm fucking him for real. It's not him. It's me! And he's going to come. He's going to come in me!"

Too late, she felt it start. He was like a rock, and it was hot, hotter than even she was. She saw the change come over his face; he was losing control.

With a great gasp, it flooded into her. Molten, thick and intense, the eruption splashed so hard she felt it all. Randall rose up on his arms, arching his back, and pulsed again and again. The warmth and wildness flooded her, and she came too. She couldn't help herself. Reflexively, her legs released her hold around his butt and spread into a V in the air; her heart was pounding in rhythm with the contractions as she, too, came and came and came.

Shaking, Randall slumped down on her, and held his cheek against hers. Her face was hot, almost burning, and they were both slick with sweat. She turned her head to the left and looked at the camera. Max and Mike were rigid like statues, surely unaware the level of their excitement was readily apparent. Marge was leaning against Max, draped about him, her face, red and flushed.

"Cut," croaked Max, coming to his senses. He removed his cap and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "That's the most damn intense thing I've ever filmed. Damn!" He sat down on the edge of the bed and slapped his cap on his thigh. "Damn!" he said again.

Randall pulled out of her and rolled off to the side. He was still panting. He looked over at Sally incredulously. He didn't need to say anything. She already knew. She leaned her head up and looked at the slick smear between her legs, and the globs of come on her thighs.

"It just happened," she said, her eyes wide and wild. "It just happened before we could stop."

"Well, we'll have to do it over," said Max. "If I put that in the film well get a triple X rating for sure."

"Okay," she said, sitting all the way up, naked and wet. She hadn't even thought yet to close her legs. "Just let me go get cleaned up." Sally closed her legs and swinging them over the side of the rumpled bed sat for a moment trying to get orientated. "I'll be back in a minute."

She rose and found her legs rubbery and shaky. She even forgot to stop to put on her robe. It was Marge who ran after her, catching her at the studio door and holding it out. "You'll need this, honey."

Sally looked vaguely at Marge, then realized where she was going. She slipped the soft terry cloth over her shoulders, sticking her arms through the sleeves and wrapping it closed around the front. Then opening the stage door, she padded back barefooted on the cold cement, ignoring all eyes all the way back to her dressing room.

They broke for lunch, and then resumed shooting about one. For once, everyone was on time returning from the break. This time it all went as planned. He kissed her, removed her bikini top, put her on the bed, took off her bottoms, got on top, they kissed, she rolled him over and mounted him sitting up, arching her back and letting her hair fall. They did it twice more from other angles and all went like clockwork. Only once did he become hard again, and Max had yelled, "Cut!" allowing Randall's ardor to subside.

Then it was all over. They were done. It was behind her. The worst of her fears were over. She had done it. She had lost control, and rather than him screwing her, she had ended up screwing him. But too, it had been good. No, it had been glorious. And with the worst of her fears behind her, she had found herself able to really apply all her talents to the three takes, exuding a slow and consistently sultry passion, which just seemed to seep from within.

Three months later, she was at the premier strolling into the theater attached to her boyfriend's arm. He was crazy to see the film. That night, after the love scene, she had called him to her apartment and literally screwed him to death. She had always been a willing though tender lover, but that night she had become something else entirely. And tonight, she knew he was dying to see what had caused such a transformation.

They met Randall and his wife coming in and were even seated next to them. Randall's wife seemed cool toward her as they were introduced, avoiding Sally's eyes. Still, Sally had expected something from this woman, and she wasn't sure if her reaction was jealousy, or what. She wasn't hostile, but Sally could feel some emotion was going on beneath the surface. "So much for the experienced professional," she thought. Then she added a peculiarity she couldn't help but notice. "She does look something like me, though." She looked again, stealing a long glance and concluded, "Randall must be hot for my type; she does strangely resemble me, at least somewhat."

They weren't seated long before the theatre darkened, the music came up, and the film was underway. Seeing her own name come up on the credits was a special thrill all its own. For the first time she was about to see herself on the big screen, ten feet tall; the anticipation was almost overwhelming. But this wasn't what was causing Sally to fidget in her seat. "The love scene, the love scene," kept running through her mind. She had seen the edited rushes in the small studio viewing room, but had no idea how this final cut would appear. She was relieved, knowing what they wouldn't be seeing was the director's cut. Max had personally edited a longer version in which he'd included vivid details and even close ups from the first, torrid take of the love scene. He had given Sally and Randall their own private copies. At home, in front of her own TV, alone, she'd thought her ears would catch fire when she'd watched it.

The action in the film flowed well; it looked better than the usual made for video release. Max had done a good job. Sally found herself becoming caught up in it, just as though she'd never seen any of it before. And when the scene finally arrived the flutter in her stomach had returned full force, and her fingers had grown icy cold. She saw herself with Randall, or rather Frank, alone in his bedroom. But it was different than what she remembered. The love scene she saw portrayed up on the big screen was soft and beautiful. The lighting mostly revealed only hints and whispers. It wasn't at all pornographic, but it was extremely erotic. She could just feel its effect come over the entire theatre. Not a person moved in their seats, no one coughed, and the air felt thick and hot. At the part where she was on top of Randall and his hands were on her breasts, she felt something and looked over to see Randall's wife staring at her from a few seats down. Then in a flash it was over. Three minutes and the film raced on.

"Now I see what got you so hot the night after the shoot," her boyfriend had squeezed her hand, and whispered in her ear. "Damn, Sally, where'd that come from?

The party afterward was spectacular. Everyone was there. Max, over dressed in a tuxedo was schmoozing with some distribution execs, the living example of a truly happy man. Everywhere people were dancing, people were smiling. Sally, had no idea how much she would enjoy being the featured attraction. There was no way to keep up with the people who circulated around her, some she knew, like Marge and Max; most she didn't. Everyone seemed to be offering her scripts to read, and roles to enhance with her talents. The best she could do was to reply with a generous smile and a, "call my agent." And of course she actually took a perverse pleasure in saying, the inevitable, "let's do lunch."

Sometime between the third and fourth drink, she realized it had been quite a while since she had last seen her boyfriend. She also realized it had been a while since she had taken a much-needed trip to the ladies room. A little woozy, she set off in search of both. Off down a short alcove a door with the word: "Damas" came into view. Surprisingly enough, for the throng of people outside, the restroom was unoccupied. She found a stall and took care of much needed business. It was a tremendous surprise to open the stall door and find Randall's wife standing before her, waiting.

"You next?" Sally asked, and then instantly realized that was a stupid thing to say. "What is it about those Long Island Iced Teas that make me regress ten years," she thought.

"Maybe I should ask you the same thing?" was the woman's reply.

Sally didn't know what to say.

"My name's Marlene," she offered, still not giving Sally room to totally exit the stall. "I believe you know my husband."

Amazingly, the woman smiled.

"Could I please get by?" Sally asked.

Oh, sure. Sorry." Marlene moved aside. "I've been looking for an opportunity to catch you alone. You've been so busy out there. Aren't you the popular one?" Marlene obviously caught how what she had last said must have sounded, and she added quickly, "By the way, congratulations."

"On what," Sally thought to herself. "Balling your husband." She was more than a little suspicious of Marlene. And what was it about talking to someone in a restroom that made her feel so claustrophobic and self-conscious.

"Look, this is a little strange for me, too. I don't often get a chance to meet the other women Randall makes love to."

"Wait. Hold on," Sally said washing her hands. "I may be a little drunk. Okay, maybe more than a little. But, I'm not going to be pushed around. I am an actor. I played a role. Your husband played a role. That's it. That's all. You know, I thought he said you were an actor too?

"No. Oh, I am sorry. I really didn't mean to make it sound like that." Marlene stretched out her arm, bracing against the towel dispenser for support. "I guess I've had a little too much to drink, as well." She conveniently handed Sally a paper towel with which to dry her hands.

Sally again noticed her face. She didn't really appear to be harsh or jealous. Maybe it was just the poor lighting in here, but they could almost be mistaken for sisters. "She's about as small as I am," Sally appraised, "maybe even a little shorter without those heels. And that really is a pretty outfit. But I bet she's about as much a true blonde as I'm really this shade of brown. I wonder why Randall was so desperate to talk me into that little private rehearsal," she thought. "I didn't think most men would want to fool around with someone who looks like their wife."

Some other women had just come in so they moved away from the sinks.

"Randall told me this was your first leading role."

"Yes." Sally replied. "My big break!"

"You did a hell of a job." Marlene was genuine and sincere. "You've got a bright future if I may say so."

"Thanks," said Sally, really warming up to her. This had not been what she had expected.

"You know though, the right connections are every bit as important as talent?"

"Yes, I'm aware."

Marlene suddenly changed her tack. "You know, Randall went into quite a bit of detail with me about your shoot."

The little flutter reappeared in Sally's stomach.

"Look. I'm a direct person, so I'm just going to have to come out and say this. Okay?"