After many weeks of being immersed in the hot sexy ride of my latest novel Spontaneous Combustion, this week it's time to step back to an old favorite, an excerpt from a sexy little spanking novel I wrote back in the 90's when my writing career began. I'm a big Shakespeare's buff...and with apologies to the bard, I penned this novel about the bratty actress Tempest and her director Orlando, the man who tamed her.
An excerpt that takes place during rehearsals of The Taming of The Shrew ... the play that suggests that the playwright understood the dynamics of the Dom/sub relationship.
“I’m late, how’s it going?” Orlando asked, running down the side aisle of the theatre, practically out of breath.
“Rocky, if you ask me. Little princess Tempest up there wants to do the scene her own way,” his assistant director Grey informed him.
“And how’s that?”
“Exactly the opposite of what you wanted.”
“I see. Why don’t you run it for me,” Orlando suggested.
“On your marks again,” Gray shouted to the cast.
The two directors watched the scene unfold.
“See what I mean?” Gray whispered.
“Yeah. Little interpretive genius,” Orlando commented. He admired the brunette’s spunk, even if it was misplaced.
“But you didn’t want it that way,” Gray reminded him.
“No. That interpretation would work for Kate, but not for Bianca.”
“Gee, I wonder why?” Gray said sarcastically, while wondering why in the hell Orlando hadn’t cast the brat as Kate in the first place—she was a natural. “You’d better explain it to her. She’s pretty well pissed off the entire cast, and I know she’s pissed me off. I’d fire her.”
“You just have to know how to handle her,” Orlando said, with a pleasant smirk. “Tempest,” Orlando called out, getting the brunette’s attention. “You remember how I asked you to rehearse this scene?”
“Yes, but it works better this way,” she retorted immediately.
“Well, it’s very nice acting, but it’s not what I want, so you do it my way. Run it again from the opening.”
Orlando stepped back and let his assistant direct the scene.
Minutes later, Gray turned to him, “She didn’t change a damn thing.” Gray groaned.
Orlando didn’t say a word this time, but raced up to the stage apron, and jumped up with ease. He motioned Tempest aside.
“You seem to have forgotten, my dear, there is one director here. That is me. Gray just follows my instructions. You, play the scene my way, or I’ll find someone else.” He was pleasant but very sincere in his gentle admonishment. It wasn’t like Orlando to scream until he was really pissed off. Then holy hell broke loose, and there was no one who wanted to be within ten miles of the man. Now, he was as calm as a sleeping puppy, but very pointed.
Not knowing Orlando’s disposition, Tempest offered yet another objection. “You’re making a mistake,” she said. “I know this character, I know how to play Bianca. You’re getting in the way of my performance.” She had a way of screwing up her face when she was excited, her cheeks were blushing and her eyes began to flash. There were muffled “Ooos” and “Ahhhs” throughout the listening cast members. It was almost predictable the outcome of this battle; they could have cast lots on the how long it would take before Orlando took the actress backstage.
“If there is a mistake, Miss Tempest,” Orlando explained patiently, “then you can let it be my mistake, not yours. I trust you’re actress enough to change your style to accommodate me?” He was painfully patronizing.
“Certainly,” Tempest answered, as if the director was besmirching her competence as an actor.
“Then show me,” he said. His eyes, for just an instant, flared with a spark of anger.
His “Bianca” was taken aback, but she was into character again before she could truly understand the meaning behind this brief conference with Orlando. Unfortunately, her lack of appreciation for Orlando’s sincerity would be a disastrous error in judgment.
Orlando watched the scene from the wings, the luscious bosomy Tempest hardly changing an inflection in her crisp clear voice. She moved just the slightest bit differently, but it was the same Bianca that came through – Tempest’s Bianca, not Orlando’s. Damn! She was one stubborn hellion.
“Tempest,” Orlando called sharply from his position, moving forward to where she stood.
“How was that?” she asked, thinking her changes appropriate.
“Dreadful,” he replied. He assumed a cool, calculating posture and stared the actress down. The tension-filled moment seemed so brimming with possibilities. It was explosive, though Orlando took great pains to contain his emotion. “Do you know what I did to Lilith the night you so rudely interrupted us in my dressing room?” the director finally asked her.
“No, I don’t know that. I wasn’t paying attention,” she replied.
“Well let me show you.” He briskly took the woman by the hand, and leading her to a convenient chair at center stage, he sat down, pulled her over his waiting knees, and began to spank her bottom—which at the moment was looking very luscious in its next to nothing pair of stretchy lycra shorts.
“What the hell are you doing!” Tempest roared the instant the first smack landed. She was soon engaged in battle, kicking and screaming for all she was worth.
The cast surrounding them watched delighted by the sight of Miss Prima Donna getting her due. Several applauded the action and offered jeering whistles of approval.
“Stop it now, you fucking asshole!” Tempest blared. Her legs were all over the place, while her hands tried desperately to cover her smarting bottom.
Orlando, oblivious to the raging woman, continued his fiery blast, laying one blow after another on Tempest’s wiggling bottom. The smacks were hard and jolting, and went right through her garment. If one were to peak underneath, it would surely be blushing with a fine red hue. When her hands went up to cover her behind, the director grabbed them with his large left hand and pinned them against her back.
“Stop…this… now!” she stormed, and stormed again, but it was to no avail.
“Do you want to do the scene my way?” the director finally asked her.
“Get your bloody hands off of me!” she answered.
“Do you want to do the scene my way?” Orlando repeated, his voice rising, as did the fury of his smacks.
“Stop, you bloody ass!” she wailed again.
“I want an answer.” He accompanied the demand with several more fierce smacks.
“I won’t,” she vowed.
“Then I won’t stop.” He started in again, smack, smack, smack, zealously spanking the wiggling bottom with great gusto. The steady staccato rhythm looked so fierce, the watching cast stood in awe. Though they’d often heard about Orlando’s infamous spankings, few had had the opportunity to view one first hand.
“Stop!” Tempest cried, still flailing her legs, though some of the spark that began the foray was beginning to diminish. Either she was too exhausted, or she realized that she was not going to win this battle. It would only get more painful.
“You do the scene my way?” Orlando repeated his initial query.
“Yes, yes, I will,” she wailed at last. “Just stop. Please!”
And true to his word, Orlando slowed the spanking, then stopped altogether.
Before the director could prevent her from doing otherwise, Tempest bolted from his lap, and then from the stage. The humiliated actress disappeared behind the curtain. It was clear, there would be little more accomplished, at least until she had recuperated.
“Start with Act III, any scene she’s not in,” Orlando ordered. “And don’t get sloppy just because I’m gone,” he said, charging off. He needed to recuperate himself; it had been a long time since he’d had such an unwilling woman over his lap. He didn’t know whether to feel depleted or inspired.