“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,” Orlando
answered. 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 kicked and screamed 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, he 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.
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