Permission is granted for Fictionmania, StorySite, Nifty, Big Closet, Bev's Balcony, and any other FREE site to archive and web publish this story, unchanged, so long as the site remains free and my authorship and copyright are acknowledged in the posting. I do not consider so-called adult-check systems to be free, and thus, these sites do not have permission to host this story.

Acknowledgments: My sincere thanks to Brandy Dewinter for the gifts of her creativity, her insight, her eye for 'just the right word' (and just the wrong one of mine) and her, ummm, persistence. I can say without qualm that there were many times when I was about to take this story in a direction I did not want it to go because my characters were getting out of hand. In each case, she helped me see the problem and helped me rein them in. Not an easy task because, as I hope you'll see, ShaJuana Price is a lady who is VERY determined to go and get her own way! So it took BOTH of us to keep her in line! My muse and I thank you, Brandy!

Special thanks to the TG-Fiction Listserv community who read this tale in its pre-publication form and provided me with feedback, editing help and encouragement. At some point in every writing project, it becomes impossible for me to read what I wrote because I 'see' what I thought I wrote. Any remaining errors are mine, probably because I wrongly thought my way was better than those recommended by my 'beta-testers'.

Cautionary Notes: This is a love story with Female Dominant, Male Dominant, TV Dominant, Female Submissive, Male Submissive, TV Submissive themes. It is not 'Forced Femme' so much as 'Strongly Urged and Gently Manipulated Femme.' These are necessary to the story I want to tell, but I hope, as with my earlier story, "Contract Modifications," that most readers will not find these elements of theme too distressing.

I consider this tale to be a 'Hard-R' in rating as due to the love/sexual scenes and due to some hard language. In truth, however, it is not much more graphic than most bodice-ripper romances available at your local book-store so I feel that an 'X' rating is inappropriate. It does, as noted above, feature Dominance and Submission themes, so the reader should take that into consideration when deciding to read this tale.

 

Acting Dominant

by Tigger

©2008, All Rights Reserved

 

Prologue: Don't Call Us

 

"Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!" Ty Edwards railed, even as he slammed his apartment door closed behind him. "Dammit _ALL_ to _HELL_!!!"

Another audition down the toilet. Hell, the eight hours of minimum wage pay he MIGHT have earned had he not been standing around waiting for his turn to read for this part had long since spiraled down the porcelain throne, too. That fifty bucks wouldn't have paid his (seriously overdue) rent, but it would have meant something more appetizing than the three-day old bread and the pitiful bit of moldy cheese that would now be his dinner.

But the worst - that absolute worst - was getting slapped squarely in the face with unequivocal proof of something he already knew and should have long ago acknowledged.

Deep in his heart, anyway.

He wasn't going to make it as a serious actor.

The proof of that had come when he'd slipped back into the theater to retrieve his forgotten umbrella. . .

~-~

Once back inside the theater, Ty found that the audition room door cracked open. Crossing to the coat-tree from which his umbrella hung, he was able to make out voices from within the audition room - voices he recognized all too easily as belonging to producer and the director who'd conducted his audition. Unable to resist, and hoping to hear something positive, he stole over to the door for a quick, furtive peak through the tiny opening. He wasn't able to see much, but apparently the two men had been joined by a woman who had not been present for his reading. She was seated facing the two men with her back to the door. He couldn't see her face, but Ty could tell from her relaxed manner that she was perfectly at ease being so close to the brusque producer.

"I really liked that Edwards-kid's delivery," the director said.

"Too damned short," growled the producer, making the statement sound like an epithet. "And he can't sing for shit."

"We might be able to work around his height - Alan Ladd was short, and he did just fine with the ladies. As for the singing, all he really needs is to be heard and understood. I'm sure he can. His enunciation and delivery were great."

"This isn't Hollywood! This is live theater and you can't hide the fact that he's barely five-five when he has to trot out on stage or dance with the rest of the cast. Hell, Roxie Hunter is gonna be the female lead, and she's five-seven in her stocking feet! Not only that, but the only time she's EVER in only her stocking feet is when she's changing from one pair of heels to another."

"Darling," a feminine voice put in, "Language, please."

"Sorry, luvie," the producer's tone became instantly contrite, but only in response to the woman's admonition. His voice hardened again when he turned his attention back to the director. "Roxie's a freakin' dancer! Her legs are her best feature so we have to play to them, and that kid can't. Forget him."

"But he dances well - really gracefully - you saw the tape of his workout, Jazz," the director said, evidently to the woman because Ty thought he heard an affirmative murmur from her. "He'd be easy to choreograph, and he's got a real feel for the part..." The director's persistence gave Ty hope.

"Look, the broads are taller, so the studs have to be taller, too. He isn't, so he isn't getting the part! Got it?"

"Dar-ling," the voice of the woman called Jazz was sharp now. "I WON'T tell you again. Watch your mouth!"

"Yes, sweetie." That must be some woman, Ty thought. He found himself wondering about a woman who could shut up the boorish producer in mid-spate - even if only for a few seconds.

"He did move very well," she continued speculatively.

"But, luvie," the producer countered, almost obsequiously, "What happens if he drops Roxie during one of the dance routines? The show would be ruined." Then, he changed the target of his remarks back to the director. "Don't waste my time with him, again - got it?"

"Got it," the director sighed with an awful finality.

"Look, Roxie would make your guy look fragile and dainty, for go. . goodness' sake. Find me somebody who's tall enough to make our star look dainty."

"Okay, you're the boss."

"Glad you finally remembered that fact."

~-~

The utter finality of that pronouncement was still ringing in his ears when Ty had crept away from the theater to wander aimlessly about the streets of downtown New York. For several gray, wet hours Ty had tried - really tried - to find that hoped-for something positive in what he'd overheard. On one hand, the director - that is to say - the TRUE theater professional in that damned room had wanted to give him a chance at the lead role. He, at least, had recognized Ty's professional acting abilities and had valued them.

Unfortunately, it was the money men - the *angels* - and wasn't THAT term a joke when applied to that unfeeling oaf of a producer - and not the professionals who provided the monetary grease upon which the wheels of theatrical world turned.

And this show's angel had just cast Ty out of the theater's bright lights and into the darkness of the 'real world.'

Ty told himself that it was past time that he had accepted the harsh realities, and took stock of what passed for his life in this big, bad and lonely city. As he began to slowly make his way back across downtown toward his little apartment, he began mentally ticking off those painful truths on his wet fingers.

Truth 1. He hadn't had a real acting job in nearly six months.

Truth 2. Whatever money he could make as a waiter, or short order cook, or in retail sales, was barely enough to keep him afloat here in the big bad city, and with the economic down turn, even those lousy jobs were hard to come by. They were hard to keep, too, since most employers preferred 'reliable' workers, which they defined to be a species that did not include wannabe actors who regularly asked for time off to go to auditions. Or who would quit without the desired notice if a 'real' acting job came along. Not that he'd seen one of those real acting jobs recently, anyway - see Truth 1 above.

Truth 3. He currently didn't have one of those lousy jobs, either. He didn't have ANY job - period.

Truth 4. He was flat broke. See Truth 3 above.

So here he was, broke, out of work, three days from eviction from a ramshackle room, and looking forward to a meal that just might give him food poisoning. Not much to show for years of education, training, hard work and sweat. Fighting back the dark emotions that closed in about his soul, Ty cursed the gene set that had given him the talent and the drive to succeed, but had denied him the scant inches he needed to have the opportunity to express that talent.

It was probably just as well that Ma Bell had cut off his phone service last week, he mused ironically. Otherwise he'd have to deal with the decision of whether he should call home to ask for money. Wouldn't his father just relish that 'I told you so' opportunity?

Okay, he thought, let's call that 'Truth 5.' He had what almost any sane person would call a great job waiting for him back home - good salary, great benefits, a share of the company, and the fast track to the president's corner-office in a few years. God, but the last thing Ty wanted to do with his life was to 'work his way up the ladder', busting his ass to prove he had the 'right stuff' for the corporate world until his father finally deemed that he was ready to take over the family business. There WAS more to life than making money.

Wasn't there?

Ty had always hoped so - believed so - but what other choice did he have now? Being homeless and hungry on the streets of New York would flat-out suck. Even fuel injectors had to be better than that.

  

Chapter 1: Casting Call

The schizoid ringing of his door bell ("Be it ever so humble" with five or so of the notes randomly refusing to play) was a welcome distraction from that line of thought. A true survivor of the 'hard-knocks' school of city dwelling, Ty checked his peephole before starting to unlock his door. What, or rather who he saw on the other side had him hurrying to undo the four independently-keyed deadbolt security locks he'd installed at his own expense when he'd moved in so many months ago.

"ShaJuana!" he said, real pleasure suffusing his tone. "What's up?"

"Eaten yet?" the ebony-skinned goddess in jeans and a "Gold's Gym" muscle shirt asked, holding up a bulging bag with the logo of a nearby Chinese take-out place. "I have sweet and sour pork," she said, teasingly.

"No!" he said in a rush, and then stepped back to let her in. "I was just trying to figure out what culinary wonder with which I would tempt my palette."

"Well, if you're gonna cook, this can always get eaten as leftovers," ShaJuana offered.

"No, I think this will be much better all around. Not to mention safer."

"Great. You get some plates and stuff, and I'll lay this out and open the wine."

In the claustrophobically-tight niche that the landlord had proudly advertized as a kitchen, Ty's mind was only half on sorting out knives, forks and plates - the other half was focused on the magnificent ShaJuana Price. ShaJuana was a singer/dancer who kept the wolves from her door by working part-time as both a fitness model and as a personal trainer when she was 'between acting engagements'. She was five feet, ten and a half inches and one hundred and fifty-nine pounds (okay, maybe 165) of tautly muscled, yet shapely black beauty. She was, in Ty's opinion, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

ShaJuana's problem in the theater was exactly the opposite of Ty‛s own. In three inch dancing heels, she towered over most leading men and just about every locally available male principal dancer. Few if any of the current crop of actors or dancers could partner her in a serious modern dance without risking a hernia. Last Ty had heard, she was looking to put a girl-group together - sort of a ‟Destiny‛s Child Grows Up and Joins the WNBA‟ with some of her taller girl-pals. Since she hadn't invited him to attend so much as a rehearsal, that probably wasn't going all that well either.

"Hey, Ty-RONE," a voice called from the other side of the studio. "You gonna bring those plates or let us starve here?"

Suddenly, he was ravenous. "Coming. And for calling me Tyrone, YOU have to surrender ALL the sweet and sour!"

"Dream ON, Ty-RONE, you dream on."

After the disappointments of the day, it felt good to laugh.

~-~

Somehow, over the meal, she had teased him into talking about the audition. When he'd asked her how she'd heard, she'd simply informed him that, "A little bird told me." And then she'd just listened, saying only enough to keep him talking until he‛d finally run down. Only much later did Ty realize just how skillfully his friend had drawn him out, how much he had revealed that he might otherwise have preferred unsaid - even to as close a friend as Juana.

"So," ShaJuana said, topping off his wineglass, "What are you going to do? Go back home to sticksville? Make fuel injectors for the rest of your life?"

Ty sighed. "It's either that or porn, I guess." At the startled look on his guest's face, he chuckled. "One of my, umm, co-stars from an earlier acting gig shared a dressing room with me. He does the occasional adult video these days. Anyway, he calls me about once a month or so to ask me if I'm ready to earn some 'real money'. He thinks I've got - how do I put this politely? Ah, yes, I've got 'what it takes' to make it big in the skin-trade."

"Oh really?" ShaJuana cooed, infusing a world of mock sensual interest into those two words. "Packin' large, are you, cutie? How many inches?"

"Juana!" Ty yelped, and then glared at her as the tall woman dissolved into a surprisingly girlish giggle fit.

"The.. hee hee hee. . LOOK. . on your FACE!" she managed to gasp out. "Oh, god, Ty, that LOOK!"

"I cannot say how pleased I am to have provided you with such amusement, I'm sure," he replied, calling upon the starchy, pompous dignity of a character role he'd once played in an Agatha Christie production.

And then laughed back at ShaJuana when she started to babble out an apology. "Oh, you," she finally muttered when they'd both calmed down. "So, will I be able to see this. . .'what it takes' in Debbie Does Dallas 15, coming soon to an adult vid-shop near you?"

Ty didn't answer immediately, and instead sipped his wine reflectively. It wasn't like he hadn't given the concept a good deal of thought. Truth to tell, the money would have been damned useful, but in the end, it wouldn't work for him and he knew it. "No. Too public, too much baggage. Even if I were never to work in the legitimate theater again, who knows who might recognize you from the few face shots a guy gets in one of those vids? Might make it hard to sell fuel injectors in the Bible Belt, you know?"

Now it was the elegant black woman's turn to gaze thoughtfully into her wine glass. "You say so, but from what I've seen, about the only thing in the world more faceless than the chick doing a porn shoot is the stud doing her, but I can see it your way, too. So, it's the, ahhh, public nature of doin' porn that really stops you from goin' there?"

"I guess so, when you put it that way. Why do you ask?"

"'Cause I just might have a proposition for you, Ty. It's a little off in left field - okay," she grinned wickedly, "Maybe it's a LOT out in left field, but if you agree, you're guaranteed $250.00 for two hours work - maybe twice that, with the chance for more of the same if things work out."

"Who do I have to kill?" Ty demanded flippantly, and then saw the serious look on his friend's face. Suddenly, he put things together. "Not public. . .you want me to . . .to become a prostitute?" His voice cracked in shock.

ShaJuana sat up and leaned towards him. "Not quite. What I have in mind isn't prostitution - not under the legal code of the City and State of New York, anyway. Look, Ty, my. . . employer and I have this client who likes to play on the edge. She's looking for some way to . . . to meet his needs without," she hesitated, as if seeking the right words, then shrugged. "Without things going too far. Let's just leave it at that for the moment, okay?"

"Okay, but I'm not sure what I could do to help you with a client of yours in that vein. I thought you were a personal trainer. Besides, isn't going to the edge with that kind of thing dangerous? What about heart attacks and. . ."

The black woman's cheeks darkened as blood rushed to her face. She held up a hand to squelch his questions. "Well, I am a personal trainer, Ty, but just not quite the way you mean, and I do have a client who you COULD really help me with him. Without havin' to worry about a heart attack or such."

"Oh, really? If you're not THAT type of trainer, and this ISN'T hooking, just what kind of client are we talking around here?"

"A submissive," was her soft, almost whispered reply.

"A what?" Ty asked, confused.

"A submissive," she reiterated more firmly. "To put a point on it, the guy pays big bucks to be my part-time sex slave."

"A sex slave," he repeated. "You said this wasn't about prostitution."

"It's not prostitution because there is no intercourse, no oral sex, not even a hand job - by me, that is. If he gets off, he jacks off. I just watch, and give him some. . .pointed direction and make a few snide comments from time to time while he does it."

"And you think I can help? How? I'm not exactly Mr. Studly, you know. . . Oh. . .you want me to play the part of another, what did you call him? Oh, yeah, another submissive with him?" He shrugged away the twinges of emotion - embarrassment and annoyance, that idea evoked in his heart. He was, after all, an actor, and a role was a role, and money was money!

"No. . ." ShaJuana said, drawing out the word, "I want you to be the other dominant in a scene with him - a very passable TV mistress."

"Huh? TV? Mistress? Don't tell there's some kind of reality show on the tube about learning to be a dominatrix now!? Must be one of the cable access channels 'cause I sure haven't seen it on my over-the-airwaves-only rabbit-ears."

Chocolate brown eyes rolled heavenward in laughing disbelief. "Not TV - as in TELEVISION -, you knucklehead! Cripes, Ty, you kill me! I want you to be a TV - as in TRANSVESTITE - Mistress! I want to rig you out in leather, lace and latex, squeeze you into a corset and too-tight, too-high heels, slap a big-hair wig and some Goth-girl lip gloss on you and have you there when I work him. At the critical moment, we'll just, ah well, spring your true nature on him - literally."

"You're kidding me, right? This is one of your practical jokes, isn't it?"

"If it is a practical joke, it's on him - my client, that is - not you. Really, I'm serious about this, Ty. My, ah, boss is serious, too. Look, I'm not supposed to get into this with you, but she's already talked money with me about this. It's her idea, but she asked me if I knew anyone, from my actor friends, who might be able and willing to pull it off."

"She talked money?"

"She talked money - some of it up front, assuming you give it your best shot and don't wimp out on me. And if we can pull this off and really screw with his head for him? Maybe enough to give you some breathing space with your landlord."

"He'll know I'm a guy from the beginning," he protested weakly. "There won't be any surprise or shock value or whatever it is you're planning."

"Oh, trust me, cutie, just trust me. I've made uglier men than you into passable girls in my time as a 'personal trainer'. You'll be drop-dead sexy. And you'll be disguised so he'll never know what you really look like - as Tyrone, that is. Heck, the whole public thing won't even be an issue. He could meet you at the bus stop right after the session, and unless you forget to cream away your makeup, never even know you've been just introduced."

"Great, just what I need to hear," he groaned.

"Huh?" Juana interrupted, confused. "What's the matter now?"

Ty could only shake his head and laugh. "What's the matter, the woman asks me. Shit, Juana, I'll tell you what's the matter. The very first time - in my WHOLE life - anyone has EVER said I could be 'drop-dead sexy?' She's talking about dressing me as a woman. What a world." Juana didn't say anything, letting her friend stew over it in his mind. Then, he turned back to her. "What makes you think I could pull this off? I have to tell you that in my sadly limited romantic experience, I haven't ever ravished anyone."

ShaJuana tossed her wild mane of black curls back and laughed. With a saucy, suggestive smile, she purred, "Honey, it ain't about ravishin', it's about dominatin', and trust me, you can handle that part just fine."

That stopped Ty in mid-argument. Dominating? Him? Well, that was certainly paradigm shift for his self image. It was rather exciting that a woman like ShaJuana Price thought he could be dominant. "You think I could pull that off?" he asked, hesitantly.

The cackle of laughter that answered him sent shivers up and down his spine. "WHooooeeee, ty-RONE, How kin you axe me that?" his guest demanded in the heavy, city-black accent of a younger, less self-assured ShaJuana. "ME? Homegirl herself? Keee-ripes, sugah, ya most scared me white tryin' to teach me to talk good for that turkey play we was in, boy."

Ty had to smile at that memory. He had first met the statuesque actress when they'd both been hired for the cast of an off-off-off-Broadway show about a mind-swapped couple. ShaJuana, as the maid into whom the Master's mind was swapped, had needed to recite her lines using an aristocratic English accent. Tyrone, as the Master into whom the maid's mind switched, had needed to learn how to 'shake his booty' for several dance sequences. Since neither of them had the financial wherewithal to pay for acting or dancing lessons, they'd coached each other, becoming close friends in the process. Ty had learned his lessons more easily than had ShaJuana, but by god, she'd eventually learned them.

In time for the ill-fated show to fold before its third performance, but she HAD learned them.

"Will you do it?" ShaJuana asked again.

For a moment, Ty thought about refusing, only to remember that sticksville and fuel injectors still lurked out there in the darkness - waiting to pounce, waiting to suck the creative juices from him forever. As long as there was hope, another way open to him, he couldn't give up his dream and go crawling back to his father's business. Ty shrugged, and tried to smile. "Okay, when? I really do need money that badly."

"The session is scheduled for two days from now, in the afternoon. How about you come to my place tomorrow, and we'll see what we can do to make you pretty, okay?"

Ty hesitated just a moment more. If she could pull this off, it would just about put paid to his dreams of ever being a serious stage actor. Serious stage actors had to be 'leading men' - they didn't 'lead men' about while wearing leather catsuits and stiletto heels.

Still, it was paid 'employment' - even acting - and it was legal. Or at least, it wasn't actually illegal.

And it wasn't fuel injectors, which was all that needed to be said. "I'll be there," he promised. "10 o'clock okay with you?"

~-~

  

  

  

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