"No, Sarah. It just … won't …do. Again – from the beginning this time, I think."
It's the thirteenth time 'Jared' has called 'cut' on her in what feels like as many minutes, and both of their frustration is starting to show in her performance. She can feel the tension impeding her every gesture; her cheeks growing hotter in front of everyone who's witness to her humiliation as she fails to please him, over and over again. He knows she can do better, and it's plain he's irritated with her lack of co-operation now, but dammit, she's annoyed too. She's the only one, talent or crew, who dares to even try to speak back to him when he's wound tight like this, and any outsider might think her either incredibly daring, or else very foolish indeed, for her nerve.
She knows there's no such deliberation amongst her colleagues here – the director's little fuck-toy is bound to have some sway over him, after all. There's not a soul on set who doesn't know about what passes for their relationship, by now. If they think that she holds any real power over their demanding employer, though, then they're the fools. Here, as always, he commands her utmost obedience, as he does everyone else.
Already, her co-stars – the chancellor, the man-at-arms, the mother-like maid – are moving onto their marks, the rest of the crew making the minor adjustments needed for yet another re-take. Everyone is getting restless, and it would be best to just grin and bear his pedantry until the morning is finally over for all of them. Still, she can't help a snider remark than usual as she glares over at him, rocked back so arrogantly in his director's chair.
"If you think you can do better, honestly, by this point, go ahead – I'll even lend you my dress," she calls out, and, somewhere, she thinks she hears one of the grips start to snigger off-set. "I'm open to suggestions right now, seeing as I just don't seem to be cutting it today."
Oh, he's going to make her pay for that. The knowledge floods her with its certainty, and her cheeks are no longer the only things hot. She has the presence of mind to bat her eyelashes a little, in an attempt to take the edge off her words, but it's clear he's having none of it. She sees the dark flash of lust in his eyes – a moment of what could almost be called admiration for daring to defy him in front of all of his crew – and the barest hint of a smile as he swings his legs down from his chair. Oh, Christ, he's coming for her – wants her – and she's not entirely sure if the other people around them will make a difference.
He's on his feet in an instant, crossing the set towards her in long, purposeful strides, and she's put in mind of staircases and showdowns – the last time she dared face up to him like this. There was a brief moment, back then, where in his magic he was able to pass through her body – a single second where it felt like she was breathing with two mouths; two sets of lungs – and now it causes her breath to hitch in her throat. At times like this, she wonders how he could possibly pass for one of them – the voracious fire in his eyes is far from mortal, and it makes her shiver with its heat.
She licks nervously at her lips as he reaches her. One firm hand comes to rest, deliberate and possessive for all to see, at the small of her back. "Our leading lady apparently needs a moment to compose herself. Take fifteen," he announces, to everyone and no one in particular, then, to her, only nominally quieter: "Trailer. Now. We're going to thrash out this little fit of temper and these lines, you and I, and you can be certain I'm going to drill you on them thoroughly."
They're moving before she can object, and she barely has time to blush before they have left the confines of the set, and emerged into the open air of the studio lot. He has complained often that morning she's not showing adequate chemistry towards her character's love interest. She cannot help but feel that this isn't entirely her fault – she has yet to meet, or even learn the name of the man who will play the role, after all.
More of his unconventional tactics in filming, he declares, so that the emotions in their first on-screen encounter will be genuine. In the script, the princess does not meet her king until she has already agreed to wed him. Everyone else buys it easily enough, but Sarah cannot help but feel he enjoys keeping her in the dark this way.
In her curiosity, she has asked around, but crew and talent alike seem to be as perplexed as she is. If their director has managed to land a famous name to act as king, he guards it with the utmost secrecy. In the meantime, they film the scenes that include only Sarah, and each one must be perfect. She will not meet the Elven King until she, in all her efforts, has proven herself worthy of his love; until she herself is all but smitten.
The scene in question today is, of course, her submission. She has been painted and primped and draped in silks to become the majestic princess of the director's vision, and she must declare her loyalty to the wicked king who has won her – who has seduced her from afar to be his. She has practised her lines most nights – some nights, at least, on those rare occasions Jareth has no need of her, anyhow – and she's starting to feel the exhaustion. An adequate sense of anger, fear, and desperate longing is hard to portray when she has yet to find out who the emotions are even aimed at. She has enough difficulty working out such conflicts of her own, right now.
In the script, the king sends her stubborn warrior princess character lavish gifts and frequent letters – letters into which he will pour his generous affections and deepest longings. He flatters and cajoles and pitches woo – all the romantic trappings Sarah herself had dreamed of as a girl. As the weeks pass, she delivers her lines before the camera's all-seeing eye, and – slowly, but surely – the princess comes to accept the king that seeks to win her heart. In a way, it's romantic – a fantastical love story the audiences will eat up.
Sarah has no doubt that all these warm words and declarations of love have been penned with her in mind, and she's not too ignorant to actually enjoy their meaning. When the princess' heart at last starts to melt, it feels easy enough to portray – her own feels like it's starting to follow suit. No, the acting isn't a problem, limited though her range is. It's what's happening off-script that's causing her troubles.
That is, to say, her real-life king.
By day, his words implore her to be his queen, but at night, when the cameras aren't running, her king wants only for her to debase herself at his whim. To her credit, or perhaps her disgrace, she plays this part much better. It's like something new and untamed has been unleashed within her, and it's running far beyond her control. Their lovemaking has the heat and fury of an animal that has been caged too long – fierce, and hot, and so very, very needy. She worships him by taking him greedily into her throat, pushing until she almost gags as he fills her willing mouth; guides him into her slick and throbbing cunt with the impatience of a woman who demands to be sated. He brings her ecstasy untold; pleasures without number.
He runs her ragged, both on set and off; in his bed, and out. There's no longer a wall in her trailer, nor the plush green room, that she can look upon without blushing at the memory of him having her there. It's sex, and it's incredible, but it's more. It's an outlet for the frustration that has built up all these years. It's the closest she will ever come to apologising for being foolish enough to ever deny him, and the power he holds over her. Alone, afterwards, she fears it is the beginning of her own surrender.
The opening of a door drags her back to the present. Of course, the trailer he speaks of is his own. It's larger and a little more luxurious than hers, with black-tinted windows for privacy, but – she has established from the envious looks she gets from her female co-workers – it's far from soundproof. The door closes behind them, and he's both aroused by her defiance, and disappointed in her.
"Your eyes were on fire when you spoke out just then – where was that fire in your performance?" he demands.
"It's hard to act when there's a colossal pain in my ass," she snaps back.
"See? Even now, there's more passion in you than there was in all of those pathetic takes combined," he says, blunt as ever. "There's no lust in your words today. It's like you're just reading them from the script, when you should be living them. I want you wet, and weak-kneed, and wild when you're talking about the man you're to take as your new husband and king."
The worst part is knowing he's right. She's angry enough, now, at him for embarrassing her this way, and growing angrier as she speaks. "Maybe my performance would benefit from actually meeting my new king – not spending every night I should be rehearsing pinned under the one who refuses to leave me the fuck alone."
He has the audacity to smirk at that, even though it's clear he's genuinely impatient with her this time. "Now, where would the fun or excitement in that be? You're supposed to submit; allow your new love inside you. What better rehearsal can there be than having me inside you? Besides, I've never once heard you complain – and you can be quite loud at times, love." His tone is a warm caress, and she can't resist it even through her rage, particularly when it grows firm – dominating – once more. "Now, we haven't the time for your fussing – lie down."
There's an immediate ripple of desire deep in her belly, but still she has to object. "Are you serious? I'm going to have to spend another hour in hair and make-up, and this dress creases really easily."
"Then remove it."
Blushing, she does as he asks, at least having the courtesy towards the wardrobe department to set the flimsy thing carefully aside. As much as he's irked her that morning, he's looking incredible in a crisp white open-throated shirt, paired with a black waistcoat and matching suit pants, and she wants him. There will be a certain satisfaction in messing up that perfectly pushed back hair; rumpling that immaculately pressed shirt in the heat of their passion. A decent fuck is at least something to spend a little of her built up frustration on – something she's in dire need of right now.
The bra and panties beneath her elegant costume are her own, simple cotton, though he eyes her body as if she's draped in the finest lingerie – lingerie he has already begun to buy her, to their mutual pleasure. Even when he gets her pissed like this, even though he has, by now, seen her bared before him a hundred times, he makes her feel like she's something exquisite – like her body is some fine artwork he could absorb for hours on end. As much as she hates to admit it, it's a feeling she could get used to. No other man has ever looked at her that way. She bends to peel off her panties without having to be asked.
"No, leave them on," he insists.
She soon learns he has no intention of actually fucking her.
He urges her towards the compact bed that now serves for nothing remotely resembling its intended restful purposes, and his eyes darken as she lies before him. She has learned, by now, that if he is angry or horny enough, his strange pupils will dilate until they are almost the same size. She sees that's the case right now, and it makes her all the more eager. She finds she's already a little wet, just from falling victim to that stare. He grins naughtily down at her as he comes to kneel by her feet, placing his hands onto her knees and urging them apart. She yields willingly, but when she expects him to cover her body with his own, he surprises her.
Instead of climbing on top, he settles in on his belly between her spread thighs, propping himself up on his elbows as he smiles up at her. It's devious, the way that smile is positioned so perfectly above her panties – his mouth close enough for her to feel his breath warming her. She can feel herself blush hotter at the intent in his eyes, and she starts to sit up – starts to protest.
"I … I don't normally…" Do that, she wants to say, but how often has she dreamed of having him this way – of having those lips dedicated entirely to her pleasure? She's all but shaking at the thought of coming for him that way, while his mouth is buried in her wetness. It's thrilling and embarrassing all at once, that he would want to do something like that for her – and from the gleam in his eyes, she can tell he wants it as much as she does.
"Just lie back, love," he purrs. He leans in and nips at the inside of one thigh, his mouth hot against her bare skin. His nose brushes the front of her panties as he does it – lightly, but enough to make her squirm beneath him. "Just lie back, and take what's coming to you."
Somehow, she can't obey him this time. She stays like that, half-sitting, fascinated with the sight of him this way. If he's taking her to heaven and hell at once, God help her, she wants a front row seat. "Is this supposed to be your punishment for what happened just now?"
"Of a sort," he says, gracing her with another somewhat gloating smile. "Though I have wanted your thighs wrapped around my shoulders for quite some time. I'm not going to let you come, you see – not just yet, anyway. I want you good and worked up for the scene, with some of that fire and passion I know you're capable of – the glint in your eyes I see every time you're panting beneath me."
She can hardly focus on that as his hands are stroking at her thighs, now, running endless, tantalising patterns along her burning skin. Her hips are starting to undulate for him, her anger quickly melting away; melting beneath his touch as she so often does. It's yet another time she's given in to him – yet another paving stone on that path to her ultimate submission to the Goblin King. She can't help but think just how appealing that surrender is starting to seem. A soft moan spills from her lips as her eyes fixate on his mouth, imagining how it will feel against her. She knows it won't be long before she finds out, and the thought sends more heat flooding down to her core.
One hand moves to caress her between her legs, stroking her through her panties just to tease her before the main event, his thumb starting to press between her lips. She gasps loudly, her hips surging up to meet his touch. There's no doubt he can feel her wetness, now, running his thumb slowly up and down, the contact warm, and just short of ticklish through the thin fabric.
"If you're good girl and get the scene down in less than ten takes, this time, I might just finish the job later on," he tells her. "A much more thorough job than we have time for now – but only if I'm satisfied with your performance first. Only the good little actresses get the awards – and rewards – don't they, pet?" He winks up at her. "Still so eager for me to continue?"
"Please …" When he has her turned on like this, she would beg for him to set her on fire, and both of them know it.
"As you wish – and as you asked so nicely," he says, and then both his hands are moving, tugging the damp crotch of her panties aside just enough to give him access. He leans in close – enough to make her heart stop – and then draws back, considering. He smiles as his hands move to her hips, instead, tugging at her waistband.
"On second thought, I think I'll take these," he says, before stripping her bare, and then pocketing her underwear before she can even think to protest. "I was going to leave you in them, soaked in your own wetness, to inspire your performance. Perhaps, if you're entirely exposed instead, save for your dress, it'll encourage you not to waste more of my time on set." He flashes her another lewd grin, and this time it's so close to her slick and wanting flesh that she cannot help but moan.
His smile falters as he finally turns his full attention to her bare slit, desire darkening his strange eyes as he looks upon her. "Oh, you're so wet for me, love. So very wet," he murmurs, and brings his face to her core.
He graces her with a kiss, first, and his mouth is divinely soft against her moist and swollen lips, his tongue firm and hot as it forces its way between them. He licks her in long, slow strokes, savouring her, exploring all she has to offer. His hands take a firm grip of her hips as his mouth moves against her, holding her still while he pleasures her, but there's no silencing her moans. She keens and wails as he feasts on her, driving her wild with that tongue, worshipping every last inch of her soaking wet cunt.
He finds her entrance, his tongue pausing to tease over its soft barriers before pushing inside, making her cry out loud. He murmurs his own satisfaction against her, the sensation humming through her receptive flesh and only deepening her moans. She bucks helplessly against him as he pushes her open that way, driving the tip of his tongue that tiny bit deeper. He gives her just enough to keep her panting and groaning – enough so that she wails her disappointment when he finally draws back.
"Frustrated enough yet, love?" he asks, and he's smiling even as he licks at his lips.
"Fuck you," she moans, weakly.
He chuckles as he bows his head once more, and the sound is muffled against her slick flesh. His eager tongue finds her clitoris easily, something he has denied her until now, and that's where her true torment begins. He circles the swollen bundle of nerves, slow and gentle, yet relentless, entirely without mercy as she all but screams his name. The edges of her vision darken, and she thinks she might actually faint as his lips close around that sensitive nub, and he starts to suck lightly instead, but she remains ever-conscious of him, driven close to insanity with the thrill she knows only he can give.
The sight of his lips thrust so tightly against her is almost more than she can stand, but she has to keep on watching as she grabs hold of his hair, urging him more firmly against her. All at once, she remembers his words, and feels the urge to wrap her thighs tightly around his shoulders too, insisting that he give her all she needs. In the end, she only watches – she lets his power guide them.
She's beyond sensitive, now, unleashing high-pitched moans and wails as his tongue does delicious and terrible things to her, her hands moving restlessly in his hair. When she thinks it's impossible for him to send her any crazier, he raises his eyes to hers, and the lust that darkens them scorches her right down to her soul.
As promised, he doesn't quite bring her to that much-needed height of pleasure – she must prove herself worthy, first.
Back on set, when he calls 'action' again, she's all but trembling just with the memory of his touch. Her speech comes far easier this time, hot, angry words of how her mysterious suitor has coveted her all through these past long, lonely years, and of how her head now fights to prevail over the storm of emotion that he has stirred within her breast. The storm is winning, only growing in power, and the princess knows it. Perhaps even the actors behind the costumes know it, too, because no one dares interrupt her, not even when she goes off-script in her ire.
She should be telling all who listen – the camera – that she is too weak to uphold any kind of resistance any longer; that it's inevitable that she should fall to such a seductive and powerful foe. Instead, her confession cuts far closer to the bone, words of longing and desire stained dark with her anger. She speaks of how deeply the king has desired her all this time – years upon years of longing for her, of calling to her, before at last he has come seeking to stake his claim. She speaks of how he has tempted and tormented her; how, finally, he has broken down every last barrier between them, and how, even in her rage, she has rejoiced to see them fall.
She speaks of a man who has utterly consumed her, the same way she has always consumed him.
She goes on, pouring every last shred of emotion she can lay hands on into her performance. She strips herself entirely bare, her silken costume clinging to her overheated flesh like a second skin as she tells them of just how far she has fallen – how she is wholly, unquestionably his.
The set rings deafening with the new silence that follows, her breath hot and heavy in the back of her throat when she finishes at last. She cares nothing for her bewildered co-stars; the camera men struck dumb by her outburst. She cares only for her director's opinion.
His legs are still thrown over the arm of his chair, as is his usual, almost bored stance, where he will lounge back at his leisure, but this time he's been sitting upright all throughout her speech, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes intent only on her. There's a small, indecipherable smile on his face, and his eyes are shining.
"Perfect," he says, and though the camera has finally caught the entire thing after all her failed attempts, it's clear neither of them give a damn about the movie any more.
Not too much later, they're in his lavish hotel room, or perhaps it's her own – she has long since ceased paying attention to the scenery – and he gives her the reward she has doubtless earned. He brings her to helpless, moaning ecstasy with his tongue, and she's just as wet, and as weak-kneed, and as wild as he wanted of her, but it's clear that both of them hunger for more.
She fucks with the same fire as he, his love, his warrior, wild and wet as she is; wanton beneath him. She meets his every thrust; holds his eyes with the same burning hunger as his own devour her with. Even as the pleasure breaks over them both, neither relinquishes that all-consuming eye contact. She comes hard for him – with him – and, perhaps for the first time, she sees him the way he has always seen her.
In that moment, she knows she is his equal.