Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A love of crosswords is also a love of language – albeit a love that enjoys seeing the object of its affections toyed with, tickled and flipped upside-down. Alan Connor.

I don’t want to be a stupid girl. Pink.

Sherrie taps on the dressing room door with her fingernails. “You decent in there?”

“Come in.”

She pushes the door open – carefully, politely – and pokes her head inside. “Alright, Vinny.”

Vince is sitting over by his dressing table. He’s in costume, except for the white coat, which is hanging on a hook. He’s leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, reading glasses on his nose. He’s clutching a newspaper in one hand and a biro in the other. He doesn’t look up.

Sherrie smiles at him anyway. She says, “What’s the news?”

“Mm?” He still doesn’t look up.

“I was just asking – since you’re reading the newspaper –”

“I’m not reading it. I’m doing the crossword.”

“Right, yeah!” Sherrie eases herself further into the room and shuts the door behind her. She’s reaching for a conversational branch to grab onto. “I used to do the puzzles in my dad’s paper sometimes.” Pause, self-deprecating laugh. “I was never very good at ‘em.”

For the first time, Vince glances up at her. “Your father didn’t get the Guardian, did he.”

“No, the Sun.”

Vince snorts and looks back down at the paper in his hand. “Clown starts fight over obliging lady. Four letters.”

Sherrie blinks. “Oh, um…”

“Come on, Sherrie, that’s a piss-easy one.”

“Oh, I didn’t – I mean, I just –” She forces out a sparkling laugh. “Sorry. I actually had something I wanted to ask you. If you don’t mind me interrupting. Just for a minute.”

Vince sighs heavily. “I was rather looking forward to a few minutes of peace and quiet, while Jack’s up there fiddling with that wretched camera.”

“I know. It won’t take long, I promise. And the camera keeps misbehaving; Jack’s going to be ages.”

He sighs again. He makes a big production of setting his newspaper aside on the dressing table, but he keeps the biro in his hand. He uncrosses his feet and sits upright in his chair. He plucks the glasses from his face and ceremoniously lays them down atop the paper.

Finally, he looks at her, and he says: “Well?”

Sherrie smiles at him: sweet, apologetic. “See, it’s an acting thing.”

“An acting thing.”

“Yeah. See, I was talking to Marcus about Suzette. And he was talking about her, like… intery-ority?”

The faintest shadow of amusement crosses Vince’s face. “Interiority.”

Sherrie smiles bashfully. “Right, yeah, that. He said all this stuff about it, and then he was like, d’you know what I mean? And I was like, yeah, but actually I was like, not really?”

“I see.”

“So basically, I was just wondering, like… could you explain it a bit for me? I know I should ask Marcus, but – he’s so busy all the time, and – um, sometimes when I ask him to explain things, he just sort of – laughs it off.” She pauses. “I want to understand, though. I want to do it right.”

There is a special, cosy, muffling sort of silence that lies like a blanket down here in the dressing rooms. When Vince speaks, his voice sounds like part of that silence – like he is part of the furniture here – like he speaks with the same tongue as the theatre itself. He says, in a tone that’s hard to read: “You want to do it right.”

Sherrie knows her voice is not part of the silence. It’s different, something unwanted, something from outside. She says: “I thought if anyone would know something about proper acting, it would be you.”

Vince smirks. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Sherrie. Take a seat.”

Relieved, Sherrie plonks herself down in Jack’s chair. “Thanks, babes.”

“So, you want me to help you crack Suzette’s intery-ority.”

“Well, just explaining what it is would be really helpful, for starters!”

“Mm.” Vince twirls the biro in his hand, gazing off at the wall behind her head as he thinks. “Where to begin…? Well… you know all Suzette’s lines, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, by heart.”

“And you know all her stage directions and blocking. You know everything she says and does, from the moment she arrives at the clinic, until the moment she dies in that chair.”

Sherrie gives a proud smile. “Everything.”

“Okay. Well – why?”

Her smile falters. “Because – she’s my character?”

“No,” Vince shakes his head, “not why do you know it. Why does she do it all? Why does she say it all?” He waits a moment for an answer. Not receiving one, he tries: “What’s her reason for going to the asylum that day?”

“Well… she has migraines. And hallucinations.”

Vince points at her with the pen. “Yes! Okay. She has these symptoms. That’s the basic reason. And when you really break it down – what connects the reason to the action? What is she thinking, what is she feeling, what does she want?”

“Um… she wants to get better?”

“Yes, but we need to dig deeper than that. To a layer of the mind of which even Suzette herself may not be consciously aware. Why does she want to get better? Why does she turn to Doctor Goudron for help?” He waggles the pen at her. “You have to question everything, Sherrie. Even if the answer seems obvious at first. You have to challenge Suzette. You have to be her psychotherapist. You have to get under her skin, poke around in the corners of her mind, and ask her why. That’s how you get to think what she’s thinking, to feel what she’s feeling…”

“Okay, okay!” Sherrie holds up a hand. “I think I get what you’re saying. But I don’t know how to… do all that. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Let’s start with you,” Vince says, pleasantly. “When was the last time you went to see a doctor?”

Sherrie thinks back. “Just before Christmas. I was having – um, I had some – lady problems.”

Vince raises his eyebrows at that. “Alright. And you wanted to feel better again.”

“Right.”

“You wanted the doctor to tell you what was wrong with you. And you wanted him to do something to make it right.”

Sherrie doesn’t bother pointing out that her doctor is a she, but she does think it’s interesting that Vince reached so confidently for he. “That’s kind of the point of going to the doctor, isn’t it?”

Vince smiles. “I assume it all went perfectly smoothly?”

“Oh, yeah, all cleared up now.”

His eyes flicker down to her lap. Just for a moment, but she notices. He clears his throat and says, “How would you have felt if it didn’t go smoothly? If the doctor had said – sorry, I can’t help you.”

Sherrie flounders for a moment. “I guess I would’ve gone to a different doctor.”

“But what if he couldn’t help you, either? How would you feel?” Without waiting for an answer, he tells her: “You would feel disappointed. Confused. Lost. Even scared. Wouldn’t you? You’d be scared of what might happen. If your health deteriorated further. If it interfered with your career, kept you from singing, kept you from doing this play. You’d be scared for the things you care about, things you might lose.”

“I guess.”

“You brought that fear to your doctor. Put it in his hands and said, here’s my problem. Here’s my body. Here are my… lady parts. I’m trusting you to make it right again.”

“Actually…”

“That’s what Suzette wants from the clinic. Her world is wrong. She feels her life, as she knows it – whatever it is that she values – is under threat. And she knows she can’t make it right on her own. She hasn’t the education. She hasn’t the brains. She knows that.” Vince is shifting forwards in his chair, leaning in towards Sherrie now. “So she turns to a doctor. Someone educated. Someone cleverer than her. A man. Someone older, experienced, respected, wise. In many ways, a father figure.”

Sherrie squirms in her seat. “I guess I can see that.”

Vince’s eyes look dark. He’s speaking more quietly than before, his deep voice vibrating through the soft silence of the theatre. “And she asks him – she trusts him – to set her right.”

For a while, nothing happens. Sherrie doesn’t even breathe. The air in here belongs to Vince, just as much as his coat on the hook.

After a minute, Sherrie realises that his hand is on her wrist. She has no idea when it got there, or when he shoved his pen between the pages of the newspaper.

She jerks her arm away without thinking, then jumps up from the chair. “Alright,” she says, high-pitched and breathless, half-laughing with nerves. “I think, um, that helped a lot. Thanks. I won’t, um. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Vince follows her to his feet. He’s taller than her, even with Suzette’s heels, and his bulk seems to encompass the whole room. “It’s alright,” he tells her. “You said yourself. Jack won’t be back for ages.”

“I know, but…”

Vince steps towards Sherrie, backing her up against his dressing table. Her thighs hit the edge of it, and her upper body bends backwards, towards the mirror, as she tries to put more space between them.

But he crowds closer to her. His gut, held in by Goudron’s expensive waistcoat, touches her stomach. She can feel it through the thin fabric of Suzette’s dress. It’s warm and firm and insistent. Pressing harder against her. Pinning her against the table. He doesn’t put his hands on her, but his arms – Goudron’s sweaty shirt and sleeve garters – fence her in.

Sherrie sucks in a few breaths of his air. His aftershave, his sweat. She laughs and says, “Vinny. Come on.”

Vince doesn’t laugh. He gazes down at her and says, “Let’s not mince words, Sherrie. We both know you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes linger all over her face, her lips. “I don’t mean to insult you. After all, a pretty girl like you doesn’t need to be clever, do you? You have other ways of getting what you want. I know that. And from what I hear, Marcus knows that better than anyone.”

Sherrie frowns. “If you’re accusing me…”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just speculating.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

His gaze slips further down, over her throat, towards her collarbone. “From the Latin specere, meaning to look. You like to be looked at, don’t you, Sherrie? That’s what you’re here for.”

“I’m here for – I’m here for acting advice.”

His mouth curves into a smirk, just a small one, almost invisible beneath the moustache. “Acting is doing. You’re not cut out for doing things. You were put on Earth to be pretty. There’s no point pretending otherwise, not when you’re so very good at it.”

Sherrie feels frozen. She knows she should say something, do something, but her mind has gone blank.

Vince seems to take her lack of response as a response in itself. Slowly, he brings both his hands to settle on her waist. For the moment, he only holds her like that, and he says: “Advice, then. You come to me, as a father figure, as someone smarter than you, to tell you what to do.”

In spite of herself, Sherrie nods.

“Here it is, then. Stop trying to be something you’re not. Look at this tight, young body.” His eyes gleam, smug and lecherous. “Stupidity is an advantage for a girl like you, my dear. You should embrace it.”

From somewhere, Sherrie summons the words: “I’m not stupid.”

Vince chuckles condescendingly, like a small child is telling him I want to be an actor too when I grow up.

One of his hands slides up Sherrie’s side, feeling every inch of her through the dress, until it comes to rest on her breast. It stops there, squeezing through the costume. Not gentle, but not too hard. He licks his lips appreciatively, and he says, slowly and deliberately: “You are a ridiculous, vacuous bimbo.”

Sherrie’s thoughts are still coming sluggishly, but she can feel her blood getting hot at that. She grips the table behind her. “And you’re a sexist, elitist pig.”

Vince’s hand moves more quickly this time, up towards her throat. He holds her by the neck – not squeezing – not doing anything to stop her breathing. Just holding. “Elitist, perhaps,” he says, in a conversational tone, laced with something darker. “Sexist, no. I know perfectly well there’s no shortage of stupid men, and no shortage of intelligent women, either. My wife is a highly intelligent woman.” He leans in closer, whispers, so that his hot breath tickles in Sherrie’s ear. “I’d trade her in any day of the week for a stupid little whore like you.”

One of Sherrie’s heels slips on the floor, and she crumples further back under his weight. She whimpers. “Vince…”

His one hand stays at her neck like a collar, while the other slips downwards, over her hip. He angles her body to the side slightly so that he can more easily place his palm over her crotch.

At first, she thinks that’s all he’s going to do. Just to demonstrate that he can do it, that she can’t – won’t – do anything to stop him.

But then he pushes against the fabric of the dress, forcing it to crease between her legs, allowing his fingers to slide into the space between her thighs. He grabs her sex and rubs at it through the costume.

His breath in her ear is laboured, now. “See?” he whispers. “You’re wet for me.”

Sherrie bites her lip. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it through your pretty little dress.”

“You don’t know. I might be wet about something else.”

Vince laughs – more of a growl. “Clown starts fight over obliging lady,” he repeats. “Four letters.”

Sherrie moans. “I don’t know! I don’t want to do any stupid riddles –”

“We can work it out together. I’ll help you. It’s only four letters – you can count to four, can’t you?”

“Fuck off…”

“Do it,” he hisses, groping her pussy with his thick fingers. “Be a good girl. Count to four for me.”

Sherrie screws her eyes shut and does as she’s told. “One…” She gasps, momentarily floored by the humiliation – by how much it turns her on. “Ngh… two…”

“That’s right, poppet. You’re doing so well.”

“Three, four,” she grunts, and grinds her hips down against his hand, wanting more friction.

He shoves her back against the table. He keeps holding her, by the neck and the cunt, but his hands go still. “Well done,” he smiles, wicked and self-satisfied. “Oh, I like being smarter than you, Sherrie. I know it’s not a high bar to clear, but it still feels good. It’s been a long time since I got this hard.”

“That’s sick.”

“Well, hark at her ladyship, the paragon of sexual propriety.” He rubs her cunt again, making the fabric drag against her clit. Sherrie whines, and Vince laughs at her. “You know this is all you’re good for, really. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

“I’m not going to take this lying down, y’know.”

“Whatever her ladyship prefers. I’m partial to all fours.” He bares his teeth at her. “Come on, then. Part of the clue is telling us what the answer means. But which part?”

“I… I don’t…”

“Maybe it’s about you.” He leers. “I know a four-letter word for an obliging lady.”

Sherrie glares up at him. Finally, her brain clicks into gear, and the fog around her thoughts dissipates. She's left with anger and desire like two edges of a knife. “Maybe it’s about you,” she counters. “An actor’s just a type of jumped-up clown.”

And at that, for the first time, Vince seems genuinely thrown. He has no comeback. Instead he smiles and narrows his eyes at her. “Touché.”

“Come on, then.” She grasps at his shoulder, pulls him closer against her. “Or were you just bragging about being able to get it up? At your age, I don’t think I believe you.”

Spurred on by the mockery, he snaps back into action, hoisting her up to sit properly on the dressing table. He roughly hitches her dress up around her waist, and she parts her legs to let him in.

While Vince is hurrying to unbuckle his belt, Sherrie pulls her underwear to one side and spreads herself. She pushes two fingers inside and moans, impatient.

He gets his cock out. She looks down at it. It’s leaking as it pokes hopefully up towards her. And it’s on the small side.

Sherrie sniggers openly. “Is that it?”

Vince goes redder than before. “Oh, do shut up.”

In a broad impression of Maggie, Sherrie scoffs, “About average, for a man of his height. Ha! All this time!”

Vince pushes three of his fingers into Sherrie’s mouth, gagging her. “I said shut up,” he hisses. “Stupid slut.”

Sherrie sucks on his fingers and moans some more. She can feel Vince’s belly pressing hard against her, and then his cock pushing inside her, sliding easily into her wet cunt. Her eyes roll back as he fills her, and her fingernails clutch at his shirt, and she can feel her brain turn to liquid and leak right out between her legs.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, muffled by his fingers.

“Good girl,” he pants. He wraps one arm around her waist and uses it to hold her close while he fucks her.

The dressing table is solid and doesn’t protest. Sherrie wouldn’t care if it collapsed under her. All she cares about is the cock inside her, and the warm weight holding her tight, keeping her in her place. She’s never felt stupider, or sluttier.

Vince is breathing hard against her throat while he thrusts into her: fast and rough; animalistic and selfish as he takes what he wants from her body.

Her toes curl inside Suzette’s shoes. Her legs kick out straight, and start to tremble. “Fuck,” she squeaks, “oh, fuck… I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

He licks under her jaw, all the way up to her ear. She squeals in disgust and ecstasy as she climaxes, and then he’s coming inside her, grunting as he fills her up.

They part. He steps back, turns away, goes to clean himself up.

Sherrie sits on the dressing table, shaking, still pulsing with the aftershocks. She rubs herself to disperse the last of the sensation, and when her hand pulls away, it's sticky with Vince’s come.

She watches his back. Quietly, she says, “Your fucking’s better than your acting.”

Without turning around, he says, “So is yours. Obviously.”

“I should’ve gone to Maggie for the acting advice.”

“I confess to being more interested in your interior than your interiority. But I can’t say with confidence that Maggie wouldn’t have tried to fuck you, too.” With that, he turns to face her again, and gives her a sardonic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Why don’t you come back tonight, and I’ll give you the benefit of my wisdom. Properly, this time.”

Later that night, when Jack and the others have gone home, Sherrie creeps back into the boys’ dressing room. Sure enough, Vince is still there, waiting for her. She lets him pull down her jeans, bend her over a chair, and fuck her from behind.

His paws on her are greedy and clumsy, his breath ragged. Dog. He goes about pretending he’s so smart and above it all, when really he’s just another stupid dog, like every other man – thinking with their pathetic little pricks instead of their brains.

She goes back again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. She likes to see how hard he gets for her. He likes to yank on her hair, and fondle her tits from behind, and give unsolicited feedback on their size and pertness – though he usually calls them breasts, which makes him sound silly, in Sherrie’s opinion.

Each night, Sherrie shows up a little later. Makes him wait a little longer. She wants to test his patience. See if he wants her bad enough to hang around.

And he does. He starts out wanting her body, but it doesn’t take long for him to slide into needing it. She notes the gradual shift from calm, confident dominance towards something weaker and needier – something less controlled.

On this particular night, she leaves it longer than ever. By the time she steps into the dressing room, Vince is half frantic for her; he rushes to her, like a dog left home alone all day, and pushes her against the door.

His mouth on her neck is needy, desperate, like his hands on her tits. He mumbles, “I thought you weren’t coming,” and there’s something rather pathetic about his tone.

Sherrie giggles, runs her fingers through his thinning hair. “Aw. You thought you weren’t gonna get your fix? Mm?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s grinding up against her, dumb and impatient. She can feel his erection through her joggers. It’s pulling him forward – making him careless. She realises with excitement that he doesn’t have a single thought in his head right now except the need to fuck.

When he tries to pull at her waistband, Sherrie grips his wrist and stops him. “No.”

Vince stares at her, stricken. “Huh?”

She smiles at how stupid he looks, mouth open, eyes glazed with frustrated desire. She says, “Not tonight, babes.”

He blinks at her: confused, angry, hurt. The only word he can manage is: “Why?”

“I just don’t think you deserve it.”

He grunts angrily and goes back to pawing at her, tugging on her waistband. Sherrie slaps his hand away and says sharply, “No! Bad boy!”

They watch each other for a minute, Vince breathing heavily, his brow furrowed as the gears turn. Sherrie knows what he’s thinking. Very softly, she says, “Are you going to rape me, Vincent?”

He just glares at her. His hips twitch involuntarily, rubbing his cock against her stomach through their clothes.

Sherrie lowers her voice still further. “I know you want to. And we both know I wouldn’t be able to stop you. But I would put up a fight.” She lightly rakes her fingernails over his unshaven jaw. “And with signs of a struggle, it wouldn’t just be he-said-she-said. I would ruin your life. Your family, your career. Would it be worth it? Just for a few minutes of pleasure? Just to know that you’d fucked me?”

He groans and ruts up against her. She strokes the back of his neck: soothing, almost maternal. “The question is,” she murmurs, “do you have enough brain cells left to control yourself?”

His voice vibrates against the crook of her neck. “Please, Sherrie. Please.”

“Reduced to begging already?” She titters. “Maybe I could be convinced. If you ask really, really nicely.”

“I am asking nicely.”

“You have to do better than that, hon.” Her fingers rake through the hair on the back of his head. “Why don’t you drop down on your knees and show me how pretty you can beg, hm?”

Vince stiffens. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I thought you liked me ridiculous. Come on. Just kneel for me, and I’ll let you put your little cock in me. We both know how much you need it.”

He pulls away, glaring. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Yeah, you do, sweetheart.”

His glare twists into an expression of hatred, fury, spite and disgust. She can tell that he’s trying to recapture the look of dignified contempt he gave her at the start, but those days are long gone. There’s too much desire in it now, too much grubby feeling. “You slimy little succubus,” he spits. “Your type think you can just waltz into anything and take it for yourselves. And we’ll all be too dazzled by fame and sex appeal to deny you.”

Sherrie shrugs. “Marcus reckons so.”

“Well, we’re not all as spineless as Marcus. You might've bewitched him, but you won't bewitch me.”

“Is that a fact.”

“I’ve – I've had enough of you, all of you dead-eyed canaille, stomping around the theatre with your ripped jeans and your ringtones. You’ve got the whole rest of the fucking world. This is for us. And it always will be, as long as I’m here to defend it from you.”

“Not that much longer, then.” She gives him a withering look, up and down. “Keep lying to yourself, Vinny. I'm part of your world, now. This production needs me.”

He hisses, “It would be better to have no production at all than to be enslaved by someone like you.”

“You need me,” she continues, head held high. “And tomorrow you’ll come crawling back, begging me not to leave you alone – with your newspaper, and your haunted little dried-up husk of a theatre.”

She turns on her heel and leaves him without looking back.

It doesn’t even take twenty-four hours. The next morning, almost as soon as Sherrie arrives in her dressing room and drops her handbag on the table, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” she calls out brightly.

The door opens, and Vince appears in the doorway. He’s just standing there, looking at her. Less angry than before, more apprehensive. He doesn’t speak.

“Vinny!” She beams as she beckons him inside. “Nice to see you. What are you doing here?”

He steps forward, letting the door fall shut behind him. The moment it does, he drops to his knees on the threadbare carpet. “Please,” he says, his voice already raspy and desperate. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Sherrie’s smile spreads even wider as she looks down at him. She suppresses a laugh, not wanting to end this moment before she’s had a chance to enjoy it properly. “Well, well,” she says. “You miss me that much already?”

His eyes are fixed on her crotch. He might as well be drooling. “I couldn’t sleep,” he confesses. “I couldn’t think about anything else.”

“You know your wife’s got one too, don’t you? I mean, I figure she probably does.” Sherrie sits down in the chair by her dressing table and crosses her legs at the knee. She wore a miniskirt today on purpose. “But I guess it’s been a while since she let you go sniffing around there, huh.”

The words come low, reluctant. “It’s got to be you.”

That sends a little thrill through her body, fluttering from her pussy to the tips of her fingers. “Aw,” she coos. “That’s so sweet. And just last night you were calling me a slimy suck-you bus-driver.”

“Forget that, forget all of it. I was angry. I didn’t mean a word.” He starts shuffling towards her on his knees, creaturely and near-frantic. “Let me fuck you again, Sherrie, please. I know you want it too.”

Sherrie uncrosses her legs as he draws nearer. When his head is between her knees, she stops him with a gentle hand in his hair. “Hold it there,” she says softly. “Let’s just slow down a minute. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you just yet.”

Vince keens, straining closer to her cunt.

She holds him back, tightening her grip. “You said some very hurtful and very silly things. I want you to take them back properly.”

“Yes, yes –”

“Tell me I was right. Marcus is right, and you’re wrong. This show needs me.”

His eyebrows draw together in pain, but he says the words. “You… you were right. We need you. I need you. I need to fuck you.”

“Mhm,” she smirks, “I can see that. And the theatre is better off with me here, isn’t it? Me and my fans. Normal people. Real people.”

That one’s harder. He flinches and drops his gaze to the floor, between her trainers.

Sherrie uses her hand in his hair to tilt his head back, to force him to look her in the eyes. “Vince,” she murmurs. “I need you to say it.”

He licks his lips. His gaze drops back down to her underwear, on clear view beneath her tiny little skirt. “Th– the theatre is better off with you. A-and your fans.” The regret is thick in his voice as he forces out, “Normal people have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

Sherrie wiggles delightedly in her seat. “That’s right! Good boy!” And she scratches him fondly behind his ears.

He grunts and leans into her touch. “Let me, now.”

“Well, we can’t right now! We’ve got to get ready for rehearsal! What would the others say if we were late?”

“Just quickly,” he whines, and she feels herself getting wetter at how pathetic he sounds. “In, out, just once. Please!”

“Later,” she reassures him. “Tonight. If you’re good.”

He makes a noise close to a sob and lays his forehead on her bare knee. She pets his hair pityingly and says, “How about a little gift, in the meantime. Something to whet your appetite, okay?”

Sherrie leans back in her chair and moves her legs to the side, together. She reaches up under her skirt and slides her underwear down to her ankles. Vince watches hungrily, but Sherrie holds up a hand and says firmly, “Stay.”

He does as he’s told.

When she’s finished pulling her knickers off over her trainers, she drops them into Vince’s lap. “There,” she says. “You can look after those for me until after rehearsal.”

They’re pale pink, with a little bow on the front, and a fresh wet patch in the middle. Vince stares down at them, without picking them up.

Sherrie prompts, “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” he responds obediently. “So, you won’t be…”

“Wearing anything under my costume,” she finishes. “That’s right.”

Vince’s face has gone red. “That’s going to be – very distracting.”

Sherrie smiles. “But you’re a trained professional! You can handle a little distraction!” She stands up out of her chair and rolls her skirt back down. “You’d better go back to your dressing room now and get ready. I’ll see you onstage. Try not to think too hard about fucking me, okay? Especially in the bits where you’re trying to fuck me.”

“As you will soon find out, my dear – after, uh… after…”

Silence descends on the stage. Sherrie smiles sweetly, batting her eyelashes as she looks up at Vince. “After what?” she prompts.

He stares down at her and swallows.

She shifts in the chair, grinning, and subtly lays one hand across her hip so that it points towards her cunt. She whispers, “Are you going to ravish me, doctor?”

Vince just keeps on staring at her, his mouth hanging open, his eyes glazed. He’s breathing hard.

He looks like a complete fucking idiot.

“Um,” he manages. “Uh. I don’t…”

Marcus’s amplified voice rings out across the auditorium. “Fucksake! After your own surgery’s been completed!”

“After your own surgery’s been completed,” Vince echoes, and lunges for Sherrie. This time, it really doesn’t look like he’s acting.

She bolts up out of the chair, her heart racing. She flees. She screams and beats on the door, and she knows he’s staring at her. She wants him to catch her – to grab her and fondle her through her costume, to unbuckle his belt and take her, right there onstage.

Is that intery-ority? Maybe. Marcus certainly seems impressed when they do notes later. He tells Sherrie that today is the first time she’s convincingly embodied Suzette’s feelings of terror and powerlessness. But she doesn’t feel powerless.

For the first time onstage, she feels powerful.

Of course, it’s possible that Marcus is just being extra nice to Sherrie because he’s so pissed off at Vince. He absolutely takes Vince to pieces. He takes the time to mention individually every single flub and missed cue, until everyone – everyone except Sherrie – is squirming with discomfort.

Finally, Marcus slams down his notebook and says, “Right. Did I miss anything?”

Vince sighs heavily. “No. I think you got them all.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus snaps. He can be quite nasty when he’s cross, or when he’s hungry, and he’s on a new diet this week. “Because I’m starting to have doubts about your memory. I mean, Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into you today? You’re supposed to be the professional here – no offence, Sherrie.”

Sherrie shrugs. “None taken, babes.”

Marcus gives her a saccharine smile, before his face drops back into a scowl and he rounds on Vince again. “You didn’t look like a professional today, Vince. You looked like a rank amateur. Scratch that; even amateurs can learn their fucking lines. You looked like a first class moron who’d somehow wandered into the theatre.”

Vince is leaning back against the set, arms folded, eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “Finished?”

“No, I’m not finished,” Marcus seethes. “And that’s a very disrespectful way to speak to me in front of the cast when I’ve got my director’s hat on. I know this is just another gig to you, but my bloody heart and soul have gone into this production. Huh! You non-directing actors will never understand!”

Vince is visibly humiliated, gritting his teeth to hold back a retort. Sherrie drinks it in, her eyes bright, her body thrilling to see what he does next. Normally he doesn’t hesitate to tell Marcus what he really thinks, but today, he knows he’s screwed up. Everyone knows it. At last, he monotones: “I understand.”

“No, you don’t. Whatever. You don’t have to understand.” Marcus waves a hand at him. “You just have to do as you’re told. And today I’m telling you to remember your fucking lines, Vince, please, can you do that for me? Hm? Do you think you can manage that?”

There’s a long pause, during which the two men simply glare at each other. Halfway through, Marcus stands himself up straighter and folds his arms, angling his head belligerently as if to say: No, I’m not fucking backing down. You back down.

It works. Vince sighs and drops his head. “Yes, I can manage that.”

“Good.” Marcus squints at him, victorious, before picking up his notebook again. “Right. Now. Maggie – about the timing on that coat line…”

While the rest of the cast shift their attention elsewhere, Sherrie keeps her gaze fixed on Vince. When he finally lifts his head again, it’s to look right at her.

They lock eyes, and Sherrie’s face breaks into a grin as she crosses her legs, letting the costume slide across her naked flesh.

Vince watches her like a dog watching a hare.

Later, Sherrie lets herself into the boys’ dressing room without knocking.

For less than a second, she is greeted by the sight of Vince splayed out in his chair, with her pink underwear clutched in his fist, using it to jerk himself off. Immediately when she opens the door, he shouts shit and scrambles to try to save the situation, grabbing the first thing to hand – his newspaper – and throwing it over his lap to cover himself.

Sherrie bursts out laughing. She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. It feels different now.

Vince apparently got changed into his own ugly tweed trousers before he decided to unbutton them and have some fun. He’s less attractive as himself than as Goudron, and the moustache looks out of place in the modern day, even more so with the addition of five o’clock shadow. Right now, like this, he looks like somebody’s creepy uncle.

He’s red in the face, staring up at her with half-deranged eyes. “It’s – not what it looks like,” he stammers.

“Of course it’s not.” Sherrie walks over, slowly, looking him up and down as she comes. “You would never be so pathetically horny that you had to wank into my underwear, would you.”

His eyes fall closed as he breathes in the scent of her. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. “Tell me what to do, Sherrie.”

She settles her hand on the crown of his head. “That’s Miss Leeks to you, love.”

“Come on…”

“Really,” she purrs. “Or I’ll take my pussy and my underwear away, and you’ll have to get your jollies with Jack.”

He growls in frustration. “Tell me what to do. Miss Leeks.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sherrie strokes his cheek, almost tender. “You’ve been a good boy today, Vinny. You took your bollocking from Marcus so politely. I’m going to let you fuck me now.”

Then she lays down on the floor of the little room, on her back. She takes his eager weight on top of her, between her legs, and moans loud in pleasure while he fucks her. He goes fast, fierce, needy; more than making up for size with the desperation of it.

Unfortunately, due in part to that same desperation, he doesn’t last as long as she’d like. So she puts a hand on his head and pushes it down, guiding his face between her thighs and holding it there. “Oh, that’s right,” she pants, writhing under his tongue. “Oh, yes, baby. Can you taste yourself… taste your own come inside me… such a good boy for me!”

At the end, he looks up at her, drenched in sweat, both of their juices drying in his moustache. Dizzy and exhausted. Eyes full of gratitude and surrender.

She kisses his forehead and tells him well done. She can almost see his tail wagging.

After that night, they always do it in her dressing room. It’s slightly smaller, but slightly nicer, and comes with one hundred percent less Jack. Besides, it suits their new dynamic better – Sherrie, waiting comfortably in her chair, like a queen on a throne. Vince, crawling on his knees towards her, begging to be allowed to touch her. He puts her in mind of a junkie. Like her body's the only way he can get his fix.

Outside of her dressing room, they keep it professional – as professional as ever. Sherrie doesn’t tell anyone, and she’s certain Vince doesn’t either, but the others aren’t stupid. They don’t know the strange flavour it’s taken on, exactly, but they know something’s going on.

They keep their mouths shut. Fortunately for everyone. Sherrie wonders if this is an ancient pact among theatre people, to guard one another’s secrets. She supposes she’s not the first costar Vince has screwed around with, but she flatters herself that she’s probably the first to put him in his place.

– His place, his place! She’s fallen in love with the sight of him at her feet, head bowed submissively, waiting for orders. Waiting for mercy, for permission to touch. Sometimes she grants it, and he fucks her like his life depends on it. Sometimes she grants it, but only to eat her out, which he does gratefully, like he’s starving.

Sometimes she grants it, but only her feet. He loves her feet. Worships them, kisses them, sucks her toes when she commands it. He changes her shoes for her, before and after performances. Sliding Suzette’s heels into place for her. Carefully fastening the strap with his pudgy fingers, a little easier each time. An actor melting into his role until nothing else remains. Sometimes, if he hasn’t earned her cunt, she might allow him the privilege of humping her foot.

And, always, how his face lights up when she praises him. Good boy, Vinny. Who’s my good boy. Bark bark, sweet blue eyes turned up towards her. He doesn’t do the crossword anymore. Dumb, horny animal.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, they find time to open the show, to a sold out house. Press night brings mixed reviews: praise for Marcus and Maggie; derision for Sherrie and Vince.

That stirs him, the old Vince, the one from before. Wounded pride. He suffers an attack of defiance that night, slams the door of Sherrie’s dressing room, crosses the space in two strides, pulls her up out of her throne. He bends her over the chair and fucks her, angry, wordless.

She lets it happen: first, because it excites her; second, because she is already looking forward to punishing him. When he comes crawling back to her the next night, snivelling and grovelling, she loops his belt around his neck like a collar. Bad dog. She tells him it will take four days of denial to earn her forgiveness, and then she makes him count to four to prove that he can do it.

She forbids him from touching himself in the meantime. She has no way to enforce it, of course, and no doubt that he’ll break his promise when her back is turned. But it still feels good – issuing the command, and having him meekly accept it.

When the four days are up, it’s a relief for both of them. Sherrie pushes Vince down on his back, on the floor, and straddles his hips. She grinds on his bulge for as long as she dares before opening his trousers, freeing his cock, guiding it inside her.

He whines pathetically as he fucks up into her. She allows his hands to roam where they want, all over her hips and tits, groping and squeezing.

All too soon, it’s over, and they lie panting in each other’s arms. A pair of bad actors with nothing to prove anymore. Vince strokes a sweaty strand of blonde hair back from Sherrie’s forehead. “Sherrie,” he whispers dreamily, his enunciation still faultless despite everything.

“Vinny,” she mumbles back, snuggling her face into the warm crook of his neck. This once, she’ll let him get away with using her first name.

“Sherrie, Sherrie,” he repeats, lost in thought. “It’s all there in black and white. She – capital S, for goddess. Lowercase i. Humble i, worthless i. What does that leave us?”

She tries to picture the letters of her name. Mentally crosses them out, one by one. It takes her a while, but he doesn’t dare make fun of her for it. Finally, she says, “Two ‘r’s – and an ‘e,’ I think? That doesn’t spell anything.”

“Err,” says Vince quietly. “That means to make a mistake.”

“Aha.” Sherrie smiles to herself. “What have we got for your name, then? I’m not good at anagrams.”

“There aren’t any good anagrams for mine.”

“Poor Vinny. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“From the Latin vincentius, meaning conqueror,” he says glumly. Sherrie laughs until her sides ache.

Sherrie looks out at the empty auditorium. It’s a pretty room, she thinks, with its delicate white and gold details, the blue curtains framing every box. Later it will fill with people, but for now, the splendour of it is hers alone to enjoy.

Not quite alone. Maggie comes to join her on the hospital bed, wearing one of the oversized jumpers she wears when she’s not in costume. After sitting in silence for a minute, she says, “I’ve always found it a bit ugly.”

Sherrie looks round and blinks. “What? No! I think it’s gorgeous!”

Maggie smiles knowingly. “Wait until you’ve seen a few more theatres before you judge. Maybe one day you’ll be onstage at Drury Lane.”

“Oh – that is sweet of you to say, Mags. I don’t know if I want to do any more theatre after this.”

“Quite right, too. On to bigger and better things. Hollywood awaits, eh?”

Sherrie gives a non-committal, self-deprecating laugh. She says, “It’s – sad. To think tonight is our last night.”

Maggie shrugs. “That’s the nature of the job. You get used to it. You do miss the good times, of course, but I wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place forever…”

While she’s talking, another figure emerges from the wings. This time it’s Vince, Pret coffee cup in hand. The two women watch as he crosses the stage and comes to a halt in front of the bed.

“Your coffee,” he says to Sherrie, holding out the cup for her. He resolutely avoids Maggie’s eyes.

Sherrie takes the cup with a gracious smile. “You’re a sweetheart,” she says. “Why don’t you pop back and grab one for Maggie, too.”

“Oh, no,” Maggie interjects, “there’s no need…”

“Really, he doesn’t mind! Do you, love?”

Vince takes a deep breath before saying, “No. I don’t mind.”

Sherrie grins. “See? It’s no trouble. Chai latte, isn’t it, Mags?”

“Ah… yes. Yes, please. If you’re sure you don’t mind, Vince.”

Vince gives her a strained but polite smile and says, “Not at all. I’ll be right back.” And he turns on the heel of his smart black shoe and walks away, back the way he came.

The two women are left alone on the bed again. After a while, Maggie says, “Goodness. You have got him well trained.”

Sherrie can’t help smirking into the plastic lid of her coffee cup. “He’s just a big cuddly teddy bear, really.”

“Mm.” Maggie raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Clearly you’re giving him something I never could.”

Sherrie peers at her sideways. “You two…?”

“Just for a little while. Yonks ago, now.”

“I knew it!” Sherrie giggles. “He never said anything. I just knew it. Were you in a play together?”

“That’s right. Twelfth Night, in Brighton or Bristol or Bath, or something. I,” Maggie preens slightly, “was playing Olivia.” When that fails to get a reaction, she adds, “Olivia is the beautiful grieving countess.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. And who was he? The count?”

“God, no,” Maggie snorts. “He was Olivia’s fool.”

“Your fool? What d’you mean?”

“Fool – how to explain? It’s a character type – did you do any Shakespeare at school, Sherrie?”

Sherrie sips her coffee and scalds her tongue. “We watched one on DVD where Keanu Reeves took his top off.”

Maggie smiles tightly. “A fool is a little bit like a jester.”

“Oh, yeah! With the funny hats and the bells on their shoes, yeah?” Sherrie brightens. “Was that the character Vince was playing? Oh, my god, that is too funny!”

“Not quite,” Maggie chuckles. “No funny hat and bells. But yes, to put it simply, a fool was sort of a staff entertainer. Like a – a sort of early clown.”

Sherrie laughs some more, and then falls quiet. She sips her coffee again. Her brow furrows. “A clown,” she echoes.

Maggie says, “I know. He wanted Malvolio. Would’ve suited him better.”

Sherrie isn’t listening. She’s counting words on her fingers. “Four letters,” she mutters. “Four… fight… over… obliging…”

“What’s that, dear?”

Suddenly, Sherrie lets out a loud hoot of triumph. “Four letters!” she squawks. “Clown starts fight over obliging lady! F-O-O-L, fool!” She kicks her feet and cackles; narrowly misses spilling her coffee, only because Maggie puts a steadying hand on her elbow. “Oh, thanks, Mags, I owe you one! Oh, it was about him, after all!”