“Hey look, they’ve got the audition schedule for the next Drama Society production,” said my friend Emma as we were walking past the Student Union Societies noticeboards. “Why don’t you go for it this term?”

I bit my lip. I’d been going on about doing something with them for a while now, but always kept finding a reason not to. But maybe it was time to stop making excuses.

“Maybe I will. What are they doing, anyway?”

Emma snorted. “Well, it’s certainly not Shakespeare,” she said. “Unless he wrote something called `The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade`. Have you ever heard of it?”

I shook my head. “Who’s it by?”

“Heaven knows. I don’t even know how to pronounce his surname.” 

I looked at the poster. It was some guy called Peter Weiss, but I couldn’t decide if that was “Wice” like “Janet” or “Vice” like “Squad.”

“Well that just sounds weird,” I said. “I don’t really fancy that. I was hoping for something a bit more traditional.”

“Oh, come on Annie, it might be fun. Look, let’s go for a coffee and google it.”

Which is what we did. It turned out to be a German play written in 1963, which had been famously performed the following year (in English) by the Royal Shakespeare Company, directed by Peter Brook and starring Glenda Jackson and Ian Richardson. Apparently, it caused quite a stir at the time and was even made into a film, but hadn’t been performed much since then. Its title was also more usually abbreviated to “Marat/Sade”, which was a relief.

To cut a long story short, Emma persuaded me to at least go along to the auditions.

“You can always change your mind afterward,” she said sensibly.

***

I did a bit more research, and when I looked at the cast list, I saw that there was only one big female role, Charlotte Corday, but several smaller parts, including a random number of “patients” who acted as a kind of chorus, commenting on the action, which I thought sounded quite fun. The director, Melissa, had decided to audition for all the female roles together, so I turned up on the allocated afternoon with lots of other students, a couple of whom I recognised from previous DramSoc productions I’d seen.

We did various group activities to give Melissa a chance to pick out the most likely candidates for one of the named roles, and I was quite pleased when she picked me to read for her at a one-to-one session. I read through a couple of pieces with her, including one of Corday’s speeches from the play, and she seemed quite pleased. Even so, I was a bit shocked when she said I looked exactly right for Corday, and did I want to give it a go?

“I want someone fresh for the role,” she said, “and you seemed to pick up the style of the piece really nicely in that reading. I’ve not seen you in anything before - is this your first DramSoc audition?”

“Yes, though I did a bit of acting at school,” I admitted. “I was Rosalind in “As You Like It” in my last year. I’ve been meaning to get back into it, and thought this play looked a bit different.”

“Well, it’s not Shakespeare, though some of it is in verse. But there is one thing about the part that you need to be relaxed about. Your character has some form of sleeping sickness, as well as depression, so when she’s not acting the role of Corday, she’s always falling asleep at the side of the stage. In de Sade’s play, she has a lover, called Monsieur Duperret, and the patient who plays him is in the asylum because he’s an erotomaniac. And when he’s not acting, he’s always fondling and groping all over you. So basically, you need to be happy to be groped in a fairly sexual way quite a lot of the time. Would that bother you at all?”

This was quite a lot to take in.

“So, what you’re saying is, when I’m not being Charlotte Corday, I doze off at the back of the stage, and this other loony gropes at my tits?”

“Yes, that’s about it,” said Melissa happily. “Obviously, the whole play is a Marxist critique of society, so Duperret is intended to stand for the self-serving corruption of the Girondists, which is why he’s portrayed as a sexual opportunist. Corday is his innocent victim, betrayed and abused by the bourgeoisie.”

This seemed pretty flimsy to me, but on the other hand, I knew I was lucky to get a chance at such a good role at my first shot, and I’d be stupid to turn it down. Besides, the guy groping me might be a hunk.

“Okay, I guess if helps to bring about the Revolution, then it should be okay,” I said, hoping Melissa had a sense of humour.

Fortunately, she laughed. “That’s what Weiss intended, I suppose,” she said. “And Glenda Jackson played her in the original RSC production. She obviously wouldn’t have let herself be groped unless it was artistically necessary.”

I decided that what was good enough for the blessed Glenda would have to be good enough for me, too.

***

The next day, I got a text confirming that I’d got the part and calling me for a first read-through with the rest of the cast. Melissa began by giving us a short summary of how the play was structured.

“It’s a play within a play really,” she explained. “It’s set in 1808, when the Marquis de Sade – yes, the famous one – has been locked up in the asylum of Charenton, just outside Paris. That much is factually correct. According to Weiss, while he’s there he writes a play about the French Revolution and the death of Jean-Paul Marat and has it performed in the asylum, with all the parts played by other inmates. Having all the parts played by lunatics gives it that Brechtian aura of alienation, with de Sade standing outside it and commenting ironically on the action. He even gets whipped at one point, while giving a speech about revolution.”

“Sounds fun,” said a guy called Terry who was playing de Sade. “Who gets to whip me, though?”

“Charlotte,” said Melissa, pointing at me.

“So, when I’m not getting groped, I get to whip people?” I said with a grin. “I think I’m going to enjoy this play.”

“Me too,” said Terry.

But my main “sexual partner” in the show was Phil, who was playing Monsieur Duperret, my personal groper. I was pleased to discover that he was tall, slim, and really rather good-looking, if a little nervous. Melissa had explained the idea behind his character, and he seemed happy enough. In fact, judging by the way he kept glancing at me I had a feeling he was rather looking forward to it.  

“Can I just ask one question?” he said when we got to the first scene in the play where he had to grope me. “How far do you actually want me to go with this? Do I just stroke Annie’s arms and thighs, or can I touch her breasts?”

The rest of the cast laughed, including me, and Phil blushed.

“I need to know,” he said defensively. “I don’t want to get accused of sexual assault.”

“Can I leave it up to you two to work it out between you?” said Melissa, slightly dodging the issue. “Obviously, you probably shouldn’t actually undress her, but she’s catatonic, so she’s not going to be able to push you away. Ideally, it should look as if Duperret is going way too far, but obviously not so far as make Annie feel uncomfortable.”

“Let’s meet up afterward and talk it over,” I suggested to Phil. I was thinking that this could be a lot of fun, but I didn’t want to say so, in case everyone thought I was a bit of a slut.

***

After the read-through, I invited Phil back to my flat, which was only a ten-minute walk from the rehearsal studio. I made coffee, and we sat down to read through our scenes together. He still seemed a little nervous, so I decided I needed to take charge. 

“I’m still not entirely sure I know what the play’s going on about,” I admitted, “but I’m sure Melissa can explain as we go along. I think we just need to get this groping business sorted out. If we’re going to do this properly, I don’t want you wondering how far you can go before I slap you.”

“Okay, so how far is far enough?”

“Well, I reckon if we’re going to make this look good, you need to go pretty far. I mean, just stroking my arms isn’t proper erotomaniac behaviour. I honestly don’t mind you touching me all over. You can go as far as you dare. I mean it. Let’s give it a go. I’ll pretend to be asleep, and you grope me.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and shut my eyes. I felt Phil sit down next to me, and then his hands began to rub up and down my arms, then over my thighs. I sighed. It felt rather nice.

Phil’s hands began to rub my tummy, then move upwards. I may have let out a little gasp because he paused.

“So, breasts are really okay?” he asked.

“Go for it,” I said, and I felt his hand slide over my boob and begin to knead it gently. His fingers touched my nipple, which instantly hardened.

“This is weird,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“I know, but don’t stop,” I replied. “You need to imagine you’re an erotomaniac. You’re not bothered by social conventions.”

Then I had an idea. It was a bit extreme, but I reckoned it might just help us both get over the awkward situation.

“I think we need to get over our inhibitions completely,” I said. “Once we’ve done that, we can get on with acting our parts.” I casually took off my t-shirt, revealing my perky little breasts in a black lacy bra. Reaching behind me, I undid the clasp and slipped the straps down my arms, letting my little boobs free. I wriggled them saucily.

“Come on, Monsieur Duperret,” I giggled. “Get a load of these babies.”

“Wow, Annie, you’re serious, aren’t you?” said Phil. He reached out with both hands and gently fondled my little mounds. I couldn’t help letting out a little gasp of pleasure as his fingers brushed over my bare nipples. I felt them harden again, and the little dimples of my areolae tingled with arousal.

This time Phil didn’t stop but continued to knead my boobs. “Christ, you’re awesome,” he said and tweaked my nipples hard. Then he bent down and took one in his mouth, sucking it and rubbing it between his lips. I let out a little squeal of pleasure.

“Oh babe, yes,” I gasped out. Now we’d got this far, I knew I wasn’t going to be satisfied with just breast play. I wanted him all.

“Fuck, this is turning me on so much,” he whispered as he tongued my nipple.

“Me too,” I said and reached down for his crotch. My hand brushed over a massive bulge in his trousers. Without saying anything else, I began to undo his belt.

Phil did nothing to stop me, Instead, he stopped sucking my nipple and kissed me full on the lips. I opened my mouth, and he immediately slipped his tongue in and entwined it with mine. His hands were still roaming across my bare tits as we snogged, while I managed to drag his trousers far enough down to get his cock out.

His erection was clasped in my hand, and I pumped it up and down, pulling down his foreskin to reveal his purple knob, already glistening with pre-cum.

“You can fuck me in a minute, but first I’m going to suck it,” I told him.

“Let me just get my trousers off then,” he said, dragging them down, along with his boxer shorts. I stripped too, and together we fell naked onto the bed. I put his cock in my mouth and sucked greedily on it, licking around the smooth knob and pressing the tip of my tongue against the hole. It tasted delicious, and I’d have been quite happy to suck it for as long as it took for him to shoot his load down my throat, but I had promised him a fuck.

I let his cock slip out of my mouth and rolled onto my back. He lost no time in getting between my thighs, and I spread my legs wide, showing him my neatly shaved vulva. He took his cock in his hand, positioned it against my pussy lips, then slowly slid it between them into my sopping wet hole.

“Oh, fuck yes,” I breathed, as he filled me right up, “That’s so good.”

He began to fuck me slowly, pushing his dick right in, then pulling it almost all the way out. He wasn’t nearly as inexperienced as I’d thought, gyrating his cock to make it rub all over inside me, stimulating my soft spongy vaginal passage. I was already moaning and gasping, writhing around on the bed, when he pulled out, pressed his sticky knob against my clitoris, and used it to stimulate my hard bud.

“Oh Christ,” I gasped. He kept rubbing his erection against my clit, and I felt that unmistakable tingle of an approaching orgasm. I pulled him on top of me and squeezed him tight as it washed over me. As I came, shuddering and moaning, Phil rammed his dick back inside me and began to fuck me as hard as he could. This made me come again, and I was still shaking as he pulled out and shot rope after rope of thick creamy spunk up my body, splattering all over my tits and tummy.

He collapsed next to me, and looked at my naked body, damp with sweat and cum. I reached out and stroked his dick, which was slick with my pussy juices and still hard.

“Well, I guess we’d better not go that far on stage,” I suggested.

“I wish we could.”

I wished we could too. But at least now we’d fucked Phil was a lot more relaxed, and over the next few days, we met up several times and worked out an enjoyable groping routine.

***

It was at a rehearsal the following week that Melissa came up with her next brainwave.

“You know who Corday really is,” she said. “She’s Marianne – at least, that’s who she thinks she is.”

For a moment, I couldn’t work out what she was talking about, and it must have shown in my face.

“You know, Marianne, the female emblem of France. Like the Brits have Britannia, the French have Marianne. She comes from the French Revolution; she’s like a symbol of liberty. You must know that painting.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, so as not to look totally stupid, determined to get to Google as soon as I could.

“It’s perfect,” went on Michelle. “Corday thinks she’s saving France by killing Marat. So she’s Marianne. We need to get you one of those little red caps.”

While all this was going on, Denis the stage manager had been tapping frantically at his laptop. He brandished it triumphantly.

“There you go,” he announced. “Delacroix. ‘Liberty Leading the People’. With her tits out.”

“That’s the one,” said Melissa triumphantly, and I had to admit I did recognise the picture, which showed a woman brandishing the French “tricolore” in the midst of a battle, surrounded by corpses and a bedraggled bunch of revolutionaries. And Denis was right; the bodice of her grubby yellow dress had descended unceremoniously around her waist, revealing her bare bosom. It was certainly a dramatic effect.

“Why’s she got her norks out anyway?” asked Denis.

Melissa shrugged.

“Eighteenth-century porn, I guess. Any excuse to paint some bare tits, and if it’s ‘Art’ it must be okay. But God, that would work too,” she went on, getting excited again. “You start off fully dressed, then Monsieur Duperret gets his grubby hands all over you, and by the last scene, he’s got you topless. The audience will totally get that. It’s brilliant.”

“Hang on a minute,” I said, alarmed. “So you want me to get my tits out too, as well as being groped. I don’t know about that. My Mum and Dad are coming to see this. And my little brother.”

“Oh, come on Annie, it’s so brilliant,” enthused Melissa. “I don’t know why Glenda didn’t do it for the RSC. After all, she got her boobs out in that Ken Russell film.”

“What, `The Boy Friend`?” queried Denis. “I must have missed that bit.”

Melissa gave him a withering glare.

“Anyway, are you sure it’s historically valid anyway?” I said, looking for a way out. “Look at what it says about the picture. `Commemorates the July 1830 Revolution`. So it’s way too late. Nineteenth-century porn if anything.”

“Bollocks to that,” said Melissa bluntly. “I bet you the audience won’t realise. Most of them probably thought “Les Misérables” was about the 1789 revolution too.”

“Erm, yes, right, that’s true,” I said. I caught Denis’s eye and he pulled a face. Like me, he’d probably thought it was as well. Just how many revolutions did the French need anyway?

Meanwhile, Melissa was expanding on the Corday/Marianne idea, and I had to admit it did make sense. Duperret’s erotomania would be the dramatic means to get Corday topless, making the Marianne parallels both obvious and effective. I wasn’t sure if it quite worked as political commentary, but as a theatrical device, it was certainly pretty neat, and not too gratuitous. I thought I’d probably better warn my parents about it first, but since my mum regularly sunbathed topless on the beach, I figured they’d be cool about it.

***

And so the rehearsals went on. Phil groped me at the back of the stage when we weren’t part of the action, and I got quite used to it. In addition, now that I had to get topless at the end, it was agreed that I shouldn’t wear a bra under the plain white shift costume that all the female inmates wore, which made it even more fun for Phil when he came to grope my boobs. And more fun for me too, getting my breasts directly stimulated. I think my nipples were permanently hard every time we rehearsed.

We worked out several other bits of sexy business. At one rehearsal, as a joke, Phil put a sock stuffed with cotton wool down one trouser leg, so it looked as if he had an enormous permanent erection. Melissa liked it so much that she incorporated it into the action and got the costume designer to make him a very realistic one (with a big knob and everything) out of an old stocking.  

As a slight concession to public decency, under the shift, I wore a pair of tight white sports knickers, which meant Phil could stick his hand up underneath and rub my thighs without risking any accidental exposure. There was also one scene where I was giving one of my speeches while Melissa made him grovel on the floor in front of me while trying to pull my shift right up. In the end, he stuck his head right underneath and had to be pulled off by one of the orderlies and beaten around the end with a rubber truncheon.

The climax of the play came when Duperret finally got his way and pulled my top down, exposing my boobs. I then picked up a rifle with a bayonet, creating a clever tableau echoing the painting, with Duperret on the floor staring up at me like the blue-shirted man. I used the bayonet to stab Marat, and the play ended with an ironic song in praise of Napoleon, during which the patients rioted, invaded the audience, and the whole thing ended in complete chaos.

As part of the final collapse of order, Melissa decided that Duperret should finally get to have his way with Chalotte and shag her up against the back wall while the orderlies were trying to get the patients back under control. We had a lot of fun rehearsing this, me pressed against the wall with my legs sticking out, while Phil dry-humped me vigorously. Every time we did it I could tell he’d got an erection, and I tried making him laugh by whispering things like “Give it to me big boy” while he banged away.

As the first night approached, Melissa ensured we’d have full houses by printing the words “Warning: This Production Contains Partial Nudity” in bold red letters on each publicity poster, and by the last night it was standing room only. The audiences seemed to enjoy the play, even if they probably didn’t pick up on all of the Marxist sub-text. But who cares about the fate of the proletariat, as long as the leading lady gets her tits out at the end?

***

The last night came around all too quickly.

“You know, I’m going to really miss feeling you up every day,” said Phil pensively as we stood backstage waiting for the lights to go down.

“I bet you are,” I said with a smile. “Never mind, at least you’ve got the photos to jerk off to.”

“That’s true, especially the ones I’ve had blown up and laminated. If I wipe them clean afterward, they should last me for years with a bit of luck.”

“Cheeky bugger. Never mind. I’ve got a special treat for you, as it’s the last night.”

“What is it?”

“Wait and see.”

***

It was when he put his hand up my shift for the first time that he realised what my treat was. I’d left my sports knickers off, and suddenly he found his hand pressed against warm bare flesh. He quickly got the message and wasted no time in finding my pussy and slipping his fingers between my labia into my vagina. Instead of just stroking my inner thigh he began to finger me gently, ensuring that his body meant that the audience couldn’t see what he was doing.

I ran my hand across the front of his tight breeches and could tell that he had a proper erection, not just a fake one. I wondered what would happen if I rubbed it too hard: would the audience assume the big damp patch on his trousers was a fake too, just part of the plot?

By the end of the play, after plenty more rubbing and fingering, we were both massively turned on.

“Fuck it, I want you,” murmured Phil in my ear, his hands roaming over my body.

“Do it,” I whispered back. “At the end, do it for real. When all the rioting’s going on. No one will see.”

As the play reached its climactic riot, Phil lifted me up and pushed me against the back wall as usual. As he draped my arms over his shoulders and began to haul up my shift, he used his other hand to unbutton his flies and pull out his erect dick. Taking care to ensure the audience couldn’t see what he was actually doing, he eased it between my bare thighs until the tip was nudging at the entrance to my slit. I was dripping wet as a result of his fingering, and as he pushed forward his dick slipped in easily. I let out a little gasp as I felt him fill me.

Most of the asylum inmates had left the stage by now and were scrambling over the audience in the stalls, gibbering and wailing. Fortunately, the audience was well and truly distracted by all this mayhem, as Phil began to fuck me properly. Staying in character, I lolled against him as he thrust in and out, his dick slamming me against the back wall with every thrust. My bare tits were swinging backward and forwards, and I had to stop myself from gasping with pleasure every time his balls slapped against my thighs.

I couldn’t believe we were actually doing this, fucking on stage in front of everyone. I prayed that from the auditorium anyone would assume Phil was just dry-humping me, rather than actually pumping his hard dick into my dripping hole. I could hear the schlup-slurp, schlup-slurp, schlup-slurp of his dick going in and out, but, hopefully, the noise of the band and the howls of the gibbering inmates would drown that out.

“How’s that, Mam’zelle Corday?” Phil whispered, his hand closing over my bare left breast. He began to knead it roughly, tweaking the hard bud of my excited pink nipple.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come,” he muttered. He shuddered and pushed hard into me, then I felt him go tense as he filled my hungry passage with spurt after spurt of his hot sticky semen. Just in time too, as the last of the rampaging inmates had made it to the back of the auditorium, and all the lights were dowsed to mark the end of the play.

Quickly Phil withdrew from me and bundled his sticky still-hard cock back into his tight breeches. I smoothed down my dress and hitched it back over my shoulders to cover my breasts again, ready for the curtain call. As the lights went up, we joined the other performers and advanced to the front of the stage to rapturous applause. I glanced down and tried not to smile at the wet stain on the front of Phil’s breeches as our mixed juices soaked through. I could feel his cum starting to run out of my vagina and down the insides of my thighs. “Thank heavens I’m wearing a long skirt,” I thought, “I hope it doesn’t start dripping onto the stage”.

I could see Melissa in the wings, applauding as well, so I dragged her onto the stage to share the acclaim. She whispered in my ear, “I can’t believe you did that. If anyone saw, we could be in big trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” I hissed back, “The audience couldn’t see a thing.”

“Well, I could, from the wings,” smirked Melissa, “and I’ve got pictures on my phone to prove it. I want you back for next term’s show, and if you say no, I might just accidentally send them to the University newspaper.”

***

Thanks for reading my naughty story. Please don’t forget to give it a “❤️” if you liked it, or even a “⭐” if it really hit the spot. Thank you!