Leap year, they called it. Sick of school, grades, being polite, living someone else’s dream—that’s what I called it.

Solbakken Folkehøgskole, perched on a hill in Skarnes, wasn’t about report cards or finals. It was for dreamers, for theatre. You lived in each other’s pockets, mornings in script work or movement class, afternoons with sawdust and hairspray from building sets or stitching costumes.

Dinner was at four-thirty. Evenings were for rehearsals that stretched until your voice cracked and your head buzzed with lines that no longer felt like your own. It was part gap year, part boot camp, and part something else entirely. A place where closeness turned into currents you didn’t always see coming.

I was nineteen. Everyone told me I had talent, so I went. Solbakken had courses for the less gifted too, but all theatre-smitten. Props, sets, audio, lighting—it was its own ecosystem.

The rules were strict: no drinking, smoking frowned upon. Which made the walk down to the bar in Skarnes an easy choice, and smoking a habit I picked up fast.

I was talented, sure, but so was everyone else. And I soon hated the drama offstage—the bickering, the whispered alliances, the little seduction plays. The sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who swooned over the older students.

I just played the parts I was given, and I played them well.

Dance classes were a nightmare. I had more of a John Cleese body, all angles and awkward limbs. Rhythm in a straight four-four escaped me, as if counting turned into a different language once music got involved.

I’m sure Mayra never saw me attempt to dance. Or maybe she did, and filed it away with the rest of whatever she was collecting about me.

I didn’t notice her for the first two or three months. We were in the thick of the Christmas plays — four shows, four stages, a walk-around experience on campus.

She wasn’t in my group. They were putting on something dark and dreary, an Ibsen-meets-André Bjerke sort of thing. Our show was pathetic. It tried to be funny but ended up looking exactly what it was: staged. I envied Mayra’s group. Loathed my own.

Life on campus offered little escape; even weekends were crammed with look-at-me’s. We found peace in rented movies, crashing in the common rooms.

That was where she sat down next to me. December fifteenth. Like she’d been waiting for the right moment.

Mayra didn’t scream for attention. Brown hair to her shoulders, pale skin, curious eyes. A tired, faded-black hoodie. Small frame. Flat chest. A smile that looked sad.

“You’re the life of The Mad Hatter,” she said.

Possibly the most courageous she’d ever been in her life. Or maybe she’d rehearsed it.

“I’m Mayra, in case you…didn’t know?”

She blinked like young girls do when they try to speak to older boys. Half-men.

I nodded. I might have said thank you. I had no idea what Ibsen–Bernhard Borge role she played.

She stayed, tried to chat. She was seventeen and boring as fuck. But that kind of intense boring no one ever tried to explain.

And when she stood and walked over to her friends, something lingered behind. Not a word, not a look—just the kind of trace you noticed only later, like a memory you didn’t know existed.

We endured the Christmas plays, packed up, and had one final campus breakfast before returning to our separate lives. No spotlights, no scripts, only the expectation of folding back into family routines.

The questions about what we were going to do came the summer after our leap year.

Dad wanted me to start working for his company.

I wanted to escape life. I’ve always wanted to escape life.

I’ll never know how Mayra got my number, but it was sometime over Christmas break. She texted.

Looking forward to getting to know you better, Klaus, she wrote.

Then a little later.

I miss school.

Then, finally, her name.

Mayra.

And one of those heart emojis.

I still couldn’t place her. Not her face, but somewhere in the back of my mind, a scent. Not unpleasant, but something that lingered—as if memory had been holding on to it without my permission. Like a line in a play I thought I’d forgotten.

When we returned to campus, she turned that recognition into presence. At meals, she’d find a seat close enough to brush my arm when she reached for the salt. By the time groups were assigned for the second semester, she’d landed in mine. She made no secret about liking me.

I did my own makeup for the most part, but when the semester brought us into prosthetic class, we had to partner up. Before I could even scan the room for someone else, Mayra had my hand, pulled me down into a chair, and whispered,

“I’m going to make you my monster.”

None of us knew just what kind of monster she would find.

Mayra didn’t try to command a room with flamboyance, with flair, or dramatics. She was the mood.

As she leaned in, I caught her sweat — honest, non-performative, lived-in sweat. Nothing she’d tried to cover with someone else’s bottled scent. Just there. Not repulsive, not dominant. Present. And almost like she wanted it planted in my memory, so I’d recognize her anywhere.

She didn’t care that she’d probably never worn a bra, didn’t care what part of her body brushed against mine or how intimately her fingers rested on my face, my thigh. If she didn’t look so innocent, I’d have thought it was intentional.

It was.

“I like you, Klaus,” she whispered, then stepped aside and let me watch her monster in the mirror.

Her work was brilliant. A little Beauty and the Beast, but brilliant.

I made her into a witch. Moles, warts, and a big, ugly nose.

“Wow,” she said.

Not insulted. Not offended. Not taken aback.

She only became more annoying after that. Sitting next to me during meals. Shadowing my performances. Swooning at my portrayal of vampire and pastor alike as if each role had been written for her to admire.

My teachers pushed me to apply for the second year — four or five students who’d dive deeper into the world of the stage, an almost guaranteed spot at the Academy of Theatre in Oslo. But I still wasn’t sure.

Mayra was.

“You have to apply, Klaus,” she’d tell me, breathing too close to my ear, the way she did when she wanted to be remembered later.

By mid-February, I started fucking Eileen. She was pretty, overly dramatic, and hot as hell — and none of us made any secret about the sex. It was purely physical. Eileen was the kind of woman I couldn’t stand, but I was talented, and so was she, so it made sense we’d be the hot, fucking couple.

All actresses are the same. They’re empty canvases until someone puts a hand on them. The author gives them a pulse, the director shapes the flesh, the makeup seals the illusion. Everything else is just waiting to be told what to do. Eileen craved that direction — loud, needy, flaring for attention even when the scene didn’t demand it. Mayra needed it. And I? I designed it.

Mayra didn’t fight it. She didn’t cry, didn’t sulk, didn’t even glare at Eileen the way others might. She just…watched. Sometimes she’d laugh a little too hard when Eileen messed up her lines in rehearsal, sometimes she’d find me afterward and hand me a coffee like nothing had changed.

No, Mayra’s infatuation didn’t fade.

It turned into something else. Her smile a little sadder, her presence a little more insistent. But she didn’t start dressing herself pretty, didn’t wear makeup, didn’t cover her scent. She just became more—

Present. Like all fucking actresses, drawn to my spotlight.

I liked that. Not Mayra herself — she was as annoying as ever — but discovering what kind of power it gave me.

“Fetch me a coffee, Mayra,” was easy.

She seemed to like the role, as if it made her visible somehow, like she was rehearsing for a part only I could cast her in.

Even when Eileen sat on my lap, kissing me, Mayra fetched coffee. Eileen would roll her eyes and, loud enough for friends to hear, make a crack about Mayra’s smell or her flat chest, her pathetic interest in me. But Mayra just—absorbed it, weaved it into her fixation.

Eileen would play Nora Helmer: loud, flirty, and demanding the spotlight. I would play her husband, Torvald, while Mayra landed the role of Christine Linde, Nora’s old school friend. Unmarried, widowed, modest, practical — the grey mouse of the play.

The house was set. So were its dolls. Not even Ibsen would have staged it this way.

Mayra did my laundry now. Fetched my meals. Apologized if she was late, or spilled, or spoke off cue. She had worked herself into my days so completely that her absence would have felt like a missing prop on stage. And her scent seemed to enter the room before she did.

It was late. I always stayed up late. I was still somehow caught inside Torvald’s skin. The stiff collar, the tidy manners, the sense that every word had to be measured and correct. And that the world was mine.

I expected the knock on the door to be Eileen. Off stage, she wouldn’t be taking instructions; she’d be giving them. She’d want me to eat her out, fuck her, and make her loud about it.

I was tired, and still consumed by Torvaldism.

But it wasn’t Eileen.

Mayra. Fragile, small, in need of a shower.

“Can you run down a scene with me, Klaus?” she asked. “I’m not sure—”

She stopped. Something about the way I looked at her. The way I always looked at her. Not seeing.

“Sure,” I finally said, letting her in.

She trembled, uncomfortable.

“When did you shower last?” I asked.

“Huh?” She blinked, terrified. “Saturday. What—”

“Undress,” I said. Because maybe she would.

“Uh…” she started.

“If you expect me to work with you, take a shower,” I said.

Something flickered behind her eyes. Torvald’s composure stayed intact as I let her come into focus. There was something cute about Mayra, something useful.

She closed her eyes, curled her hands around herself—maybe to check if she was still real.

“Okay,” she said.

She turned her back to me and unwrapped herself from the hoodie. I think she wore the same one all year. Her shoulders were narrow, her skin pale. A birthmark on her left shoulder. A small pink scar above her left hip. And no, she didn’t wear a bra.

She slid out of her slacks, removed her socks, then stood as if she knew the next move was mine. From the hall came the muffled thud of set pieces being moved.

She looked over her shoulder.

“Can I shower now?”

“No,” I said. “Your underwear.”

She inhaled sharply, as if crossing a line she’d never crossed. Because none like me had asked her to. I masked my own breath, ignoring the voice inside telling me how wrong this was.

She exhaled slow, like the breathing drills we’d been hammered with all year. Then, without apology or hesitation, she hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and pushed them down in one motion, stepping out of them as if she’d been waiting for this cue all along. No drama. No flair. Just naked.

“Turn around,” I said.

She did — not quick, not hesitant, just controlled.

Her breasts were small but had an attitude to them. They looked excited to see me, but didn’t invite so much as state: we’re here. Present.

Everything about her was small. Tender, maybe. A belly that didn’t pretend to be fit, didn’t scream toned, but — like everything Mayra — here.

Her crotch was overgrown, her legs streaked with black hair. Her armpits flowered like cacti.

“You should shave,” I said. “Next time I expect that.”

She nodded.

“Next time?” she asked, like she wanted to make sure I meant it.

“Take a shower,” I said, nodding toward my bathroom.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Klaus.”

She closed the door behind her, and not long after, I heard the water sigh through the old pipes.

I wondered if she was an act.

I wondered if she’d suck my cock if I told her, and if that was me now.

I wondered why I was smelling her hoodie.

I was still wondering when she stepped back into the room, a towel around her waist, not big enough to cover all of her.

“What scene were you wondering about, Mayra?” I asked.

She looked at me as if she couldn’t remember why she was in my room.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Act II, Klaus? Nora and Christine. Eileen is so dominant in those scenes. I fade.”

I reminded her that’s why we had instructors. Teachers.

“But if Eileen’s too loud,” I said, “you need to be too quiet. Too gray. Too grounded.”

I handed her the manuscript.

“Here. Imagine fingering yourself. Hold everything back as if the tension in your crotch is Nora.”

“What?” she whispered.

“Surely you masturbate, Mayra?”

A sharp inhale. “Yes.”

There was no point circling.

“Show me,” I said. “Show me how you fucking masturbate, Mayra.”

If she hesitated, it was only to decide how to start. Fingers brushing the edge of the towel before she let it slip. A slow graze across her tits before she sat on my couch. Her fingers found the bush, but her breath didn’t change until she closed her eyes.

“You like me watching, Mayra?” I asked, shamefully aware of how much I wanted her to answer.

She didn’t. She only blushed — a quiet, controlled reaction she let me see. There was nothing performative about her, nothing like Eileen’s vulgar tits, her clean-shaven pussy, or the stupid moans that escaped before anything actually happened to her.

No, Eileen was pure performance. Mayra was just in the moment.

I waited until she was close, until her legs started curling.

“Sit up,” I told her.

She sighed, whimpered, but sat herself up.

“No,” I said. “Don’t stop fucking yourself. Two fingers, close your thighs, hold it there. Now be Christine — and look at me like I’m Nora.”

She did. All of her. The look. The frustration. And something else, aimed only at me.

“Good.” I applauded, slow and careless. “That’s the sort of frustration you need to carry into the meeting with Krogstad.”

“You want me to act like I need to cum?” she asked.

“Cum for me, Mayra,” I told her.

She didn’t cry. She just lay back, fucked herself like it mattered somehow. Let her hair flow back against my couch like the light was better there, let her lips curl enough to let her dentistry steal my attention. A deep furrow between her eyes. Light moans, whimpers, all on cue. Then, she stared at me like she wanted me to see what happened behind her eyes when she came.

She owned the scene the next day — but it was still mine she played.

The change was more evident offstage. Mayra wouldn’t snarl back at Eileen, but she claimed my space now — at meals, during off-stage breaks, when I snuck out for a smoke. I didn’t need to ask for coffee or water; she was just there, like a servant I’d never asked for and never intended to pay for, and perfectly content to serve.

If Eileen raised her voice, Mayra just smiled.

Eileen fucked differently after that. As if she had to prove she still owned me, and the proof could only come through cunt and cum.

I enjoyed the new fucking. After all, I was nineteen, and Folkehøyskole was all about finding yourself. If finding myself meant embracing being a heartless prick, well — aren’t all nineteen-year-old boys trying to become men heartless pricks?

Between Eileen’s body and Mayra’s attention, I had all the girl I needed.

But what if I stepped outside of need? What if I pushed for more than satisfaction — made Eileen less and Mayra more? I never loved Eileen, but her orbiting me made Mayra’s desperation run deeper.

We had dress rehearsal that day. Eileen fucked me like she meant it in the afternoon, and again after dinner.

“We’ll be excellent,” she moaned, pulling cum out of me like it was a line we’d rehearsed too long.

I didn’t care that I came inside her. If she didn’t want to get pregnant, she’d take the proper steps. Even her tits made drama as she swung herself out of my bed and got dressed.

“Premiere tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s party like it’s the Oscars.”

I was sure she had the dress and everything.

I watched her leave — ass swaying with purpose, blonde hair trailing behind her, the pause at the door for dramatic effect. She turned her head and smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Klaus.”

Exit Nora. Curtain call.

I stretched, naked and satisfied, the stage all mine. Stared at the ceiling. I was memorizing lines, sure, but more the delivery — the posture and the gesticulation of the words. How Eileen would deliver hers with too much, forcing me to keep the scene grounded.

The knock on my door was gentle. Too gentle for Ibsen.

Nothing I needed to get dressed for. I wrapped a blanket around myself and expected it to be Mayra.

I was right. Small, shivering, uncertain — though maybe only about whether I’d let her in.

“Mayra,” I sighed. “This is starting to taste like obsession.”

She nodded. “Please,” she whispered.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside, sat on the couch, twisted her hair between her fingers, eyes flicking between me and the floor.

“The scene with Christine and Krogstad,” she said at last. “Bent doesn’t feel real to me in that scene, and it throws me off.”

“Bent is a hack. He should never have been cast as Krogstad.”

I opened my desk drawer. I’d meant to save the bottle for opening night, to get Eileen drunk out of her mind. But Eileen didn’t need it — and Mayra was here. Cheap, red, fourteen percent.

“Alcohol isn’t permitted at school,” Mayra said.

I ignored her, poured two glasses, handed her one.

“I’m seventeen.”

“You’re in your early thirties,” I said. “A widow who’s spent years caring for a sick mother. Raising your brothers. Lived through a marriage. If you’re going to suck my cock, you deserve a glass of wine.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at me while she sipped — then gulped.

I poured another glass.

“It’s… foul,” she said.

“Just drink.”

“Thank you,” she said, like it was her cue. “Want me to get naked?”

She leaned toward me — not just eager, but waiting for the next line.

I nodded.

She slipped out of her sweater, and her pits were clean-shaven and razor-burnt — just as I’d told her. Her stupid little tits bounced. She didn’t look away when she tugged her jeans down, wriggling them past her hips and kicking them onto the floor. She leaned back, thumbs hooked in the waistband of her underwear, and slid them down in one smooth pull.

Then she sat there, legs apart, deliberate. Bare and waiting, as if the scene couldn’t go on until I gave her the next line.

“Wider,” I said.

The bush was gone. She had what I’d call a pretty cunt — not vulgar or demanding, not asking for attention. Just pretty. Pretty enough to hold a role, if I ever decided to cast her in one.

“Drink up,” I said, letting my blanket fall as she did.

She didn’t need direction now. Blinked twice before setting the glass down. Hesitated once before parting her lips. Her hand found me first; half-hard, still sticky with Eileen.

“I’ve never—” She looked up, eyes fixed on mine.

“But for you… anything.”

She took me in. Moaned at the taste of Eileen. Teeth first, hunger behind — all of it aimed at pleasing me.

Once the teeth were gone and her mouth turned wet, I twisted my fists in her hair and fucked her mouth. Her eyes still begged.

“Fuck yourself,” I said. “See who cums first.”

I didn’t care how wrong it was.

Mayra took direction like she was being paid for it. One hand stroking herself as if she had a cock, the other locked around my shaft like she feared losing it.

“Wider,” I moaned, riding the power building in me.

She opened for me, still working her cunt like it was all I’d asked of her — all I’d told her.

“Fuck yourself,” I repeated.

Her moan, muffled between cock and tongue, lips and thrusts, carried like a thank you when her fingers slid inside herself as if they’d always belonged there.

I let go of her hair. Stopped, as if freezing the scene.

“What did you say?”

She slurped, eyes begging.

“Thank you,” she moaned against my cock.

“Thank you, what?”

“Sir?” she asked. “Thank you, sir.”

Then she was all mouth again, all begging, fucking herself like any of this mattered. Her stubborn little tits bounced like angry puppies, all bark, no bite. Her hips ground into her hand like it was the last scrap in the bowl and she’d never eaten before.

Fucking actresses.

She didn’t cum until I pulled out and sprayed her face and tits — still riding her own fingers as if I’d told her to cum for me.

I figured she’d be a good fuck from enthusiasm alone.

I let her catch her breath, then told her to get the fuck out. She didn’t ask for a towel, just moved to wipe her face on her sweater.

“No,” I said. “Leave it.”

I watched her dress. Let her walk.

“Thank you, Klaus,” she said.

Fucking actresses.

( ◠‿◠ )  ( ◠︿◠ )

I slept in. Curtain at six. Makeup at four. Lunch at noon — I attended. No, played the part. Commanded my scene.

Eileen sat with her coffee, alone. Mayra stood arguing with the coffee maker, also alone. Bent pretended to wrestle with a difficult decision. Toast or no toast — that was his question.

I, the leading actor, demanded attention with my presence. And I received.

“Nervous?” someone asked — a perky blonde in makeup. My makeup. Maybe I’d fuck her before the show, just to see how dramatic Eileen’s performance would get, how desperate Mayra’s would turn.

“Nervous?” I repeated. “My failure is in everyone else’s hands.”

Bent seemed at peace with his choice. Toast. I counted myself lucky we only shared one dull scene together.

“Don’t try to act, Bent,” I said. “Let Mayra carry you through.”

He blinked.

“If she falters, ask her if she came.”

Eileen didn’t come see me before Act I. Mayra? She lingered like sweat under stage lights. Late for her makeup while fetching coffee for me, late for wardrobe while rubbing my shoulders. Finally in costume ten minutes before curtain.

“Nervous?” I asked.

“Klaus?” Her intensity was that of an actress without instructions — or worse, going off-script. Overplayed. Or maybe worse. Real.

“Yeah?” I sipped my coffee.

“You—” Her voice faltered. Her paranoia felt real.

“You must know?” she said. “You must, Klaus!”

“Know what, Mayra?”

She fumbled. With her dress. With her words. “I love you, Klaus! You must know that, right?”

I laughed — flat, cold. “We have a play,” I reminded her. “And you don’t seem ready.”

“What?”

“Masturbate for me,” I told her. “Find the edge. I know you get off on me watching.”

She blinked at me, not like she didn’t hear, but like she needed to make sure I meant it. Her fingers brushed the skirt of her costume, tugging at the fabric as if she could hide inside it. Then she stepped back into the shadowed corner by the costume racks. One hand gathered the dress up to her waist, the other hesitated, hovering, before slipping beneath the cotton bloomers. Her eyes stayed on me, not the floor, not her hand, like the play had already started and I was the only one in the audience.

She fumbled at first, fabric shifting, breath catching as if she wasn’t sure which was more dangerous — being caught by the stage manager or by me losing interest. But then her rhythm found her. The skirt fell open on one side, just enough to show pale thigh and the subtle shiver moving up it. I leaned against the table, sipped my coffee, and let her keep me in her eyeline.

“You’re going to be late for your cue,” I told her.

Her answer came out on a shaky exhale. “Then tell me to stop.”

I didn’t.

I waited until her knees buckled and her breath caught.

“There it is,” I said. “That’s your edge. Hold it. I’ll let you suck me off after the applause.”

By the time she stepped on stage as Christine, she was still flushed. The audience wouldn’t read it as anything but commitment — the lingering breath between lines, the restless hands that seemed to want to reach for something she couldn’t have. Eileen, in her Nora flounce, didn’t notice; she was too busy chasing the spotlight. But I saw it. Every pause, every look toward me in the wings was loaded.

When she spoke to Bent’s Krogstad, her voice had weight it had never carried in rehearsal. She wasn’t acting the weariness of a widow; she was dragging herself through restraint, holding back everything I’d told her to hold. The crowd leaned in. They thought it was the scene.

I knew better.

The applause faded. Then rose again as Christine took center stage with Krogstad. And it erupted once more for Torvald and Nora. Eileen’s hand was warm in mine as we bowed.

“You were awful,” I whispered through my smile.

Her grip tightened. “Fuck you,” she growled back without breaking her gaze from the audience.

“Just wait for the review,” I grinned.

We played the charade, Nora and Torvald, through the wings. In front of the local paper’s earnest missionary. Posed.

“I’m breaking up with you, Eileen. You’re awful,” I whispered through a smile.

She slapped me. Right hand, left cheek. The audience gasped, thinking it part of the act.

She was never that great of a fuck — all volume and no depth.

Besides, maybe tomorrow’s performance would actually feel passionate.

I went to the bar. Got drunk.

Mayra didn’t make it past the door — fake ID or not, even in Hicksville, deadbush Norway, seventeen doesn’t get you in.

I watched her standing outside in the March drizzle. She waved. I nodded. Drank some more. Fake-complimented Bent — at least he didn’t ruin the performance. Danced with the makeup girl. Aurora, I think her name was.

I could have fucked her in the washrooms; the invitation was there. Hell, in that moment, everyone wanted to fuck me. Half the male crew were queer, and I was the leading actor.

But I get tired of attention. Of people. I love the spotlight when I have a script, but now I just wanted to bring the house lights down and let the curtain fall.

She was still waiting in the drizzle when I stepped outside.

“You were amazing!” she yelled, breath warm against the cold as she kissed me full on the mouth.

I let her. Let her get eager before pulling her down.

“You lost intensity in the final scene,” I told her.

She hadn’t. I just needed her to believe that.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t even remember—”

Then, some fucked-up bravery.

“What I told you, Klaus? You never answered.”

I pretended not to know my own lines.

“I’ll walk you back,” I said, making it clear the conversation was over.

But she clung to my arm like a dirty band-aid full of yesterday’s pain and filth.

“You said I could suck you,” she whispered.

And I always honor my cues.

She knew her marks. Get naked, fuck herself, and suck me.

“I want you,” she begged.

I laughed.

“Yeah?”

I dragged her off me, her hair knotted in my fists.

“How bad, Mayra?”

“Fuck me, Klaus. I want to be your little—”

Maybe the end of her line, the last page of her script. Or the start of a new scene she hadn’t rehearsed for.

“Make me your slut,” she begged.

“Yeah?” I asked, as if deciding whether the role was hers.

She wanted my cock, but she hadn’t decided how — bent over my chair, riding me while her tits bounced in my face, or maybe offering up her tight little asshole.

“Get up,” I told her. “Get up, and bend over. Spread that little pussy for me.”

She auditioned like she was starving, taking instructions like an understudy desperate for opening night.

She bent over the couch, hands for balance, spine curving like it had been trained for this role. Her thighs were impressive, toned, but every muscle and tendon now strained into something ugly. Ugly and needy.

“Lower,” I urged.

She whimpered but stretched further, leaning on her elbows until her ass pressed against my face. She was wet from sucking me, her needy cunt — pink and open like a stage prop waiting to be used. Still playing the part, still begging for the line where I finally fuck her.

Her butthole was tight, a pulsing little knot of anxiety and need. I spat twice, then rubbed my thumb against it.

“Think you can take it?” I asked.

Mayra was all whimpers and shudders by now. Had I wanted to, I could have gotten away with poking anything into her anywhere, and she’d still ask for more.

I fucked her like that at first. I plowed into her neat little pussy like it already knew the stretch, like it was mine by right.

She didn’t own it. I did.

I think it hurt, but nothing her voice gave away. Just the way she tightened, not just her cunt, but all of her.

“You need to ease into it,” I told her. “You’re overplaying it. Ruining my scene.”

“Sorry,” she gasped. Then, “Show me. I want to be good for you. Teach me, Klaus.”

I had no intention of letting her cum. Not yet. First me. Always me. I fucked her like she was there to be used, because in this script, that’s exactly why she was there.

Her eyes over her shoulder. Begging like she’d finally discovered her purpose. Like her body had found meaning. Her breath shuddered with every thrust, trembling with the ecstasy of taking my cock.

I drove into her until her legs gave and buckled against the couch, until her arms flailed and folded into the cushions, until that tight little pussy clenched and worked the orgasm out of me.

“Ouff,” she whimpered when I stilled.

“What’s your line?” I taunted.

I don’t think she was crying. Not precisely. But there was snot, drool, and tears. Something ragged about her face. Something used. Something honest and not performed.

“Thank you?” she asked, voice small, uncertain if she’d passed the test.

“You can do better.”

She swallowed. Found the courage or the need, maybe both.

“Thank you, Klaus. For using me.”

I grinned at her. Did she really think the curtain had fallen?

“Clean me off,” I said.

She only smiled, greedily, spinning around to sit between my legs. There was a desperate edge to her now, the way she opened and took my limping cock between her lips. An appetite for the slick of her and the ooze of me still dripping from me.

“If I get you hard, will you fuck me again, Klaus?”

I wondered what else I could make her do. I didn’t like how powerful it made me feel, but that hungry mouth blurred the lines. She made me feel like the star of an encore performance. And she? She was happy to stay trapped in my orbit.

“I’ll fuck you again, Mayra,” I said. “But your ass.”

I think she tried to cum on my words alone, on the fantasy of it. Her tempo turned deliberate. I was nineteen, and harder than I could remember being.

She must have thought I was ready, spinning around to offer herself.

“No,” I said. “On the table, Mayra. On your back. I want to see your face when I push in.”

She listened, but didn’t know how to present herself, like an actress caught between cues, waiting for a line that never came. She just lay there on top of the table as if that was the act.

“Lift your legs, Mayra,” I directed. “Fold them against yourself, then pull yourself as wide as you’ll allow.”

She took instructions so well I almost felt something for her. She was still leaking cum; I was still slick with her. I treated it like an artistic choice rather than preparation. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t.

I’d never fucked an ass before. It was only a porn fantasy I’d carried around, a picture in my head I’d never chased.

Now she was there, spread wide, offering, almost pleading. And she was already in character. There was no reason to call cut.

I pressed against her and felt the give. Not much, just enough to make her eyes widen. She bit her lip, and I watched the struggle take shape across her face. Her eyes slammed shut. Her brow tightened like she was holding back a scream. Her mouth twisted into something ugly, something raw.

That wasn’t performance. That was real.

And it was all mine. My moment. My cock, buried in her ass.

She was unbearably tight, that puckered hole clenching like it was the only thing keeping her together. I didn’t want her together. I wanted to see her come apart. So I took the cue, skipped gentle, and drove into her like she was mine to break.

Her small, stubborn tits bounced with each thrust. The strain left her face, replaced by something dangerous, like she’d stolen the pen from the author’s hand and decided to write this act herself.

I wasn’t going to allow that. This was my scene to defile, hers to collapse in.

I rubbed her clit, not gently, not teasingly, but with the certainty of a director who owns the stage. She still protested, still tried to ad-lib the scene into her own.

“Suck my tits, Klaus!” she begged.

Improvisation without approval. I let her beg. Let her pinch them herself. I rubbed her cunt once, then eased my hand away, watching the need build instead of giving her what she wanted. Her hips shifted, searching for me, for my fingers, for anything. She clenched around my cock like a desperate actress hoping the audition would end in applause.

I didn’t help her. I wanted to see her sweat for it, to see if she could hold the part without direction.

It was pathetic how she let her fingers replace mine. How she rubbed herself over the edge, rushing the scene, spoiling the big finale. She didn’t even try to hold it; she just came like a ball of need and lust, all because I granted her my cock up her ass.

I let her ride it out, watching the tremors take her, watching the sweat bead and roll down her neck. She thought that was the peak. She thought she was done.

I wasn’t.

I kept fucking her like a doll. That was all she was now, anyway. My doll house, a prop on my table, clinging with white knuckles so I wouldn’t fuck her clean off it.

No, the big finale was still to come. Where the heroine lies fallen and slain, where the lights fade and the audience gasps before the applause.

I pulled out, grabbed her head like it was part of the set, and shoved my cock into her mouth. Made her swallow it, forced the last of her scene to bleed out.

She lay there after, slack-jawed, cum trailing from the corner of her mouth like the last line spoken before blackout. Her eyes were glassy, the curtain already fallen.

“Get out,” I told her. “We have a show tomorrow.”

I don’t know if Mayra was stupid or just unnervingly focused. She woke me the next day with a knock on my door. I was expecting Eileen, back to beg for me.

But no. It was Mayra. Coffee in hand, smile on her lips, and the newspaper tucked under her arm.

“Join me for breakfast?” she asked.

“I’ll need to shower first,” I said.

She stepped inside.

“Mind if I watch?”

A beat.

“Please?”

I wasn’t going to deny her the pleasure, even though it felt strange with her perched on my toilet like it was her seat in the stalls, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Watching.

Her eyes didn’t wander; they stayed fixed on me, studying each motion as if she were memorizing blocking. How I soaped, how I lathered. How I rinsed and shampooed.

Her gaze lingered too long on my cock, and despite my silent instructions, it betrayed me, rising under the weight of her attention like she’d given me a cue I couldn’t ignore.

And still, she studied.

I didn’t know how to end this scene. When the water had done its job, when to step out of the booth. Whether to stand in front of her, wet and dripping, or wrap a towel around myself and tell her to get the fuck out.

“I want to suck you,” she said.

So I let her. I came too fast. In her mouth.

She swallowed without blinking.

“Breakfast?” she asked.

And she clung to me through the day. I hadn’t noticed earlier, too busy playing to the audience in my own head, but she hadn’t showered. That scent lingered, familiar now, grounding, like the faint traces of a scene you can’t quite step out of.

Torvald got two paragraphs in the review. Of course I did. But toward the end, after detailing Eileen’s too much, Mayra stole the glory. I hated to admit it, but she’d earned it. Eileen’s fuming made it better.

Mayra slipped into the dressing room fifteen minutes before curtain. Sat in front of me, rubbed her cunt to the edge, then smiled. That was her entrance.

Even Eileen was believable that night.

On closing night, I fucked Mayra on my desk. Didn’t let her cum. Just pumped her full and sent her onstage with the frustration leaking into her costume, seeping into her lines.

She was brilliant. My scene, my direction, her performance.

I never applied for the second year. Eileen did and got bumped, then dropped. Mayra, though, nailed her audition and was accepted, one of four students to return to Solbakken.

I didn’t find myself that year. I found a version I had to shake. A monster Mayra made in front of a mirror.

I visited Solbakken twice the next year. Fucked Mayra like the monster still owned me. The second time, I let her boyfriend see enough to understand the rules that came with her.

I got married three years later. Returned to the theatre to instruct, never again to perform. I preferred the silence in the dark, watching from the wings.

I never told the women to masturbate to find the scene.

Mayra, however, looked back from magazine covers. Beautiful now. Red carpet galas, talk shows, panel debates, Celebrity Survivor.

When she starred in a state-financed, multi-million-dollar, critically acclaimed blockbuster about a woman born from prostitution who rose to high office, I sat in the dark on opening night, hard from the first scene. Watching her own the frame.

I texted her old number.

Congratulations, I wrote.

Then I jerked off in my bathroom at home, hoping my wife wouldn’t hear.

I dreamed of her that night. And the nights after. My wife enjoyed my new enthusiasm until I tried to rail her ass. She slapped me and said we needed to talk about boundaries.

Mayra replied three days later.

Thank you.

Then the three pulsating dots.

A pause long enough to make me lean toward the screen.

Coffee sometime?

It was a gray September morning, just before the lunch rush. She sat at the table waiting for me.

“You know,” she said. “There’s always a camera watching me now. You could be tomorrow’s headline, Klaus.”

She laughed. Smiled. No sadness.

“Is your wife prepared to see you with me, Klaus?”

I didn’t answer. I imagined her red lips around my cock.

“You’re stunning,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered. “And you’re a shadow, Klaus.”

She tilted her head like she was still at my door, coffee in hand.

“Is my monster still hiding in your shadow?”

I felt it growl. Somewhere deep. Twirled my wedding band.

“I still use what you taught me, Klaus. I masturbate before important scenes. And now, I’ve decided to break you. Your marriage. Make you mine.”

Her voice was even, but I could hear the weight in it. I’d never noticed how her eyes—how her tongue would play on her lips like a stage too deep to comprehend. As if it teased me into it, left me longing.

She didn’t ask if I wanted that. She already knew.

We ended up in a hotel room. It was supposed to be her press suite for the movie, but now it was all hers.

“Sit on the floor,” she told me.

She slid onto the large table, piled with manuscripts and newspapers, movie posters and flyers. Slowly, she folded her dress up around her thighs, letting the fabric gather at her waist.

My eyes followed the red stockings up, waiting for the interruption of lace, but there was nothing. Bare.

The most beautiful little pussy I knew.

“Watch me masturbate, Klaus,” she whispered. “I’ve gotten so much better at it.”

She just let her breath catch before meeting my eyes again. As if I were looking for direction.

“Pull your cock out, Klaus,” she moaned.

Still watching me—never herself, never her fingers, never the slick on their tips or the tremor on her lips.

“See who cums first?”

Of course I’d masturbate for Mayra. I’d had been for weeks. I’d fucked her through my wife and now—

Chasing it.

Chasing her.

Wanting to cum before her. Before she did.

She slid off the table, spread herself across my feet, still fucking herself while watching me.

“Cum on my face, Klaus,” she ordered.

And like the good actor I was, I took her directions. Let myself go. Painted her face in my need.

She giggled. But didn’t stop fucking herself. Kissed me when she arrived. Told me to exit, stage left.

It wasn’t until the dark of my theatre that I found myself again, watching a scene I couldn’t concentrate on, unable to direct. She’d used me. Not as a counterpart, not even as a co-star in a script I knew by heart, but as a prop wheeled in to make her shine brighter.

And I knew that if she called again, I’d answer before the first ring.

She left for Los Angeles, chasing a role no Norwegian had ever claimed — major studio, international release, the kind of thing that rewrites careers. I told myself I’d settle back into my life, into my wife, but all I settled into was silence. I tried to rehearse normalcy: dinner at the right time, sex on the weekends, nodding along to conversations I wasn’t hearing. The spotlight never came back on.

Months passed. I moved into a two-bedroom flat with furniture that smelled of its last owners, took a daytime job to keep the lights on, and convinced myself I was out of her orbit.

Then her text arrived like stage directions.

Hotel Plaza. I haven’t showered in days.

Her scent hit me before I even touched her — stale Solbakken coffee, the salt of old sweat, the memory of cum between her thighs. That smell didn’t ask permission. It claimed me.

She didn’t undress. She didn’t kiss me. She just pushed me back and rode, hard and without pause, like the scene was already set and she was hitting her marks.

And I knew it — this wasn’t our scene. It was still hers.

When she told me to suck her tits, that’s what I did.

When she told me to split her ass and lift her onto my cock, I did it with stage precision.

When she allowed me to cum, I did it for her to shine.

And when she told me to eat her out, I let her have her grand finale, clinging only to the hope she might cast me in her next play.

The lights faded. Her scent lingered. And I was waiting for my next line.

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Thank you for reading. Feel free to leave a like or a comment. And thank you to Down4anything23 for stage directions—the push I needed to complete this story. You're the spotlight I chase, Matt. And thanks, Kimmi, for talking sense when I stumble in doubt.