Deedee's Dangerous Liaison

1. New Girl

Deedee stacked the chairs neatly at the side of the rehearsal room, as the cast left for lunch. She'd been working her summer job at the Ladysmith Theater since June, eager to earn the last few dollars she needed to embark on her solo trip to Europe in the Fall.

For as long as she'd known, Deedee had been obsessed with France. The history, the art, the wars, the sexy language. Her whole life contained Gallic influences of some description, from the reproduction chaise in her sitting room to the huge Lautrec poster adorning her bedroom wall. She'd even had a French boyfriend, once, a lover who'd satisfied her in ways no other man had. It had got her wondering whether the Europeans were naturally better at sex than her fellow Americans. So far, in Deedee's experience, she'd seen nothing to prove otherwise.

Deedee also loved the stage. But it was not the acting or the sense of drama that grabbed her, more the creative process of what brought that drama to life. Deedee dreamed of becoming a writer, she'd kept a journal for years and she loved to be around artistic people, so this job fitted her like a glove. OK, so she spent most of her days fetching and carrying for actors and directors, or making sure the coffee pot was full and fresh, but the atmosphere...the ambiance...the sensuality of the theater! There was nothing else like it.

For nearly two months, the company had been preparing for a three-week run of the classic French play "Les Liaisons Dangereuse." With two headline names and a larger budget than was usual, it was to be the biggest production the Ladysmith had ever attempted. A small theater in the suburbs of Calabasas, CA, the auditorium could only hold a hundred people. But, thanks to the innovation of its dynamic new manager, Billy Kramer, the Ladysmith had begun to forge a reputation as a useful practice stage for Hollywood's spoiled B-listers, as they 'rested' between blockbusters.

For "Les Liaisons Dangereuse," Kramer knew he could fill the Ladysmith ten times over. Cast as 'Valmont,' the amoral, wicked seducer, was Brett Carrey, the young, handsome and equally rakish star of a dozen rom-coms and action movies. Deedee had been totally starstruck when Brett had walked into the rehearsal room six weeks before, but had so far not managed to utter a single word to him. As sexy and charming in the flesh as he was on the screen, the theater's entire female staff had spent the summer in perpetual awe of this Adonis, and the tickets had sold out for every performance.

Playing the conniving and frustrated 'Marquise de Merteuil,' the sometime lover and joint conspirator with 'Valmont,' was Rachel de Silva, a thirty-something beauty who, despite her enduring allure and not-insignificant talent, was evidently an actress whose star was on the wane. A stint in a rehab clinic for her prescription drug addiction had all but ended her film career, so she'd been grateful when Billy had called to offer her a part in his 'little production.'

The rest of the cast were just as pretty and talented as its stars, but Deedee had really not had much to do with them. Happy enough to remain behind the scenes, getting on with her menial tasks, she'd been first in at seven in the morning, had sat in on rehearsal after rehearsal, and had been the last to leave at eight in the evening, every word of every line of every speech of every scene, tattooed upon her brain. If anybody were to fall sick for opening night, Deedee could easily fill any of those pairs of French-buckled, satin shoes.

As she finished stacking the chairs, Billy poked his head around the door.

"First dress rehearsal this afternoon, Dee, could you be around to help Rachel if she needs anything? Those gowns are a bitch."

"Sure, Mr Kramer," Deedee replied. "I'll head there now."

"Thanks honey. And I wish you'd stop calling me 'Mr Kramer.' Only my mom calls me that, when I've done something wrong."

He smiled at her, then left the room.

Deedee liked Billy. She'd worked in other places where the boss didn't even know her name, but Billy had been as friendly and welcoming on day one as he still was today. If Deedee were to be offered something more permanent at the Ladysmith, she wasn't sure she could turn it down, France or no France.

She walked down the corridor to the dressing rooms which were situated backstage a short walk from the auditorium. It was always dark along here - the janitor was yet to replace several light bulbs that had been out for months - and it was creepy, too. When she'd had to come up here late at night, and alone, Deedee had imagined the voices of actors past, speaking to her through the wood-paneled walls. The Ladysmith was built in 1921, so it was an old building, and Deedee's fertile writer's imagination liked to think the place had seen its fair share of real-life behind-the-scenes dramatics.

Pausing outside one of the dressing rooms, Deedee looked up at the star that had recently been placed there. Made of cheap, coated aluminum, the name "Rachel de Silva" had been painted across the middle with a flourish. Deedee smiled to herself. Welcome to the world of celebrity...

Deedee knocked three times and waited.

"Yes?" came a voice from the other side.

Deedee opened the door and stepped inside.

"Mr Kramer...Billy...asked me to come and see if you needed any help with your costume?"

Rachel de Silva turned in her chair as she sat at her mirror. She was wearing a corset and stockings, as a wardrobe assistant struggled with a huge bustle.

"Come in, Deedee is it? I've seen you around."

She didn't smile, as she beckoned Deedee inside, but this didn't detract from her aura. Rachel had big, brown eyes, accentuated by thick, false lashes, and her skin was like alabaster, flawless and smooth. Deedee thought she looked twice as beautiful sat right here, half-made up and half-dressed, than she'd ever looked on camera.

"I can't believe I have to wear all this shit." Rachel complained. "For three weeks!"

"The dresses are so beautiful, though..." Deedee replied, truly in awe of the rail of sumptuous gowns staring back at her from the side of the room.

Rachel rose from her chair, and a waft of sandalwood washed under Deedee's nose as the actress stepped into the bustle, the assistant pulling it up around her waist.

"I feel like a giant bell," Rachel continued, determined to complain about everything. "They'll have to roll me across that stage every night. And have you seen the shoes they want to put me in?!"

Just then, the door opened suddenly and Brett Carrey stood before them, his smile a mile wide, his teeth dazzling and perfect.

"Hey, gorgeous." He growled at Rachel, pleased he'd walked in on her in a state of undress.

"It's customary to knock." Rachel replied, curtly.

"I thought we could grab lunch together, go over those first few lines again before the rehearsal?"

"Does it look like I'm available for lunch?"

"Well it looks like you're available..."

He looked at Deedee.

"You're the intern, right?" he said, looking her up and down.

Deedee felt herself blushing, from her long, red hair all the way down to her black pumps.

"Just for the summer." she whispered back. "I'm going to Europe."

Why did I just say that? she shouted silently at herself. As if he's interested?!

"Sure. That's great." Brett smiled, politely.

Deedee wanted the trapdoor beneath her to open and let her fall through.

"So, Rachel?"

Rachel stepped out of the bustle and turned around so the assistant could begin untying the corset, as Brett watched.

"A little privacy, perhaps?" Rachel asked, looking over her shoulder at her co-star.

Brett laughed and turned to leave.

"I'll be in the lobby." he said, closing the door slowly.

"That man is the most arrogant bastard I've ever met, and I've met a few." Rachel announced when Brett had gone, as she dropped her corset to the floor.

She was naked from the waist up, now, and with mirrors all around them, and nowhere else to look, Deedee couldn't help but stare at Rachel's voluptuous breasts as they heaved upon her chest. Rachel examined her reflection, leaning in to the mirror to flick away an imaginary eyelash from her cheek.

"What do you think?" Rachel asked, glancing at Deedee through the mirror. "Do I need another boob job?"

She stood up straight again, and held her tits in her hands, squeezing and lifting them. They were milky white and soft as pillows, her bright pink nipples standing erect as Rachel teased them to life.

"I had one about ten years ago, when I had to do those sex scenes in Cast No Shadow. But now they're sagging again."

"I-I..."

But Deedee couldn't get any words out. What the hell was she supposed to say anyway? She'd never had to offer an opinion on the breasts of a Hollywood actress standing topless before her.

"Maybe next year." Rachel continued, not waiting for an answer. "They'll last another few months, huh?"

She turned and reached for her jeans and T shirt, dressed quickly, then grabbed her purse and brushed past Deedee into the corridor.

"Dress call at three, Miss de Silva!" the assistant shouted after her.

But Rachel was gone.

Deedee stood where she was, unsure of whether to move, or where to move to.

"She's great, isn't she?" she said to the assistant, who she thought was called Laura.

"Great at being a diva bitch, sure." Laura replied, gathering up the bustle and corset, her face drawn and tired. "I can't wait for this thing to be over already."

She left the dressing room, muttering to herself as she went.

Left alone, Deedee looked at herself in the mirror, the frame of bulbs shining straight into her face. Stepping closer, she examined her face, her skin, then her hair and profile, trying to decide which was her best side. Then, without really knowing why, she lifted her hands and touched her breasts, pushing them up underneath her tight, pink T shirt. She'd never really looked at her boobs before, in relation to the rest of her. She was only 19, so she knew she was still growing, probably. But seeing Rachel de Silva parade herself so confidently, so overtly, Deedee wondered if she'd ever be confident enough in her own body to do the same.

2. Lunch

With the rest of the staff and cast on lunch, Deedee decided to take a few precious minutes for herself. Secreting herself in one of the ante-rooms beside the rehearsal room, she sat down and took out her journal, eager to record her first conversation with a Hollywood star. But no sooner had she pushed back into her chair, than she heard noises coming from the adjacent room. They were like scratches, scrapes, like furniture being moved around.

Knowing that the stagehands never worked through a lunch break, Deedee wondered for a moment if the theater was being burgled. It was not unheard of. Only the other week, Billy had arrived early one morning to find his office being ransacked by two drug addicts after anything to sell for their next fix.

Momentarily afraid, Deedee listened for a few more seconds, then decided to investigate. If there were intruders, then she'd probably get the blame for not raising help. Everybody knew she never left the theater, not even during her breaks.

Rising, Deedee put her ear to the wall, but could still not make out what the noises were, nor exactly where they were coming from. She went to the door and peered out into the corridor. The room next to hers was a storeroom, where many of the props were kept. Maybe the wardrobe mistress or one of the stagehands was making preparations for the afternoon rehearsal? Whatever was happening, Deedee knew she would not be able to relax until she knew for sure.

Creeping out to the corridor, she sidled up to the store cupboard and placed a hand gently on the door handle. The door was not fully closed, so she carefully pushed it ajar, expecting some big hood to come crashing out and attack her.

Instead, she saw two female hands gripped against a metal shelving unit, the bright red fingernails shining out through the narrow chink of light emanating from a single bulb hanging from the storeroom ceiling. Although she could not see anything else, Deedee watched in fascination as the hands pulled and pushed against the shelf, the room filled with grunts and groans.

She was about to run away, embarrassed about nearly interrupting someone's obviously packed lunch break, but then she heard Brett's voice whispering deeply, out of view, behind the door.

"You like that, huh?" he was saying, his Texan lilt unmistakable. "You like my cock filling up your cunt?"

"Just shut up and fuck me..." came the reply.

It was Rachel de Silva.

Something fell off the shelf as Brett continued to pound into Rachel from behind, and Deedee had not a clue what to do. If she moved, she might risk revealing her presence. But if she stayed where she was, she'd be discovered anyway.

She closed her eyes tight and wished she had on Dorothy's ruby slippers, anything to get her out of there. Then, more noises, this time from the end of the corridor. Some of the stagehands were returning early from lunch.

"Somebody's coming...!" Deedee heard Rachel whisper, earnestly.

"Yeah, me, in about ten seconds." replied Brett, his panting increasing, urgently. "Come on, baby, come on..."

"No, stop, if someone see us..."

"Forget it, come on, I'm nearly there..."

Deedee was rooted to the spot as she listened to Brett and Rachel fucking, sure that the stagehands would turn the corner at any moment.

She hunched up her shoulders and tried to turn around as silently as she could, just as Brett climaxed.

"Jesus! Oh Jesus CHRIST!" he cried.

Deedee used his distraction to dive back into her room unheard, just moments before the corridor became filled with chattering workers. She wondered if the two stars had been discovered, but as long as no-one had discovered her, that was all she cared about.

Settling back into her chair, Deedee picked up her journal and began writing, trying to take her mind off what she'd just seen. She was no prude - if anything, the voyeurism exited her, reminding her of her adventurous French lover. She felt her pussy contract a little, her hotness flushing between her legs. God, it had been a long time since she'd been fucked like Rachel de Silva.

Deedee smiled to herself as she began recording the details of her accidental treat. But then she felt a presence, and she looked up to see Brett Carrey standing at the door, staring at her.

"Mr-Mr Carrey..." Deedee spluttered, jumping to her feet. "Is there something you need?"

"I'm pretty much taken care of, thank you." He replied, a wicked glint in his eye.

He cast his eye around the tiny room.

"This your office, huh?"

"I don't have an office." Deedee said. "It's just somewhere I come to...to take a break."

"So you been here a while, then?"

He looked at her directly, studying her every move.

"About a half hour? Maybe..."

Brett nodded, half a smile escaping the side of his mouth.

"Well, I guess I'd better go get ready."

"The dress rehearsal...yes, of course."

"Nice talkin' to ya."

He flashed Deedee a big, wide grin, then disappeared, gently closing the door behind him.

Shit! He knows I saw him! Deedee panicked. He'll tell Miss de Silva, Miss de Silva will tell Mr Kramer, and then I'll get fired for spying...

She closed her journal and hugged it to her chest, as she heard everybody moving up and down the corridor, and Billy's loud voice ordering everybody to be ready to begin in ten minutes.

3. Close Encounter

Seating herself in the center of the auditorium, script in her hand, Deedee watched as the cast began their dress rehearsal. Billy called out directions from his own seat at the front, his shoulders hunched up, his concentration intense. Every time an actor moved about the stage, he'd scribble furious notes and mutter incoherently, which was evidently quite distracting to the people trying to act.

Eventually, Rachel had had enough.

"Billy! Will you please be quiet!" she roared from stage left, as Brett and another actress tried to finish a scene. "How do you expect us to perform when all we can hear is you talking to yourself?"

"Because you're a professional, darling." Billy replied, impatiently. "You should be able to stay focused even if a jet decided to land on the stage."

Brett and the rest of the cast couldn't help but snicker at their director's chutzpah. Nobody talked back to Rachel de Silva, not even the guy who had given her this job.

"I think we need to take a break." Rachel announced, already halfway to the dressing room.

Billy sighed and waved at the others, telling them to 'take five,' while Deedee remained in the background, rooted to her seat, soaking up every second of the drama, real and imagined.

At last he turned to her.

"Never work with children, animals...or actors." he said, wryly.

Deedee laughed, feeling a sudden closeness to the director. She'd always felt comfortable in Billy's company, but now, particularly, it was like they were inhabiting their own moment, one that Deedee knew he would not share with the others.

"You OK back there?" he added, as Deedee realized she had not answered him.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, thank you."

"You don't say much, Deedee Miller."

"Oh I do-" she found herself countering, "When I have something to say."

She couldn't believe the words had left her mouth. She must sound so insolent, so disrespectful! But then she saw Billy smiling. She had amused him, spoken her mind. Something told her that didn't happen too often in his business.

"Good, good." He said, rising to his feet. "Well when you have 'something to say,' be sure to let me know, right?"

Deedee blushed and hurried away to her office/store room, where she ran straight into Brett Carrey, who was poring over the journal she'd stupidly left on the desk.

"I knew you'd seen us." he said, without even looking up.

"You shouldn't be in here." Deedee retorted, finding her voice at last.

"I'm the star of the show, honey, I can go where the hell I like."

Deedee thought about calling for Billy, but thought that might look weak. She'd just impressed Billy Kramer - or so she hoped - so the last thing she wanted to do was go running to him for help like a little girl. Besides, nobody liked a tattle-tale.

"That's private property." Deedee continued, as Brett leafed through the pages.

"But you're writing about me and my dick." Brett laughed. "I kinda own that."

He turned to face her. He was still in his period French costume of thin white chemise, open at the chest, tight britches and tall, leather boots. His thick, black belt was undone, and he'd removed the heavy, pomaded wig that turned him into Valmont.

"So, what's the verdict?" Brett asked, scanning the journal for, what, marks out of ten? "Did you think I looked like a good fuck?"

"I-I really don't think-"

"I'm not asking you to think, Deedee. Just give it to me straight. Good fuck? Great fuck? What? What do you think Miss de Silva thought? She sounded pretty damn satisfied."

"It's none of my business."

"You know what?" Brett replied, throwing the journal back onto the desk, "You're damn right it's not."

He approached Deedee, who shrank back towards the door. Leaning behind her, Brett pushed the door to, then nudged her up against it. She could feel his cock pushing through his pants, onto the top of her thigh, as he leaned his head down to her ear, his breath hot and heavy, the smell of the pomade wafting under her nose.

"I'm guessing you're quite a discrete little girl, yes? I suppose you have to be, working in a theater. The things you must see..."

Deedee tried to wriggle away from him, but she was stuck tight.

"Maybe you write down the things you see because what you really want is to be part of them?"