Kitten

“I think you need to tell me about your relationship with that waiter, Kitty,” Eric said, dragging an unwilling Ryan into his office and locking the door behind him.

“I think you need to mind your own business or else,” Ryan spat back as Eric threw him into his chair.

“Or else what?”

Ryan crossed his arms and met the director’s aggressive glare with a cool stare. “Or else you’re gonna have to find someone else to fuck in between shows,” he said flatly.

Eric didn’t ask about Brendon and Ryan didn’t mention him again, and after the show that night, Eric found Ryan and pulled him into his office, locking the door and closing the blinds.

“I didn’t ask about him, now it’s your turn to keep your half of the deal,” Eric growled, pressing Ryan in the space between his desk and the wall.

Ryan didn’t say anything, just holds his skirt up as Eric thrust into him, panting his ear, hands tight on his shoulders.

After he finished, Eric pressed a clammy kiss to Ryan’s neck, dressed himself, and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a clatter.

Ryan turned to the mirror that hangs in the corner of the director’s office—his blonde wig sat askew on his head and there were red scratches on his shoulders from Eric’s nails. His honey eyes were set, hollow and unfeeling, in between smudges of smeared make-up.

“You fill me up and leave me feeling more empty than before,” he whispered to his reflection, pulling the wig from his head. “In all my life, I’ve never wanted anything more than this,” he hissed, stepping out of his pointy high-heels. “And you have the power to take that from me,” he spat out, ripping the black dress from his body, “if I don’t do what you ask of me.”

He stood before the mirror, dressed only a lacy bra and panties and the streaked make-up on his face. “You’re so ugly,” he said bitterly, twisting to examine the scrapes on his shoulders, the welts standing out blood red against his white skin. “You’re so flawed.”

Everyone else had left the theatre by the time Ryan emerged from Eric’s office, clutching his costume to his chest and padding silently down the hallway to the men’s dressing room.

He hung the dress up on its rack, put his wig back into his case, and redressed himself before heading to the bathroom to wash the make-up from his face. Looking in the mirror, Ryan forced a strained smile and turned the sink on.

Oh, Mona Lisa, I’d pay to see you frown.

And he washed away the make-up, the lies and deception, but he couldn’t get rid of the dirty feeling.