CHAPTER ONE

 

It was never easy choosing what to wear for an audition, but when in doubt, Helen dressed for sex. It was a gamble, of course - for every director who could not resist a 20-year-old blonde in a low-cut top and miniskirt, there were plenty more who'd take one look at her suggestive attire and dismiss her merely as a wannabe rather than a possible future star of the British stage. Female directors always hated her within seconds of her walking through the door, seeing her as no more than a posh, blonde daddy's girl, with too much money and a lust for fame. Had she known she was meeting a female director, she'd have definitely chosen T-shirt and jeans. But her agent had told her this one's name was Michael, so she'd taken the risk and headed to Soho intent on dazzling him with her feminine charms.

She took out a compact mirror and checked her hair and makeup before heading through the door of the rehearsal studio. Her lips were painted a girlie shade of red, then made blowjob shiny with a thick application of lip-gloss. Her mascara needed touching up, so she rifled through her handbag, then added more volume and length to her spider-like lashes. Perfect! By darkening her lashes, she had managed to bring out and spotlight the seductive twinkle in her baby-blue eyes.

'Here goes nothing,' Helen muttered beneath her breath as she opened the door and went inside. The downstairs of the building was just an entrance lobby, where a middle-aged receptionist sat behind a desk. Helen mentioned her name, then was asked to wait while the woman buzzed upstairs to announce her arrival. It was just a short wait, but it was long enough for Helen's nerves to strike. She had felt okay on the journey there, when the audition had still seemed a long way off, but with the moment of reckoning just seconds away, a swarm of butterflies filled her stomach.

'Upstairs, then it's the door at the end of the corridor,' said the receptionist, calming Helen's nerves with a friendly smile. 'Make sure you knock before entering. He's very strict about things like that.'

'Thanks,' said Helen, then took a deep breath and headed up the staircase. The building looked very small from the outside - just a tiny door beside a neon-lit sex shop - but the upstairs opened out onto a lengthy corridor, with doors heading off on either side. But what surprised her most of all was the claustrophobic silence, broken only by the metallic chime of her steel-tipped stilettos on the uncarpeted floor. Rehearsal spaces were normally so full of life - pianos thumping, dancing, singing, actors booming Shakespeare at the tops of their voices. But here there was nothing but the sexy click-clack of her heels as she strode ever closer to the thick oak door at the corridor's end.

The long, silent walk gave Helen plenty of time to get anxious again. It was over eight months since she'd last had any success and that was just as an understudy, so it was vital that she got this role. Her heartbeat fluttered and skipped a beat as she knocked on the door, then waited to be called. She quickly checked her breasts. They looked suitably perky. And the length of her skirt? It was too late to worry.

'Enter!'

The director's loud, deep voice came booming through the door. He sounded clear and confident, like a man used to giving out orders and used to having those orders obeyed completely without question. Shocked by the clear-cut force of the summons, Helen threw open the door and then took two steps into the cavernous room. Then she froze on the spot, like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, such was the weight of the director's glare.

Michael's eyes flickered up and down Helen's body, examining her face, hair, legs and breasts. He didn't say a word, just kept on staring, but with a strangely distracted look in his eyes. Helen sensed he was mentally undressing her, but not in an overtly sexual way. He made her feel more like a piece of fresh meat on a slab, being eyed up for its choicest cuts by a butcher.

'First impressions count for a lot,' said Michael, eventually breaking the silence.

'And do I make a good one?' She said it in a flirtatious manner.

'Well, you certainly look the part,' said Michael. 'Now don't just stand there by the door all day.'

Helen turned and closed the door behind her, then relaxed enough to take in her surroundings. The room was vast, but had only one small window, so with natural light at a premium, it was left to the angle-poise lamp on Michael's desk to fill the eerie, almost morbid darkness. His desk was positioned to one side of the room, the rest of which was mostly empty, apart from a cupboard in the corner, a big leather sofa and a set of double doors leading off to another room. Two poles, placed roughly four feet apart, ran from the ceiling to the floor in the middle of the room. They looked like pole dance poles, but that wasn't what the audition was for. At least, that's not what Helen's agent had said it was for.

'Take a seat,' said Michael as Helen approached his desk and once again, just as he'd called her into the room, it sounded more like an order than an act of politeness. His voice had an undertone of menace about it; a gruffness that Helen found hard to disobey. She sat down directly opposite him, instantly regretting her choice of outfit as she crossed her legs and felt her tiny skirt ride higher up her thighs. Even though she'd planned to dazzle the man with her long legs, tits and shapely arse, there was something in the way he was staring at her flesh that made her tremble deep inside.

'So, you're Helen Wheeler, aged 20,' said Michael, reading off the piece of paper in front of him.

'That's me,' said Helen, speaking bright and clear, so as not to betray her mounting nerves but her body language gave the game away. She tugged at the hemline of her miniskirt, trying to cover up an extra inch of thigh. Her skin had felt strangely vulnerable from the very moment she'd walked in the door.

'You've not really done much theatre work,' Michael went on, glancing down at Helen's legs. He watched her fumbling with her hem, the start of a clearly fascinated smile just visible in the corners of his mouth.

'Not much, although I was an understudy for Juliet at Stratford last year, but the girl playing Juliet refused to fall ill. Maybe I should have poisoned her or something, but I -'

'Look,' said Michael, butting in, 'it really doesn't bother me. In fact, I'd prefer a girl without too much previous acting experience. I'm looking for someone who'll be able to give a very natural performance.'

'Well, I can certainly promise you that,' said Helen, then turned when she heard the door open. A tall young man wearing black leather trousers walked straight past the desk and sat on the couch. He waved at Michael, who nodded back, but no introductions were made.

'Let me tell you a bit about the play,' said Michael, keen to get Helen's attention back. She was gazing across at the handsome stranger who had started flicking through a magazine, but for all his youthful good looks and impressive physique, there was something even more captivating about the deep-voiced, steely-eyed theatre director. Helen turned straight back to Michael, catching him staring at her fulsome breasts and noticing he didn't seem in the least bit embarrassed about being caught. Quite the opposite, he immediately leaned in closer and for a second she thought he might even reach out and grab them.

'I'm sure you're familiar with the phrase "the battle of the sexes,"' said Michael, his gaze still lingering over Helen's chest.

'Of course,' said Helen.

'And what does it mean to you?'

She took a moment to think. 'I suppose it means that men and women are always in competition for certain things.'

'That's right,' said Michael. 'There's a constant power struggle going on between men and women as they fight for control of the household, control of the office environment, control of the purse strings, control of the world. But where is that struggle played out in its most visceral form?' He looked at Helen, awaiting her answer, but there was a vacant look in her sparkling eyes. 'In the bedroom,' he bellowed, giving the answer himself. 'And it's the power struggle in the bedroom that will be the overriding metaphor of this play.'

'I see,' said Helen, not really understanding, but excited by the passion in Michael's voice.

'There's a battle taking place wherever you look.' He spoke faster now, as he warmed to his theme. 'And it's all about who goes on top in bed. Does your boyfriend mount you and fuck you hard, or do you mount him and ride his dick? For year, it was the man in the dominant position, but then the feminists rose up and staked their claim for sexual satisfaction. So you now have women in positions of power, both in the bedroom and in the wider world, but does that bring these women greater happiness?'

'Possibly, I don't really know,' said Helen.

'And, frankly, I don't either,' yelled Michael. He banged his fist against the desk, as if angered by his sense of confusion. 'But this play will help us both find out,' he added. 'We must find out who wins the battle of the sexes.'

'But how?' asked Helen.

'By staging that battle. By depicting it in its most visceral form.'

Michael rose from his chair and strode up and down, taking frequent glances at Helen's torso and legs. He looked as if he was deep in thought, perhaps visualising how her body would look in various twisted, challenging onstage situations. Her agent had already warned her that Michael had made his name in the avant-garde theatre, so she was only to expect the unexpected. He was known to make great demands of his performers and to push them right to their very limits, but Helen liked the idea of being stretched.

'I'd love to be part of the battle,' said Helen, her words bringing Michael's pacing to a halt. He stopped and stared deep into her beautiful eyes, instantly spotting something beneath her cute exterior that made him think she might be right for the role. He sensed a pleasing degree of willingness, possibly borne out of her desperation to salvage something, anything, from her hopelessly failing theatrical career. And then there was her short skirt and skimpy top, which spoke to him on so many levels, revealing a certain sexual precociousness, a carefree spirit and an awareness of the power of the female form.

'Do you have any problem with nudity?' he asked. He was equally aware of the abundant power of the female form. 'I would guess not, judging by your outfit,' he added, wanting her to know he was aware of the game she was playing - using her seductive clothing to help her win a role in his play.

'I suppose not, not if it's necessary,' said Helen and it suddenly felt like she was already nude. The young man on the couch, having heard the flow of the conversation, had looked up from his magazine and, just like Michael, was now busy staring at Helen's endless legs and voluptuous breasts. Her revealing skirt and top had never amounted to very much fabric between them, but with two pairs of eyes now boring through them, they seemed to vanish to nothing. She might as well have been standing there in just her bra and knickers for all the protection her clothing gave her.

'Then strip,' demanded Michael, the usual power and firmness in his voice.

'What - now?'

'Yes, I need to see you naked. If you're afraid to show your body to me, then we can end this audition right here and now. In the theatre, there'll be hundreds of eyes upon you, so if you can't even take this first simple step...'

His words trailed off into silence, leaving it up to Helen to decide if she wished to go any further. She thought of what he'd said about having hundreds of eyes on her naked body, an excited tingle shooting through her flesh at the prospect of revealing all onstage. She had always had an exhibitionist streak - all wannabe actresses have one - and already her agent's promise that Michael would push her to her limits seemed to be coming true. It was only the audition, but already he was insisting she strip off her clothes and bare all before him. Was he about to lure her onto the casting couch, or was he really the avant-garde genius that her agent had declared him to be?

Helen had been a victim of the casting couch on several occasions, but Michael seemed different to those who had taken advantage before. She didn't get the impression that he wanted to see her naked for lascivious reasons. Although she could tell he had a healthy interest in her body, she sensed he saw it more as an object. She wasn't flesh and blood to him, so much as a female-shaped prop he could use in his experimental play about the battle of the sexes.

'Okay, I'll strip,' said Helen, knowing she had no choice if she wanted the part. She stared at Michael, then at the man on the couch, wondering why he needed to see her undressed.

'Oh, don't mind Philip,' said Michael, somehow reading Helen's thoughts. 'Quick! I want you to take off your clothes for me, please.'

Excited by Michael's insistent tones, Helen lifted her top off over her head. She was wearing a black lace bra, the cups skirting the tips of her nipples. Already they had swollen into one-inch buds which poked through the lace and were threatening to spill out over the balcony top. The room was cold, so maybe that had made them harden. Or was her body responding to Michael's persuasive manner and peculiar way of examining her flesh?

She watched Michael closely, intrigued by his reaction to her slow striptease. He was staring at her cleavage, entranced by the way Helen's breathing made the top halves of her breasts heave up and down. With the bra cutting across her cleavage at nipple height, there was little support for the upper curves. And as her mounting nerves made Helen breathe more quickly, so the heaving and trembling of her breasts became much more eye-catching and profound.

She reached behind her body and undid her bra, then let the shoulder straps fall down her arms. She saw Michael smile as the bra fell away and she wondered if it was her swollen nipples that had pleased him. Perhaps he had taken them as a sign of her arousal, or perhaps she was reading too much into things and he simply thought she had amazing breasts. Either way, she felt certain he was happy with what he'd seen so far. Not just him, but Philip, too. The young man had put down his magazine and was leaning forward on the couch.

Enjoying her moment in the spotlight, Helen kicked off her stilettos and unzipped her skirt. The tiny swathe of fabric had been designed to cling ultra-tight to her thighs and arse, so she had to wriggle her hips to get it down to her knees, after which she let it drop to the floor. The scent of her pussy filled the air, as she stood there in just her skimpy knickers, which had moistened with cuntjuice throughout her striptease. Ever the exhibitionist, Helen loved how these two very different men were staring at her exposed flesh, the younger man simply with lust in his eyes, while the older man's intentions were much less clear and, for that very reason, much more exciting.

What did Michael want from her?

'Take your knickers off, Helen!' He issued the order loud and clear.

'You want me totally nude?' She already knew that was what he wanted, but she was keen to hear him say it again, aroused by the directorial authority in his voice.

'Of course, I want you naked,' he snapped. 'Of course, I want you totally nude. I want to see you peel those knickers off.'

Michael was getting impatient, stroppy even and his anger roused Helen into life. She had never removed her knickers in such a peculiar situation before, but she grabbed both sides and thrust them to the floor. Her cunt, once exposed, was almost fully shaven, just a tiny triangle of near-translucent blondeness growing above her lips. It looked like it had been recently trimmed. It was slightly too perfect - too fresh-from-the-salon.

'Do you wax your cunt?' asked Michael, shocking Helen with his bluntness.

'Er, yes... yes, I do have it waxed,' she replied, suddenly uncertain what to do with her hands. The intensity of the director's gaze was becoming disconcerting, but she was afraid of appearing weak before him. Her instinct was to shield her cunt, but instead she went for a stronger look and placed her hands upon her hips. It was an almost confrontational pose.

'So you'll be no stranger to pain, then,' Michael said, still fascinated by Helen's pubic hair.

Helen laughed, but didn't really know why. He was right - having her cunt waxed had hurt like hell - but why was he bringing up the subject of pain?

'It stings for days,' said Helen, letting her hands fall across her pussy, no longer able to maintain her confrontational pose. She felt defenceless, weak and slightly perturbed by this latest turn in the conversation. She had only just met this unusual man, but already no topic seemed to be off limits. Not even the subject of her pubic hair!

'And could you cope with the sting?' asked Michael, stepping up to Helen and taking her hand.

'Just about.'

'That's good, because the battle of the sexes is a painful one. A woman needs to be strong to fight that battle.'

Still holding her hand, Michael led Helen across the room and made her stand between what she still thought were two pole dance poles.

'Do you want me to dance?'

'No, these aren't made for dancing.'

'What are they for then?'

'Oh, you'll find out soon enough.'