waterman
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2006
- Messages
- 478
- Points
- 43
Working together with one's husband, indeed, future ex-husband, could turn out to be a nightmare. Martin had not taken the separation request very well. But what did he demand of her? She had caught him in bed with someone else, and things had not been going well between them for some time.
For the time being, she needed a solid resume to set his sights on more prestigious film productions. And, if that involved acting in fourth-rate films like “The Grin House,” she would suck it up.
She had arrived on the set with her stage clothes on: clothes in a manner of speaking, garments that consisted only of a light blue tank top and a pair of black briefs. The scene had been set. Lilian observed the rudimentary set-ups that, thanks to minimal footage, were to simulate the interior of a cell in which her character, Agent Ironwill, had been locked up awaiting brutal interrogation.
“Martin, we are shooting the interrogation scene today, right?”
“Here, by the way, Lilian. The management got me the updated script, they made some changes.”
“What am I going to do now? I've only learned the lines in my scene!”
“Don't worry about that. I talked to Grinner. We decided that you will improvise. We will adapt the dialogue ourselves in post-production. They care about it being the most realistic acting possible.”
“All right, but what should I do?”
“The scene doesn't change. Ironwill is a prisoner of Powergrinn, who wants to ascertain what she has found out about their shady human dealings. But no electroshock or similar techniques, the result with the fake machines they had provided us with was woeful. We will use a, um, analog method.”
“Do you want to explain to me or not what...”
“Realistic acting, Lilian, don't waste our time. Let's start now!” cut the director sharply.
That look in her eyes did not convince him. There was a veil of resentment and perfidy in it, that same desire for prevarication that had convinced her to stop sharing her life with him.
Her mother, who had worked in the movie catering business for thirty years, had once told her about Grinner, a production company of little renown that held its own by making action films for the home video market and niche erotic films for streaming.
This thought assailed her when the stage assistants arranged her on the cell bunk and made sure that the straps placed underneath it totally immobilized her. With her chest, arms and legs secured to the crib, she wondered how she should adjust her acting.
Ironwill, as her code name said, was a character through and through, an idealistic agent who had infiltrated undercover within the staff of the evil corporation, only to be at some point discovered and imprisoned. She was to endure the jailer's brutal interrogations only to fall in love with him, and together they would escape to reveal the cruel corporation's plans to the public.
'Lights, camera, action!” exclaimed the director.
Lilian began to act as spontaneously as possible, identifying herself with the prisoner who, with all her strength, was trying to escape from that situation. Not that it was difficult, since those ties with which they had immobilized her were real and tight. Damn the realism!
Suddenly the cell lock clicked, and a man in a black tank top, camouflage pants and balaclava over his face made his appearance. They must have changed the casting at the last moment; the man was more muscular than his colleague Bill with whom she had rehearsed the part.
“Poor girl happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, huh?” From those lines, Lilian understood that her character had to pretend to know nothing about those accusations, as per the original script.
“I told you, there's a mistake! I don't know anything, I swear! Please let me AHAHAAHA!”
Suddenly, terror assailed her. The jailer had grabbed her feet and, without preamble, began to give her a vigorous tickle with his fingers.
But what had that crazy director been thinking? He knew she was ticklish as hell! How could she act with her feet under attack?
“I bet your FBI buddies haven't trained you to resist our 'alternative interrogation methods,' have they?”
Her heart was beating wildly and painful spasms, mitigated by the tight straps, ran through her entire body.
“I don't know, I don't know, I don't know anything hehe hehe!” she sobbed gasping for oxygen as her bowels expanded and contracted against her will.
But her plea was ignored. The jailer relentlessly continued his “torture.” His expert fingers slid along the soles of her bare feet, now with very light touches that made her squirm, now with firmer movements that made her scream.
The director's voiceover mingled with Lilian's hysterical laughter. “More realism! I want to see real suffering!”
Lilian tried to focus, to get into character despite that torture. But it was difficult, tremendously difficult. The sensation of fingers running along her feet, lingering on her arches, brushing her heels and pinching her toes, was driving her mad.
“Please! AHAHAH! I'll do whatever you want! AHAHAH!” came out of her mouth, as tears of forced hilarity streamed down her face.
“That's the way I like you, baby. Cooperative. We don't trust spies who agree to talk too soon, though. So, it takes a good, thorough treatment to get you to stop telling lies, Agent Ironwill.”
Damn him, damn them, this was not the part of the script they had agreed on.
The jailer was supposed to put her through an electroshock session (sham) and soon after, pitying her suffering, release her, which would be followed by the beginning of their bonding. Here, however, the only thing she could do was deflate her lungs with laughter.
The jailer had now pulled out a feather. With exasperating slowness, he began tracing delicate lines on the hollow of her feet. Lilian gasped, desperately trying to free herself from the straps.
“This is just the initial stage, Agent Ironwill,” whispered the man in a voice that made her skin crawl. “If you don't speak, I can go on like this for hours.”
“NO! Please! AHAHAHAH! I don't know anything, I swear!” Lilian was no longer acting. She was genuinely terrified that this torture might continue.
Between laughs, she cast a glance at Martin, who was watching the scene with a wicked smile. This was not just a scene for a B-movie. It was his personal revenge.
“Tell me what you want to know! AHAHAHAH! I'll tell you everything!” he shouted, as the jailer alternated between the feather and a small brush, which he used to tease the most sensitive part of his feet.
“All right, you win ha ha ha ha! Maartin stop aha ah ah ah!” was all she could think of to shout.
“Stop!” suddenly shouted Martin. “Let's take a break. We will resume in fifteen minutes.”
The jailer stopped, leaving Lilian panting and trembling on the crib. No one approached to free her from the straps.
“Martin!” called the woman in a broken voice. “Martin, please untie me!”
The director approached slowly, lowering himself to whisper in her ear, “Do you like your new scene, dear? I wrote it with you in mind.”
“You're a bastard,” she hissed between her teeth. “You know I hate tickling.”
“Of course I do,” he smiled. “I still remember how you squirmed when I tickled you during our most intimate moments. But now the situation is a little different, isn't it? You can't run away, you can't beg me to stop.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I just want you to understand what it means to be helpless, humiliated, abandoned,” her gaze hardened. “The scene involves two more hours of shooting. The jailer has various tools at his disposal: feathers, toothbrushes, even ice. And the script requires you to eventually give in, to beg, to humble yourself completely.”
Lilian felt a chill run down her spine. “You are out of your mind. You can't do this to me. We didn't agree on this script.”
“Don't you remember that the contract mentioned 'production discretion to change the script during the course of the work'? I'm the director, you're the actress. This is the scene. If you want to leave the set, you are free to do so. But you know how much you need this film for your resume.”
Martin walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Lilian closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. She had to find a way to survive those two hours of torture. Perhaps there was some secret line she could recite to move the plot forward in a less critical direction for her?”
“Ready to resume!” announced Martin after fifteen minutes that had seemed like an eternity to Lilian.
The jailer returned, this time with a device he had never seen before. It looked like a small fan.
“Now, Agent Ironwill,” he said in a calm voice, ”we will show you how Powergrinn treats spies.”
She turned on the device, which began to blow cold air directly onto her sweat-damp feet. The sensation made her gasp immediately.
“AAAAAH! NO! AHAHAHA!” The contrast between the cold air and the sensitized skin was unbearable.
“Speak up! What did you find out about our activities?” the jailer insisted, alternating the jet of air with light touches with his fingers on the soles of her helpless feet.
Lilian was now in tears. She could no longer distinguish acting from reality. She truly felt like a prisoner, subjected to a torture that, while leaving no physical marks, was psychologically devastating.
“I WILL TELL YOU EVERYTHING! AHAHAHA! PLEASE STOP!”
But the jailer, evidently following Martin's instructions, did not stop. In fact, he intensified his attack, focusing now on her toes, now on her heels, now on her bows, giving her no respite.
“I don't believe you, Agent Ironwill,” he said in a cold voice. “I think you're still hiding something.”
He pulled out another tool from his arsenal: a makeup brush, soft but extremely effective at tickling.
“NO! THAT NO! AHAHAHA!” cried Lilian, remembering how Martin used just that kind of brush to torture her during their sex games.
The brush began to dance on her plants, creating sensations so intense that Lilian thought she was going crazy. There was no escape, no way to protect herself. She was completely at the mercy of that man and, even worse, of Martin, who was orchestrating everything from the shadows.
Between hysterical laughter, Lilian swore to herself that she would find a way to get revenge. But for now, she had to survive that torture, that public humiliation disguised as a film shoot.
The next two hours were a hell of forced laughter, desperate cries and ignored pleas. The jailer used every tool at his disposal: feathers, brushes, ice, even an electric vibrator that barely grazed the skin of his belly but produced unbearable sensations.
When finally Martin shouted, “Stop! We're done!” Lilian was exhausted, drained. Her vocal cords were strained from too much laughing and screaming, her muscles aching from constant spasms.
The attendants hurried to free her from the straps. As soon as she was untied, Lilian staggered up, wrapping herself in a towel that someone handed her.
“Excellent performance, Lilian,” Martin commented with false admiration. “Very realistic. The audience will believe it.”
She looked at him with bloodshot eyes from exhaustion. “It's over, Martin. Not only between the two of us, but also my partnership with Grinner. I'm resigning.”
“As you wish,” he shrugged. “But you remember the penalty you would have to pay to the production company for resignation during the course of the film, don't you? Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you are willing to negotiate the terms of our separation. Your terms on the division of property don't seem fair to me.”
“You are a bastard, Martin.”
“You can rant now and laugh later. Just remember that the subsequent filming of the interrogation scene can get MOSTLY long.”
Lilian felt anger mounting inside her. But she was not stupid. She knew that at that moment Martin had the upper hand.
“I'll call my lawyer and tell him to talk to yours. Otherwise, go to hell.”
Martin smiled, satisfied. “I see you understand the situation. Good girl.”
As she walked away toward her dressing room, Lilian was already planning her revenge. Little did Martin know that she also had secrets about him, information that could ruin his career. What's more, she still had friends in the business. Friends who would help her get out of that situation.
The war between her and Martin had just begun. And, although for different reasons, this time, she would be the one to have the last laugh.
