STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“Are we…seeing a show?” I ask. Never in a million years would I expect Tyson Slate to want to go see a show like this.

“Nothing’s playing tonight. But a teammate’s girlfriend manages the theater,” he says, and holds up a key on a tassel chain. I wait for further explanation, but none comes. Instead, Tyson turns around, unlocks the front doors, and ushers me inside.

The theater seats fifty at the most— it’s the kind of place that hosts one person shows or improv comedy. It’s beautiful, though, with an ancient wooden stage, thick velvet curtain, and gold-painted woodwork along the walls and ceiling. All this is illuminated by a few scant emergency lights; Tyson leaves me side for a moment to turn on the house lights from a switch by the door— the place isn’t even new enough to have a legit lighting booth, which only adds to the charm.

“Why are we here?” I ask, curious and charmed and desperate for Tyson to wrap his arms around me. Seeing him anywhere makes me fluttery, but here, in a theater, makes me doubly so.

“So you can rehearse,” he says calmly. “I want to see your audition piece.”

My eyes widen, and that fluttery feeling immediately morphs from pleasant to queasy. “Wait, really? Why?”

Tyson’s voice is calm and serious, the not-to-be-argued with one he uses with me when he’s undressing me or guiding his cock to my mouth. “I want you to get the audition right, Anna. I want you to have the things you want, like that major.”

“But you— I don’t think I can do the piece in front of you,” I say, flushing.

“Anna,” he says, eyes darkening. “I’d like to see your audition piece now.”

I open my mouth to argue again, but his gaze intensifies, and I’m quelled. I swallow and walk toward the stage. It’s only a foot or so off the ground, so it’s no trouble to climb up on it. Tyson takes a seat about halfway back, cast in more light than I am given that the stage lights aren’t on but the house lights are.

I clear my throat, and begin to recite the monologue— the dinner party one. I stand stock still while I do it, running over the words as quickly as possible. It’s awful, and I know it, but it’s the best I can do in the circumstances. I finish in half the time I should have. Tyson doesn’t move.

“Try it again,” he says.

“Again?”

“But this time take your shirt off, Anna,” he says.

I take a deep breath. The pleasure that comes with hearing him order me into states of undress is nearly buried underneath my stage fright, but it’s there nonetheless. I grab hold of my shirt and tug it off over my head, revealing the neon pink bra that I got specifically because I thought Tyson would like taking it off of me.

I start the monologue again, this time daring to take a few steps, offer a few meager attempts at getting into character. When I’m finished, Tyson smiles— then tells me to take my skirt off. I bite my lip— I see what he’s up to— and then drop my skirt to the floor, leaving me in my matching bra and panty set, but nothing else.

I see him lean back, likely to make way for his erection. A surge of excitement rushes through me at the thought.

“Do it again,” he says, and I obey, running through the scene. It occurs to me halfway through that I’m standing in my underwear on a stage, and more confident than I was when I was fully clothed a few moments before. How does Tyson know someone won’t stop by? I find myself confident that he does know that we’re totally isolated, though, so much so that when I’ve completed this run and he orders me to take off my bra, I obey.

“Panties too?” I ask as I reach behind my back and unclasp the pink bra, then drop it to the side. My nipples perk at the cool theater air.

“Not yet,” he says. “Go through it again.”

I take a breath, and recite the scene a fourth time, the best one yet. When it’s over, I expect him to tell me to take my panties off and complete it again, but instead, he rises and comes toward the stage.

“I think you’ll do fine, Anna,” he says. “You got better every time. You just needed some practice.”

“I just needed you telling me what to do,” I suggest.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, stepping up onto the stage. He reaches forward, caresses my cheek and hair for a moment, adoring me. I lick my lips when he steps back and turns me in a circle, so he can see me from all angles. “There’s a blanket from just off stage,” he says. “Go get it for us.”