The Black Box

The next night, I find myself going on stage with Jewel Staite.

The Black Box hasn't changed since last night. The same dim red lights bleed into the shadows, the same scent of sweat, sex, and cheap liquor. I get a scotch at the bar, and collect my fee.

"Five now," say the bartender, his voice barely audible over the thrumming bass from the main stage. "Five after. She's been briefed. It's part of her new… performance art piece. Just stick to the script. Get on, get off, get out."

I take the envelope, feeling the weight of the bills inside. No questions. That's the job. I tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket.

The cleaning crew is finishing cleaning the stage, and I meet Jewel Staite by the stairs to the stage.

 She doesn't look at me. Her gaze is fixed on a point somewhere above the audience, her face a mask of detached concentration. She's dressed in a simple white slip dress, her dirty blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Up close, I can see the fine tremor in her hands, the tension in her jaw.

"They said you'd be professional," she says, her voice flat, not a question. "Nothing elaborate, or too long."

"That's the deal," I reply, matching her tone.

The stage manager gives a sharp nod from the wings. The bass cuts out, replaced by a single, sustained cello note that vibrates through the floorboards. A single spotlight clicks on, harsh and white, carving a perfect circle on the nearly empty stage. There is a low ottaman on stage. 

Jewel takes a deep breath, the fabric of her dress tightening across her chest. Then she walks into the light and takes off her dress. Now completely nude, she gets on all fours on the ottoman.

The cello note swells, filling the silence between you. The audience remains subdued, watching as you move onto the stage. The red emergency lights cast deep shadows over the empty chairs, stretching like fingers into the dark corners of the club. The smell of leather polish and stale beer hangs in the air.

You approach the ottoman where Jewel waits, her naked body catching the light. Up close, you can see the fine sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her breathing is shallow but controlled. She looks at you briefly, her expression unreadable, then lowers her gaze to the floor. The music fades to a low thrum.

Without words, you kneel behind her. Your hands find her hips, fingers pressing gently into the soft flesh. She doesn't flinch, doesn't resist —just accepts the contact, her body tense beneath your touch.

As I insert my cock into her pussy, she lets out a gasp. She looks out at he audience, and smiles.

The gasp is sharp, involuntary, a crack in her practiced stillness. But the smile that follows is a performance, a deliberate offering to the faceless dark beyond the spotlight. It's brittle and bright, a stage-prop expression that doesn't touch her eyes.

I begin to move, slow and deep, the rhythm dictated by the low, mournful thrum of the cello that has returned to underscore the act. Her body is tight, warm, offering a slick, mechanical resistance. Her back arches slightly, a pose, her head tilted to present her profile to the audience. I can feel the tremor in her thighs now, the strain of holding the position.

She starts to make sounds. Small, choked moans that rise in pitch at predictable intervals, perfectly timed to the push of my hips. They are sounds designed to be overheard.

I increase my pace, and reach up to cup her breasts.

"You have a tight pussy, it feels so good."

I move one hand to her pussy, and circle with her clit with my fingers, as I fuck her harder.

My fingers find her clit, slick and swollen, as I press down in slow, deliberate circles. Her body jerks, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. Her thighs tighten, her breathing becomes more ragged. The act of self-preservation falters — she bites her lip, her head dropping forward, the facade of control slipping just a little.

I thrust harder, the wet slap of skin against skin growing louder, blending with the low, pulsing cello note. Her hips push back now, meeting my movements with something that isn't just submission — there's an edge of hunger in the way she presses into my hand, her clit twitching under your fingers. Her moans deepen, less rehearsed, more guttural. The audience is silent, transfixed, but she no longer seems to be performing for them.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to cum too!"

I can feel my own climax building, a tight pressure at the base of my spine, heat coiling in my gut. My rhythm falters, becoming urgent, uncontrolled. "Oh fuck, I'm going to cum too!" I gasp, the words rough and ragged, meant for her ears alone.

Jewel's body is still shuddering with the aftershocks of her own release, but she hears me. She pushes back against me, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate motion that draws me deeper, encouraging me. Her head turns, just enough for our eyes to meet—this time, her gaze is soft, almost tender, a moment of genuine connection in the performance. Her breath hitches, and she gives a small, exhausted nod.

I pull out and cum on her ass.

You pull out, my cock slipping free from Jewel's tight heat as I angle myself. She doesn't resist, doesn't object—her body still recovering from her own climax. Your cum spills across the curve of her ass, hot and sticky, pooling between her cheeks. The contrast between the cool air and the heat of your release makes her shiver.

Jewel remains still, the only movement the rise and fall of her breathing. Her body glistens with sweat, her chest still heaving from her orgasm. The cello note fades to silence, leaving only the heavy quiet of the Black Box and the distant murmur of the audience. Slowly, she straightens, her muscles uncoiling as she prepares to stand, her performance coming to its natural end.

She stands, and turns around, giving the audience a good look at her soiled ass.