Page 31 of The Drama King

She fell silent immediately, but her chin remained lifted, refusing to show weakness.

"You're not feeling it," I said, my voice dropping to something more intimate, more dangerous. "You're reciting words, but Katherine isn't reciting. She's confessing. She's surrendering everything she was for everything Petruchio will allow her to be."

"That's one interpretation—"

"It's the only interpretation that matters in this room," I cut her off, stepping even closer. Her jasmine scent spiked with alarm, but also with something sweeter that made my blood heat. "Again. From 'Thy husband is thy lord.' And this time, mean it."

She swallowed hard, and I watched the delicate movement of her throat, the pulse that betrayed her accelerated heartbeat.

"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper," she began again, and this time I heard a tremor in her voice, not of fear, but of suppressed anger.

"Better," I murmured, beginning to circle again. "But you're still fighting it. Katherine has stopped fighting by now. Show me the moment she breaks."

We continued this way for twenty minutes—me pushing, her resisting, the tension in the room ratcheting higher with each repetition. I made her perform it in different ways: to an imaginary audience of women, to her own reflection in themirrors, even to empty space as if Petruchio were a god she was praying to.

When we reached the physicality of the text, everything shifted.

"Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth," she recited, and I stopped her again.

"Katherine is talking about her body here," I said, moving behind her, not touching but close enough that she could feel my presence like a physical weight. "She's acknowledging her physical inferiority, offering her softness as complement to male strength. Show me that awareness."

"I don't think—"

"Run your hands down your arms while you say it," I instructed, my breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Feel what Katherine is describing. Your softness. Your weakness."

Her scent shifted, anger mixing with something more complex. But she did as instructed, her hands traveling down her own arms as she repeated the line. The gesture was sensual despite her attempt to make it clinical.

"You're still too rigid," I observed, my voice almost catching in my throat. "Katherine has accepted her nature. She's embracing her submission. Feel the difference between your 'soft condition' and my strength."

I lifted my hand, holding it inches from her shoulder, letting her feel the heat without contact. "That's what Katherine is accepting. Her place beneath male power. Show me you understand."

She turned to face me then, and for a moment, her mask slipped. I saw real fury in her eyes, quickly banked but unmistakable.

"My mind hath been as big as one of yours," she said, and this time the emotion was real—raw and defiant. "My heart as great,my reason haply more, to bandy word for word and frown for frown."

The transformation was magnetic. She let her real frustration bleed into Katherine's words, and it was the most honest thing I'd seen from her since we'd started.

"There," I said roughly, affected despite myself. "That's real emotion. Now show me the moment Katherine surrenders it. The moment she chooses submission over strength."

She held my gaze as she continued, "But now I see our lances are but straws, our strength as weak, our weakness past compare..."

The transition was devastating. She went from fire to ash, from defiance to defeat, and she made it look like a choice rather than a collapse. It was brilliant. It was infuriating. It was incredibly arousing.

When she reached the final section, I knew I had to push harder.

"Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot," she said, her voice growing softer, "and place your hands below your husband's foot..."

"Stop," I commanded. "Katherine is speaking to the other women, but she's performing for Petruchio. He's watching from across the stage. Show me how she offers this submission when he's not even near her. Make me believe she'd debase herself just for his approval."

"But he wouldn't be—"

"Exactly. She's declaring her submission publicly, to everyone, while he watches. It's more humiliating because it's not even directly to him. Kneel."

She froze. "What?"

"The text says she'll place her hand beneath his foot. Show me that willingness. Petruchio isn't there to actually put his foot out—Katherine is offering something he hasn't even asked for. The submission is entirely her choice. Show me."

The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire. Her jasmine scent was a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, fear, and underneath it all, that sweet note of unwilling arousal that she couldn't quite suppress.