The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts

BOOK: The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts
8.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Fresh Whet INK publishing

copyright August, 2011 by
Sable Jordan

ISBN: 978-0-9838946-0-5

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book is intended for Adult Audiences Only. It features graphic language, sexual encounters and situational violence that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files in a location inaccessible to minors.

Fresh Whet Ink Publishing

P.O. Box 3034

Fairfield, CA 94533

Cover design copyright 2011 Sable Jordan

First Edition August 2011

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

The Doxy’s Daybook: A Friday In Two Acts

Sable Jordan


.  an immoral woman; prostitute

.  a mistress


*according to Roz






Dim the house!


Call me Roz. 

All of my fans do, though my full name is Rosalyn Patrice Hayes, after my mother.  We do look alike.  Apart from the mocha skin inherited from my father, all of my other features are Mom’s; thick black hair, sultry brown eyes, full lips.  Even my he
ight and curvy shape are hers.

I am not my mother.

My namesake is the docile wife of a mild-mannered preacher, both of whom still reside in the same little town in north Georgia, in the exact same house where I was born.  And it was on the altar of Daddy’s clapboard church at the tender age of five that I was first introduced to the exhibitionist’s playground: theatre.

Anyone watching the Easter parade at the children’s Sunday service saw me, Bunny number 7.  In my short life the thrill of that moment was unmatched.  Getting my first big-girl’s bike with the handlebar streamers and woven basket a week late
r didn’t compare to the excitement of hovering in the tiny vestibule with the other rabbits, all nervous and fidgeting, sweating in our polyester costumes, waiting for our moment to shine.

Mom gave the signal and we hit the boards, bouncing along and reciting, “Hop, hop, hop.”

The congregation erupted into thunderous applause.  Cameras flashed in the pews. 

Our performance was magnificent.

From that day I was stage-struck, wanted to be in every production our town put on no matter how big or small—well, small or smaller.  I knew, with unwavering certainty, I was born to be an actress.

But as I grew into my teens, it became startlingly apparent my life had already been plotted for me.  I was to follow in Mom’s footsteps; find a hardworking believer, a saved man to make an honest woman of me and then knock me up with unyielding frequency to keep me underfoot.  The end.

That was the script where we lived, and most of the other girls, including some of my older sisters, already had their lines memorized and the action down pat. Lucky for me, being number nine in a family of twelve children, it was easy to go unseen every now and again. So Mom and Dad indulged my love of performing because the productions were few and didn’t seem to interrupt their path for my destiny. To them acting was a phase that would pass into a pleasant memory just as soon as they hitched me to the right horse—or, perhaps more precisely, hitched the cart to me.

My friends weren’t much better in the support category, in spite of sharing a similar dream.  “Television or film, Rosalyn,” they’d say.  “That’s where the money is. That’s how you win awards and get to all the fancy parties.  The stage? Too boring…you’ll never make it that way.”
  They never could appreciate the intricacies of theatre, the subtleties, but there is nothing man has created that can compare to the art.  It’s no small feat to gather players in a setting, supply the perfect dialogue, and churn out a spectacular performance for a live audience night after night. 

I may never have my name in lights, and if I didn’t make a dime I’d still love what I do because s
tage acting is sublime, and the reason why, some twenty-seven years after that first taste, I rise early in my Long Island home to prepare for the day.

It’s Friday, and like every day in New York City a complex drama will unfold in a theatre bigger than anything Broadway has to offer.  I’m lead thespian in a play written, directed, and produced by yours truly; all of it under my control.  Detailed planning and meticulous execution are what make my show a success—it’s been running strong since opening night nearly twelve years ago with no sign of stopping. 
I have four or five performances a day, six days a week.  Considering so many small productions have closed because of the economy, I’ve been very fortunate.

Rolling from bed, I check the daybook on my nightstand; a lot of appointments to keep and everything I need must be present and accounted for.  Once my show begins, there is no stopping until the final applause.  That’s theatre—live; no retakes; no edits.  If something is forgotten, it’s forgotten.  Can’t go back to get the scene right, so it must be superb the first time through.  And that’s why I love it, the challenge to be flawless.

Closet first to pull costumes. Dresses disappear into a travel bag, pairs of heels and flats to match; more clothes than necessary, but you never know when you’ll need to adjust attire.  I consult my script again then it’s to the study for props that get stowed in a travel cart.  Wardrobe reviewed, makeup kit checked, props at the ready, I shut the bathroom door and turn the shower all the way to hot.

Preparation is important, so I rehearse lines—rule number one is know your lines—and review stage cues in my head while I carry out my morning ablutions; brushing my teeth, soaping my body, shampooing my hair. 

The pre-show zing makes me giddy.  I’ve done this many times before, but right now I’m that five-year-old, sweating it out in the itchy costume, waiting to see if things will go according to plan. 

Rinsed, I step from the shower into a room full of steam.  The vanity
mirror has fogged over, and I wipe it with a hand towel. 

“Hello, Roz.” 
I study the reflection, tilt my head to and fro; feel the confidence suffuse my body, the character slip on like a second skin.  “Acting is half shame, half glory.  Shame at exhibiting yourself, glory when you can forget yourself.”  I say it aloud, enunciate and project.

The quote of the day is Gielgud’s, one of many I’ve remembered from the greats before me. I say a different one every morning to keep me focused and on task, remind myself of my commitment to my vocation. 

Today will be a great show.

Half an hour later I’m
out of hair and makeup, and I return to my closet to select the costume for the first act.  Business attire is required, according to my daybook.  I’d be lost without the leather-bound folio.  It’s not much, just a thick sheaf of dated pages with my lines scrawled across them.  Yet it contains the key to every scene in my play, every one of the secrets. 

I’m good with secrets; occupational requirement.  Because that’s what acting is, isn’t it?  Keeping the secrets?  Holding the audience captive with emotion-infused dialogue, plot exposed slowly, slipped from mouth to ear bit by bit like undressing for a lover, until, at the height, you stand before them naked, revealed.

A thrill races through me at the prospect.

is fast approaching, and I dress quickly in a beige blouse and navy pencil skirt, slide into an adorable pair of navy peep-toe heels and have a breakfast shake.  If I don’t leave now I’ll be late, and timing is pivotal to every production.

A few trips to my vehicle to load materials and I’m ready for the show.  I open the car door and toss in my coat and purse just as an older woman—mid-fifties, maybe—comes bounding up the drive.  Her shiny black knee pants and slim baby blue hoodie are both soaked through with sweat, dirty blonde hair also wet from what appears to be a morning run.

“Hello.” She approaches on the balls of sneaker-clad feet.  “I’m Molly Andrews.”

“Rosalyn Hayes.”  I shake her extended hand.  “I was going to come by once you were settled.  Welcome to the neighborhood.”  I speak in a cultured tone, a voice refined for my profession.

“Well, thank you.” A hint of the mid-west hugs her words, a soft twinge clinging to the edges.  Faded blue eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles.  “Y’know, I’ve seen you leave out every mornin’ since I moved in.  Work in the City, do ya?”

I nod.

“What’s it you do?”

“Sales.” A half-truth.  Tell people you’re
an actress, they’ll ask for tickets.

Molly rolls her eyes theatrically.  “Been there.  Just retired from marketing after thirty-plus years.  No more two-hour commute for me.  The pace got so I almost lost myself.” She shakes her head.  “Now I make jewelry and do yoga all day.”

“The good life, yes?”

“The good life,” Molly affirms, eyes glazing as though she’s remembering a different time and place, another scene.  “Anyhow, I know you gotta get goin’, so I won’t keep you.  But don’t you lose yourself out there, all right?”

A smile.  Never have been one to take advice from my elders.  My parents predicted New York would chew me up and spit me out, and I’d be back home in Georgia within six months. 

They were wrong. 

“Good to meet you, Rosalyn.  Come by sometime and we’ll chat over tea,” she says, bounding to her front door.

I watch until she enters and then slide behind the steering wheel.

Don’t lose yourself

Professional acting is all about losing one’s self once the performance has begun.  As Gielgud says, there’s glory in the forgetting, in committing so absolutely to the character you are playing that you are no longer playing; you
who you’ve been cast as.  The line where you end and the role begins is not blurred it’s erased.  That’s the bar for true masters of this craft, and I settle for nothing less.

Pulling out of my driveway, I head toward the road for Manhattan, glory on my mind.





After fighting traffic through Midtown, I arrive at the parking garage at One Penn Plaza.  Nestled between the Station and the Garden, the massive glass and aluminum edifice lords over the surrounding complex at its base.  The characters inside are the royal court of this kingdom and precisely why I’ve dubbed this backdrop
The Tower

I grab my purse and coat and step from the car, greeted by the lecherous gaze of Paul, the young attendant on duty. 

“Mornin’,” he says, handing me a cup of coffee before moving to my trunk to pull out the blue file container.  He’s the perfect page, always so helpful.  Good looking, too, with blonde hair a touch too curly that often finds its way over deep blue eyes. 

“Good morning, Paul.” I carefully sip the hot liquid.  Lean muscles work beneath the short sleeves of his uniform while he sets the bin on the handcart and secures it with a bungee cord.  “Thanks for grabbing that for me, and for the coffee.  You’re too sweet.”

“My pleasure, Miss Rosalyn.”

I giggle; unnecessarily place my hand on his firm bicep.  “No need to be so formal, Paul. You can call me Roz.  Or is that just the Southern gent in you?”

He offers his arm and I slide my hand into the curve of his elbow.  With a satisfied grin on his boyish face, he drags the little cart behind him, escorts me to the elevator bank.  I don’t suppose everyone gets this sort of treatment, but then I think for Paul I’m more than a paying customer. 

The elevator opens and I enter the empty carriage alone.  He rolls the cart on board with me and selects my desired floor.

“See you on your way out?” His gaze is fervid.


The doors close and the lift begins its ascent to the 36
floor.  After several delays to load and unload passengers, it comes to rest at my first stop for the day.  The metal curtains glide open revealing the shiny, broad desk of the floor’s receptionist.  A few people wait patiently in prim business suits and stern faces, another speaks with the attendant. 

“Morning, Annie.” A little finger wave and I continue past the
info desk, pulling the bin behind me.  I shift my purse on my shoulder and take a sip of my drink, heels tapping briskly on the floor.

Marble segues to industrial carpet as I pass a huge conference space filled with workers downing java to stay awake during the end-of-the-week meeting.  A tall man at the whiteboard glances at me through the glass partition. 

I keep moving.

At the end of the hall sits Eva, Mr. Temple’s personal assistant.  Sh
e’s a gorgeous twenty-something with long brown hair, innocent brown eyes, and fresh skin.  Her predecessors looked much the same.  I secretly think he has a thing for her.  That she’s his third secretary in as many months leads me to believe he’s had a thing for most of them. 

“Hi, Eva.  I see Temple’s still in his meeting, huh?”

She nods, motions to a chair opposite her.  “Would you like to have a seat?”

I make a show of checking my watch—ten on the nose—and hear his steady gait approaching behind me. I’ve worked with Temple the last year.  Even dampened by the carpet I know what his footfalls sound like.

“Meeting ran a little late,” he says, extends his hand as I turn.  We shake, ever professional, and he walks to the large wooden door that separates his office from his minions. 

I follow.

“I know you’re busy, Miss Hayes.  Come on in,”—to Eva—“hold my calls, please.”

We enter his domain.  A large, polished desk sits focal to the city line visible through the building’s grand translucent façade.  It’s fitting.  This is the boss’s office, and the power on the set is tangible.  A few comfortable chairs line the wall and to the left is a personal bathroom, the door drawn shut.

Mr. Temple—Jackson in private—pulls a chair to his desk for me.  I remove my coat and hang it across the back of the seat, toss my purse on the tabletop.  Coffee gets settled on a coaster beside and I turn, bend at the waist to open the storage bin I’ve dragged along from the car.  The skirt rides up, revealing a hint of lacey detailing at the tops of my sheer thigh-high hose.

Jackson inhales. 

I pretend not to notice.

Two files rest atop boxes stowed inside and I remove them both, handing the first to him and laying the second on the desk.  I open it, mess the
colorful pages filled with pie charts and flow charts and paragraphs of carefully researched data about a product that does not exist.  He does the same.

The stage is dressed, the action begins…

I walk around the desk. He’s forgotten to put away the pictures of his wife and kids.  They’re a cute family; his three girls all blonde heads in ponytails and bright smiles.  I wonder what he thinks about me seeing them, if it even matters.

I guide Jackson down into his plush leather chair, sink to my knees on the floor before him.  This is a difficult achievement, the narrow skirt doesn’t afford much movement, but he likes it this way.  Likes seeing the form fitting costumes that hug the curves of my hips and ass. 

He unbuckles his belt and unzips his suit pants, freeing his sizeable cock.  I let him do the liberty with the condom.  He prefers to stroke himself stiff while I watch with greedy eyes, and then, when I’m salivating for a taste, he feeds his dick in measured bites into my waiting mouth.  Though the location has changed, the scene’s been like this the entire time this affair has endured, and I imagine it will continue in the exact same vein for a long time to come. 

With sultry eyes I watch him
unroll the latex down his shaft; watch him fist the heavy rod in one hand while the other grips my hair.  He slowly eases just the head of his dick onto my tongue.  I lick it lightly, round and round the outside with the flat of my tongue, laving at the crown before my lips cover it whole. 

He groans, feeds me a little more. 

This game of hide-the-cock continues slowly with Jackson setting the pace.  Each time I take more of him in he pauses to savor the sensation at the new depth.  Finally, when he thinks my mouth is full, he begins to lift on my hair.  I stop him, clenching my hands on his thighs and forcing more of him into my throat.  He knows I’m going to, I know he wants me to, but he’s too much of a gentleman to do it himself.

“Oh, shit.”

Know your cue

I pull back and push forward again, encouraging him with moans of appreciation for his massive dick.  It throbs in my mouth like it has a heart of its own—
thump, thump, thump—
eager to drop the load he’s been carrying.

His hips move, just a tiny bit, and I bob a little faster before releasing him with a wet pop.  Hand wrapped around the base, I stroke up on the shaft and bear down with my mouth.  Jackson loves it; his hands rake through my hair and force my head down.  He moves me faster, my hand moves faster, the slick, sloppy sounds of my mouth and soft little hums of delight spurring him on.  He grows harder, is right on the verge of exploding, almost—

“Mr. Temple, line one.”

” he grunts, ready to jet.

I release him from my mouth, thumb and fingers grip tightly just beneath the engorged reddened head.  When he comes he’ll be focused on nothing else but the velvety feel of my warm mouth on his dick.

Jackson slaps the intercom, barely able to control his anger.  “I said hold ‘em.”

“It’s Darla.” Eva’s voice comes nervously through the speaker.

His hand chafes his jaw, frustrated, torn. 

Clearing the desire from his throat, he lifts the receiver with surprising calm.  “Hey, sweetheart, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back in a few?”

He listens to the reply from the other end; my hand starts to move.  His abs clench and brown eyes glare down at me.

“Sure, I’d be happy t’…have your parents st-, uhh, with us…for a whi-….”

Jackson bats at me, tries to make me stop.  My lips return to his cock, kissing the root, licking up his veined length.  He fists my hair in his hand, tries to yank me off, but I shove him down all the way to the back of my throat, stuffing him in with an audible gag.

“Fuuucck.”  His
hold loosens.  “No, not you Da… somethin’s goin’…hey, baby”—I bob faster, his body jerks—“Really
-gotta call you back.”

The receiver crashes into
the cradle, and he grips my head with so much force I think he just might crush it.  Standing quickly, he grits out, “Naughty bitch.” His hips thrust, forcing his dick into my mouth.

“Mmm hmm,” I hum in agreement, head moving busily.
  Love when he talks like that.  It gets me so hot I can feel the wetness pooling between my thighs, my nipples pebble to rock hard points against my bra.  I snake my hand between his legs and massage the velvety sac. Not lightly—Jackson does
like his balls played with lightly.  He wants to know I’m there.

“Fuck, Roz,” he breathes, still pumping, still fucking my throat, until hot cum gushes from him, filling the condom.  I suck him off through the grunting orgasm and right on through the afterblow, his body twitching and jerking before collapsing again into the chair.  He’s quiet as the intensity of the release passes through him before, “Damn, you got a mouth on you, sweetness.” He catches his breath, strokes my hair gently.  I lap at the skin of his inner thigh, inhale his masculine scent. “That was a dirty thing to do, Roz.  While I’m on the phone with the wife?”

“Aww,” I purr innocently, bat my lashes.  “Let me make it up to you, Jackson.”  One long lick of my tongue over his hypersensitive head makes his dick jump.  Leave your audience wanting more….

“Not twice.” He chuckles, absently shakes his head. “Twice and I won’t get through the day.”

I press my lips to the head of his cock, kiss it goodbye for now.

Some people need their Friday morning coffee to function, for Jackson it’s a Friday morning blowjob. He told me before that his Darla doesn’t do this for him.
Darla, his dearest possession, cannot see fit to give him head.  Pity she doesn’t.  He’s got a beautiful cock; thickly veined and long.  I sometimes wish one day he’d ask for more than a BJ just so I can feel that impressive monster inside me.  But it’s not in the script and Jackson’s not much for ad libbing.

His breathing slows to its regular pace; the condom is balled into a tissue yanked from the box on his desk.  He drops it into a nearby trashcan then tucks himself back into his smart clothing.

Jackson stands again to help me from the floor.  Gentlemen are all around in this kingdom.

Stolen moments in his bathroom let me brush my teeth, reapply makeup, fix my hair.  My lips are a little puffier than what I walked in with.  It can’t be helped.

Back on stage, I find Jackson in his leather chair, rocking back indolently, the black handset of the desk phone at his ear.  My eyes are drawn to the curled tether he winds compulsively around his finger while he and his Darla discuss plans to have the in-laws come visit. 

“The kids will
having their grandpar—The zoo?

He’s looking at me and talking to her.  I can feel his hot gaze caress my skin while I busy myself with collecting the messed pages of my folder, a thick manila envelope slipped surreptitiously into a pocket. 

The price of admission. 

Another purposeful bend props my ass in the air while I return the first file to its place in the storage bin, the strangled breathing of my costar evident between the snippets of idle chatter.

“Chicken Florentine, was it?”—a shuddering exhale—“Uh huh…”

From the other side of the desk I face him again, reach for his folder, dipping lower than necessary and revealing the swell of my cleavage through the deep plunge of the blouse.  I mash my chest to the surface, and at his inhale I pause, look up at him from beneath my lashes; let my tongue do a measured pass of my upper lip.  His eyes darken as they follow the motion, stopping on the sight of the wet cavern of my mouth open in invitation for another filling.

The grimace on his face is that of a man struggling with temptation; very close to exchanging his not being able to get through the day for another visit to paradise. His cheeks flush, nostrils flare, breathing thickens. 

Come on, Jackson. Ad lib,
I implore, and for a moment it looks as if he just might.

But the incessant babble in his ear solves the dilemma. 

He sighs.  “Yes, Darla, I’m listening,”—a glance at my breasts—“no, sweetheart, you’re not interrupting anything.”

A clear pad covers his desk blotter, each day crammed full wit
h the black-inked dialogue scripting Jackson’s life.  I lean back a bit to scan the page, locate today’s date, and then press my lips to the square.  A happy reminder atop the heap.

Jackson grins, his voice brightening a bit when he responds to yet another of his wife’s comments. 

Attention on my task, I take up his prop and stow it in the bin.  My bag goes over my shoulder, my jacket is draped over my arm, and my cup of coffee from Paul is still warm enough to enjoy.  Handle of the cart in hand, I head for the door.

BOOK: The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts
8.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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