The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts (3 page)

His face is red; lids low.  Humiliation and arousal.  No one else will get to see him in this vulnerable state but me. 

Power.

When we started up, these sessions took place at his home, and what began as simply fucking has segued into role-playing.  Adaptation is easy for an actress of my skill-set.  I’ve been slave to his Master, nurse to his doctor, the French maid, the student, and many of the other usual situations. Lunchtime sex in his office was a major turn on for him, so we started playing boss and secretary six months back.  He’d strap me to his leather chair and fuck me for all he was worth.  Then I’d slide my skirt down and be on my way, file folders in hand.  But much like his everyday life, he was always in the position of power.

Deep down Rich has an interest in submitting, but the
Type A personality gets in the way of him letting go.  Since he’s not ready to relinquish control, it’s left to me to take it.

Moving back to my props, I insert the thin, flesh-toned dildo into the ring of the harness and sheath it with a condom.  Finger cots are next before I coat my digits in thick lube.  I thoroughly massage his puckered hole, letting a finger slip inside to the first knuckle.

“Ohhh,” Rich moans. His hole responds instinctively, tightens around the foreign object before he rocks back experimentally against my hand.  I stop moving and he whimpers.  “Please…Mistress.”

My finger slips in further then withdraws.  Back in. Back out. Building a rhythm. A second finger joins the action, and Rich spreads his legs, bending his knees for more. He’s an eager first-timer
, and a very quick study.  I scissor my digits, making room for the cock I’m going to replace them with.

The height of my heels puts my hips level with h
is ass.  Removing my fingers, I place the dildo between his cheeks and slide it over his stimulated anus as I lean to press tight against his back.

“You want this dick?”

Rich gasps, the muscles of his shoulders tense from forcing his hands flat in front of him. 

I move
a little faster, letting the friction increase.  “Do you?”

He nods, voice thick with uncertainty.  “Y-yes…yes, Roz.”

I smack his ass with my hand and he lurches, corrects himself. “Yes, Mistress.”

My hips stop moving, and I guide the head of the rubber cock to his back entrance.  My other hand grips his hip, and he lowers more, stretching his back.  He hisses when I push inside, past the ring of tight muscles, inching in slowly until I have it almost completely
seated.

I spread his cheeks wide, watching the hole expand to take the girth.  His breathing is labored, and his hand comes off the table, clenches into a fist when I shove
in to the root.  I smack his ass, and he pitches forward, flattening his stomach against the desk; the dick I’m connected to taking me with him.

“Gaaahh!”  His back tenses and arcs, fist bangs the table hard enough to send his perfect circle of pens dancing off the edge, rocks the phone and mirror askew.  I’ll have to remember he really enjoys the spankings.

On wobbly heels I regain my balance and slowly draw almost completely out of him.

“If you want to tap out, grab that key.”

He nods impatiently, begs for more.  “Please, Mistress. Please.”

I give in, plunge deep. In and out, in and out, over and over.  I reach around and
fist his swollen dick, stroking in rhythm with my thrusts. 

Rich groans, pushes back against me eagerly,
that puckered little rosebud tightening around the shaft inside him.  His cock throbs in my hand, a thick, pulsing mass of meat.

“So close.”  His voice is strained, muscles clenching.  The skin over his cheeks is pulled taut, his eyes shut hard against the mounting orgasm.

“Look at me,” I demand, watching his lids flutter open in the mirror’s reflection.  The desire is clear.  “That dick’s mine, right?”

Rich nods slightly, but I can tell it takes all of his strength not to reach for the key. He drops his head to the table, fighting the urge to come.

I’m in control. 

My hand stops stroking his dick, palms moving to his waist slowing the pace and increasing the depth of my thrusts.

Sweat slicks his skin, a soft sheen of perspiration carrying with it the musky scent of his arousal.  I bend forward and lick up his spine, my breasts and stomach pressed to his back.  His body trembles at the contact.  My hand follows, palm travelling north, smoothing firmly up his skin until my fingers curl in the thick brown hair at his nape.

With a firm grip I yank his head back so quickly he cries out.  His eyes are wide now, not
expecting this.  I stare coolly at his reflection.  Lips near his ear I ask “Do. You. Want. The. Key?”  Each word is a measured puff of air, deep and husky, punctuated by little jabs of my hips.  I push all the way into him again and stop, giving him one last chance to end this delicious agony.

At this angle, Rich’s throat is exposed, the strong m
uscles of his neck working to eke out a response.  “N-no…M-mis-stress.”

I release him gently, his head again resting on the desk as I slide my hand to his arm, tugging it down and behind his back.  I repeat the process on the other side and fasten each end of the metal connector to a ring on both cuffs.  Hands secured behind him, I reach around Rich and, working blind, find the quick release button on the lock.

It’s a prop. The key’s a prop.  Both magic store trinkets, illusions working in concert to affirm the bondage, dependent on each other in only that way. 

The fixture comes off, but the strap is still in place.  With the rubber dick still buried deep in his ass, I know every slight shift I make is felt like an explosion.

I toss the lock aside, one hand gripping the connector bar on the cuffs, the other on Rich’s hip.

“Head up.  Don’t move.”

Pleasure-lidded eyes come again to the mirror.  He won’t last long, I know, but I want to see when the King gets toppled.

Using the bar I push his hands up, his shoulders straining in the sockets as I pull out of his anus and drive back in. My hips find a steady cadence and his gaze locks on mine in the reflection.  He pleads with me in that look:
Let me move. Please, let me come.

Power.

I’m feeling wicked, and continue to pound him, a
llegro assai
.  Fast enough.  Calculated, even.  With his arms up high and me behind him, he’s trapped.  His jaw clenches tight, lips retract baring even white teeth.

I snake my hand around his thigh, work at the strap until his cock is free.  Fingers close around his dick again, thumbing the liquid seeping unbidden from the mushroomed crown. 

Rich whimpers, panting, the onslaught too much.  “Fuck.”  A string of other colorful words follow.

I turn to fisting him, lightly at first, then firmer, more insistent.  “Move.”

His hips shoot back and forth roughly, simultaneously fucking my hand and the cock in his ass.  I almost lose balance again.  Neither of us can take much more of this. 

Through my own ragged breathing I manage, “Come.”

The command ends him.

I stab forward and stay, but the hand on his cock never stops shuttling. 

“Ooh, shit….shit! Aaahhh, ffffuuck, Roz!” His body jerks to standing, hips thrust forward as thick streams of hot jizz shoot onto his polished desk, spill across my fingers.  “Fuuucck!”

“Tha
t’s a good boy.  Get it all out,” I say, milking cum from him.

Rich falls forward awkwardly
and I land on top of him, breathing hard.  His hot skin feels good against my cheek, and I lay there, hugging him from behind until our synchronized gasps calm.

With heavy limbs I stand and carefully pull out of him.  The condom gets discarded, finger cots, too, and I shimmy out of the harness.  Rich is still bent tantalizingly over the desk, arms still
secured behind his back.  It’s a pretty picture; ass red from the paddle, not to mention the pounding.  In my humble opinion, there are too few hetero men in the world comfortable enough to let a woman give them pleasure this way, and before today Rich was one of them. 

At last week’s session, I gave Rich the key and a sheet of paper.  On it were two rules; he’d call me Mistress and do as I say. 

He had an idea of what was in store, though I hadn’t mentioned the cuffs.  Cock straps we’d use before, the lock and key new additions and also surprises.  Still, there’d been concern in his eyes at the implication. 

“What is this, Roz?” he’d asked, a li
ttle offended.  “You think I’m…gay or something?”

“Labels,” I snorted, dismissed the idea with a flick of my wrist. “The world and all its stupid labels. Gay, straight, bi….”

“
Doxy
,” he’d interjected with a hint of anger. 

Through a genuine smile I responded, “That’s a title, and well-earned.  It’s not about the labels, Rich.  Just about pleasure…only about pleasure.”

He had a choice.  When I showed up today he could hang on to the key and we’d do things the way we always had; tie me up and dick me down.  Or, he could hand it over and experience something completely different.

A
glance over his shoulder finds him studying me in the reflecting glass, dark eyes a touch hazy from the intensity of the performance.  If I had to guess I’d say he’s satisfied with his decision.

My hand lands flat on his behind, a gentle slap, and I smirk at him.

“You plan on releasing me?”

“Hmmm.  I’m tempted to leave you there and have my wicked way with you again.”  I bend, press my lips to where my hand had been, leaving a perfect red smooch on his ass.  Then I undo the clasps on the connector bar.

Rich slowly regains his full height, rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck to work out the aches before extending his arms out front for me to take off the cuffs.

“You’re lucky I have a change of clothes in my bathroom.”

Almost forgot about the shirt.  “I knew you would.  But I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Don’t you dare,” he says, eyes twinkling.

I smile, undo the first binding, and the released hand cups my cheek.  It’s warm and gentle and I turn to kiss his palm then busy myself with the second.  Once that one is free it too comes to my face.  He holds me there, cradling tenderly, before placing a soft kiss on my forehead.

“One question, Rich.”

His brows go up.

“Want the key back?”  It’s in my palm for him to see.

Without hesitating, Rich takes off his necklace and slides the charm back into place.  “Yes, Mistress.”

INTERMISSION

HOUSE LIGHTS COME UP

Once Richard has showered and dressed I inspect him to ensure he looks precisely as a King should: expensive shirttails tucked into smart slacks, cuff links in place, necklace and charm hidden beneath the
flat collar of his undershirt.  I’m centering the dimple in another designer tie when a knock on the door draws his gaze.

“Susan’s back.” He sighs.

“Not yet.” I move toward the door and open it.  “I ordered your lunch, since I know you’re likely to skip it.”  The face of the man in the doorway lights up. 

“Rosalyn, good to see you!”

“Hi, Glen.” I kiss his cheek in greeting. “Thanks for bringing this up.  Do you know Mr. Galloway?”  Taking the container of food and the drink, I step aside so the two men can shake.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Galloway,” Glen says.

“Likewise.”

“Glen runs catering down at Fuego’s,” I explain with a bright smile, “always
makes sure I’ve got a table.” Glen blushes.  “Add it to my tab, and don’t forget to tip yourself well,” I say.

He nods. “Lunch rush.  I better get back. Roz, Mr. Galloway.”

“Thank you, Glen,” Rich says.

“Any time.”  He exits quickly, leaving Rich and I alone again.

“‘Tip yourself well’?” Rich asks.  “You’re not worried he’ll take advantage of that kindness?”

I take the food to the
freshly polished wood of his desk.  “It’s just money, Rich.  And Glen wouldn’t cheat me.  He’ll probably give himself a ten, if that.  Deserves more, really.  But he’s a single father with two daughters in college and a son in the army.  Fuego’s pays well, but…” I trail off with a shrug. 

“Just money?”

I laugh at the shock on his face.  “I know not caring about it seems sacrilege to Infinty’s head honcho.  But someone once told me a fist closed tight to hold onto a dollar is never open to receive one.”  I place the utensils on his napkin, flip open the container of pasta.

“You’re good people, Roz,”
Rich says, hovering over my shoulder, body so close I can feel his heat, smell the fresh scent of his soap.  His arm slips around my waist, pulling me against him, the other envelopes me from the other side.  “And you really take good care of me.”  His lips brush my neck.  “Thank you.”

My hands cover his, pressing the strong limbs against my middle. “It’s my pleasure.  Now sit, enjoy your lunch before Susan comes back to bother you.”  He snickers.  Once he’s seated and humming with delight at the meal, I drop a kiss on his cheek.  “I’ll let myself out.”

Belongings in hand, cart trailing behind, I leave Richard’s office and head for the bank of carriages. Three appointments, three satisfied customers.  Even got a standing ovation from Rich, didn’t I?  Not a bad first act.  Now it’s time for a break. 

I reach the elevators unchallenged, Susan still out to lunch, and take the long ride back down to the parking garage of the Tower.  The scene with the King has taken a lot out of me so I am eager to get some food before the next act begins.

Exiting the elevator in the parking garage, I expect to see Paul but find his kiosk empty.  It’s silly, but I actually look forward to seeing him once my business is concluded at One Penn Plaza.  I suppose I enjoy his innocent flirting. 

As I reach my car, I break down the cart and lift the storage bin into the trunk.  Tossing the little dolly on top and slamming the lid, I open the driver’s side door before noticing the item secured beneath a windshield wiper.

My mouth arcs into a smile.

A single red rose is lying there. 

For me.

For a convincing performance.

From a most adoring fan. 

I reach for the flower and the brown napkin wrapped around it.  My smile grows wider. 

On the napkin Paul has asked me to dinner.  It’s a sweet gesture, and I’m flattered as I slide behind the wheel and close the door.  The rich aroma of the rose is trapped in my nostrils, instantly perking me up and making me forget how tired I am.  The day’s almost done, but there is more work to do.  The show, as they say, must go on.

Steering the car out of the lot, I thrust into the pulsing delirium that is Manhattan traffic.  A yellow cab cuts me off, nearly clipping my front fender.  My hands grip the wheel, and I zip my car around a parked truck, narrowly edging out another cabbie for position in the next lane over. All I need is to get the few blocks to the Waldorf
in one piece.

After a
few more minutes of jockeying for position, I pull up to the hotel and exit the car. The valet takes my keys, welcomes me by name.

“Hello, Miss Hayes.”  Eyes wandering over my outfit, he smiles appreciatively.

“Steve.” I move gracefully toward the entrance.

A man exiting sees me approach and holds the door.

“Thank you.” I sweep past him.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

A glance over my shoulder confirms he’s still watching. I wink and blow a little kiss, then move on to the grand promenade of Peacock Alley, passing Leland, the pianist, who’s already into his up-tempo jazz set. 

“Rosalyn.  Delightful to see you again.”  This is Marc, the concierge.  He’s a stout man, with salt and pepper hair and a jovial countenance.  Always impeccably dressed, he offers his arm and I slip my hand into the crook.  “Chef has prepared a delicious salmon on a bed of sautéed spinach with a lovely lemon vinaigrette.  But, as delightful as that sounds, I suspect you will have your usual.”

“It’s nice to be remembered, Marc.”

Leland’s music fades
as Marc escorts me to my table in the Peacock’s private dining salon.  He pulls out my chair and I sit.  Patrons glance in our direction, and I recognize a few either from my return visits here or as members of the cast.

Nestled in the far corner are Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy, clients I see on Tuesdays, sometimes Wednesdays, depending on their schedules.  He’s in finance and she’s an attorney with the Justice Department.  At first glance they appear to be nothing but your everyday power couple. However, I know they don’t really get off unless being watched.  Of course they can’t go to any of the sex clubs New York has to offer, where exhibitionists are the eye candy voyeurs crave.  It would be professional suicide.  So they call me, the doxy, to come play audience in a show where participation is welcomed and expected.

Kitty-corner to them is The Honorable Mitch Stanfurd who, I’m quite sure, is wearing a satiny pair of navy blue La Perla panties beneath his tailored suit.  They were the last of what he stripped off me in chambers yesterday, which reminds me, I need to order a few more pair…and return his engraved gavel.

And to
Mitch’s left is photojournalist Carleigh Ling, one of my most eclectic clients.  Some days she just wants to enjoy watching me dance on a pole she has tucked in a room of her expansive loft, her eyes following my every motion while I wind my body around the metal shaft. Other times I perform a burlesque routine, channeling the likes of Josephine Baker and Lili St. Cyr. 

Every now and again she’ll bring out her camera and take picture after picture, my body moving to the rhythmic shutter.  At the end of those sessions, she hands me the roll of film.  She prefers not to develop them; says she has the images stored in her head. 
Carleigh likes to be teased, and at each encounter I come up with a new way to arouse her with a thrilling performance.

There are
others I can point out, all of them acknowledging my presence in one way or another; a sly grin, a wink, a discreet nod.  Yet they do not know about each other.

All unwitting cast
mates in the same play. 

Lines in my leather book of scripts. 

Secrets.

My gaze sweeps the small crowd and falls upon a woman perched elegantly on her chair.  Thin, rouged lips sip clear liquid from a goblet, dark eyes scrutinizing my very presence.  I know who she is and she knows of me, although she should not.  It’s under the most unfortunate of circumstances that our awareness of each other is mutual. 

She rises, abandoning her meal, arriving at my table with a face full of fury and a body quaking with liquid courage.

“I know what you do,” she hisses vehemently, eyes blazing.  As I suspect she smells of vodka and the water glass is a ruse.  A prop.  Hands braced on my table she leans over to highlight her point.  “I know what you are, you disgusting—”

“Maria.”  That I’ve spoken her name only confirms what she already knows, but her face pales, eyes widen that I’d be so bold to admit it.  I motion for her to take a seat. 

“You smug bitch!”

Heads turn toward the outburst.

“Please, sit.  There’s no reason to make a production of this.”
  She considers my words, pulls out the chair and drops into it.  “Would you like your meal brought over?”

“What?  You act like we’re friends.  I do
not
consort with hookers!”

Maria Burwell—yes
that
Maria Burwell, “of the Man
hattan
Burwells”—is married to one of the wealthiest men in the City.  As such, she is the consummate socialite, attending every posh event with next season’s “it” bag in one hand and a stiff drink in the other.  Educated as she is in the art of polite society, you’d think she knows the difference between a run-of-the-mill prostitute and a professional doxy such as myself.  Further, half of the people she “consorts” with actually fall into the category she’s accusing me of.

“Maria,” I begin again, my tone even.  “I understand—”

Her fist strikes the table, rattling my water, reminding me I’ve yet to receive my wine.  “I will
not
sit here and allow you to patronize me.  You listen to me, you little cunt.  I don’t care what you
think
you understand.  Only thing you need to do is stay away from my husband!”

There is no talking sense to some people.  She’s content to cast me the villain and I have no problem playing the role.  As I said, acting is adapting; if she wants drama, she’s come to the right place.

“What you’ve failed to realize, Maria, is that I’m not the one who initiated this affair, your husband did.” I offer it casually, voice inflected as though we’re old acquaintances having a nice chat.  “And when Charles deems our relationship over, it will be.  You’ve nothing to worry about from me.”

Appalled, her mouth drops open wide enough to let all of that hot air escape if she’s not careful. 

“Do you know who I
am
?”

See what I mean?  I’m aware her question is rhetorical, the acrimonious response of someone with more affluence than common sense, but it seems she’s the one who’s forgotten her role. 

“Everyone knows who you are, Maria.  You do make a habit of embarrassing yourself at every turn.”  I pause for a swallow of water; place the glass back on the table.  “At the mayor’s luncheon, you were so drunk you lifted your dress bare-assed.” 

I’d arrived near the end of the soiree for an appointment, just in time to witness the woman’s flowing green gown go skyward.

Chuckling softly at the memory I add, “And right now you’re on the verge of giving us all a repeat performance.”

She glances around, seeing the eyes, the reproachful shakes of heads. 

“These people don’t know what you are, but I do.”

I take a deep breath.  “And what am I, Maria?”

“You. Are. A.
Whore
.” Lips curl into a snarl as she snips off each word.

“That’s where you’re wrong.  I’m a doxy.” Her eyes narrow to slits, a frown marri
ng her perfectly arched brow.  “Allow me to explain.  See, a whore doesn’t warrant a second thought.  A
whore
is a fast fuck in an empty closet, or on the subway.  A whore is nothing more than a passing fancy, a means to satisfy an immediate human urge.  Whores are…”—I shrug—“base.

“Now a doxy like me,”—I lean forward, voice still low, eyes boring into hers.  “I’m that random smile on your husband’s face in the middle of the day, Maria.  I’m the pep in his step in the morning while you dawdle over the banality of which bag will match which shoes; contemplate what you and the girls will have for lunch over at Lupa’s in the Village. And when he finally pushes through the door after working late,
yet again
, I’m the only reason Charles can stomach coming home to you at night.”

Monologues always have been a strong suit for me, even short, spontaneous ones such as this. 

I wait, but as expected Maria has no response; mouth working but nothing comes out.  Poor thing has forgotten her lines. 

A shadow appears to my left and I look up at the newcomer.

“Is everything all right here, ladies?” Marc’s eyes shift nervously between us.

“Everything’s fine, Marc.
  Maria and I were just arguing semantics, and I believe I’ve won the debate.”

She stands to leave.  The air on the moral high ground must be thinner as
Maria looks very much like she might faint.  Turning on tipsy legs, she stumbles away from Peacock Alley, leaving me in peace.