The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts (4 page)

BOOK: The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts
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“Sh
e’s a problem that Mrs. Burwell.” Marc sighs, hands clasped behind his back, watching the woman’s retreating form.  “Didn’t even pay her bill.  All that money can’t buy class, as they say.”  He turns to me.  “I’ll see what’s keeping your lunch, my dear.”

Marc shuffles away and I’m left to review the encounter. 

I understand why some might take issue with my profession; argue that what I do is wrong, immoral even.  But I learned long ago there is no right or wrong in life, there is only choice. 

Take the Burwells,
choosing
to continue in a loveless marriage to keep up appearances.  Many years ago, Maria had a relationship with her husband’s business associate, a man who almost ran Burwell Industrial into the ground, embezzling funds using information provided by none other than Mrs. Holier-than-thou. As everyone in the Manhattan scene knows, nothing hurts business quite like a scandal, and the Burwell divorce might have gone down as the disgrace of the decade. 

Still hurt by the situation but unable to leave his wife for the sake of the company, Charles sought out my services.  Maria found comfort in socializing and alcohol—the higher the proof the better.

Things were fine until the couple’s recent attempt to reconcile when, in the throws of passion, Charles called his wife “Roz”.  Repeatedly.  An argument followed, and I assume she has since caught sight of me leaving my appointments with her husband.

And so, two years since my arrival, the couple pretends all is fine in the Burwell house; Maria up to her ears in vodka
, and Charles balls deep in his doxy. 

Neither is right. 

Neither is wrong. 

They’ve simply made a choice. 

Thoughts of Maria are set aside as the waiter arrives with my meal—a lobster salad and a glass of white wine.  I never eat anything heavy during intermission, just enough to recharge and prepare myself for the next act.

A forkful of the succulent salad
in my mouth, Paul replaces Maria in my mind, and I consider his offer for dinner.  I do appreciate my fans, even those who will never see my show.  But I can’t accept.  It would ruin the mystique, and that is part of the magic of the theatre.  I resolve to let him down gently when I see him next week.

Midway through lunch a new player
takes the stage.  Tall, broad shoulders, short blonde hair beginning to recede in front.  He sits in the chair Maria vacated, green eyes expectant. 

“Hello, Aiden.” I smile. “Didn’t know you were in town.”

He motions to the waiter.  “I only arrived this morning.  Just passing through on my way home from Germany.  Back to LA in the morning.” 

The waiter arrives and departs with a request for a second glass of wine.  I continue eating, wait for Aiden’s next line.

“I meant to call you.”

“Oh?”

“Glad I ran into you.  I completely forgot.”  One brow goes up.  “Any chance I can see you tonight?”

The wineglass is set before him and he thanks the young server before turning his gaze on me again. 

“I’m booked this evening.  I’m afraid I’m unavailable.”

He thinks about it, presses forward.  “Well, how about now?”

I consult my watch.  I have time before my next clients.  With Aiden’s appetite, fitting him in won’t be a problem.

“All right.” 

His exhale is pure relief.  “I owe you, Roz.  You have
no
idea how stressed I’ve been lately.”

“You don’t owe me anything.  I’m happy to de-stress you, sweetie.”   He likes when I call him that.  A personal touch.  I sip my wine, looking over the rim at him.  “Are you here, or another hotel?”

“Here.  Twenty-seven R.”

“Leave the key.  I’ll meet you in fifteen.”

Aiden discreetly slides the plastic card across the table, and then rises from his seat, wineglass in hand.  “Bill your meal to the room.”  He departs. 

As patrons of the arts, you’re
accustomed to the pause between acts.  That is for your benefit, not ours. Intermission is not a break for the actors.  No, in that span between halves, while you’re out buying concessions and stretching your legs, we are behind the curtains changing costumes, rehearsing lines, checking makeup and hair.  Stagehands hurry to erect backgrounds and alter sets.  You don’t see the prep work in between, but know, no matter the play, we actors never stop.  Even when dining on lobster salad in Peacock Alley, we are always in character.  So when the curtain rises on the next act, you find yourself once again immersed in the action center stage, regardless of where the scene is set.

I finish my salad,
swallow the last of my wine.

The lights flicker
: Please return to your seats. Act two will begin shortly.

ACT II

SCENE 1

WALDORF ASTORIA

ROOM 27R

2:09pm

HOUSE LIGHTS GO DOWN

Entering Aiden’s suite I find him sitting in a leather wingback chair. Suit jacket gone,
tie undone; the tails of his dress shirt hang over his belt.  The glass of white sits on the wet bar, replaced by a tumbler of bourbon dangling from his long fingers.  The white’s for me, and I probably shouldn’t indulge a second serving. I drop my purse onto a table, walk deeper into the room.

“How long’s it been, Roz?  Six, seven weeks?”

“Nearly.” I pull the clip from my hair, finger-comb my mane of dark tresses.  “How was Germany?”

He takes a swallow of his drink, waves his free hand in dismissal.  “Lovely, as always.  It would be better if I weren’t always stuck inside.”

“And the project?”  I move back to the bar, deciding I will have that wine after all.

He shrugs.  “Going, I suppose…”  He’s distant.  Things must not be going well at all.

Dr. Aiden Fitch is a world-renowned neurosurgeon.  He’s hopelessly married to his work, and the love is unrequited.  The last we met, he and a group of colleagues were working on some promising results they’d had with spinal nerve regeneration.  The progress, though slow, was progress.

He’d spent a good majority of
our time together discussing that latest breakthrough.  I didn’t understand most of what he spoke about, but he didn’t seem to mind.  Just kept on with his afferent nerves and Schwann cells and synapses as though they were commonplace in the theatre. That’s how it goes sometimes with Aiden, like the sex is a bonus and what he really craves during our meetings is a few moments of companionship.

Naturally after working with my cast so long I have a deep affinity for them. The stage is about connecting
with your audience and your costars, after all.  They tell me about their business lives, their families and goals. 

I listen.

Seeing him now I’m concerned about Aiden.  He sincerely needs a love in his life, but says he’s never been able to give a woman the devotion he shows his work.  The man spends a good deal of time in his own head, working out problems, solving equations, and he appears to prefer the solitude. 

His second marriage ended after only six months—the first even shorter.  Ex-wife number two left him for the pool boy because “at least he’s around.”  As for the first, I don’t believe Aiden ever got the benefit of a lame excuse.

That’s probably why he and I get along so well.  I have no expectations of permanence with Aiden, or any of my clients for that matter.  I’m simply what they need right now.  They are free to terminate the association at any time without argument from me, and while I’ll miss them, I know my role. 

The end is not near with Aiden.

Glass in hand, I go back into the communal area and perch on the edge of the wooden coffee table in front of him.  A condom has been set out, and I settle my wine beside it.  Aiden looks up, returning from wherever his mind has wandered, shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to think about it.”  The sudden smile is carnal, electrifies those green eyes. “I missed you, Roz.”

My hands work the buttons of my blouse.  “Did you, sweetie?” He nods, gaze fixed on my fingers.  I finish with the buttons and shrug out of my shirt, tossing it aside.  “Prove it.” 

Aiden rises from his chair and lifts me with ease, head immediately buried between my breasts.  Then he sets me down in the vacated seat, changing our positions.  He kneels, hands slide up my thighs, bunching the skirt up around my waist.  I’m only wearing garters and hose beneath—the panties were soaked through—and he appreciates the sight.

“Someone was ready for me.”  His tongue follows the path of his hands, trailing up the tender skin of my inner thigh but stopping before making contact with my pussy.  Aiden makes quick work of my bra, and my breasts tumble free from confinement.  He palms them both, pinches the distended tips firmly between his thumb and fingers.  I lean forward and he drops his head, pulling a nipple into his wet mouth.

The suction is hard, his greedy jaws and teeth working at the erect peak.  My arms snake around his neck, hold
ing him to me.  “I like that, sweetie.  Just like that…mmmm.”

He bites down, and I cry out.  Aiden enjoys how responsive I am, lets out a hum of his own.  The zipper of his pants rasps; a swish of clothes lets me know he’s undressing although the assault on my tits hasn’t stopped.  Liquid pools between my legs, my pussy clenches at the thought of release.

Without warning Aiden lets go, pushing off the floor to sit on the edge of the table.  He toes off his shoes and drags his pants the rest of the way off his legs. The shirt is still on, tails now resting on either side of his boxer-clad cock.

“Touch yourself.”

Aiden always did appreciate a good show. 

I kick off my heels and push my bottom back in the chair, pulling my knees back as far as I can to make room for my feet. There’s not much space in the wingback, and my shoulders curl, forcing my breasts together and forward. Sitting like this I’m entirely exposed to Aiden’s gaze, which is, as expected, locked on my dampening slit. 

I suck two fingers into my mouth and then find my aching clit.  Pleasuring others all day often leaves my body tingling with the awareness of my own missed explosions.  Digits circling the bud, I keep my eyes on Aiden, prolonging gratification, watching the play of emotions skitter across his face.  His experience of the art is far more important than my release.

He moistens his lips, leans back on his hands to settle in for the production.

Fingers move slowly, around and around the throbbing nub, coating my lips with my juices.  My free hand grips my breast, molds the flesh.  I latch on to the nipple and suck it into my mouth.

Aiden’s mesmerized by the sight.  Shifting forward for a closer look, his hand hovers over the bulbous head of his rod now peeking its way thr
ough the slit in his shorts.

“Does Jack want to play with Jill?” I tease.  My finger connects with my clit, diddling and playing…faster…faster.  Jolts of heat arc through my body, and the wetness from my weeping pussy slides down my ass.

Aiden is barely holding it together.  Cheeks burn, eyes dim, still watching me pleasure myself.  He massages his dick through the gap in his boxers, hand working a little speedier. 

Grazing a particularly delicious spot, I moan, toss my head back against the chair. 

I need more. 

My other hand is at my slit and I push two fingers inside, awkwardly work them in and out.  It’s too shallow for any real satisfaction, but perfect for the performance.  In the confines of my arms my breasts push closer together, jostle past each other with my movements.

Aiden’s on me now; boxers gone, cock sheathed, glass in his hand.  He pours the wine across my breasts and I gasp as it trickles down my belly.  The move is unscripted, but the cold feels good against my hot flesh.

“God, you’re sexy, Roz.”  He bends to slurp the wine from my chest, tongue chasing the fleeing drops over my orbs before dragging up my neck.  His ha
nds grip my hips, and with a rough tug he yanks me forward on the seat.  The new angle is perfect for his intentions. Moving deliberately, he guides his cock through the valley between my tits.

I look down; watch
as the swollen head emerges from my cleavage only to disappear a moment later.  Advance.  Retreat. Advance. Retreat. The friction is wildly erotic.  I flick my tongue over the crown.

“Yes,” Aiden groans.  His fingers stab into my hair and he holds my head forward, giving me better access. 

I continue teasing his dick with my tongue, my lips; the hand between my legs never ceasing. 

“Don’t stop, babe,” he coaxes hoarsely, thrusts faster. “Suck me down. Rub your pussy.”

Tension builds in his body; jabs quicker, strokes shorter.

He’s ready.

Aiden releases my head and withdraws from my cleavage.  He slaps my hands away and with one hard shove he pushes into my slippery heat. 

The position is uncomfortable—my back is on the seat, head forced forward against the chair back, ass hanging off the edge—and I grip his shirt, lock my legs around his waist to keep from falling completely.  Aiden’s hands are braced on the sides of the chair.  I look up to see him gazing down at me, lost in that intensely focused stage between agony and ecstasy.

He plunges deep.

“Harder.”

Pulls back, shoves in again. 

“Harder, Aiden.  Need more, sweetie.”

The chair rocks, slides a bit; his hips snap against my ass with the force.   I tighten my walls, clenching and relaxing around his dick until he grunts and jerks above me.  His knees give out, and he slides from me without ceremony, head landing on my sticky breasts.  I’m still wedged in the angle of the chair, feet on the floor exacerbating the unnatural arc in my back.

Aiden’s oblivious to my discomfort—and my lack of orgasm. 

It happens. 

He stays on top of me
a minute, rasping breaths against my skin.  “Thank you, Roz,”—kisses my stomach and sits up—“I needed that.” He helps me uncoil from the seat. 

The skirt is still bunched around me and I wriggle it down off my hips to find a huge wet spot from the wine front and center.  And all of my costumes are in the car.

“Sorry about the skirt.”  His brow wrinkles with worry.

“Don’t be.” I shake my head.  “Nothing that can’t be fixed, Aiden.”  Wardrobe malfunctions are a hazard of the occupation.  You’d be hard pressed to find a play without one.

Half naked, I move to the bathroom and slip off the skirt. My reflection in the mirror is quite the sight. Hair wild, skin flushed, nipples dark and pebbled.  Standing in nothing but the garter and hose I look like a half-dressed mannequin in a lingerie boutique.  The blow dryer makes the skirt semi-presentable again.  Finished, I clean up quickly and return to the living room for my bra and blouse. 

Aiden lounges on the couch in his boxers and dress shirt.  The tension in his face from earlier has clearly dissipated, but the thoughtful gaze has returned. 

I dress.  He glances up, remembers I’m still there.  “Can you stay a little longer?”

“Wish I could, sweetie,” I say, slipping on my heels.  “I enjoy your company.”  It’s the truth.  He really is a nice guy.

He pushes off the couch to see me out.  “Next time I’m in town, let me take you to dinner.”  Those green eyes are hopeful again.

I move toward the door, Aiden behind me.  He’s not Paul.  He’s seen my show, knows exactly what I am.

“Sure.  Call me.”  I take up my purse from the table.

“I’ll just wire—”

“I know.” This is not about the money; I’m dedicated to my craft.  I turn, reach up a bit to kiss his cheek. “Safe trip, sweetie.”  And then I leave the stage.

BOOK: The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts
7.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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