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 gah!-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 not 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. His 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 love having their grandpar—The zoo? Perfect.”
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 with 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.
EXIT STAGE LEFT
“Roz,” Jackson calls in a low voice. I turn to see his hand covers the mouthpiece. “Monday?”
With the in-laws in town, he’ll probably need it. I kiss at him in affirmation and leave him to his Darla.
SCENE 3
THE TOWER
42ND FLOOR
10:26am
Minutes later I’m back in the elevator, climbing higher in the Tower. The doors open on the 42nd floor, home to both Ergo, an ergonomic furniture design company, and Green, a rooftop garden landscaping outfit. Life is a little more relaxed here, not the same flurry as on the 36th. No polished information desk, no patiently waiting appointments, just a sign indicating Green is to the right and Ergo to the left.
I bank left, the click of my heels dampened by recycled, eco-friendly corkboard floors. Mostly natural light floods the area as I make my way back to the offices of Lizbet Stanton.
All hail the Queen!
And that she is; a woman of fair skin and modest carriage. Raven-dark hair and bright blue eyes conceal an intense personality, in spite of her casual appearance. Today she wears unfashionably ripped blue jeans and a faded tee shirt, proof she is not a native of the land of York, but a ruler of it, nonetheless. Lizzy is a young transplant from California by way of England whose personal mission in life is “making ergonomically correct furniture functional, funky, and fun.”
One look at the delicate Lizbet and you might assume she’s a timid creature, but a lost order, as it seems is the case this morning, can send the woman into quite the rage.
“…lost the fuckin’ armrests? Those were original pro’otypes, you prat!”
A good mad always sounds better in a British accent, I think.
She paces the length of her office space, and I notice her staff give her a wide berth. No one wants to be around with the Queen on the warpath.
Cheeks red, knuckles white from gripping the phone, she glances up and sees me. Blue eyes soften a touch and she checks her watch.
“Find my fuckin’ armrests or I’ll have your
fuckin’ head on a spike,” Lizzy proclaims in a voice so sickly sweet it’s easy to believe the threat would be pleasurable. She disconnects the call, mutters, “fuckin’ wanka’,” and glides gracefully down the hall in the direction of her personal office. I trail behind.
A peasant mistakenly crosses her path while leaving the copy room.
“You,” Lizzy barks, pointing at the girl. The intern is so startled she actually jumps back, eyes wide, gripping the copied pages to her chest. “Ring shipping and hunt down my fuckin’ pads. I want them traced within the hour.”
We never stop moving.
“Hope you brought my fuckin’ product, or it’ll be bloody ‘ell for you too,” she decrees over her shoulder to me.
I demure. “Of course, your Grace.”
She doesn’t even bother with my snark, continues to her chambers with a gait so regal I can almost see the crown tilted just so on her glossy black head. I believe “fuckin’” is both Lizzy’s favorite adjective and activity. I’m here to assist in the latter, and after her ranting I’m sure no one will disturb us.
With a soft snick the door closes to her office, and I park my cart near a chair—an ergonomically correct chair, naturally. I toss my jacket across it and set my coffee cup on the multicolored surface of her desk. A composite of recycled glass bottles, it gleams proudly beneath the sleek electronic devices upon it, one of which is an iPod in a speaker dock scoring the scene with a track from Warpaint—Beetles, if I’m not mistaken.
I open the storage bin and remove the box labeled The Queen.
“Brought you a new gift today, Lizzy.”
Blue eyes widen in excitement. She twists the gold band from her finger and drops it into the top drawer of her desk. This is the only time that ring ever comes off, and I suppose it absolves her of unfounded guilt. She is not legally married—yet—but the ring is a symbol of her commitment to her long-time partner, Cheryl. If you haven’t figured, Lizzy the Queen is a lesbian, a “blue jean femme” to be more precise. To find her in a dress would be like seeing George Clooney play lead in Othello—out of character.
Cheryl, on the other hand, is a “lipstick lez” through and through, always fashionably attired and dolled up. Cheryl cannot stomach the sight of “manly bits” as she calls them, and prefers nothing more than clitoral stimulation in their lovemaking. Though she can do it, giving or receiving penetration is a major turn off for her.
No bangers in her mash.
This is where I come in. Lizzy loves the feel of cock—it’s the men attached to them she’s not too fond of.
Off with their cocks!
If only she had her way.
At any rate, I find it refreshing that Cheryl is completely at ease with my and Lizzy’s affair. In fact, she is the one who arranged it almost two years ago when Cheryl’s job moved the couple to New York. Some days she’s here to watch the performance, trying to understand what her lover enjoys so much about being “rogered” as they say. I do love the Brits; they’re a colorful lot.
I offer Lizzy the wrapped box, which she opens with child-like enthusiasm. Gold paper is ripped, the lid lifted quickly and tossed aside revealing a large glass dildo. The device is adorned with textured swirls and nubs of many colors. Seeing it at the store, it reminded me of her desk, which was a gift from Cheryl. The wide smile tells me she approves.
“Remember the rules?” Those rules being no licking, sucking, kissing, or fucking the doxy. This scene is solely about pleasuring Lizzy. The standards are at Cheryl’s request, and in her absence I make a point to honor them.
Lizzy bobs her head, already pulling her tee shirt off, unzipping her jeans.
Stepping from my heels, I remove my skirt and blouse so as not to wrinkle them, leaving me in my lace bra, Jackson-damp panties, and hose secured by garters. Warpaint continues to ooze through the speakers. I reach in my purse for a kit; retrieve a strawberry flavored dam and a little bubble of lube. Lizzy is already completely naked and lying on her back on a blanket she’s laid over the floor.
She has a lovely body, all creamy white skin and pert pink nipples, one of which sports a small gold hoop. A strip of dark hair is all that remains of her shaved pubes.
The tools are set to the side for a moment, and I kneel between her bent legs so I can worship her breasts. Nails drag along her skin, and she closes her eyes, imagining they belong to her lover, I’m sure.
“More.”
My palms traverse her stomach, cup her breasts, squeeze and knead them before I descend on the left, drawing the nipple into my mouth.
Lizzy squirms beneath me, rubbing her body catlike against mine. I lick the valley between her full orbs, the pulse of her heart pounding against my tongue, before kissing my way over to the other erect tip. This one has the ring, and I know she loves when I toy with it.
With the wet tip of my tongue I outline the peak, flick over it quickly. She gasps at the heightened sensation, arching her back when I pull the ring into my mouth and tug. I keep at it with that one nipple, biting and sucking and licking, the point darkening to a flushed rose. All the while my other hand torments the opposite tip, rolling it between my thumb and fingers, pinching it hard, twisting.
Lizzy is one of those people that can get off with just nipple stimulation. Lucky girl. Her fingers stab into my hair, keeping my head locked on her breast.
Her body shakes, a subtle buzz that grows in intensity the longer I lave her soft tits. She whimpers, mumbles something incoherent, and then starts to spasm as the first waves of pleasure crash down on her.
I don’t let it subside; allow my loose hair to trail over her sensitive skin while I kiss my way down her warm belly. One hand strokes up her thigh; the other locates the dam, sliding it over her dampening quim.
The heady smell of her sex is strong and arousing. If Cheryl were here, she’d have buried her head between her woman’s legs and licked her to ecstasy. In her absence I’ll make sure I’m a suitable substitute.
Through the thin latex Lizzy’s clit is responsive, and the lightest touch of my tongue to the swollen nub has her hips rolling, silently demanding firmer contact.
I deny her, barely glance over her skin. Sometimes the Queen must be made to wait. It’s good for her constitution, reminds her to control her temper with her serfs—if only on Fridays. Lizzy groans at my teasing, reaches down to force my head but I pull back before she connects.
“Damn you, Roz.” Without me touching her she grinds the air, impatient for more. “Damn, damn, damn you…”
I grin, find the dildo and position it at her entrance. Blue eyes dim with pleasure at the sight, and Lizzy wriggles to get it inside her.
“Patience, your majesty.”
“Now!”
My hands are busy, one steadying her hip, the other easing the glass prick into her liquid heat.
“Oh, god, yes.”
“Feel good?”
“Mmmm…heaven, luv.” Lizzy tilts her chin up, spreads her legs wider, taking more of the shiny dick. She loves the weight of glass toys, says they feel more realistic than rubber cocks. This is the fourth in the small collection of hers that I’ve named the royal jewels. I think it apropos.
Hand gripping mine, the Queen pushes the toy in deeper. I oblige and shove in to the hilt, pausing to let her enjoy the sensation of being full. She shudders and her eyes flutter closed.
I pull out of her, the colored glass glazed with her juices. Back in, a little firmer this time, and she hisses at the invasion. I stroke her a little faster, my arm steadily pumping the Pyrex cock into her pussy. She clenches around it, I know she’s close to coming again.
Bending, I lick over her clit, firm swipes in rhythm with the banging I’m giving her.
“God, yes…fuck me…fuck me.” It’s just a panting whisper.
I continue the pounding, the licking. She wants to come hard and fast and it’s my role to make her.
“Spin round.” Not a request but a royal edict, issued through clenched teeth and h
azy eyes. Her voice is husky, like she’s holding on to her Queendom by a thread.
Obeying, I slow my ministrations enough to climb over her, my ass hovering above her belly. With a force stronger than I expect, Lizzy yanks my hips back so I’m positioned over her face. Her arms lock around my thighs, trapping me there.
“The rules,” I remind. She has no intention of breaking them. That doesn’t mean she won’t bend them to her royal whim. I begin stroking again, stretch to flick my tongue over her clit. Her cries are muffled between my legs, lips brushing my inner thigh. Teeth nip my skin, and then she twists her head, her nose separated from my pussy by the thin panties.
“Love the smell of your cunt, Roz,” she growls, inhales deeply. “Fuckin’ love it.”
A shift in the angle of the cock I’m working her with hits her G-spot with short, quick bursts. I lift a bit, use my free hand to move the dam and finger her bare clit. The combination is enough to send her over the edge. Her pussy contracts rhythmically, juices ooze around the dick, her body convulses in orgasmic satisfaction.
All that remains of the queenly persona is a shivering mass of euphoria.
Lizzy gasps, gulps down air. Short panting breaths slowly begin to even. I dismount, slide the warm glass tube from her. Eyes unfocused, she smiles appreciatively.
“Brilliant as always, luv.”
A quick glance at her wall clock indicates she still has time left on her session. She notices too. I raise a brow, tilt my head. “Fancy another bonk?”
A giggle at my mocking her accent precedes Lizzy rolling onto her stomach, pushing back so her ass is in the air. She looks at me over her shoulder, sapphire eyes glittering. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”
SCENE 4
THE TOWER
57TH FLOOR
11:58am
While others prepare for lunch, I have one more scene in this first act. Fortunately for me, he is also in the Tower. Top floor, as it happens. Of course, that’s where one keeps a king.
Richard Galloway is the founder and CEO of Infinity Financial. Much like Lizbet, he rules with an iron fist. The people under his command are the best at what they do; find new ways to make more money.
The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts Page 2
