Power.
I’m feeling wicked, and continue to pound him, allegro 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!”
“That’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 little 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.
<
br /> 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 castmates 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 Manhattan 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 marring 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 borin
g 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.
“She’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.
The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts Page 4
