The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts (2 page)

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

42
ND
FLOOR

10:26am

Minutes later I’m back in the elevator, climbing higher in the Tower.  The doors open on the 42
nd
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 36
th
.  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 o
ff 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 hazy 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

57
TH
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.

On the 57
th
floor of One Penn Plaza the hive is abuzz with activity.  Employees hustle from one end of the massive level to the other, making sure their West coast business is well underway before leaving for lunch.  Few people ever recognize me arrive with my cart in tow in spite of my heels clicking along the shiny floors.  To them I’m just one more drone adding to the honey pot.

But I’m not the bee they think me.

Through recessed speakers Mozart’s
Symphony Number 40
softly scores the scene.

Shoulders back, stride purposeful I march toward Richard’s private office, which is
guarded by his right-hand woman Susan, a crotchety being who could greatly benefit from a ticket to a show like mine. She’s been Richard’s executive assistant for the duration of our three-year relationship.  She’s also never liked me. 

It’s of little consequence. 

Some days I get by without having to interact with her if she’s already off to lunch. 

Today is not one of them.

Ordinarily I’d arrive on time to assure Richard collects me immediately.

Today I’m a little early.

Mozart’s movement shifts tempo to
allegro assai
—fast enough.  Calculated, I’d say.

As though sensing my presence Susan
lifts her head, sees me approaching.  Her eyes shoot daggers and I’m barely within earshot when she confirms what I already know.  “Mr. Galloway is still in a meeting.” Two passing bees turn her voice lukewarm.  I’m sure had we been alone it would hold its usually frigid tone.

Without
a break in stride, I continue directly to Richard’s door—an unprecedented move—and turn the knob.  “I’ll wait inside.”

She protests, rises from her seat as I enter.  “You
cannot
go in there,
Miss
….” She says this last with blatant contempt as though she thinks the term far too ladylike for me. Susan is wrong on both accounts: I am every bit a lady, and already in the office. 

Leaving my cart near the door I proceed to the mahogany desk.  It’s a spotless surface. Three elegant pens capped and placed in a round holder.  A small leather ledger is open with a not
e scribed neatly upon it.  Phone perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge.  Everything neat, controlled.

I sink into the King’s buttery leather executive chair and prop my heels up on the tabletop, hands clasped in my lap, legs crossed at the ankles.
  By the darkening shade of vermillion on her face and neck Susan is utterly appalled and preparing to raise “bloody ‘ell”, as Lizzy would say, when Richard glides in behind her.

“What seems to be the problem, Susan?”  His deep voice is flat for the benefit of his assistant.

Susan spins, flustered.  “M-Mr. Galloway, this…th-this…
woman
just marched into your personal office without—”

Richard pauses her rant with a raised palm.  “Susan, I appreciate your concern, however Miss Hayes and I have a standing appointment.  No harm done.”

She doesn’t budge, turns to glare at me with beady black eyes that sit crowded in her pinched and pitted face. She’s very aware of our weekly meeting, and I’m convinced she knows precisely in what ways Richard and I meet. Susan’s the listen-at-the-door type.  I imagine she sits at her desk just long enough for the fun to begin before she hops from her seat and presses her ear to the wood, wet with envy. 

She wants the King; it’s been apparent since the first day we…
encountered
one another.  The introduction was never formal.  But Susan’s not one of the sexy secretaries displayed at the posts of some of Richard’s underlings, lithe bodies meant to disarm clients with saccharine smiles, muddle men’s thoughts with the heave of breasts scantily covered by shirts just squeaking by the bar for office-appropriate.  And that’s why, in prim slacks, drab, mock-neck blouse and tweed blazer, Susan has been charged with protecting the King, perhaps from would-be assassins as much as from himself.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Richard says, gently reminding the woman of her place.

I don’t believe she’ll listen today.  A shame, really. It’s sure to be a stellar performance.  From my position on the King’s throne I wiggle my fingers at her.  In return to the dismissive gesture Susan narrows those two black holes at me and then leaves with only the smallest huff. 

Richard’s eyes harden. 

He’s upset that I’ve caused a scene. 

The King does not like scenes. 

He recently fired three new drones after only an hour into their internships when one stumbled and spilled coffee on an important client, and the other two snickered.  He demands perfection from his workers; does not tolerate slacking in his kingdom.  None would
dare
upset the King. 

I do not work for Richard.

The door has barely closed when I demand, “Clothes off. Now.”  I push back from the desk and drop my feet to the floor.

“You’re ear—”

“You’re late,” I interrupt, push myself to standing.

“Roz, you can’t just—”

“Shut up.”  I round the desk and stop before him, gripping his Hermès tie.  A hard tug on the grenadine silk levels his stunned face with mine.  “I do what I want, when I want. I ordered you to strip.”

Confusion
clouds his face before he complies, perhaps remembering our last discussion.  I release the fabric and he begins there, taking his time to unknot the expensive, albeit now wrinkled, cloth.

“Too slow.” Hand hooked firmly in his dress shirt I yank; try not to let my disappointment show when my intents fail to the tight weave of white Prada.  A smug snort from the King redoubles my effort, the more focused pull garnering the desired effect of sending costly bits of plastic buttons flying. “Get your goddamn clothes off this instant, Rich.”

The smirk leaves his face at the tone of my voice and he moves faster, fumbles with his belt, steps from Italian loafers.  The white undershirt comes over his head and he shucks the steel suit trousers and gray briefs.  At forty-four, the man is nicely built: strong back, lean abs, firm butt, and quite the package.  His brown hair is just beginning to streak through with gray, and usually pale skin is kissed golden from a recent trip to Florida.

“To the desk.  Face the window.”

Naked save black dress socks, Richard does as he’s told while I cross the room and secure the lock on the door; lift the remaining box from the bin.  It’s much larger than Lizzy’s.  More props. I carry it over; place it on the floor behind him.

“Rich…
” 

Inference understood, he unfastens the hasp of his necklace, a thin gold chain with a key dangling from it.  The charm slides from the links and lands in his palm.  He fingers it a moment, considering; angles to look me in the eyes,
presses it firmly into my hand.

Two latches on the box release the top, and I pull out everything I need, setting it up so it’s within arm’s reach.  Taking a moment to remove my skirt and blouse, I step into the leather strap-on harness, careful not to put a run in my stockings, shifting to get it positioned comfortably around my thighs and waist. The dildo’s left near the box.

Rounding the desk I set a twelve-by-twelve mirror directly in Richard’s line of sight, adjusting it for optimal viewing with the same precision every other item on the desk is set.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Rich places his hands on the tabletop, back ramrod straight adding a few more centimeters to his six-one frame; nervously anticipating what he thinks is coming.  Behind him again, I fasten a leather bondage cuff to each wrist, leaving the connector bar detached.

“What’s—”

“Session’s begun, Rich. You know the rules. No speaking unless I allow it, and I did not allow it.” I reach for the heart-shaped slapper.  “I’ll have to punish—”

“I didn’t—” he starts to protest, even turns to look at me.  The nerve!

Swat! Swat!
Two quick slaps to his right butt cheek to get his attention.

He gasps, quickly faces the New York skyline again. 

“
That
is for calling me by name.  Twice.  Think you remember your place, or do you need another reminder?”

His breathing quickens, palms press harder into the table.  He doesn’t answer.

I drag the paddle lightly up his inner thigh, teasing.  “Do you?”

“I remember, Mistress.”  His voice is a rough whisper.

“Better.”

Swat!

He groans, squirms where he stands.  The muscles of his back tense and he drops his head. 

“
That
is for speaking out of turn.”

Swat!

“For your tardiness.”

Swat, swat, swat, swat!
I sprinkle his ass with a hail of smacks, each hit harder than the one before. 

His moans seep through clenched teeth, body torn, half turning to move away from the flurry, half bending to accept more.

“And
that’s
for the vile troll you keep at your door.”

A
chuckle slips through his labored breathing; he flinches when my bare hand gently caresses his smarting ass and then slides over his hip toward his turgid cock. I hold it lightly, stroke the velvety skin with my fingertips.  That soft touch is enough to make him push forward, trying to get more.

“Be still.”  He stops moving.  Paddle still in hand, I retrieve the key from where I’d placed it when unloading the box.  “Turn around.”

He does.  Cock pointing skyward and bobbing proudly before him, a bead of precum resting precariously in the slit, Rich reaches for the leather strap sitting next to a tiny lock.  I smack his hand.

“Apologies, Mistress.”  He drops his
gaze to the floor, stands stock still so he doesn’t upset me again.

I take up the strap and hand it to him.  “Put it on.”

He wraps the leather under his balls and around his shaft, fastening it like a belt, and then returns to his rigid military posture.

A
nalysis begins at the shoulders, and I carefully move the leather switch over the toned flesh of his chest, down contoured abs.  His eyes slip closed at the feathering touch and I continue lower on his hardened body.  With the slapper I lift his cock, inspecting his work.  Moving it slowly, it tickles his length; abs clench and hands ball to fists.  Teasing him delights me, so I continue a little longer, thoroughly studying the strap. It’s too loose for my liking.

“Tighter.”

He strains to do so, but manages to slip the hook through the next eye of the belt.  Satisfied, I affix the little lock.  The skeptical look on his face tells me he believes it matches the key.

Perfect.

“Turn.” I lean over the desk and set the key within reach, directly in his line of sight.  I return to the box and remove a thick wooden paddle, position myself behind him again.

“Your hands will not move from that table, understand?”

He nods.

“Say it, Rich,” I whisper, drag my fingertips lightly down his back, raising a trail of goosebumps on his skin.  “I like to hear the words.”

“I understand, Mistress.”

I pause, catch his gaze in the mirror, and then say off-handedly,  “No, I don‘t believe you do.  But you will.”  I flash a wicked grin.  “Tell me your dick is mine.”

“My dick is yours,” he says, reciting the line emptily as if this is some quick read through of the script to prove he knows it.

The paddle descends on his backside with a solid
whap!

Richard’s legs buckle at the knee but he steadies himself.  “My dick is yours,
Mistress
,” he amends quickly and with the vigor I’m looking for.

“And since it’s mine, I decide when you’ll be allowed to come, correct?”

He nods, thinks better of it and answers, “Yes, Mistress,” voice laced with anger and desire.

I push his back downward, angling him better over the desk.  The anticipation in his face is reflected in the mirror. He doesn’t say anything,
grinds his teeth hard enough to make the muscles of his jaw jerk, obviously vacillating between regaining the control he’s so accustomed to and surrendering to the experience.  The arm with the paddle draws back then whooshes through the air as I bring it down again on his ass and hold it there.  He grimaces, inhales, “Husssss...”  A crimson rectangle forms across the cheeks.

My hand caresses his sore bottom, slides along the cleft, fingers trailing the depths.  Rich hums delightedly, tries to push back but I move away and walk to the other side of the table.