The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday in Two Acts (7 page)

“Let’s see how this filly bucks.” 

I scream when he shoves into me, fast and hard.  Instinctively I curl inward against the sharp jolt of pain, the burn that follows.  I’m not Tony, who he loves and adores.  He wants to be rough with me; wants to break the insolent doxy.  I’ll let him try. 

With a flat palm he smacks my ass, and then his hands cinch on my hips, pushes them forward, parting my cheeks so he can watch his cock disappear past my dark hole.

“Fuck, yer tight.”

That admission is all I need.  As it is, Thad’s straining to keep from exploding.  I focus beyond the burn and rock back, rolling my ass flush against the saddle of his hips before leaning forward again, tightening my sphincter.

“Christ, ya’ feel good.” 

“More,” I hum.  “Gimme more, Thad.  I can take it, baby.”  He growls at the words, body goes harder behind me.  I know I’ve got him, continue the circuit—rock, roll, lean, rock, roll, lean—moving quicker along his shaft, the burn becoming a delicious fire that spreads through my body, curls my toes.  My eyes shut tight from the sensation, pussy floods, but I can’t come yet, got a cowboy to throw.

As though he knows my intentions, Thad regains control, pulls back from the precipice.  He pushes down on my back, forcing me onto my elbows so he can plow directly into me.  The angle is sweet murder on my G-spot and before I can even think to stop it I’m
screaming out my orgasm. 

Just like with Tony, he doesn’t let up, and minutes later Thad’s still pounding me, still hasn’t come yet, and I’m surfing the wave of another mind-numbing release.
  It’s a full-body shudder, the kind that completely disorients; those nerves Aiden always talks about firing off and resetting all at the same time. My brain goes fuzzy, ears pop, and it’s a moment before I realize Thad’s still lodged deep inside me, unspent.  He pulls my torso upright, pinning me to his sweaty chest; fondles my over-stimulated breasts, and I’m on the verge of coming again just from those tiny motions. 

“Who broke ya?”

I refuse to answer, stare hazy-eyed at the headboard.  He chuckles low in victory behind me, nuzzles the spot behind my ear sending a shiver through my body.

“Asked ya
’ a question, Roz.”

I won’t go down without a fight, even if it’s only a silent protest. 

“All right. Just remember ya asked fer it.”

With a speed I can’t imagine he still has after that reaming, Thad’s lying on his back with me on top of him.  Knees bent, he plants his feet on the bed, and my legs are braced on either side of his, my own feet dangling in the air.  Thad holds his limbs wide, stretching me open.  One rough hand still toys with my
nipple; the other scrolls over my side and down my belly, flicking my clit.  I writhe against him, amplifying the awareness in my ass.  Then his fingers spread my lips apart, leaving my sopping insides exposed to Tony’s greedy eyes.  Tony kneels in the space between, cock sheathed and headed straight for my pussy.

“Oh, shit,” I manage through a throat scraped dry from screaming. 

Tony eases in, taking his time, letting me get accustomed to the feel of both of them at once.  Then he starts moving, slowly and sensually, rocking both Thad and I on the bed.  Every thrust from Tony makes me feel Thad still buried in me from behind.  I drop my head back in the space on the side of Thad’s head, and he continues his deep murmuring in my ear.

“Tell me who broke ya, darlin’,” he coaxes gently, fingers pinching my nipples painfully hard. “Just tell me an’ I’ll let ya go.”

But I don’t want to be let go, don’t want this to end.  I bite my lip, the tendrils of climax licking at the base of my spine. He hooks one of my arms around his neck, keeps whispering for my surrender.

Tony’s gaze blazes into mine.  “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.  So perfect.”

It melts me.  His soft hands skim along my belly, down my hips, over my thighs.  He fingers my clit bringing me a little closer to the abyss, before abandoning the aching bud to lean forward so I’m sandwiched between he and Thad.  He plunges harder, higher, and I moan as his hot skin slicks over mine.

“Oooo, fuck me, Tony,” I beg, free hand now in that curly mane.  “Fuck me, baby.” 

Tony bucks, ready to consent, until Thad’s strained voice stops him.  “Not ‘less ya tell me, Roz.”

I can’t think anymore, can’t convince myself why winning this bat
tle is worth it.  “You, Thad…you broke me.”

My hips undulate—not because of me, but because Thad is now thrusting our joined bodies upward to meet Tony’s driving cock.  From the way he’s breathing I don’t think Thad can hold off long either.  His heart hammers against my back, Tony’s against my chest, and mine has just about stopped altogether.

The tension coiled in me snaps, and I’m caught in a slow-rolling orgasm so intense every muscle locks. Thad is right behind me, his rough bark in my ear only intensifying my own release.  Tony thrusts a few more times before coming with a “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuccckk!” 

We collapse back on the bed, all of our weight pressed on Thad at the bottom of the dog pile.  I hear the two of them kissing over my shoulder; someone’s hand is in my hair, stroking it away from my face, before two sets of lips are on my neck.

“Incredible,” Tony says, pressing his mouth to my collarbone.  “You’re incredible, baby.”

I’m not sure if he means me or Thad, or the both of us.  I don’t really care. Every performance is thrilling, but it’s been a long time since one has been this much more. 

Tony slides out of me, carefully helps me disentangle from Thad’s grasp.  My limbs are heavy, my head is heavy, and just rolling over requires a great effort.

Thad goes to the bathroom, the bed shifting with his weight no longer behind me.  I
crack my lids to find Tony lying in front of me, studying my face.  I smile lazily, and the grin he sends back is adorably lopsided.

“I’m not sure how you did it, sweetheart, but Thad likes you.”

A frown is all I can muster.

Tony shakes his head, hand rubbing my back.  “In all the time we’ve been together, he’s always just
…scowled from the sidelines.  Never once touched a woman I slept with.”

Figured that was the case from all the venom Thad had spewed before.  He probably intimidates women, especially the soft little things I imagine Tony brings home to pet and play with.  Not that I see Thad switching teams, but if he fucked a woman, he’d want her to be as much of a challenge for him as a man.   

“So, because he fucked me, he likes me?”

Tony nods, eyes shining.  “He’s primitive that way.”

We giggle together as Thad climbs back onto the bed behind me, arm draping comfortably over my side.  “What now, my pretties?”

“We let the doxy rest a minute,” I suggest, snuggling back against him.  He doesn’t push me away, and Tony comes a little closer to give me two warm-bodied bookends.  Yeah, I like my new clients.  “Then we find out if the filly can buck the cowboys.”

##

“Sure we can’t convince you to stay a little longer?”  Tony asks from the bed where he and Thad are still tangled in the sheets.  They’d already convinced me to stay an hour past their allotted time, not that it took much arm-twisting.  Thad had sheepishly hinted at paying extra, not wanting to offend me.  I declined the pay and stayed anyway.  As I said, I’m dedicated to my profession.  The money’s good, but it doesn’t motivate me. 

But now it is time I left; as Shakespeare wrote, we all have our entrances and exits.  This is mine.

“I’ll be fighting traffic as it is.” I smile, finish drying off with the thick terry towel.  I bend to pull my clothes from my bag. 

“Damn fine sight,” Thad says, and I toss a saucy wink over my shoulder at him. 

“Since you’ll be fighting traffic anyway,
” Tony yawns, “why not stay?”

“Against my rules, Tony.”  I step into my panties and jeans.  “I don’t spend the night, and I know when to go.”  Tug on a bra and shirt.  I look up to find both sets of eyes on me.  Tony slouches on Thad’s chest, very near sleep, and Thad’s back is against the headboard, hand caressing Tony’s hair.  They really are an adorable couple. 

I twist my locks in a knot and secure it with an elastic band; stomp into a pair of hiking boots and slip my arms into a heavy pea coat.

“Room’s yours for the weekend, dinner’s on its way—glazed yellow fin tuna for Tony; filet mignon and a side of garlic mash for you, Mr. Meat and Potatoes,” I say to Thad.  “And the pastry chef at FC’s is a friend. She’s sending up a special dessert…off menu.”

I walk to the bed and give each a kiss on the cheek.

“Too much food, Roz. Stay for dinner at least,” Tony mumbles.  I’m not sure he’ll be awake for the meal when it does arrive.

Ignoring the pang in my stomach, I shake my head.  “No, you enjoy it for me, boys.”  Bags in hand, I head for the living room.

“Hold on a sec, Roz.”  Thad wriggles from beneath his partner and hops out of bed, still gloriously naked. 

My eyes drop south, then meet his.  “What’s up?”

A snort
at my little joke.  Gripping my elbow, he guides me into the living room and toward the door out of earshot of Tony.  “Uuhh…I need tuh apologize tuh you…fer earlier.”

“Not necessary.  I know how to bring out the best in people.”

He smirks down at me, those frosty blue eyes a little bit warmer.  “Do ya now?”

I nod.  “I’m very good at what I do, Thad.”

“Yeah, ya are—”

“And you should know,” I interrupt, “I was never here just for Tony.  It was always about both of you; will always
be
about both of you.”

The grin on his face is genuine.  I
like his smile.

“So, that means we get tuh do this again?”

“Filly’s behind on the scorecard.” I tip an imaginary hat.  “See ya soon, cowboy.”

ENCORE

The elevator music at the Plaza Hotel plays for me—the energetic first movement of Dvořák’s
Symphony 9 in E. Minor
seeps from recessed speakers.  When he first performed the piece at Carnegie Hall, each movement was met with thunderous applause, so much so that Dvořák felt obligated to stand and bow after each succession.  It’s been a glorious day for me, and I feel like doing the same.

I exit the carriage to a lobby full of patrons coming and going, laughing and smiling; step through the hotel doors into th
e cool New York evening, wait for my car to come around.

Central Park is always busy, especially on the Grand Army Plaza here at the south end.  Horse-drawn buggies pose picturesque against the Park’s verdant backdrop, waiting for the next romantic fare.  Horns blare in rhythmic tempo, drivers impatient with a pedestrian couple paused in the center of the street.  The man holds his partner firmly at her waist and steals a passionate kiss.  She smiles against his mouth, returns the gesture while onlookers and passers-by clap and whistle around them.

Horns honk for a different reason now, encouraging, thanking the pair for a break from the mundane with a touch of magic from their amorous display.  That’s the power of the stage.

Those claps and horns and whistles are just as much for me, and I take a little bow in honor of the performance I’ve had today. It was demanding, but possibly one of my best shows yet.  The applause continues—happiness is a contagious thing—and my phone chirps somewhere in my jacket.

I fish the device from a pocket and stare at the display.  A text message:
Are you free?

The couple has long-since crossed the intersection, but the message on my phone seems to intensify the
dissonance around me.  I double-check the name and number, read the message again.  Yes, I know full well those three words haven’t changed. They’re just…surprising.

I’m exhausted.  At this point I want little else other than to point my car toward the Queensboro Bridge and start the long drive home.  But as a professional, I am not one to begrudge my fans an encore.  It is the highest honor and possibly the hardest request to fill because, after you’ve given your all, left everything you had on the stage, you have to dig deep into the recesses of your soul and give one more stellar recital.  No matter how long or short, it must be moving, must be
worthy
of their affections. 

For this client, that means more to me than I care to acknowledge.

Regret at our last encounter constricts my chest and I panic, momentarily unable to draw a breath.  A thousand excuses rush through my mind—I’m out of costume already; I’ve nowhere to change.  Costume is as important as dialogue and background, and a suitable performance—an
encore,
no less—requires I be in full wardrobe. I shoot a reply back:
I’m not dressed appropriately.

It’s weak, it’s ungrateful, but it’s true.
  This costar is specific about costume: an elegant evening gown or a cocktail dress with my hair coiffed atop my head by fancy pins he can take his time removing.  And sexy heels and a clutch and jewelry—the more sparkle the better.  He always did give great gifts….  At any rate, jeans and boots are not the proper dress for this scene.

The response reaches me just as my car comes around and a stocky man in a gold and black vest and cap emerges.

“Thank you for visiting the Plaza, Miss Hayes.  Hope you enjoyed your stay.”  He takes my tote and deposits it in the rear, and then holds the door to assist my entrance into the car. 

“I did, thank you.”  I tip him heartily and he shuts me away, money pocketed and on to the next patron. 

A quick glance at my phone to check the newest message:
Come exactly as you are.
  An address uptown that I don’t recognize follows.  I key the coordinates into my GPS and pull into traffic.

T
wenty minutes later I’ve traveled the dozen or so blocks north, landing dab smack in the heart of wealth at a mansion on the west side of the park.  A space opens up, and I wheel my car into it and sit for a moment.  This performance is one I was very familiar with until about six months ago.  That was the last time he and I shared the stage...

Unsure of what I’ll need I grab my purse and get out.  Doors locked, I stride across the street, boots tamping on the asphalt and up the concrete risers.  A porch light flicks on when I hit the buzzer.  Heavy footfalls echo through the house, get closer, and then the
solid wooden door’s open and he’s right there in front of me. 

I’ve missed him—again, more than I care to admit. 

His tall frame fills the entryway, casual gaze roaming over me like he never contacted me at all and did not expect me to be standing here.  I’m not sure what to do; the thought of retreating to the safety of my car is overwhelming.  I remember who I am, what I am, and the call of the stage bolsters my wavering confidence.

“Hello, Quintus.”

“Rosie.”

It rolls from his tongue, fluid and familiar—and…
relieved
?—and I smile.  He’s the only client to call me that.  The name’s too innocent for someone of my craft, which is why he started calling me by it to begin with.  It’s also adds to the reason we parted ways.

He steps aside, welcomes me into his home.  I’ve never been here before—we’d always met at a hotel several times a week—and I suspect this invitation into his private life has a lot to do with that last encounter. 

Inside, the décor is masculine; all beautiful, rich cherry wood and dark walls. It suits him, every inch of it infused with his raw masculine scent, but for all its beauty it cannot compare to the sight of him.

Quintus towers over most, not only in size but presence.  A bulky six and a half feet wrapped in dusky skin characterized by a cap of raven hair and piercing coal eyes set deep in his angular face.  He has the body of a wa
rrior—not a modern day commando but the hulking mass of an armored champion in the Colosseum during an era where his name would be more appropriate.  Seeing him now, I’m reminded of Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
—not classically beautiful, but the ruggedness of his appearance and the strength of his aura enough to make a woman melt. 

In contrast to his size is his voice, inflected as it is with its Corsican flair. 

Not Italian.  Not French.  Corsican. 

It is deep but gentle, never rushed, like plucking the strings of a mandolin with bare fingers.  His is a voice made for moonlight; romantic and soothing yet no less intense.

He is the fourth-born son to a Moroccan mother and a father from the Bastia region of Corsica.  Anyone who knows the history can appreciate the irony, but the contradictions of this man do not end there. 

Quintus slips the coat from my shoulders, hangs it in a hall closet, and I feel as though the shield protecting me has been removed.  We move into a living room where a bottle of wine,
Corsican
wine, sits focal to two plates of food, lamb and chutney by the looks of it.  It smells delicious.  A dish of olives and goat cheese and a plate of figs are also present on the low table.  I raise a questioning brow, but follow Q to the sofa.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you.”  I sit, and in awkward silence we eat.  He knows I like lamb, and his wine, and as the meal ends my suspicion is at its zenith.  “Tell me why I’m here, Q.”

He takes his time to respond, wipes his mouth with a napkin.  “I don’t like the way we left things, Rosie.”

This sounds very much like we broke off a relationship. We did.  At seven years, Q was a longtime client of mine.  It was hard to say goodbye to him, but it was my cue. 

“Rules were broken—”

“
Your
rule was broken, and you were the one who accidentally broke it.  I didn’t ask you to, though I’m glad you did.”

I glance away, worry my bottom lip with my teeth.

It’s true.  I broke the third rule, one of the worst mistakes an actress of the stage can make.  I came out of character.  Got so comfortable with Q that I had too much of his delightful wine and stayed the night with him at the hotel. 

Nothing
should make you break character. The magic is in the mystery—staying the night is
not
mystery. 

We awoke the next morning wrapped in each other’s arms, and Q wanted more.  Not sex—sex I could give him easily. In fact, that’s what I offered, but he declined.  No, Q wanted more of
me
, without my vocation, and he very nearly got it. 

I love you, Rosie.
  He said it right before lightly pecking my lips, and with one line he’d completely changed the dynamics of my play.  I had no clever ad lib, and the only one I could come up with, while true, would not have been appropriate. 

The phenomenal Rosalind Russell said of our profession, “Acting is standing up naked and turning around very slowly.”  And Oscar Wilde regarded theatre to be the greatest of all art forms, calling it the most immediate way one person can share with another what it is to be human.

Over the course of my interaction with Quintus I had exposed a little more each time, spun more languidly.  And in that regard I can continue, because
that
is acting.  I can be that kind of human.  Real life—the kind of life Q wants with me—requires a good deal more clothing and hypersonic spiraling so that we are never moving slow enough for anyone to find out just how vulnerable we are.

I have love for all of my clients, but what I felt for
Q was deeper. It pained me when he ended our affair, however, it was truly for the best.  I’m not sure if I know how to operate without stage directions.  What’s most puzzling is that I know Quintus is
not
acting, was never acting, but has still managed to spin before me, slowly, sensually, nakedly.  He’s been a different kind of human with me.  It’s a contradiction I can’t seem to get my mind around, don’t understand the script for.

“Q…” I
say softly, trying my level best to not offend.  “I can’t give you what—”

“What I wante
d then is not what I want now.”

“Oh?”  He’s acting now.  I smirk a little knowing I’ve managed to knock him off-kilter as much as he does me.

“I’m lying.” 

Naked again. 

He covers my hand with his.  “I took a risk and couldn’t handle when you didn’t feel the same.” 

He’ll never know just how wrong he is.

“But I’d rather have you, in any way I can, than to not have you at all.”

I blink. Twice. Quickly.

Once again, I’m out of lines.  A glance off-stage affirms what I already know: there is no understudy, and no crewmember around to whisper the next bit to move this scene along, so I sit for a moment, with my costar and audience staring at me, waiting.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“About us?”

I shake my head.  “There can be no
us
, Q, not in the way I think you’d like.”

His dark face distorts.  “Why not, Rosie?  You think I’d judge you?  I haven’t once in our years together.  I understand a thing or two about callings, don’t I?”

He does.  Years of conversation have taught me a good deal about Q.  He was groomed from a young age to take over the family import/export business.  But he’s a natural entrepreneur with a love for wine, so it broke his parents’ hearts when he decided to step out on his own and buy a failing vineyard in his homeland.  That said vineyard now produces the best Corsican wine the world has ever tasted does little to soothe the sting.

Nevertheless, if I give in to his desires I’m not sure how long things would last between us.

“I’m a
doxy
, Quintus—”

“I understand that,” he interjects, “and I understand why.”

“Do you?”  I don’t intend it to be sarcastic, but it is.  Q…unsettles me.

He smiles, continues in that gentle way of his.  “We are all called to do something, and this calling is yours.  I’m not asking you to change for me, but…you’d be nice to come home to.”

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? But… “Why, Q?  Why me and not some…
normal
woman who goes to a
normal
job and—”

“You’re not normal?” he jokes.

“I’m serious.  Why not someone who’s job won’t break your heart in the long run?”

“You won’t break my heart.”

Believing him is tempting, but it would kill me if I hurt him.  I take a shuddering breath.  “Why?”

“Because…” He struggles a moment with what he wants to say, pins me with that piercing stare.  “Because I
see
you, Rosie.  I’ve always seen you.”

Another perfect line I don’t have a response for. It makes my heart race.
But the scene’s going off track.

“I’m not the
Rosie
you pretend me to be,” I snort, the southern sass creeping into my voice.  “Not the take-home-to-ya-momma type, am I, Q?  You don’t judge me now, but how long before what I am becomes an issue? How long before you’re wonderin’ where I am and who I’m sleepin’ with?  Bothered I don’t answer when you call ‘cause you
know
I’m fuckin’ somebody else?”