Vicarious (The Vicarious Trilogy) (7 page)

The
pounding music, the water spray, the thrusting phalluses had all led to this, and in the audience, there echoed a scattering of stifled cries and low groans. I suddenly realized that this was more than a pantomime, that what was happening on stage may have started out looking like a drama but now I was convinced the actress’ orgasms were as real as those in the audience. I had unknowingly attended an orgy disguised as a play.

I wish I could relate how the play ended. However,
at just that moment, two women, dressed in the same filmy gowns as the dancers on stage, seated themselves closely on either side of me, crowding onto my small plush loveseat. Startled, already tense and out of sorts, I immediately leaped up from my seat and rushed out of the theater.

I was unnerved, shocked, shaken, and, to be honest, fiercely aroused.

I’d never seen anything like “The Wondrous Mechanical Devices of Doctor Pantomime” before. I didn’t know that shows like that existed. I’d seen a sexy revue in Las Vegas once, but it seemed tame compared to this erotic performance.

By the time I arrived to meet my friend
at the bar, I’d stopped shaking, but she commented on how pale I seemed.

“
How was the play? Any good?” she asked, casually.

“Ugh, don’t ask,” I mumbled and hid behind the
wine list before changing the subject.

For days
afterward, I moped around the house, deeply affected by what I’d witnessed and reliving my flustered exit over and over again. I was humiliated; just what had been so frightening? Was I secretly a lesbian and afraid to face it? No, I didn’t think so, but if I were, wouldn’t I already be interested in women, fantasizing about women…? I was single and free to date as I liked. Although I had no problem with anyone else’s preferences, I was pretty darn sure I preferred men.

And
just who were those two women anyway? If they were part of the performance, why choose me? In retrospect, their faces and their posture seemed more pleasant than predatory, but I was so startled, all I wanted was to get out of there, and as fast as possible.

Intellectually, I knew that people had all kinds of interests,
proclivities, and fetishes. I’d done my research, but I had always shrugged it off, indifferent. To each her own, I thought. Yet, all of that information about sexual adventure, every bit of it, was acquired vicariously…I’d heard stories, read books, seen movies, and had visited a few Web sites.

None of these experiences were
“real” life.

Seeing
“The Wondrous Mechanical Devices of Doctor Pantomime” was the first time I’d ever witnessed a live, sexual adventure with my own eyes. No wonder I had literally run away! I had always prided myself on enjoying such a rich inner life. Now I realized that I liked my adventures safely confined to the printed page or the screen, thank you very much.

When
real life became too real, I ran straight back to my safe little world. Not only did I
write
vicariously, I
lived
vicariously.

Was
this
timidity
why the Gorgeous Sadist had never shown any interest in me, why he had never asked me out, and why he had never expressed an interest in getting to know me beyond our professional relationship as agent and author?

I spent
several days alone, thinking over my dismaying realization, and crying. I cried in shame and embarrassment, on the couch, in the bathtub and in bed at night.

How could
he see this deficiency in me so clearly, when I was utterly blind to it myself?

Later, I received another note from the Gentlewomen’s Scientific Society.
It briefly said they hoped I’d liked the play and wished me well. Abashed, I sent a thank you note, praising the play and the clever theatrical set, and apologizing for my sudden departure. I also wrote that I was curious why they had invited me in the first place, but I received no response. I suppose I’ll never know how the connection was made.

It’s fair to say that I was haunted by that play,
and by the insights it ignited. It was both painful and humiliating, but my natural optimism soon reasserted itself, and I wanted to make the most of what I had learned.

I attribute what
happened next to how deeply that experience affected me.

Chapte
r 13: Again, My Gorgeous Sadist

Fast forward a year
and a few months. I slowly recovered my considerable confidence, if not my original bravado. I rewrote (and rewrote, and rewrote) the sex scenes in the book that my agent the Gorgeous Sadist had first called “disappointing.” He ultimately sold the book for a massive advance, and the reviews were highly favorable. One fan called the sex scenes “hotter and wetter than ever.”

I
was thrilled that they liked my fiction, but I couldn’t get all those true stories out of my mind, and my thoughts turned again and again to the performance of “The Wondrous Mechanical Devices of Doctor Pantomime” by the Gentlewomen’s Scientific Society.

Finally, I sat down and wrote about my
experiences. I wrote a play based on my research, a play in which I disguised the original stories (along with my own embarrassing shortcomings) but honored the spirit of sexy fun that pervaded each tale. After my eye-opening experience courtesy of the Society, I knew that the theater would be the best and most intimate way for the audience to enjoy these vicarious thrills.

My agent called it an inspired idea. He
said he loved it. He would call up, laughing, to quote lines he especially liked, and compliment me yet again before hanging up.

I thought perhaps
now
my gorgeous sadist would notice that I lusted after him and had for years. I wanted him to notice that here we were
talking about
sex but not actually
doing it
, but no, there was nothing but the most professional behavior on his part.

Maddening!

Fast forward another year, after an exciting whirlwind of negotiations, casting, and rehearsals, and at last I found myself at a small theater on the fringe of London’s West End, at the premiere of my play.

I was
humbled and amazed by what the director and the cast conjured on stage out of my mere words on a page. The stories came to life, and all around me, the audience sat riveted and laughing.

Joining
the director on stage for a bow was truly a thrill of a lifetime, but afterward, I found the exuberance of the actors backstage overwhelming. After a short time of jostling through the raucous crowd, I asked the publicist to show me where George was picking me up. The limo was in the alley, just as he’d said it would be. My agent had something to do while I was at the cast party, the publicist said, but the driver would swing by to pick him up on the way to a late dinner hosted by the producers.

I
was excited by the thought of being alone with the Gorgeous Sadist on the way to the dinner, and on the way back to the hotel. He’d been enthusiastic and free with his praise, but, again, impeccably professional. Was tonight the night? Would I find the courage to invite him to my suite at the Savoy? And if I did, would he say yes?

I
couldn’t be sure.

I nervously
leaned back against the cool leather and watched as the driver edged the vehicle toward the avenue.  As the long dark limo slid out of the alley, the door was suddenly yanked open and a man flung himself inside, frantically pulling the door closed behind him. Screams and shouts filled the car’s interior and then were abruptly muffled when the door slammed shut. Over the man’s shoulder, I saw a stampede of women. Several had their tops open or raised, and one now pressed her naked breasts against the window.

“Bloody stalkers!” the man said. “Un-fucking-believable!”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, turning to face me. He suddenly stopped.
“My god. It’s you…”

I raised an eyebrow and waited.

“I recognize you. You’re the writer…you wrote this play, didn’t you?”

I recognized
him
now, and couldn’t keep the silly grin off my face. He’d been in numerous films, some better than others, but that handsome face, dark hair, and remarkable eyes kept me—and millions of women like me—fast forwarding and replaying certain scenes, even in the worst of his movies. Privately, I called him my ‘movie boyfriend’ and if I’d had a
real
boyfriend, I would have insisted on a free pass if I’d ever found myself in just this sort of unlikely situation.

On screen, he exuded a
rough masculine heat, and in person, though he appeared older, the testosterone effect was startlingly magnified. He smelled delicious, like a fresh gin and tonic with lime, mixed with a faint note of clean man sweat.

“It
bloody well
is
you!” he laughed. He draped himself over the seat, completely at ease, long legs sprawled apart and the top three buttons of his dress shirt undone.

“Don’t think me bold, but that was hot.” He used one large hand to adjust himself. “I was severely uncomfortable the entire time.”

His gaze dropped to the neckline of my dress. Still my best feature, if I do say so. He reached out and took my hand. Mesmerized, I watched him place it squarely on his crotch and press firmly down.

“I’ve got a real monster, and it’s all down to you, you and your filthy mind.”

I’m ashamed to say I giggled. A woman of my age and
so-called accomplishments. Mortifying.

“Like that, do you?” he grinned. “Maybe you should set it free.”

I glanced at the driver. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror.

“Madame,” he asked, very
formally, “shall I circle the park as previously discussed?”

We’d never discussed c
ircling the park. I nodded and he raised the privacy glass. The driver turned down the street, and as we passed the corner opposite the theater, I saw my agent standing under a street lamp, a bouquet in one hand and a bottle in the other. He stared open-mouthed as the limo slid past him without stopping.

My guest handed me a cold glass, tinkling with ice.
The elusive and infuriating George S. Hastings? Out of sight and, I admit, now completely out of mind.

“To your fucking fantastic play, and the happy coincidence of my taking
refuge in your limo,” he said. “Cheers.”

The clink of the crystal suddenly seemed too loud. My pulse pounded in my ears.
A living, breathing movie star was sitting here beside me, teasingly rubbing my hand against his crotch. For the past two years, I’d been immersed in others’ stories of sensual nights and chance encounters, tales of earth-shaking orgasms, talk of pleasures sharpened to near pain by the threat of discovery, descriptions of the thrilling risks and the sometimes very bad behavior of women in their pursuit of sexual adventure.

Was it
finally my turn?

In an instant, I committed myself fully. Yes, I
would
do this. I would do anything he wanted to do, and even better, anything
I
wanted to do.

Without a word, I set do
wn the glass and reached for him. He smiled and shifted his hips.  I unbuckled the sleek belt, and popped open the button of his trousers. 

“Shall we?” he asked. In response, I unzipped his fly.

He pulled me toward him and looked into my eyes. A movie star is going to kiss me, I thought, idiotically. I couldn’t stop
grinning, so instead, he kissed my neck just below my ear, sending shivers rippling over my skin.

“Ticklish, hmm?” he murmured, working his way down and across my décolletage. While he paid tribute to the tops of my breasts heaving—yes, heaving!—above my dress, I reached into his silk boxers and freed his cock. It sprang into my hands, firm, hot, and pulsing. He moaned into my cleavage as I wrapped both hands around him.

I sl
id off the seat onto my knees.

“Careful,” he said, “Not sure how much…control…I’ll have.” His breathing was ragged.

I slowly licked the ridged underside of the head, then down the shaft. His cock was silky smooth and richly purple, rising from crisp, curling black hair. I cupped his tightened scrotum in my palm, and then took him in my mouth. I knelt in front of him, an act of worship, feeling the wetness develop between my thighs.

“Stop, stop now,” he gasped, pulling me up. I straddled his lap and leaned in to kiss him.

He broke the kiss and smoothed back my hair.

“Now, allow me,” he said, as he eased me back onto the seat. He looked at me while he slowly unlaced the front of my dress, revealing my breasts. “Beautiful.”

As he kissed and stroked my breasts, I realized I was moaning and making little impatient sounds.

“
Slowly, slowly, mustn’t rush,” he murmured, working his way down my belly. He slid my dress up my thighs, reaching the tops of my stockings and the bareness above. “Well done, you. No need for knickers on a night like this.”

The limo purred along. He turned me over, so
that I was sprawled over the seat with him kneeling behind me.

“Your ass,” he whispered with reverence, running his hands over me, trailing kisses.

The air was cool on my naked skin and I was throbbing with anticipation. Knowing what was coming, though, didn’t make it less startling. His tongue, everywhere, sliding and slipping, so smooth, then a little rough, then slippery again. I was shaking from the effort of holding back, wanting to hold on…just…one…more…moment.

He gripped my hips with his hands, and then there was an urgent pressure. He pushed the head of his cock between the wet lips of my pussy. The pain gave way to pleasure as the width of him scraped forward, then pulled back,
pushing in a little farther each time. A rush of wetness, a few more thrusts, and he filled me. He stopped for a moment, and the feeling of his naked chest on my bare back gave me chills. I didn’t dare move. I wanted to stay like that forever, his cock inside me, and his breathing in my ear as we hung there, suspended.

Except…
I couldn’t help myself. I wiggled, trying to get a little
more
of him inside me, and I heard him make a strangled sound. He pulled nearly all the way out, then plunged back into me, again and again, faster and faster, until with a great groan, he came, pumping and pumping against my buttocks. I was nearly mad with agitation; I was so close!

He collapsed beside me, and I turned over. We lay there, catching our breath. I
reached down and pressed my fingers against myself. What about me? My clit was still throbbing; I wasn’t done.

I turned my head
to look at him; he smiled and reached for me.

“Now, your turn,” he said and slid down to kiss and lick me into my own full-on, earth-shattering orgasm. Afterward, we kissed and kissed, the scent of me, of him, all over us.

We sat up and he
poured each of us another drink. He opened the windows a few inches to let the cold night air swirl around us. I straightened my clothing, shook out my hair and fluffed it with my fingers.  He touched my wrist as I was about to put on lipstick.

“Don’t,” he said. “I want to kiss you goodnight when you drop me.”

He rang the button, and the driver lowered the privacy panel. He gave an address, and leaned back with his arm around my shoulders. We sat in cozy silence for the next few minutes, and then the driver stopped the car.

I looked at him. He gave me his devastating, movie-star smile.

“Un-fucking-believable.”

He kissed me one last time
—a long, lingering kiss—and slid out of the limo. He stood smiling on the pavement and watched as we pulled away.

I realized I hadn’t said a word to him during our entire encounter. I hugged myself, still excited and a bit stunned. I’d finally had my
own adventure.