me... I can barely breathe.
I press play. It's our bedroom, our bed. It's dark. It must be late, after he got home last night. He steps into frame, his gaze flitting towards the camera. Then he smiles, that million-dollar smile of his. He's in his suit, like he just got home from work.
He takes it off slowly. First the tie, then an eternity at each button. He moves slowly but deliberately. Like he would if I was there, watching him. Then he undoes his belt and slides his slacks to the floor.
My mouth waters. I never get the chance to gape at him quite like this. There's so much else to take in when he's here, but this is something else. His body is a fucking work of art, and he moves so expertly. It's pure masculine sensuality.
Then his boxers are at his knees.
God damn.
That's his...
I blink, my nails digging into my thighs. It's not a close-up or anything. It's all of him--from his shoulders to his knees--naked and ready for me.
He starts to stroke himself. God, I wish that was my hand, that I was in bed with him. I wish I could feel him, hard under me. I could be the one making him come.
But I already am, aren't I? This is practically a dedication. He was so fucking hot looking at the pictures I sent him that he had to respond.
This is how he feels about me.
This is how much he wants me.
And it's so fucking hot watching him touch himself.
Maybe he's not there. Maybe it's not live. But I have to come with him.
I slide out of my boxers, his boxers really, and drag my laptop to the bed. There's no teasing. I'm already wet and needy and completely desperate.
I touch myself as I watch him. And I don't stop until I'm there, until I see his body careen towards an orgasm, his eyes closed, his lips pursed as he mummers, "Alyssa."
***
My mind is preoccupied all morning. But the second I step into the theater, I am all business. I am Alyssa Summers, amazing actress, TV star. Okay, I am Alyssa Summers, cable TV star, but that counts for something.
Ellen is already here. She's sitting in the audience seats, drinking a cup of coffee. "Hey," she says, even and calm. Ellen is a force of nature later in the day. But before lunch she's quiet, almost shy.
She plays Stella, my character's sister. And she is a million times more pleasant than my usual fake sister, Naomi. "You run here or something? You look flushed."
So I'm that obvious. "No. I just..."
"Doing the old walk of shame, huh? I knew you had it in you."
"No, I... I have a boyfriend. In L.A."
She nods like she gets it. Then she shakes her coffee cup. It must be empty. "I'm in desperate need of cup number... too high of a number. I'll buy if you tell me all this juicy dirt about you cheating on your boyfriend."
"I'm not," I say. I bite my tongue. I can't exactly reveal I spent the morning touching myself to his dirty pictures. "Tried that before. It was too much of a headache."
She laughs and pushes herself to her feet. "I knew I'd like you."
Ellen leads me outside the theater. The sunshine is already blinding. New York may be cloudy half the year, but when it's bright, it's damn bright. The sun bounces off every inch of glass and concrete, landing right in my eyes.
"Have you heard the rumors about Kyle and our director?"
"I try and avoid rumors," I say.
"So don't spread this one. But supposedly, they're sleeping together." She sighs, tossing her coffee cup in a trash can. "Though... if you don't like gossip, you should probably get the hell out of the New York theater scene. It's nothing but drama and everyone is fucking everyone." She looks at me. "But you have that boyfriend. In L.A."
I nod.
"And this run is six months?" She shakes her head. "That's rough. I've never made it..." She taps her fingers like she's counting. "More than two weeks."
"We've been together a year," I say.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to suggest you and your..." Ellen smacks her palm into her forehead. "I'm really sorry. I'm probably freaking you out"
"A little."
"Sorry," she says
I press play. It's our bedroom, our bed. It's dark. It must be late, after he got home last night. He steps into frame, his gaze flitting towards the camera. Then he smiles, that million-dollar smile of his. He's in his suit, like he just got home from work.
He takes it off slowly. First the tie, then an eternity at each button. He moves slowly but deliberately. Like he would if I was there, watching him. Then he undoes his belt and slides his slacks to the floor.
My mouth waters. I never get the chance to gape at him quite like this. There's so much else to take in when he's here, but this is something else. His body is a fucking work of art, and he moves so expertly. It's pure masculine sensuality.
Then his boxers are at his knees.
God damn.
That's his...
I blink, my nails digging into my thighs. It's not a close-up or anything. It's all of him--from his shoulders to his knees--naked and ready for me.
He starts to stroke himself. God, I wish that was my hand, that I was in bed with him. I wish I could feel him, hard under me. I could be the one making him come.
But I already am, aren't I? This is practically a dedication. He was so fucking hot looking at the pictures I sent him that he had to respond.
This is how he feels about me.
This is how much he wants me.
And it's so fucking hot watching him touch himself.
Maybe he's not there. Maybe it's not live. But I have to come with him.
I slide out of my boxers, his boxers really, and drag my laptop to the bed. There's no teasing. I'm already wet and needy and completely desperate.
I touch myself as I watch him. And I don't stop until I'm there, until I see his body careen towards an orgasm, his eyes closed, his lips pursed as he mummers, "Alyssa."
***
My mind is preoccupied all morning. But the second I step into the theater, I am all business. I am Alyssa Summers, amazing actress, TV star. Okay, I am Alyssa Summers, cable TV star, but that counts for something.
Ellen is already here. She's sitting in the audience seats, drinking a cup of coffee. "Hey," she says, even and calm. Ellen is a force of nature later in the day. But before lunch she's quiet, almost shy.
She plays Stella, my character's sister. And she is a million times more pleasant than my usual fake sister, Naomi. "You run here or something? You look flushed."
So I'm that obvious. "No. I just..."
"Doing the old walk of shame, huh? I knew you had it in you."
"No, I... I have a boyfriend. In L.A."
She nods like she gets it. Then she shakes her coffee cup. It must be empty. "I'm in desperate need of cup number... too high of a number. I'll buy if you tell me all this juicy dirt about you cheating on your boyfriend."
"I'm not," I say. I bite my tongue. I can't exactly reveal I spent the morning touching myself to his dirty pictures. "Tried that before. It was too much of a headache."
She laughs and pushes herself to her feet. "I knew I'd like you."
Ellen leads me outside the theater. The sunshine is already blinding. New York may be cloudy half the year, but when it's bright, it's damn bright. The sun bounces off every inch of glass and concrete, landing right in my eyes.
"Have you heard the rumors about Kyle and our director?"
"I try and avoid rumors," I say.
"So don't spread this one. But supposedly, they're sleeping together." She sighs, tossing her coffee cup in a trash can. "Though... if you don't like gossip, you should probably get the hell out of the New York theater scene. It's nothing but drama and everyone is fucking everyone." She looks at me. "But you have that boyfriend. In L.A."
I nod.
"And this run is six months?" She shakes her head. "That's rough. I've never made it..." She taps her fingers like she's counting. "More than two weeks."
"We've been together a year," I say.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to suggest you and your..." Ellen smacks her palm into her forehead. "I'm really sorry. I'm probably freaking you out"
"A little."
"Sorry," she says
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