Re: All the world is a stage; adult
For Dorothy, fashion was about pleasuring herself. The wardrobe department did their job, and they painted and pinched and garbed her in decadence, and she loved it. The woman without ruby slippers didn't do things for others, and that was part of her script. Young, she'd learned the world was meant for the palm of her hand, the audience holding their breath for the next recitation of her line, and she hadn't shaken that yet. She'd failed at even the most basic of her constructs, but she clung to the old lines as if she'd never been tossed off the stage. It was a sad state of affairs, and Dorothy knew it well. Sitting in that theater, a stranger's hands and mouth on her, her situation was cast into sharp relief, the spotlight on it brightly and she couldn't avoid looking upon the stage that was her own life.
But that was another performance, one that would be enacted after this theater and all its false gods were long gone. She would play that out, the villain amid wails and gnashing of tears, because Dorothy was not kind enough to stay for others. But that wasn't now.
Now was her hand sliding idle, tucking up waistcoat and slipping beneath trousers and fabric that she imagined to be lined and properly blue and white, though perhaps not. She couldn't tell if the playwright was as much a phony as she. Beneath those trousers, maybe he was Hanes, an anachronism against turgid flesh. But it didn't matter. All that mattered to Nothing was that he stretched and spread his thighs sweeping for her, and not for another playwright, another actor, for a companion written into some prequel she'd never seen. He splayed wide for her, and that was all that mattered to the woman with no home. His mouth on nipple was impressive stage direction, and one hand still against his scalp, she moaned and swiveled her inconsequential weight in the chair, giving him access to the spread of her pale legs and the lacy blue between. She sighed slow pleasure, and she didn't pretend he was another man, one in less ambitious clothes, because Dorothy knew there was little point in wishing on stars when one wasn't the player atop the 'bill.
"Is this how it is for you away from this place?" she asked, her head still tipped against the shabby seat, and her eyelids still low with promises too tawdry for a stage. Dorothy was not action. Dorothy was a drag of fingertips beneath trousers and possible anachronism, fingertips against his cock, but she was invitation. She was do me, but she was not the kind of woman to climb across the arm of the chair and fuck herself upon him. "Away from this place, do you even do this thing?" she asked, her voice husky in pleasure and thick with sighs.