Re: All the world is a stage; adult
Dorothy had believed, once, that there was no cost. Or, rather, that the cost wasn't tantamount. Her own pleasure was the only substantive thing, and that was how she'd been written. She'd never stopped to wonder at the world beyond her own aspirations, and now it was too late to learn empathy. She knew she wasn't what she'd been crafted for, but she also knew she couldn't be what she should be, and this statuette had no Pygmalion to love her and breathe her to life. She was hedonism for the sake of itself, because it was the only remaining pleasure in a life devoid of spotlight, but she wasn't written wild, and that made hedonism an impossibility in its own right.
This was no home, and Dorothy did not expect a lover that cared about her. No substitutions sought, and she was here for the pleasure of a few moments of obliteration. Oblivion, while something she couldn't find in the quiet hours of her own contemplation, could be found in the sweat and heat of another body against hers, just as it could be found in a luxurious store with beveled mirrors that told copious falsehoods. She cared not about his thighs, about athleticism or if he smelled of the cheap cologne that clung to the discarded shirt. She cared only that he was hard beneath her fingers, a desire she could surely attribute to herself, and not to the dancing ecstasy of her skilled touch along the length of his cock.
The playwright took direction well, but Dorothy did not like to give it. She wanted to be adored, yes, but she also wanted to be wanted. She wanted desire without the cajoling need to implore. She moaned when his fingers dragged against her, a perfect performance of the stage directions, but it was the amusement in his voice that made Dorothy's unremarkable face warm to something that was less rouge and more girl next door. "Then fuck me with impunity." Her fingers worked the stays on his trousers, should he need further direction than were written in the margins of the script.