Re: All the world is a stage; adult
Dorothy was too much a product of her environment to ever discount it. The dressing rooms of her life had shaped her, and even in someone else's theater that nothingness that they fitted her into remained. The entire world was mendacious, built on being nothing of her own and regurgitating lives belonging to others, and all while in search of adoration, applause. Some might tread these boards out of love for the craft, but Dorothy had been birthed here out of a selfish need to live vicariously through a child. Her origins were everything she was, and therein lies the rub, because her origins made her nothing.
There was a strange beauty in fornication, or so Dorothy had always thought. The expression on the face of another player when they came. It didn't matter to the sheen-faced woman if she was getting pleasure from cock or cunt. All that mattered was that, in that moment of orgasm, there was a pretty lie written across the features of her companion in deed. Ecstasy could be translated to adoration until the sweat dried, and then there was none of the messy afters that came with relationships that were all doomed to have a curtain fall upon them.
2s and 4s, she accepted the Allegro. She would be made love to, and she wasn't written for being the one who pursued. But Dorothy could read her likeness in the man inside her, and she accepted whatever he gave. Her hand slipped between them, and she rubbed her clit as she rocked on his cock. This wasn't the sweet and languid lovemaking of a farewell scene, and despite all the foreplay it wasn't love, or even lust. It was two like minds, and Dorothy rubbed her clit until she felt her orgasm crescendo. Spotlight on her, free hand on the playwright's shoulder, she tightened around his cock.