Good Boy

Lauren Emily
9 mins read
Published almost 4 years ago

She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her tonight. Maybe it’s the sultry summer air, vibrating with potential. Maybe it’s the cheeky slap on the tush, from her costar. Maybe it’s the way her costume fits, whispering over her skin.

Whatever the reason, she knows what she wants. Who she wants.

She deliberately hangs around after curtain call in her chemise and petticoat, stage makeup cold-creamed off in favor of a dewy natural glow. Her hair is half-up, half-down, tousled. She takes pleasure in getting ready for him, and he doesn’t even know it yet.

They’ve flirted all summer, talking late into the night. Once until 3 a.m., standing by their respective cars at a distance that was both respectable and intimate. She knows he loves Mountain Dew and lost his dad to cancer when he was six. He knows her craving for salted caramel anything and her as-yet-untapped desire to act professionally. Through weeks of rehearsals and performances, she’s gotten to know him. Trust him.

“Anyone back here?” Her cue. She looks at herself in the mirror and takes a deep breath.

“Just me,” she calls back.

He sticks his head through the door of the aluminum-sided building that serves as a combination dressing room, warm-up space and off-season costume storage.

“Hey you,” he says in his honey-toned voice. “Great show tonight. Your fight was so badass I almost forgot to call cues.”

She smiles. “Thanks.” Can I make this happen, or will I chicken out?

“Sorry to interrupt – you looked kinda deep in thought.  I’m locking up, but I’m not in a hurry.” He lingers in the doorway.

She inhales. “Me neither.”

He comes closer, shaggy dark hair curling over the collar of his black T-shirt, and the faded logo of some indie band stretching over his chest.

“Someone’s half-dressed,” he says.

She lifts her hair off her neck and tilts her head back, watching him watch her. “It’s hot.”

Grinning, he edges nearer. “Need to cool off?” He holds up a bottle of water, condensation beading. “Brought you a present.”

“Good boy,” she says softly. The words are spontaneous, and she likes the quiet, sensual authority they give. “Come closer.”

He obeys, flicking off the light so they’re both bathed in moonlight.

He’d told her a week ago – on that 3 a.m. night – in the safety of the semi-dark, bright stars above as they leaned against their respective cars.

“I’m a sub,” he had said. “I live to serve.”

She was grateful for the shadows that he couldn’t see her blush. She’d never met a guy so open about his sexuality. She’d never met a male submissive.

It was hot.

Finding her voice, she teased, “So that’s why you’re a stage manager.”  

He laughed. “Never made the connection, huh?” 

A frisson of electricity passed between them, so perceptible she could almost see it cut through the air.

A short while later, they hugged goodbye as usual, but this hug was different. His hands stayed above her waist but for the first time, and she got the feeling he wanted to explore, learn every curve. She felt his strong arms and buried her face in his neck, smelling cinnamon and cloves.

“You okay?” he rumbled in her ear. And then: “Anything I can do for you?”

Oh god. In that moment her head spun with fantasies, so frantic she couldn’t articulate even one. She squeaked an apology and broke away, started her car with her face on fire. 

That night she made herself come multiple times as she remembered his arms, his voice, that last burning question.

In the days since his revelation, the energy between them has been noticeably heightened. She doubts he’s surprised to find her here tonight, barely dressed and all alone. Waiting for him.

He makes his way toward her, quickly and with purpose like the stage manager he is. She leans against the ledge under the mirror, where the cast puts on their makeup. As he gets closer, she smells him – cinnamon and cloves – and hears his breathing, and hers.

“Are we doing this?” she whispers.

And then with a grin that’s both giddy and rakish, he utters the words that will set her free: “Whatever you like.”

Curtain up.

He holds the bottle toward her. “Drink?” His voice has a different timbre, still gravelly and sexy, but tentative.

She nods. He looks at her expectantly and she clears her throat. “Yes.” At that one syllable, her nipples perk up, stand at attention.

She’s in charge now.

He holds the water bottle to her lips and tips it into her mouth. She feels the liquid sliding down her throat, cooling and hydrating but not choking. He grins, caps the bottle and gently runs it over her collarbone. The drops of water feel so good skating across her hot skin. She temporarily loses control, tipping her head back as he glides the bottle over her chest, barely brushing her cleavage.

She pulls him in for a kiss and tastes the heat of his mouth against the new coolness of hers. Their tongues tangle, his hands slide down her back to stroke her bum, all of which makes her wet faster than she ever thought possible. She wants, she needs, to take the edge off. She presses her breasts, bare under her chemise, into the hardness of his chest, before reaching up to lightly tug his hair. “Eat my pussy.”

He pulls back and kisses her nose, surprisingly sweet. “Yes, ma’am.”

The ledge cuts into her lower back and she perches herself on the edge, lifting her skirt. He slides the skirt further up her body, murmuring with appreciation when he sees she’s “forgotten” her panties. Before she can say anything, he obediently drops to his knees.

His tongue is velvety and clever, brushing over her clit before it flattens against the bud. She slides her bare feet over his shoulders, feeling the muscles contract underneath her arches. Sighing at the decadence of it all, she tosses her head back so hard that she hits the mirror.

He lifts his head. “Everything okay up there?” If anything, his adorable concern makes her more excited. She’ll have a bump on her head, but so what?

She grins. “I’m perfect.”

“Yes you are,” he whispers. 

As he probes her with his tongue and then his fingers, she’s mesmerized by the graceful movement of his head, outlined by her skirt. She feels deliciously naughty in the night air fragrant with flowers and sawdust from the scene shop. Clutching the ledge with her hands as she thrusts her hips to meet his mouth, a groan escapes her lips. Soon she’s fucking his face, forgetting everything as she bucks into his mouth. She lets go, giving into the orgasm that’s been building since last week.

“Get up,” she commands once she catches her breath. She massages his neck as she kisses him deeply, tasting her spice, and maneuvers closer so her legs wrap around his waist. He whimpers, and she can hear his gratitude.

“Undress me,” she says, lifting her arms like a queen. He pulls off her chemise until her bare skin kisses the air. She hops off the ledge and squeals as he uses his teeth to tug down her skirt. He’s on his knees before her again, and she runs her fingers through his hair, pulling lightly and hearing him moan. She helps him to his feet, and jerks her chin at him. “Your turn.”

He grins, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal…

“Pierced nipples?” she asks, not bothering to hide her awe. “What’s that like?”

His eyes twinkle. “The more you do, the better it feels.”

“Is that a fact?” she murmurs, circling around him. Standing on her tiptoes, she licks the sweat off his neck, pulling his hands around her naked waist. They kiss hungrily, her hands run up and down his back, and she gives in, tugging the spiked stud through his right nipple.

“Fuck!” he cries, closing his eyes. She pauses and he’s quick to reassure her. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.” He leans in, tongue flicking her ear as he whispers, “Do it again.”

“Please?” she prompts, coyly running a finger down his torso.

“Please,” he begs, and she tugs both piercings. Now he’s the one giggling, a high-pitched sound she’d never expect to come out of someone so masculine. It makes her happy, knowing he’s into this. She pinches his right nipple and he kisses her, hard and thirsty. She can’t resist anymore and rubs her wet pussy against his clothed crotch as she tweaks his nipples until she comes again with a cry, soaking the fabric of his shorts.

“Fuck me,” she commands.

He frantically unzips his shorts, pulls them down with his boxers so his hard, thick cock springs forth. She leads him a few steps away to the table in the center of the room, cluttered with stray actor detritus – including the box of condoms the actors use on their body mic packs. She hands him one, turns around, and braces her hands on the table.

He enters her slowly from behind, the tip of his sheathed cock pressing into her wetness. “Beautiful,” he whispers, bending over to stroke her tits.

The deliberateness with which he enters her is exquisite torture. She wants more. She grips the edge of the table. “Deeper,” she hisses, and he chuckles behind her, insubordinate. “Now!”

He thrusts, filling her completely. They’re both drenched in sweat as he moves in and out of her, slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. He drags his tongue along the back of her neck and she grabs one of his hands and guides it to her clit, which they finger together.

She looks over her shoulder and sees him, wild hair and sharp cheekbones illuminated by the moon as he goes deeper, and feels it again – that intense pressure building to a climax.

She moans, shocked by the volume and urgency. He keeps working her clit, thrusting over and over as her guttural sound becomes an operatic, glass-shattering scream.

After he pulls out and casts the condom aside, she leans against him and he slides his arms around her. She turns her head just enough for their mouths to meet in a deep kiss. He nuzzles her neck until she realizes how dry her throat is and says, “water.”

As he crosses to the mirror, she ogles his bobbing erection, his tight ass.

“Wait,” she says.

He turns around. She props herself up on the table and extends one finger in his direction. “Take care of yourself.”

He bows his head just slightly, acquiescing, before gripping his cock with one hand. He flicks his nipple with the other hand, the muscles in his arms popping as his strokes increase. She leans back and runs a hand over her nipples, teasing her fingers down her torso to her pussy, then back up to her breasts again. His eyes widen at the sight of her. In the mirror she can see his taut back, his muscular ass, her own hungry face.

She can tell how close he is.

Carefully stepping off of the table, she gets on all fours and crawls on the floor to him. He watches her, hand still frantically working up and down his shaft. Kneeling at his feet, she issues her final order:

“Feed me.”

He shoves his cock in her mouth and she relaxes her throat. She sucks fast and frantic, loving the taste, wanting to relieve his aching cock on her own terms.

“Oh god, I’m close,” he chokes out. 

She goes harder, one hand resting against the back of his muscled thigh, the other cupping his tight balls. “Just like that,” he whispers as she deep throats his glorious length. 

She hears, “Oh fuck, here it comes.” He thrusts hard and shoots down her throat, and when he pulls out of her mouth and looks down at her with relaxed tenderness, she gazes up at him and whispers, 

“Good boy.”

Written by
Lauren Emily

Lauren Emily lives (and loves) in Chicago, and is the author of the novel SATELLITE.