The Scene

The Scene
by David Cain


Felicia looked at her watch. He was late. Her looking-glass hung on the wall. She caught her reflection in the smudged silver surface, and smiled warmly, her confidence bolstered for an instant in a moment of self-admiration. Butterflies tickled her stomach. Felicia twirled a soft yellow curl, nervously.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Felicia scurried back into the belly of her rooms, refusing to let him imagine she waited. In her bedroom, she steadied herself with a hand on the bedpost. “One, Two, Three, Four,” she counted, clearing her thoughts of anxiety. His knock fell upon the hollow door.

“Five, Six, Seven, Eight,” she continued. Casting a glance in her dresser mirror, admiring the clean lines of her blue silk blouse, Felicia reached up and removed the gold hoops from her ear lobes. She heard the front door open. Felicia smiled.

“Felicia?” Jack Stark’s reedy voice drifted lightly. Felicia left the bedroom, distractedly replacing her right earring in the lobe it had just left.

“Oh,” she said as she encountered the young producer.

“My, aren’t you beautiful?” he said. Felicia blushed slightly and fastened the second ring of gold.

“Jack?” she asked in feigned surprise. He looked at his watch, wrinkles forming on his high brow.

“Didn’t . . .” he began to ask, but Felicia cut him off with a furtive kiss.

“You look great,” she said. His sandy hair grew thin over a strong, tanned handsome face. Sharp eyes were contrasted with soft lips, which he nibbled at constantly. A black wool sport coat draped over a creamy Perry Ellis knit shirt and black cotton slacks that lightly hugged his lean legs. Italian shoes needed a polish. He clutched at his black planner, and buried his left hand in a pocket. Felicia felt and fought a touch of disappointment. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, following her into the small kitchen. Felicia opened the cupboard to take out two glasses, putting away the crystal vase that sat on the counter. Another cupboard tendered a bottle of scotch.

“How’s the show?” Felicia asked, leading Jack through the dining room and into the living room. She caught her reflection in the glass of the framed Chagall print, and adjusted the hem of her skirt.

“Great,” said Jack, sitting on the sofa. “We should recover our costs before next weekend.” He smirked. “That’s when the fun starts.”

“Did you get to see any of it last night?”

“Sure, sure. Most of the third act and the beginning of the fourth. The manager was having trouble with his accounts, but I got that straightened out.” Jack fondled the ruffle of a pillow. Perturbed, Felicia threw back her drink and sat the glass down abruptly on her cherry coffee table. Jack looked at once to Felicia and met the steady gaze she meant to convey her annoyance.

“And . . .”

“Oh, Felicia, you were fabulous. I thought it went without saying. You’re the reason the show is doing so well. I remember once, when you finished the speech about ambition, the whole theater was dead silent, and I turned to Louis and said, ‘she’s got them mesmerized,’ and you did.”

“Thank you,” Felicia said with a slight curtsey, glowing in the warmth of his praise.

“You know what was even better? The scene with you and Linda. There is this electric chemistry between you two that just burns.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Felicia, picking up her empty glass.

“Louis told me he’s concerned she’s thinking about leaving the show. I had a talk with her last night, after the curtain calls.”

“I’d wondered where you’d gotten off to.” Felicia walked over to the stereo and turned it on. Billy Holiday began to sing a sorrowful melody. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Louis has some ideas he thinks will tempt her to stay. He has a new script he wants to work on.”

“Really. I’ll be interested to see it. Something for me, I hope.” She glanced in the mirror, pushing a lock of her hair to let it fall naturally past her ears.

“I think so. I haven’t seen it yet myself. I’m sure we’ll find something for our big star.” Jack rose from the sofa and went to Felicia’s side. She turned away from his gaze.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his hand drifting down her silken sleeve.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, turning brightly to smile for him. “I don’t know how I’d cope without you.” She put her arms around him and pulled his body near.

“You’d probably find some other producer to enchant,” he said happily as he teased her with a kiss. “Some good looking bloke with more money and more hair.” Felicia laughed and ran her hands through his fading locks.

“You’ve got more than money and hair,” she said, kissing him lusciously.

“Hmmm,” he said, “there is always that.” Felicia stroked Jack’s trouser front. “I’ll bet you could find someone . . .”

“No,” she interrupted, “not like this.” His fly descended smoothly and her fingers slipped inside.


“You have a perfect cock,” she said, licking her lips and extracting the serpent from its clothy lair. Jack’s prick stood hard in her grasp.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said breathlessly as Felicia knelt to suck his rigid stick, teasing him into soft moans of pleasure with the play of her tongue.

“Yummy,” she said, and with her hands on his butt pushed his thick flesh deeply between her lips.

“Ahh,” he said excitedly. “I want you so badly.”

She stopped and smiled invitingly. “Then take me.”

“Grrr,” he said, twisting around to kneel behind the blonde actress. He lifted the hem of her skirt over her lace pantied ass. “Whenever I watch you on stage,” he said, yanking down her panties to expose her white bottom, “I imagine doing you this way.” Felicia lifted her head, and tossing her hair to the left, looked back at him.

“You do?” He spread her knees slightly, working his way closer.

“This is the best,” he said, plunging his cock into her damp pussy.

“Oh,” Felicia moaned, dropping her head between her arms again.

“You have a perfect ass,” he said, rocking in and out with a slow, steady pace.

“Absolutely a . . . ,” he said, his voice fading. He grabbed the fleshy cheeks and squeezed as his rhythm grew fiercer. Felicia rocked back against the waves, dancing between the sorrowful rhythms of old blues and Jack’s insatiable hunger. “Perfect ass,” he gasped.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“Yes!” he bellowed, and in the awkward stumble of withdrawal, shot a fountain of watery cream over Felicia’s rocking backside. As he fell back to swim in the lethargy of spent desire, Felicia crawled around to kiss his cum drenched prick, bidding the erection farewell.

The kissed, gently, tenderly and he rose.

“You are so beautiful,” he said softly.

“I love you,” she replied. She stood and adjusted her skirt, wiping wet spots of his semen into the cloth.

“I’ve got to get down to the theater. I’ll probably be busy all afternoon, but I’ll drop by your dressing room, probably after the show. I’ll have Louis send you a copy of the new script.”

“I appreciate that, Jack. I really do.” Felicia smiled sweetly and walked Jack to the door. They kissed and he left. Felicia stared at the closed door a moment, then turned.

“That went well, I think,” Felicia said. She walked back into the living room and tossed the pillow back onto the sofa. “He’s still mine,” she told herself, picking up his half-emptied glass of scotch and drinking it down. The dark alcohol burned in her throat. Felicia caught her reflection in the small mirror and she frowned. Her mascara was smeared grotesquely over her left cheek and her hair jutted up, tempest tossed. “Son of a Bitch!” the actress screamed and with a furious throw of the glass, she shattered the antique mirror.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, kindle, literature, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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