F4 Tuesdays Choice

(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. The song that inspired this story was "Midnight Train to Georgia" by Gladys Knight and the Pips.)

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The blast of a departing train's whistle drew me to the window of the Southwest Chief's dining car in time to see her waltzing along, in a silk suit and a mink stole around her shoulders and with a porter in tow muscling enough luggage to do for a whole carriage-full of people. Roslyn Rogan. I hadn't seen her since she rose off my cock and, as she headed for her own bath, breezily told me I could use the guest bathroom downstairs and should lock the door as I was leaving.

"Oh, and please use the service entrance, doll," she had said. "I have nosy neighbors."

The train departure area was bustling with activity for 11:00 p.m., although as soon as I thought of that, I gave a little laugh. LA didn't even truly start to come to life until 11:00 p.m. I wasn't a night person, though. Maybe that was why I hadn't made it out here. Maybe there just hadn't been a life to lead in LA until after my normal bedtime. I'm sure it hadn't had anything to do with not having had enough talent to make it here.

Perhaps if I hadn't measured my "rise" in the business against Ellen's. She was in Toronto now, filming her second film. Already a supporting actress. The best I had been able to muster in the three years my seed money had lasted was a sex scene, without any lines. At least it was in an A movie, if not a box office success.

This made me think of Roslyn Rogan again, and I looked out of the dining car window to catch another glimpse of her. But of course she had paraded on. I wondered if she was boarding this train. Wouldn't that be a gas? Leaving LA with my tail between my legs on a train along with the actress who had marked the height of my nonsuccess in the movie business.

The Southwest Chief would leave LA at midnight and arrived in Chicago forty-three hours later. From there, I, at least, would be taking the Capitol Limited for a seventeen-and-a-half-hour ride to Washington, D.C., and there switch to the Crescent for the last fourteen-hour ride to my ultimate destination, Atlanta, Georgia.

If Roslyn Rogan was on the train, I assumed she'd be in a first-class sleeper car, befitting her grade A box office status. I wondered where she would get off, what city she would be making her next movie in. Chicago? Washington? Or was she in the same movie that Ellen was in and was on her way to Toronto? I hadn't checked out much about Ellen's new movie, I know realized. I hadn't thought I could show the enthusiasm she deserved.

I would be going all the way to Atlanta—in a berth in a carriage with a dozen other men behind the baggage cars and wouldn't be getting much sleep. For my ride to Atlanta—home to Georgia—I'd played out my chances so close to the bottom dollar that I had to sign on as a "floater" employee—waiter, porter, bed maker, wherever an extra hand was needed—just to be able to escape LA and get home.

The offer from the high school in the suburbs of Atlanta had come on the same day Ellen had gotten the offer for the movie—and the same day my agent hadn't called and I'd had to call her to find out I hadn't gotten the commercial gig. I also had at least been able to get the commercials in the past. But for three months, nada. I was going downhill—and sliding, not just drifting.

The offer was through my old drama professor at Georgia Tech. It was to be a drama teacher at a special arts high school. It was a really good position and paid well—and I was really grateful Professor Stevens had thought of me. But it wasn't Hollywood. It wasn't the movies. And it was the ultimate reality check that I was washed out in this town.

Professor Stevens had been my most vocal and supportive cheerleader. This was his way of being the last one to lose faith in me. Even he knew I wasn't making it. He was letting me down by finding something for me that I could do—the incompetence level I could rise too. I should be grateful for that support. And I was, really I was. Grateful enough to follow up on the offer he had developed—and to smile about it and to pretend that it was the greatest opportunity I'd ever had.

Greater than fucking Roslyn Rogan for pretend in a movie and then being fucked by her in reality that same night.

The movie had been titled

Marcia's Week

, and although sort of an art film, I always thought it should have done better at the box office than it did. But, of course, that might be because it was the only movie I was in where I was brought in from the background and given a name credit in the trailers. It was supposed to be my "takeoff" film. It just wasn't, though.

As I moved around the dining car, setting up what I could for the breakfast service, but with more time than work to do at this point, I went over the scene again—and the night after—for what must have been the thousandth time in my mind.

It was a great scene, a really sexy one. The movie was one of those moody, dark mystery ones that didn't really resolve itself. Maybe that's why it didn't take at the box office—because it didn't resolve itself. But, in that sense, it was reality, not a copout to those great unwashed who demanded saccharine endings. Roslyn Rogan played Marcia Shelton, the bored housewife of a Silicon Valley mogul, living in a beach house above a private stretch of California beach. She and her husband have had a Sunday night knockdown, drag-out fight, with flying dinner plates and all that the neighbors on both sides could hear, and the husband has slammed out of the house, jumped into his Maserati, and roared up to the coastal road.

In response, Marcia goes on a sex-mad binge, taking a young hunk into her beach house bed each day and fucking him silly, only to replace him the next day with a different young stud. On Saturday morning, the husband returns to find the beach house turned on its head and Marcia, stretched out on the bed, bound to the headboard, throat slit. The mystery was who had murdered her? The husband himself in a rage? Friday's stud? One of the men from the week running up to that? The neighborhood peeping Tom?

A great setup, I thought. The ending was what had been problematic. The movie goer is left to make their own choice on the murderer. The movie had taken the realistic turn. A movie starlet is murdered down the beach from there, and both the detectives and media interest are pulled away to the bigger story. In the end, Marcia's life and death just aren't a big enough story to compete.

It was a cynical movie, yes. Done when the box office went to the penguins with the dancing feet, yes. But it was a really good movie, I thought. It probably would be a classic thirty years from now, a cult film. I just wouldn't be in Hollywood then to share the delayed acclaim.

I had been Tuesday's choice in the film, picked up on the beach as I was walking by Marcia's beach house in a skimpy Speedo. Filmed through Marcia's binoculars in a slow sweep that went from my face, down my torso, and dwelt on my basket. Given no name and no lines, I nonetheless was given a great sex scene, greater in illusion than the one in reality that followed it.

We were shot through the gauze curtaining draped down the sides and foot of Marcia's four-poster bed. Roslyn was of an age by this time to always be filmed though gauze for her sex scenes, although her sex scenes still sold tickets.

We were both nude—except we both were wearing G-strings that would be airbrushed out, as needed. They had done a full frontal of me, though, at the beginning, standing in the door of her bathroom, naked and backstopped by filtered light coming from the glass brick wall in the bathroom behind me. I was told that one reason I was cast was that I was hung and they wanted the audience to imagine me inside her during the sex scene.

I was sitting in the middle of the bed, legs extended in front of me, and Marcia was sitting, facing me, in my lap. The illusion was that I was inside her, deep inside her. The reality is that we were so close to naked and our pelvises so close together, that I might as well have been inside her—and we both were feeling the effects of that. And neither one of us was complaining.

In the illusion, she leans back, giving the audience a full-value view of her million-dollar breasts, no pasties employed—through the gauzy curtain, of course. Her arms are thrown back, her hands grasping my knees, and we are both moving in a convincing—I certainly thought—mimic of deep fucking. This segues into me in the same position, with my knees bent and her reversed on me, her torso cantilevered out over the bed between my legs, and me grasping her waist and pulling her, seemingly, on and off the cock.

The cameras are moving all around us—the gauze curtains, of course, lowered on the three sides of the bed not against the wall—drinking in the scene in from all angles.

And that was it. Two minutes on the screen, not much more than twenty minutes of filming. No name, no lines. Just a superior, I thought, sex scene.

The most I got out of it was good Internet coverage of both the bathroom door stance and the fuck scene.

Roslyn Rogan must have thought the sex scene was superior too. Calling me Tuesday's Choice—and thus at least giving me some form of name, since she hadn't asked me my real name—she dragged me back to her house in the Hollywood Hills that night and fucked me silly.

But we didn't reenact the scene from the movie. I had always wished we'd had. I think that would have been memorable—for both of us. Instead, she took charge and made me just lie there, stretched out on the bed, and she rode the cock, first facing me, and then after a drink break to give me time to recharge, again riding me, facing away.

And that was it. It was almost insulting. All she wanted was the cock. A giant dildo would have done just as well.

I was prepared to go in the next day for another shoot of the scene. I was looking forward to going in the next day. But the morning call was that the scene was edited overnight, was fine, was in the can, and thanks and good-bye. It may be an A film, but it was on a tight budget. And they had Wednesday's and Thursday's choices to get in the can as well.

I had wanted so much more. I had thought this was leading to so much more. It was a year before I realized that that was as high as I was going to go in Hollywood. And it was the last time, before seeing her strutting along beside the train, that I had seen Roslyn Rogan anywhere but on the silver screen.

I was in a haze of hope and denial for that year because I had found Ellen Nash, a struggling actor, like me. I was lost to her. She was gorgeous, highly photogenic, and with a body to kill for. But then so was I. We were Barbie and Ken. We were any number of sexy pairs of actors and actresses in Hollywood playing revolving mates and raking in the money. Except that we were content with each other and only Ellen was raking in money—and it took the year for even that to make much of an impression on me. She was sexy and athletic and game for all the exotic positions we tried. And she was able and willing to take a cock my size. We fucked like bunnies—the entire year.

And then I woke up one day having spent all day tracking my agent down to find out I hadn't gotten the commercial, receiving the "it's time to give up and come home" letter from my biggest supporter in the world (my parents would give me their wan "we told you so" look when I returned home), learning that Ellen had a juicy movie shoot in Toronto, and, on top of that, being reamed by my boss at the restaurant because the silverware didn't shine enough for her.

I waited, my best movie smile plastered on my face, as Ellen, all aglow and excited, as well she should be, flitted around, preparing to leave for Toronto, and then waving to me from the jet way when she did leave. And then I wrote to Atlanta, accepting, with gratitude, the drama teacher position.

I also did what everyone said never to do—I said my "good-bye and good-luck" lines in an e-mail to Ellen. Taking everything on myself and trying my best not to show the jealously that had flared up so recently and so quickly that neither one of us had noticed it, I tried to take the edge off the message by titling it "Midnight Train to Georgia," and paralleling the lines of the Gladys Knight song of that title. I wrote that LA had proved too much for the man, which it clearly had, and that I was forced to leave the life I had come to know and to return to Georgia find what was left in my world. I made it sound like I was doing Ellen a big favor, which I probably was. Her world was expanding; my world was collapsing. It was better this way, I said. And I believed it was at the time I sent off the message. It was only later that I grieved almost beyond endurance.

I tried to make it sound like my escape from failure was an adventure, noting the midnight departure on the Southwest Chief, the hours to Chicago, and then the same from Chicago to Washington on the Capitol Limited, and ultimately, the ride to Atlanta on the Crescent. I tried to make it sound like I was rushing toward great opportunity and satisfaction, one that just, inevitably and unfortunately, would be in an entirely different world than the one opening up to Ellen.

Then I canceled my e-mail account. I knew I wasn't going to be hearing from my agent again anyway.

I didn't tell Ellen that I had to sign on as a "floater" porter to be able to take off on my great adventure home. I needed to hold some pride in reserve.

* * * *

It took three food services in the first-class dining car for Roslyn Rogan to even acknowledge that table waiting involved table waiters. She was so engrossed in reeling in a middle-aged banker type—although one who gymned regularly—that I could just as well have been a Martian when I poured her coffee. I didn't want to be anywhere near her, actually—who would want to scream their failure?—but my duties didn't permit me to avoid her. She didn't really have to do much reeling. The banker-type's jaw was on the floor the whole time and his tongue was reaching out to encircle one of her ankles.

That, of course, was only my imagination and feeling sorry for myself—that she didn't notice. Roslyn was one smart cookie. She noticed and assessed everything. While pouring the desert coffee for the dinner service, she stopped in mid purr directed at her dinner companion, placed her hand on my wrist, looked up into my eyes, and, with a coquettish smile, said, "It's Tuesday's Choice, if I'm not mistaken."

I almost spilled the coffee and was so visibly shaken when I stepped back from her that the dinner service captain took me off duty immediately and sent me to the kitchen to wash dishes.

I don't know how she arranged it, but I found myself on turn-down duty in the first-class section that night. And there were more than enough porters assigned to it, so my presence wasn't really required.

When I knocked on Roslyn Rogan's compartment door, not knowing it was hers, she stood from the plush bench seat that would fold down to a bed and turned to me. To say she was in a sheer negligee would be overstating the coverage aspect of it.

"Well, come in and close and lock the compartment door, sweetie," she said in that husky voice of hers known to millions of movie fans.

"Miss Rogan . . ." I started to say.

"And you look very uncomfortable and out of role in that porter's uniform. Take it off. Take it all off." And when I had, her voice and manner, as always, having been in the "I will be obeyed" registered, she gave a low whistle and said, "It's been, what? A year. A year and a half? You've been to the gym regularly, haven't you? You were the hunkiest day of the week in that film, and you haven't lost a bit of it."

She had remembered the film. She had remembered that I had been the Tuesday stud. I wasn't completely unremembered in Hollywood already.

She reclined more than sat on the bench seat, and I sank to the floor between her knees. After coaxing her panties off her famously shapely legs, I buried my face in her muff, tasting her honey fully, while she purred and guided my head with her bejeweled hands.

Everything was at her command, with her guidance. I was just a joy stick—again, like the other time. Or so I thought initially.

When she was wet, pushing her pussy into my tongue in a rhythmic cadence and moaning in a low, throaty grind—and I was hard as a rock—I stood, pulled her ample hips to the front edge of the bench, cupped a breast—she hadn't bothered with anything but a diaphanous negligee, which was now brushed aside, off her body, no hindrance at all—and gently pushed her torso back into the cushions. My legs were positioned inside her thighs, and I was crouching down. Two of my fingers were pushing her puffing lips apart and then the pink lips under that too. The targeted entrance was open, pulsating. I was preparing for a landing with a jumbo jet of cocks.

But this wasn't her desire. "No, you're the porter who is supposed to make my bench into a bed. Do so now, please." She rolled out from underneath me, stood, moved to the other side of the compartment, and watched me, in aching erection, make her bed.

"And now?"

"And now I want us to reenact the Tuesday encounter from

Marcia's Week

. I regretted we didn't play that out, that I was so hot to have you that night that I used you up in a lesser scene."

She remembered, not only that I had been in the movie with her. She remembered our sex scene. More important, she was as disappointed as I was in a reality that was less than the illusion. I hadn't been the only one obsessed with this. And she, indeed, had used me up that night—milked me dry, even while I was bemoaning that it wasn't all I had imagined it could be. Obviously she hadn't either. She'd kicked me out and hadn't made any effort to find me again. But she had remembered. A fan. Maybe my only fan. And not because of my dialogue; because of my cock.

We fucked just like we would have done in the sex scene in

Marcia's Week

if we hadn't been wearing G-strings. But Roslyn was still Roslyn. When she sat in my lap and scooted into my cock, it was Roslyn who grasped the cock and pulled in into her. And it was Roslyn's pussy muscles that sucked it in and made love to the cock with waves and waves of muscle undulations. I was in the jaws of the cougar. I moved my hips and grasped her waist, but she was doing most of the fucking, working her channel muscles over the cock, riding it by gripping my knees with her arms thrown back and using that for leverage to move her pelvis back and forth on the cock.

The most I did was to take possession of her clit with a thumb and run a finger into her pussy above my hard dick, and wiggle it.

She had even supplied the condoms and the lubricant. I, of course, hadn't walked around the train prepared. I had had no idea that you could even be private enough on an Amtrak train to have sex. I hadn't seen a first-class compartment before this evening. I had been completely winging it when assigned to do turndown, surprised that the conductor, smiling a knowing little smile, had thrown me into the duty without training. He obviously knew, however, that Roslyn Rogan's compartment would be the first one I would enter to service—and that Roslyn Rogan would be the only person I would be servicing tonight.

And as good as it was, the sensation that I was just a boy toy gear shift stuck with me—through the second fucking of Roslyn's body reversed on me, clutching my knees and pumping back on the cock.