Honey and Cigarettes
Author's Name: MissFyt
Codes: ff, cons, oral, drugs
Celebs: Eliza Dushku

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction intended for those that are either over eighteen or of a sufficient age and mentality where they can grasp the difference between fantasy and reality. It features mild drug use and utterly gratuitous depictions of sex acts. Any similarity between the characters in this story and real people living or dead is, I assure you, completely intentional.

It's barely eight in the morning when I hit the lobby of the Bel-Air, hiding tired eyes behind aviator shades so I can take in the scene without making it too obvious. Deserted, of course. If you're rich enough to stay at the Bel-Air, then you're rich enough not to sweat things like alarm calls. Those guests that aren't passed out in a pile of hookers and coke might just be starting to consider the idea of breakfast in bed while they catch up on stock quotes.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" The concierge - tall, skinny, all business - draws alongside me as soon as he realises I'm headed for the elevators, his face telling me that "ma'am" tasted like someone took a shit in his cereal.

"I'm good, thanks," I say, turning my face to his for long enough to flash a bright smile. In L.A., you need money, looks, or the kind of bulldozer attitude that tells a guy like this you'd chew him up, spit him out, and have someone on speed-dial to clean up the mess. I have very little of the first, but I like to think I'm blessed with enough of the second to make my abuse of the third kinda cute.

"You're a guest?" he asks, knowing full well I'm not.

"No, visitor. Room 364." I haven't broken stride, and even though he must be a foot taller than me, he's scurrying to keep up.

"They're doing a..."

"...photo shoot up there. I know. With an actress that paged me not twenty minutes ago." I stop on the spot, let his long legs stumble on a couple of paces. "You can call them if you like. I'll wait. They'll wait, too, I'm sure. Just let them know Sophie's stuck in the lobby because the staff in this place see combats and sneakers and think someone's after the silverware."


"You what? I'd love to hear it. You know I'm not checked in. I don't have the body or the class to be a hooker. I'm too casual for an agent or a publicist. No equipment, so I can't be a photographer. Who do you think you're dealing with here?"

"Just doing my job," he mutters, already turning away.

"Right," I say. "Keep up the good work."

The elevator is all mirrored surfaces, giving me ample opportunity to smile at myself and wonder just what the hell Mr. Concierge convinced himself I was. I'm about five one in sneakers, not quite L.A. slim, skin about four shades too pale for Beverly Hills. My hair looks like I fell out of bed and tied it back with whatever was closest, brunette roots showing beneath a layer of blonde. I could probably have gotten away with all of this if I'd dressed for the occasion, but when you have a list of clients like I do, it's important to keep them happy. I try to be where I need to be within half an hour of being contacted. It's not the Domino's guarantee or anything, but it's good enough to have earned me a decent reputation. It's also the reason why I tend to end up in five star hotels dressed like a stoner. Today's ensemble is faded khaki combats slung low on my slight hips to show off black panties. Above this, nothing but a tank-top that was once white clinging to my slim upper body and - I have to admit - making the most of my small breasts.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open on a corridor that's all deep pile carpet and generic-yet-obviously-expensive wallpaper. Away to my right, I can hear the bustle of activity, and I head in that direction to find the door of room 364 wide open, voices and laughter coming from inside.

The thing that always gets me about these Hollywood people - stylists, make-up artists, photographers, that crowd - is that they're so sexless. I walk through the door and Eliza Dushku is sprawled seductively across a four-poster bed in bright red French knickers, a matching push-up bra, and black, knee-high boots. Pretty much any straight guy or gay girl I know would drop to their knees in worship. This crowd, they don't even seem to notice. Eliza pouts and writhes and the photographer stands there with one hand at his chin like he's Da Vinci and she's the Mona Lisa. Around the room, the image monkeys are adjusting lights, holding clothes up for inspection, painting stripes of lipstick on their arms to compare shades. No-one's looking at her except the guy that's being paid to.

Eliza spots me in the doorway. She smiles and waves, a child-like gesture that looks strangely alien considering how she's dressed. To the photographer, she says: "Marty, why don't you guys take breakfast?"

The photographer turns to look at me. He offers a weak smile and a nod. "Time for a break," he says to the room. "Everyone back in an hour."

I stand to one side of the door as they file out, watching Eliza as she gets off the bed and throws on a black robe she leaves hanging open. She goes to a bag on the floor and comes up with a pack of Marlboro Lights, a lighter, and some papers.

"Some kind of emergency?" I ask, kicking the door closed on the last of the image monkeys.

"You have no idea. We've been here since four-thirty. Marty wanted to catch the sunrise coming through the windows." Cigarettes and boredom take her throaty voice to all-new levels of sultriness.

"The kind of thing that goes down really well with the Maxim readership."

She laughs. "It's not for Maxim."

"Well, whoever." I sit down at the foot of the bed, produce a baggie from one of my many pockets.

"They let you in dressed like that?" Eliza says.

"Yeah. There was a discussion."

"Knowing you, a short one."

"I told the guy that chick from Buffy The Vampire Slayer was waiting upstairs for me in red lingerie. Give me that. I'll be here all day waiting for you."

Smiling, Eliza leans over and drops her stuff beside me. One side of the robe hangs away from her body, and the red lace hugging her breasts tugs at my peripheral vision until I glance down almost involuntarily.

"It's Frederick's," she says."Like it?"

"I don't have the tits for it. Looks good on you."

"You're not exactly flat," she says.

I grab a clipboard with an itinerary on it from the bedside table, put it in my lap and drop a couple of papers on it, Eliza watching as I tap one of her cigarettes out of the pack, snap it and sprinkle the tobacco. "When I'm a C-cup superstar, I'll wear all the expensive push-up bras in the world," I say, without looking up.

"I could dress you up. You have a great little body. Wear something tight around your ass and the guys won't be looking at your boobs anyway."

"I thought you had to have a big booty these days," I say glancing up to grin at her as I transfer the weed to the half-finished joint.

"Are you saying I have a fat ass?"

"Wear something tight around your chest and the guys won't look at it anyway."

She stares at me in mock horror. I finish up constructing the joint, light it and take a deep pull, holding the smoke in my lungs while I pass it over to Eliza and watch her do the same.

"Shouldn't you not get high on your own supply?" she asks, when we're both exhaling thick clouds of smoke into the air.

"That's brown," I say. "Heroin. Applies to anything addictive, though. I think weed's safe."

She nods. "What do I owe you?"

"For the bag? One eighty."

Eliza looks down at herself. "No pockets," she says. "Gimme a sec."

I lie back on the bed, feeling the high go to work on me. Despite my trade, I'm not much of a smoker. On top of that, I've hardly slept these last few days. My head feels pleasantly light, the bed wonderfully soft beneath me. I really could just drift off.

"Hey." Eliza drops a roll of notes on my stomach. "Two hundred. The sun's barely up and I really didn't think you'd come."

"Got to keep the clientele happy," I say, tucking the money away without counting it. "Or they'll go elsewhere."

Eliza shakes her head, taking another hit. "I wouldn't. This is good shit. It's always been good shit. What else do you do?"


She nods.

"Pretty much anything you might need. Being your friendly neighborhood dealer, I tend to stay away from the really hard stuff, but if it's pills or whatever, I'm your gal."

"I'll keep it in mind. I'm not real experienced beyond weed, you know? I figured if I was gonna try things, you'd be a good person to try them with."

I smile at that, take the joint when she offers, putting it to my lips for a more conservative pull. The last thing I need to be is blitzed at the Bel-Air.

"What's funny?" she asks, sitting down on the bed.

"Semi-naked actresses wanting to try things with me," I say, handing the joint back to her.

A moment of silence. "So you're..."

"I'm not anything. Labels are for clothes. Don't get uptight."

She exhales more smoke, coughing a little. "I doubt uptight's gonna happen anytime soon. Besides, I'm not uptight about it. I'm curious."

I look at her, laughing now. "You're curious."

"Sure," she says, puzzled.

"Like bi-curious? Are you hitting on me?"

Watching the look on her face as she mentally replays the conversation gets me laughing harder, rolling onto my side and feeling the weight of the smoke in my lungs making me want to cough. Eliza shakes her head, smiling just a little.

"You're a smartass," she says. "And a bitch."

"Next time you do Conan or whatever, you should do it high. You have no idea what you're saying."

"I do, I just wasn't thinking. You know what I meant, anyway. I've played a gay girl, but I don't really know any."

"I'm not gay."

"Bi then."

"Not really bi, either. I like guys, mostly."

"Then what are we talking about?"

"Okay, earlier, you said I had a great little body. You commented on my ass, like you'd noticed. You're not gay, though."

"Course not."

"But you like my ass."

"Not the same way I like a guy's ass."

I sit up. "I walked in the room today, saw you rolling around on the bed in that get-up, and I thought damn, that girl is hot. That's an observation. You're a sexy girl in sexy clothes. That I can see and appreciate that fact doesn't mean you have to run from the lesbian."

"You're twisting it around now. What I was asking when you said that thing about actresses trying to sleep with you wasn't whether or not you could find a girl sexy. I was asking if you fuck girls."

The way she wraps that cigarettes-and-honey voice around the f-word is a thing to behold. I look at Eliza sitting on the edge of the bed with her robe pulled only partly closed over all that lingerie and flesh, and I decide to see if she's really flirting with me or just playing with the idea.

"And I'm saying it's a thin line between finding a girl sexy and fucking her. What does finding someone sexy mean, anyway? You're saying they're fuckable. Is it such a big step?"

"I'm not really in a position to say," Eliza says. She's still smiling, comfortable.

"Close your eyes," I say, reaching out and taking the joint from between her fingers.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Trust me. It's always good shit, right? I'm not gonna hurt you or anything."

She thinks about it, then closes her eyes. I take a big hit off the joint, then lean over and touch my lips to hers, tilting my head just a little like it's a kiss, breathing into her mouth. She tenses up but doesn't pull away, inhaling once she realises what I'm doing, taking the smoke second hand.

"Is that sexy?" I ask, my voice low, my face still close to hers.

"Yeah," she murmurs.

"Now you," I say, putting what's left of the joint in her hand. I close my eyes and she breathes softly into my mouth. I fill my lungs again, holding my breath until it burns.

"Shit," Eliza says. "You're getting me so fucked up."

"You okay?" I ask her, opening my eyes. Hers are red and watering.

"Yeah, just...you know." She blinks slowly, lets her head fall back.


She laughs. "Yeah. I'm okay. You okay?"

"A little wet," I say.

Eliza looks at me, color creeping into her cheeks.

"So easy to shock," I say.

"You did that on purpose."

"I did. Wanna see what else I can do on purpose?"

"Now you're hitting on me," she says.

I take the joint from her, flip open the Marlboro packet and grind it out in the lid. "I'm not hitting on you," I say. "Just asking a question."

Eliza smiles. "Close your eyes," she says.

I raise my eyebrows.

"Come on, close your eyes. I trusted you."

"Alright." I close my eyes, the weed making me feel dizzy when I do. I feel her weight shifting on the bed and then her warm fingers on my shoulder, fingernails skimming down my arm, making me shiver, my skin coming up in goosebumps.

"Is that sexy?" she asks.

I smile and nod. She has her palm flat on my belly now, smoothing my skin with light, slow strokes, each one going a little higher up under my top. I can hear her breathing, deep and a little uneven.

"How about that?" she whispers.

"Don't stop now."

She covers my left breast with her hand, tentatively at first, then cupping and squeezing, her thumb finding the erect tip of my nipple, pushing back and forth over over the taut flesh until I sigh. She lifts my top up to my shoulders and kisses the other nipple, trapping it between her lips, flicking at it with her tongue.

I open my eyes when she pulls away, find her looking at me with an embarrassed smile. "I've never done this before," she says.

I nod, cross my arms over my front to peel off my top, letting her look at me. I get up on my knees and push the robe off her shoulders as I lean in and kiss her on the mouth, sliding my tongue between her lips, keeping it gentle so she can pull away if she wants to. Eliza returns the kiss, though, and as I straddle her on the bed, her hands go back to my breasts, kneading them softly, trapping my nipples between her fingers. I reach around her and unhook the clasp of her bra, leaning forward so that she goes back onto the bed as I slip the straps from her shoulders, breaking the kiss as I lift the lace away from her skin so that I can see her pale, perfect breasts, large nipples already swollen and hard.

"That," I tell her, "is sexy."

She smiles, lies back and lets me kiss her briefly on the mouth again, my lips sliding down over her jaw to her neck, then to each breast in turn, teasing her nipples with my teeth and tongue. Then further down to her firm, flat belly, my fingers already creeping inside the waist of those French knickers, rolling them down around her thighs, then to her knees. I'm kissing her smooth, shaven crotch now, inhaling the scent of her sex as I get her underwear down around her boots and off so that I can spread her thighs as I slip off the bed and kneel on the floor between them. She's wet already, the pink flesh of her cunt glistening even before I run the tip of my tongue up her labia to her clit, making her moan and tense up.

"Relax," I say. "Just relax. I wanna make you feel good."

I press the flat of my tongue to the junction of her labia, working it back and forth over her clit until she's breathing hard, her hands closing on the bedclothes, the muscles in her thighs tensing and relaxing. She's soaked with my saliva and her juices now, and when I press my middle and index fingers to her opening, they slide easily into her. I work them back and forth in counter-rhythm to my tongue, feeling her tremble now, breaths becoming sighs becoming moans. She's massaging her breasts while I pleasure her, back arched and mouth open, lifting her crotch to my attentions as she starts to climax, saying my name, saying, "Oh, Sophie, oh, fuck," until her whole body goes taut for breathless, shaking moments and then she slumps on the bed, gasping for air, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Do you charge for that, too?" she says eventually. I'm back on the bed, lying beside her.

"Not usually." I smile.

"You should."

"I wanted to."

"Charge me?"

"Make you come. I wanted to see your face."

Eliza rolls on to her side so she's facing me. I can't help but look at her, naked except for her boots. She smiles, reaching down to my waist and unbuckling my belt.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to see your face," she says. She has my belt undone, and her fingers work the button on my combats open, pull the zip down to expose a black satin 'v', slip beneath the waistband of my panties, her hand tight between the material and my crotch.

I'm looking at her big brown eyes and her fat-lipped mouth, at her full breasts and flat belly and taut thighs. Beautiful face, beautiful body, and the pad of her finger teasing the swollen little bud of my clit, turning quick, untidy circles that steal my breath and make my skin prickle with heat. My hips are moving in time to her caresses, my nipples so tight and hard they're almost numb. I can feel my orgasm building in my stomach, tensing and releasing like a muscle in spasm, growing in intensity until I'm dizzy with it.

"Come for me," Eliza murmurs. She presses a little harder, moves her fingers a little faster, and something clenches inside me, making me cry out, grabbing her wrist and closing my eyes, hanging on to that feeling of pleasure so intense that it's almost pain for precious few seconds before it's gone, a warm wave of relief washing through me, pushing me down onto the bed, where I lie trembling, soaked with sweat.

I'm in the lobby less than ten minutes later, giving the finger to the blinking concierge as I head for the street, slipping my shades back on. Upstairs, Eliza is back among the image monkeys, posing on the bed while the camera flashes and nobody seems too worried that the room smells of weed and sweat and sex. Like I said before, in L.A., you need money, looks, or the kind of bulldozer attitude that tells these people you'd chew them up, spit them out, and have someone on speed-dial to clean up the mess. Eliza has the first two in spades. As for the third, well, you don't get to be Hollywood's friendly neighborhood drug dealer by accident. That shit takes talent.

Out on the street, I start walking down towards Sunset, looking for a cab. I take my pager out of my pocket and find six messages waiting for me. Looks like it's going to be another busy day.