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We went to the movies last night. We entered the narrow corridor and walked into the theater, womb-like in the darkness. Guiding you without words, without touch, we took our seats in an empty box in the back. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness you saw that I had picked the night well, for we had come on a slow night. Even thought the film had begun shortly before we entered, there were few other patrons present and no one in our box.
The film was a forgettable thriller, but no matter. We were not there for cinema. We had come prepared, you and I: me with a smuggled bottle of twelve year old rum; you in a skirt and blouse that -- I don't know how you do it -- were reserved, proper, and yet insinuatingly sexy. As we were buying our tickets earlier in the lobby, I couldn't help giving you the same sidelong look every other man was giving you: a look of admiration and hunger, a look the hunter gives the hunted. You caught me looking at you -- I didn't mean for you to see me doing that -- and you smiled that smile that always makes my heart stop, a smile that turned you into the huntress and me your prey.
In our seats we began by doing nothing more than savoring in our minds what was to come, knowing as we both do that the delicious anticipation of pleasure seasons and heightens the consummation to come. My skin became aware of your presence and that part of me closest to you began to quiver as if with a growing electrical charge. I could tell you felt it too, a tingling aura around and between us, strongest where my bare skin was nearest yours.
After a time -- a few minutes or many, who can say? -- I touched, with the barest tips of my fingers, the nape of your neck. You inhaled sharply, and I could sense more than see your entire body tense as it prepared for what was coming. With a single fingertip I lightly traced from your neck slowly, slowly along your jawbone and down the front of your neck. I heard your breathing become hoarse and ragged. No, I was mistaken, it was my own breathing, for you had excited me by your mere presence and I was already losing my sense of where my body ends and yours begins.
You too started to touch me, and the first instant of your first touch -- so light and yet so powerful -- carried with it electricity and and promise and desire, height and breadth and depth. You touched me, lightly and gently: my jaw, my neck, my eyelids. Our touches became caresses; our caresses moved elsewhere: earlobes, lips, arms, chest, belly, hips. Only then did we kiss, first softly, then with greater urgency, sucking one another's lips and mouth and neck.
My hands slowly moved down your cheeks, slowly down your neck, slowly down your cleavage. I felt them warming your skin under them as they passed; I felt you unconsciously straining your body to follow their heat. I tried to unbutton your blouse, but so intoxicated with your kisses and caresses I found it hard to concentrate on a mechanical task. With a little laugh you helped me, and with your blouse now open I could see by the pale light of the screen that you had come without a brassiere. I sucked in my breath involuntarily, as I always do at the first sight of your breasts. I cupped one in my hand -- I have always loved how each perfectly fits the cup of my hand -- and gently moved its nipple between thumb and forefinger, enjoying the sensation of it slowly growing harder with my attention. I bent down to suck it as my hand moved to your other breast and nipple. Then your belly and, reaching behind you (difficult to do in the theater seats) your waist and hips. Then again: breast, nipple, belly, waist, hips.
You had unbuttoned my shirt and were caressing my chest, occasionally placing your face against my skin to breathe my scent or to kiss my skin. Where you touched me, where you kissed me, I was galvanized. How you touch me! With your head so close to my chest you heard and felt my heart pounding harder, my blood racing faster; a perfect metaphor for the spell you were putting me under.
As my hands moved to your thighs, gently slipping beneath your skirt, I noticed that your woman-scent was subtly changing that way it does as you become completely aroused. Smelling that, I knew you wanted me to touch you, but I drew out the game, continuing to stroke and press your thighs, knowing you wanted me to move on and yet were enjoying it at the same time.
Finally you could stand it no more and took my hand and placed it between your legs. I could feel even through your panties the radiant heat from that delicious place that makes you most woman. I lightly touched and pressed through your panties that special place, but only for a moment. You arched your back and I understood the unspoken plea: Take off my panties. Touch me. Now.
With your panties off I slid my hands up your thighs to touch you, and as I touched your wet clitoris you surprised me with one of your love-noises that so excite me when we make love. Fortunately the movie's sound track was loud and no one but me heard your indiscretion. I touched you, slowly and gently at first, and allowed you to move your hips at will as you became more and more aroused. You had patiently taught me over the past weeks and months exactly how you most need to be touched, and tonight your patience bore fruit.
I felt the texture of your clitoris change as you came closer and closer to orgasm. I felt you getting wetter, your body becoming more and more tense, and heard your breathing becoming heavier and more irregular. You moved your hips with greater violence, and my hand kept pace with you, finally bringing you to that place where time stops and all that exists is you and me alone and together and one. You let out a tiny scream of pleasure in spite of yourself, but with the noisy film only I enjoyed hearing it. Only I enjoyed the look in your eyes as you come, that look I most desire to see as you look at me.
I reached for you to hold you tight in my arms and let you gently come down from your orgasm, but to my surprise you abruptly stood up, pulled me to your feet, and hoarsely whispered: Take me home.
We left, urgently, not waiting for the movie to end, not remembering your damp panties on the floor.
This is not the end of the story. It is only the prelude. But what happened next -- how we couldn't resist a quickie in a dark doorway on the way home and were almost surprised by a pedestrian, how we were in such a hurry to made love we left the keys in your front door until the next day, how we couldn't stop ourselves even to rest for hours and how sore you were afterward -- that part of the story is too precious to express in words and exists only in our memories. Think of what was; think of what will yet be.
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Location: A theater | Roleplay: Any
Fulfillment: I will tell you later | Nature: Romantic