They’re complete strangers.
I reach down to the hem of my dress. Color strobes across the material from the screen, my flesh green, red, white.
I lift my bum ever so slightly off the seat, feel material and float there in the no man’s zone.
I take my hem in my fingers and drag it back slowly, the edge of the dress riding up over my thighs.
Brock looks down to me, a quizzical look. I have his attention.
His hand hasn’t moved on my thigh.
I spread my legs wider, feel the cool air sweep between them, goose bumps now rising on the soft skin of my inner thighs.
Only a sliver of dress and shadow keeps my panties hidden.
Brock’s eyes look on hungrily.
I see his pants start to tent.
I spread my legs until my knees hit the arm rests and push out with my pelvis. My skirt rides up onto my hips showing my bare legs and, between them, the cobalt silk of my panties, a flat, thin strip of fabric.
I take the hand on my leg, his hand.
Wow, you’re really doing it, huh?
I move it up, over my leg, feel his finger pads glide over them until they’re so close to the silk border, refugees at its edge.
I lift his hand entirely from my skin. I cup his fingers. I press them into my groin.
Tension leaves his body. He falls into his seat and exhales. His fingers press against me and already I feel the cleft of my panties getting wet.
He slides his index finger over the silk, pressing down on my slit. I arch my back and push my pelvis forward to meet it. Every time his finger brushes my clit, trapping the silk between his fingers and the delicate mound, my lips part ever so slightly and I look at him wide-eyed and wild.
The cinema laughs, not at the movie but some idiot who’s fallen over in the aisle, a few late-comers chuckling post-joke and Brock’s fingers continuing to move with confidence, cupping and pressing, pulling at the material, desperate to please me.
I’m breathing hard, hot.
He brings three fingers together and adds pressure to my clit, moving them in a circular motion. Blood rushes to meet them and my entire lower half feels flush.
He presses them down and I moan, loud enough that an old biddy two rows forward looks back, yet even though my body burns below I retain total calm in my expression, eyeing him back.
My panties dampen where the two cheeks of my ass meet the seat, trapping the moisture in the wedge there, sliding away in a thin rivulet from my heated core.
I watch the images of cars racing together underwater, a lusty, thick fog enveloping my senses. I flick my eyes sideways, see the pointed bulge in Brock’s pants, obscene in this environment, and wonder if there are cameras around. Some kid in the projection room probably has his cock out already, stroking it back and forth, watching us.
Brock’s left hand moves over the front of his pants, wrapping itself around his member. He just holds it there, not willing to take it further. His full concentration is on me and this thought makes me so horny, so hot for him that I lean over, trapping his hand between my thighs. I cup a hand to his ear and move my lips until they touch his earlobe. I pause. I breathe. I whisper, “I want your finger inside me.”
I move my head away but do not break eye contact. I see in his eyes, illuminated by the screen, that fire, that youthful burn between us. It’s back.
I spread my legs again. The muscles around my pubic bone strain. I can smell my heat and my opening as it widens to meet him, waiting.
He takes his time. At first his hand stays there, applying light pressure to my pubis, pressing down on the area above my clit, lit green and gold now. Dark blue. Ivy. Red.
Slowly, so slowly, I feel a finger slide down the silk, dropping to the bottom, catching one corner of the damp cloth and drawing it back, exposing me to the world.
He’s delicate, folding the fabric over my labia, leaving my slit exposed, open now an inch, widening to a wet canyon. I press it forward to meet his finger, but he moves
I reach down to the hem of my dress. Color strobes across the material from the screen, my flesh green, red, white.
I lift my bum ever so slightly off the seat, feel material and float there in the no man’s zone.
I take my hem in my fingers and drag it back slowly, the edge of the dress riding up over my thighs.
Brock looks down to me, a quizzical look. I have his attention.
His hand hasn’t moved on my thigh.
I spread my legs wider, feel the cool air sweep between them, goose bumps now rising on the soft skin of my inner thighs.
Only a sliver of dress and shadow keeps my panties hidden.
Brock’s eyes look on hungrily.
I see his pants start to tent.
I spread my legs until my knees hit the arm rests and push out with my pelvis. My skirt rides up onto my hips showing my bare legs and, between them, the cobalt silk of my panties, a flat, thin strip of fabric.
I take the hand on my leg, his hand.
Wow, you’re really doing it, huh?
I move it up, over my leg, feel his finger pads glide over them until they’re so close to the silk border, refugees at its edge.
I lift his hand entirely from my skin. I cup his fingers. I press them into my groin.
Tension leaves his body. He falls into his seat and exhales. His fingers press against me and already I feel the cleft of my panties getting wet.
He slides his index finger over the silk, pressing down on my slit. I arch my back and push my pelvis forward to meet it. Every time his finger brushes my clit, trapping the silk between his fingers and the delicate mound, my lips part ever so slightly and I look at him wide-eyed and wild.
The cinema laughs, not at the movie but some idiot who’s fallen over in the aisle, a few late-comers chuckling post-joke and Brock’s fingers continuing to move with confidence, cupping and pressing, pulling at the material, desperate to please me.
I’m breathing hard, hot.
He brings three fingers together and adds pressure to my clit, moving them in a circular motion. Blood rushes to meet them and my entire lower half feels flush.
He presses them down and I moan, loud enough that an old biddy two rows forward looks back, yet even though my body burns below I retain total calm in my expression, eyeing him back.
My panties dampen where the two cheeks of my ass meet the seat, trapping the moisture in the wedge there, sliding away in a thin rivulet from my heated core.
I watch the images of cars racing together underwater, a lusty, thick fog enveloping my senses. I flick my eyes sideways, see the pointed bulge in Brock’s pants, obscene in this environment, and wonder if there are cameras around. Some kid in the projection room probably has his cock out already, stroking it back and forth, watching us.
Brock’s left hand moves over the front of his pants, wrapping itself around his member. He just holds it there, not willing to take it further. His full concentration is on me and this thought makes me so horny, so hot for him that I lean over, trapping his hand between my thighs. I cup a hand to his ear and move my lips until they touch his earlobe. I pause. I breathe. I whisper, “I want your finger inside me.”
I move my head away but do not break eye contact. I see in his eyes, illuminated by the screen, that fire, that youthful burn between us. It’s back.
I spread my legs again. The muscles around my pubic bone strain. I can smell my heat and my opening as it widens to meet him, waiting.
He takes his time. At first his hand stays there, applying light pressure to my pubis, pressing down on the area above my clit, lit green and gold now. Dark blue. Ivy. Red.
Slowly, so slowly, I feel a finger slide down the silk, dropping to the bottom, catching one corner of the damp cloth and drawing it back, exposing me to the world.
He’s delicate, folding the fabric over my labia, leaving my slit exposed, open now an inch, widening to a wet canyon. I press it forward to meet his finger, but he moves
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