The movie ends and the lights spring to life in the theatre. You casually stand and stretch, looking around at the milling crowd for some sign that we've been caught. You draw looks, but that's not new. People can't help but notice the large muscular man standing full height with his arms over his head, muscles tensed. You are like a god, blessing the now empty theatre seats in front of you. This is the reason you draw stares; some longing, some mocking, some in silent awe. The sheen of sweat on your brow and the goofy grin are overlooked as part of the norm, part of the great god's visage. If anyone had known, discretion won out.
I was slower to rise. My legs were pleasantly weak but sitting through the rest of the film had frozen the muscles in place. I turn and start towards the aisle that will take us out into the world. I stop to let others pass by and I feel your hands on my shoulders.
I love your hands. Large and solid, like they could hold up the world, yet so gentle when they touch me. I turn my head and kiss your finger. It smells like musk, like me, and like popcorn. I can't resist giving it just a playful lick, a quick touch with the tip of my tongue. I'm sure your face remains impassive but your hands squeeze tighter and your thumbs rub my shoulder blades, out of view of the passing crowd.
When the aisle empties, I move forward and follow the slow march to the door. Night has fallen. The air is cool. A quick breeze sweeps up from the sidewalk and touches me beneath my skirt, testing for the wetness of our games in the theatre. It finds some, and I shiver.
You reach down and drown my hand with your own. You touch me with your eyes, and I fall into them. Suddenly you stop on the sidewalk, a towering mass that forces the stream of people to part around us. With one smooth movement, you turn me towards you and pull my chin up with your fingers. Your mouth presses to mine, dry and warm, soft and sweet. I don't close my eyes for the sheer wonder of being kissed by you. Your eyes close, but I can see them smiling. And then it's over and we're moving with the thinning crowds. Had I shut my eyes, I might have thought it was a dream.
We reach the car and you open my door. I climb in and feel your warm hand on the small of my back. As I sit, you step up onto the running board next to me and I barely hear you whisper, "In back." I stare wide-eyed at you. You can't hide the look of liquid passion that crosses your features. You don't even try. I stay frozen in the headlights of your eyes until you lean forward, draw in a tortured breath and whisper again, "In back."
I slip back between the front bucket seats. You follow me, pulling the door closed behind you with a slam and diving into me head first in the backseat, now dark as a theatre.
This time your mouth isn't dry as your greedy lips devour mine. Already I can feel a flood of wetness beneath me. You kneel on the floor of the car and pull me towards you, one hand entangled in my hair holding my mouth to yours, the other squeezing the roundness of my ass, pulling me against you by the soft flesh.
I pull at the hem of your shirt to free it from the confines of your blue jeans. Once done, I slip my arms under the cloth and hold you with the entire length of them; brushing your sides from under your arms to your waist.
Your tongue assaults mine and my body responds as if it were another place that had received you. I taste the inside of your mouth and slide my thumbs over your hardening nipples. A moan escapes your throat around our dueling tongues. With both hands you reach out and grab my ass with cruel impassioned fingers and pull my wet center against the mountain of your crotch. My skirt doesn't allow my knees to part enough and the fabric tears under your fingers. Lightening strikes me as your rough denim meets the delicate lace and flesh between my thighs.
I slide down the seat towards you, hooking my legs around your hips as you grind yourself into me with powerful strokes. Your mouth leaves mine and I moan my disappointment until I feel your warm tongue at the hollow of my throat. The second moan is pure pleasure as you nibble at my chin and up my jaw to my ear. I feel you hold your breath as you lick the rim of my ear, working your way into every groove, then thrusting your tongue in and out of the hollow center in concert with the rhythm of your pumping hips.
I run my hands over your shoulders, gently scratching with my fingers as you slide your tongue down my face and throat, igniting the wet trails with your warm breath. You reach the neck of my blouse and edge it aside with your chin, never letting your mouth lose contact with my burning flesh.
You kiss as far down as the fabric will stretch, then lick the inside turn of my breasts with strong broad strokes. My hops are no longer passive and carve lazy circles on the seat, meeting your rocking movements. You hold me at the small of my back, high enough so you don't interrupt my movements.
One hand pulls the hem of my blouse from the waistband of my ruined skirt and reaches below the fabric to cup my breast in your palm. You knead the soft flesh gently, like a ripe piece of fruit, then the nipple with your thumbnail. It responds in dramatic fashion, stiffening until I am almost in pain with it.
I lock my ankles behind your back and run my hands up your neck and fondle your scalp, pulling you down. You are eager to oblige me and grip my breast tight, taking the swollen tip between your lips. I gasp as I feel the strength of your tongue, and a wave of passion floods me.
I need to taste you.
Grabbing your shoulders, I try to urge you up, try to free myself from beneath you. This only increases the fury of attention you lavish on my skin. You pause only long enough to nuzzle the other breast before devouring it as well.
I reach into the collar of your shirt as far as I can and draw my nails up your back, somewhat less than gently. You throw your head back with a growl and I take full advantage of the movement to rip open your shirt, heedless of the flying buttons. I rush forward and take your skin in my mouth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
My hips squirm back out of reach of your rocking motions. I keep you from pulling me forward by placing my hands on your chest, but it is merely a gesture. You could crush me. The thought is exciting. All that power, all that strength you hold back, trembling at my touch.
