After weeks of talking to one another on the phone and online, we decide to meet. We both make up stories for our spouses about someone at work having tickets for the opera that no one wanted . . . and we get away.
Since it's our first meeting, I take special care in dressing for you. Short black dress, colorful jacket, just enough makeup to tantalize, and my favorite perfume. We decided to meet at the the big downtown mall, the City Center.
When I walk into the bar where we're to meet, I'm a few minutes early. I walk up to the bar and order my Vodka and Cranberry juice. I notice a head turn as I order. As my eyes meet yours I know it is you. There is instant recognition in your gaze. You smile at me, motioning for me to sit on the stool next to yours. As I move toward you, I notice your eyes looking me up and down, and see you smile. It feels good to know you like what you see.
You stand up and help me onto the high stool, whispering "Hello . . . You look beautiful." in my ear. Your warm breath on my ear and neck are almost as promising as the husky sound of your voice, so familiar and yet so new without the phone lines changing it's timbre.
Once I'm perched on the stool, the bartender brings my drink and I reach for my handbag. You place one large, rough hand on mine and tell the bartender "I am here to provide whatever the lady wishes." All three of us smile and the very obvious multiple meanings of your declaration. I pick up my drink with a nearly shaking hand and do all I can to keep from giggling (with nerves? anticipation?).
After you pay for my drink and a nice tip, your hand is back on mine. We smile and make small talk until we've finished our drinks. Then you lean over and whisper in my ear again. There is no need for whispering, but we both feel the jolt of electricity as your face gets so close to mine again.
"It's about 1/2 hour until the overture will start, we should be going." You help me jump off the bar stool and notice my smooth legs in their black stockings. They're not long, but they're not badly shaped. You put your hand in the small of my back as we leave the bar, and I can feel it's warmth through my jacket and dress.
When we are walking the concourse of the City Center we dont' touch, in deference to anyone who might spot us. But I can feel your body near me, and you can feel mine. I feel the heat and tension of all those conversations we've had. The memories of lonely nights wishing I were with you, and the promise of the evening to come. It flashes into my mind that I should not expect so much from our first meeting, but dismiss the thought as foolish. You are my dear, kind, long-time friend. Meeting in person could never be disappointing.
You follow me as we go into the theater. Your eyes follow my rear as we climb the stairs, you body still so close I can feel your heat, and yet desparately far away. Knowing that you're watching me turns me on. I love feeling you close behind me, but not touching. And I can tell you're getting aroused as if I can smell it in the air. Perhaps I can.
We take our seats in the theater and start to read through the programs. I notice you looking at my knees as I cross my legs. It feels good to know you're still watching me. I allow my right leg to drift over a little and touch you, calf to calf. Our elbows touch on the arm between our seats as the lights go down.
I am so excited, and it is not just the nearness of you. I love the opera, and I love live concerts, and I love the tension that is already coursing between us. The concertmaster appears and the musicians tune. The conductor comes out and the music begins.
It is thrilling. The music is transporting. The voices and the costumes and the emotion are amazing. At one point, when the soloists are singing a beautiful duet of love, I reach over and put my hand on your thigh. I feel your muscles quiver at my touch, and I'm briefly distracted from the music.
I cast a glance at you. You look like a man just waking from a dream. Your eyes pierce mine as we share the beauty of the music. The song is so powerful, though, I can feel it pulsing through my body, and my attention is drawn back to the stage. When the song ends, the curtain comes down and the intermission is starting.
The house lights come up and I find my hand still clenching your thigh. I also notice that your hand is on mine, holding me captive there. It feels so solid and warm, how could I not have noticed when you placed it there? My eyes follow the length of your strong arm up the length of your jacket sleeve til I can see your eyes. You are looking at me with amusement, joy, and not a little bit of hunger. We smile at one another, knowing that tonight will contain more music than just that of the opera.
You break the spell by speaking softly. "It's intermission," you say "would you care for a drink?" I have to concentrate to hear your words over the rushing of arousal in my head. Your breath on my ear while your hand is on mine sends me into a dizzy spin. I shake my head lightly and laugh a bit to clear my thoughts.
"Yes, I'd love one, thank you."
We stand up and walk out to the lobby. The line is long, but we enjoy talking to one another as we wait. In some ways we are still strangers, yet in other ways we've known one another our whole lives. We don't touch, though, this being way to public of a place.
After we get our drinks we find a handy corner to lean in and chat. As we talk we are subtly flirting and teasing, but trying hard to be totally discreet, in case someone we know sees us. When the lights flicker for the end of intermission, we both breath an audible sigh of relief at the thought of the relative privacy of our seats. The desire singing between us is visceral.
This time, as soon as the lights go down, your hand finds my knee. MMMMMmmmm Again I'm struck by how warm your body is. I slip my arm around yours and run my fingernail up the underside of your forearm. The music has begun both in the orchestra, and between us. As the opera goes on, we are carried away on the music, but this time, nothing can distract us from the joy of finally touching one another.
Your hand is gently carressing my knee, and slowly goes to my lower thigh. With this, my hand gently lights on your thigh, and I feel that quiver again. I start to stroke your thigh gently - mimicking the sensations your hand is giving me. As the music picks up and the action on the stage is getting heavier, your hand starts to explore a little more, too. Your fingers sneak under the hem of my dress, and you let out the breath you'd been holding when I put up no resistance. Tickling up my thigh, enjoying the smooth hose on my skin, you suddenly stop. Your fingers found an unexpected surprise. They found skin. My stockings stop half way up my thigh, with a band of lace. All thoughts of the opera are gone as your head snaps around to look at me. My head is turned toward you, too, with a little knowing, teasing smile.
I can see your eyes darken with arousal and I feel your pants leg shudder as you realize what I'm wearing. You send one brave finger on a search mission. You run that finger up my thigh, the back of the nail firmly stroking my skin. You give an audible but very silent groan when you first feel the moist hair of my private parts. I'm wearing no panties.
You are astonished at what you've NOT found, and very interested. You look up at my face, searching for my eyes. I, however, and still looking at the stage. I am still smiling that half smile, and looking very . . . triumphant. I am avoiding your eyes, and pretending to watch the opera as I shift in my seat to offer you slightly better access. Your hand slowly moves up my leg, past my stocking, smoothing over the skin of my thigh. I shiver at your touch. So warm and gentle, yet electric.
