C’s Back In The Valley

The air in the theatre becomes both thinner and thicker at the same time, like the oxygen is being replaced by a heady mix of hot breath and pheromones. “Our kids”? You haven’t quite decided how you feel about this man. Of course you’re physically attracted to him, how could you not be? His cute mouth, spattering of freckles, and long hair with a dazzling streak of white, swept or tied loosely back, give him an almost feminine grace, but his build is tall, lean and muscular and he carries himself with an air of confidence. He’s always helpful and ready with a friendly word and practiced smile, but part of you cries for caution, recognising that something doesn’t quite add up in the image he projects. There’s an intensity to him, and on rare occasions you’ve seen his mask slip, and what you glimpse in those brief moments is a hunger, insatiable, burning in his eyes and cheeks. 

Mirren’s hand quivers, with the tension of not quite resting its full weight, and the heat emitted from his palm could burn right through the layer of winter clothing covering your leg. You feel your own shaky inhalation, then realise you’re holding your breath as his fingers start to move again, walking his hand oh so slowly from only-just-outer thigh to only-just-inner. He appears to be watching the screen, but you get the feeling his focus is entirely on you, poised to sense your slightest reaction, calculating how much he can get away with.

It’s not like you didn’t half expect this, weren’t half hoping for this. You’ve been seeing his hunger show more and more as the weeks draw on and the days become shorter and colder. His speech, usually perfectly delivered, sometimes trailing off into half-heard mumblings. When the theatre opened, you barely had a chance to check out what was showing before Mirren presented you with a pair of golden tickets. At first, you weren’t even sure if he was serious when, after you agreed to meet him later that night, he floored you with a comment about fooling around in the dark. But when he leaned in, lowering his voice a touch to drawl in your ear “Maybe you could suck my dick...  Or I could finger you?”, your cheeks flushed as red as his own, and you took your leave with a hastily made excuse.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not so much the specific words or the acts they described, but the feeling it gave you, the first confirmation that yes, he really did want you, hunger for you. You hated how much you craved that external validation, but being desired is your panacea, and much safer than drugs and alcohol, right? So, his words were still on your mind when you entered the theatre, but with Jodi and Caroline seated just two rows ahead of you, you thought, surely, nothing was going to happen. However, here he was now, with two fingers already hooking into your waistband.

You shift in your seat, slumping slightly to give him a better angle, and parting your legs just enough to give him the go ahead. What are you doing? Your heart is racing and your breathing has gone shallow, one part from the fear of getting caught, one part the thrill of the first intimate touch, and one part a slightly sick feeling that you maybe should be thinking this through. 

Emboldened by your acquiescence, he softly hums in satisfaction, and his fingers dive hungrily under your waistband. Sliding his hand down in an exploratory stroke and cupping you through your underwear, the heat of his hand is now mirrored by the heat of your crotch. He tests your response again by pressing his middle finger against your slit, and when your breath catches he presses more firmly again, rubbing your clit through the thin fabric in one teasingly long downwards motion, then up again, and you are sure he can feel your wetness spreading underneath.

When he draws his hand up so far that you almost think he’s about to withdraw completely, you let out the quietest involuntary moan, face burning red again as you hope the sound is lost in the movie’s dialogue, which you have all but forgotten about. But as soon as his hand clears the top of your panties, it dips down again, his aim true as his fingers glide over your clit and through your slickness, stopping only to press at the entrance to your cunt before curling two fingers into you, flexing his wrist to reach that nook inside.

He starts to move his hand rhythmically, fingers hooked into your cunt, no longer teasing but sliding in out in small thrusts, massaging your g-spot with firm movements. You feel a slight sense of shame at how good it feels, to be secretly touched like this, and you notice he’s no longer watching the movie, but your face instead, lit only by the flickering glow of the screen. Your blush deepens, and his eyes almost seem to glow red in the light of the theatre.

He lets out another soft sigh, and you realise your eyes have drifted closed, as if to deny your surroundings and the riskiness of the scene. Your eyes snap open, however, as he pauses and seems to shift in his chair. Without removing his hand from your sex, he accepts the mid-movie concession, brought by the (hopefully) oblivious hostess, with his other hand. You quickly try to regain control of your facial expression and stare fixedly at the screen. You can’t remember what concession you ordered for him, but it seems irrelevant as you hear him place the snack on the empty seat beside him. You vaguely hope it wasn’t ice cream, but the thought exits your mind as Mirren resumes his handiwork.

You hear another slight rustle of clothing and a zip being undone, and your mouth waters slightly as the scent of his arousal reaches you. You’re suddenly aware of his breath becoming ragged as he moves both his hands in concert, at an almost desperate pace. Both of your hands grip the armrests of the cinema’s barely adequate seating. Although you long to reach out and take him in your hand, you remain frozen in place, as if your grip on the chair can hold the world still as it spins around you, can contain the pleasure mounting within you.

His hands start moving faster, rougher, bringing you close to the edge, and you can feel him struggle to maintain a steady rhythm as he attempts to delay his own climax. His fingers curl and glide, forcing, rather than coaxing you, to your end.

And then stars flicker behind your eyes, a shudder moves through your body, and you feel your cunt pulsing around his fingers. Your own hands finally release their hold on the armrests, intervening to stifle the sound rising from your throat. His hand, still holding you, slick with your juices, inside your underwear, transmits the sudden tension and arc of his body, and though you can hear his breathy gasp from close proximity, he manages to keep it discreet, giving the impression of practiced furtive orgasms.