The Theater Seat – (Chapter 3)Chapter Three: The Park After Dark
We drove in silence for about three minutes, the air still thick with everything we hadn’t said. She didn’t look at me. She just smoked — slow, sensual drags that glowed against her cheek like embers.
Then she pointed.
“Turn here.”
It was a sprawling park on the outskirts of town — one of those places that straddles the line between wholesome and seedy depending on the hour. Tennis courts, basketball, pickleball — all lit up under tall metal poles. A few scattered groups still played under the fluorescents, chasing balls and yelling out scores like the night didn’t matter.
Near the edge of it all sat a low cement structure — bathrooms, drinking fountains, and an outdoor shower meant for rinsing off sweat and dust. Just beyond that, about a hundred feet up a gentle slope, stood a picnic area. Wooden tables, a couple of grills, and a half-circle of benches overlooked the courts below. Winding walking trails disappeared into dark brush on either side.
It was the kind of place you could bring a family during the day…
And come back alone after dark.
The lights went off at ten. It was 9:31.
“Pull up by the bathroom,” she said, her voice low and even.
I obeyed.
She got out without another word — her heels clicking on the asphalt as she walked toward the outdoor shower, still in that same black dress, now clinging to her like a second skin. I watched, confused at first.
Then she stopped just short of the spray, bent down slowly—deliberately, and unstrapped her heels.
She stepped out of them barefoot, placing each shoe neatly beside the wall like she was undressing for a lover.
Then she reached up and twisted the spout.
Water hissed out in a cold arc, splashing onto the concrete below. She stepped into it.
Fully clothed.
The spray hit her chest first, plastering the fabric to her nipples, turning soft cotton into something transparent and obscene. She tilted her head back, letting the water run down her face, her neck, soaking her hair, her thighs. The curve of her body emerged with every droplet — wet, glistening, on display.
She wasn’t just showering — she was rinsing off the night. Washing away the sweat, the cum, the scent of strangers from the theater. Cleansing herself like a temple being reopened for worship. A fresh altar, glistening and ready.
She let her fingers linger between her legs, rubbing softly as the water streamed over her. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t modest. And it wasn’t for me.
It was for whoever was watching.
A couple of college guys at the basketball court slowed down. One bounced the ball absentmindedly while the other stared, his mouth slightly open.
On the other side, two older men stopped mid-pickleball volley. One of them nudged the other, nodding toward the shower with a grin.
And I just sat there in the car, windows down, heart pounding. Watching. Hard.
She never once looked back at me. Not even when she slid her hands over her breasts under the wet fabric, casually squeezing the water from them. Not even when she let the hem of the dress ride up just enough to expose her thighs.
When the water finally shut off, she stepped out — dripping, radiant, reborn.
But she didn’t run for cover. She didn’t dry off.
She just stood there for a moment. Barefoot. Soaked. Free. Letting the night air kiss her skin. Letting the water run down her thighs like trails of need.
Her nipples were still hard. Her breath was steady. Her eyes were distant — as if already picturing who she might pull next.
“Go park at the picnic area,” she called over her shoulder.
I drove slowly up the slope, heart pounding against the steering wheel. From up here, I could still see the courts. Still see the guys — and they could still see her.
She didn’t go back for her heels.
She walked barefoot across the grass — cool, damp, slightly uneven — her dress suctioned to her hips like a second skin. Every step across that field was a slow seduction. Natural. Untouched. Shameless.
She climbed the small hill toward the picnic area with the lazy grace of someone who knew they were being watched — and didn’t care.
No.
She wanted to be.
She reached the picnic area and leaned over the back of a wooden bench, stretching one leg out like a dancer warming up. Then the other.
She was facing the courts now. Back to me. Her ass high and round beneath the soaked cling of her dress.
And she waited.
Lights still on. Thirty minutes left. Plenty of time for company.
She didn’t sit down. She posed.
Bent over the bench just enough to make the view irresistible. One leg propped higher than the other. Her hips angled perfectly toward the courts below. The dress still clung to her — soaked and transparent in the right light — and she made no effort to fix it. No effort to cover herself.
She wanted them to see.
And they did.
The younger one from the basketball court was already halfway up the path. Tall, lean, maybe early twenties — shirt off, sweat slicking his chest. He slowed down when he reached her. I could only make out shapes and gestures from my angle, but I saw her straighten up and smile.
God, that smile.
I knew it by heart. I’d seen it at bars when she got hit on. I’d seen it in mirrors just before she dropped to her knees. I’d seen it on our wedding night.
She said something — I couldn’t hear it — and he chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.
Whatever she said made his posture stiffen, his hands fidget. He looked around — quick, guilty glances — then back at her.
She didn’t sit. She didn’t kneel.
She simply stepped forward, spread her legs just slightly, and tilted her hips toward him — the soaked dress clinging to her curves, translucent now under the park lights. She stood there like a statue of sin, thighs glistening, waiting.
An invitation. A command.
He dropped to his knees in front of her — like a worshipper before an altar — and buried his face between her legs.
Her fingers slid into his hair as she rolled her hips forward, guiding him exactly where she wanted him, using his mouth like a toy made for her pleasure. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t sway. She stood tall — wet, glowing, untouchable — as her moans floated up toward the dark trees.
Then, without warning, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back.
He looked up, breathless, confused.
“Stand up,” she said.
He obeyed — stiff, stunned, erection straining through his thin gym shorts.
She reached out and cupped it — no hesitation. Just pressure.
Then her hand slid beneath the waistband and gripped his cock hard, her fingers curling around the shaft with dominant certainty.
He gasped.
She stroked him once. Slowly. Then again, firmer.
He twitched.
She stopped.
“Not for you,” she said flatly. “You don’t get to come.”
He whimpered.
Her hand lingered — squeezing just hard enough to edge him into madness — then let go and let the waistband snap shut.
“Go cool off,” she said. “You’re not built for this game.”
He stood there — cock leaking, eyes wide, thighs trembling — then turned and walked away, humiliated and aching.
She didn’t watch him leave.
She turned to me.
“Bring me the wine. My cigarettes and towelettes from the glove box.”
I obeyed.
By the time I returned, the lights had gone dark — every court and pole swallowed in blackness.
She took the bottle first, sipping slowly. Then the cigarette case, and pulled out a long, white VS 120.
She placed it between her lips. Lit it and inhaled.
She didn’t even look at me — just stood barefoot in the grass, her nipples still hard through the damp cling of her dress, her thighs still glistening from denied pleasure.
“They left,” she said. “But not everyone.”
She nodded toward the lot. A few cars remained. Parked. Still. Watching.
Then she turned to me — cigarette dangling perfectly from her lips.
“You look miserable.”
She walked up slowly. Reached for my belt with one hand. Unbuckled. Unzipped.
Then she slid her hand into my pants and pulled my cock out — flushed, leaking, pounding with need.
She kissed it softly — one warm press of her lips against the shaft — then slid the VS 120 back between her lips and smiled around the filter.
“I love your cock,” she said. “That’s why I’m not going to ruin it.”
She tucked it up against my stomach, fully exposed, pants open.
“You’re gonna stay like that,” she whispered. “Let it ache. Let them see.”
Then she turned away. Back to the dark cars. Back to the voyeurs. Back to the night.
She brought the VS 120 to her lips, took a long, deep inhale — slow and deliberate — her chest rising, nipples taut beneath the soaked fabric.
Then she exhaled through parted lips in a silky stream that curled through the air like a lover’s whisper.
A kiss of smoke to the night.
A promise.
