Showtime

You arrive into the darkened theatre on your own. You’ve told your husband about this movie he would never go to see, so you booked your ticket and off you went in a nice summery dress. You find your seat as do others and the trailers play. You barely give them a glance, as you keep looking at the people coming in – especially lone men. Your heartbeat is thudding in your chest, and your panties start misting through, with excitement, anticipation, perhaps a little doubt. At last you see a man on his own and in the gloom. He carries a cinema sized soft drink and ticket in one hand. The man makes a show of consulting his ticket and slowly mounts the steps. As he nears you grow suddenly shy, and panic that it may not be the stranger you think it is. You keep your eyes forward as you hear him say,

‘Excuse me, Miss – but I think you’re in my seat.’

You lift your gaze to see a ticket for the seat you are in and follow along a bare toned forearm up to a set of broad shoulders. The man is looking at you with eyes that in the dark, look like they want to eat you.

‘So I suppose I should move?’ you ask, playfulness in your voice.

‘Yes,’ he says.

You can hear the hunger in that single word.

You get up out of the awkward seat and brush against each other. You take the opportunity to steady yourself by running your hand up his arm. It has an easy toned firmness that pleases you. You sit, and help him by putting the soft drink in the hand-rest between you. After several seconds of silence, where both of you look towards the screen, the man half sighs, half purrs in comfort.

‘Mmm, still warm.’

You feel frozen to the spot, like everyone in the cinema is listening to you two and can even hear you breathe and every small shifting of your feet.

They cannot, of course, and the man calmly pops the lid from around the rim of the cup and draws the straw out. He moves to place it on the ground and grazes along your leg with the wetted tip at the same time. The cola exposed, the man reaches into it and removes an ice cube with his near hand, as you watch. He holds the ice up to your lips, drops falling onto your dress and cleavage.

You bring your lips to the ice, and suck the excess liquid. The man extends his arm down, and starting at your knee, slowly draws the freezing, slippery ice along your inner thigh. Rivulets of meltwater follow gravity as the glacier slowly makes its way under your dress. You gasp as it reaches dead centre, the flimsy panties you’ve chosen offering no protection to the chill wetness. You let him slide the material aside and work inside your slit with fingers and ice. Minutes pass. You stiffen and control your eventual climax, open knees trembling, finally able to lower your breathing volume. The empty hand slides back along your thigh.

You think of what you should say to this man. The plan had been to play out your fantasy and to reciprocate by stroking off the bulge visible in the corner of your eye. You do nothing for a moment and he clears his throat urging you on. This was only supposed to be a one-time anonymous arrangement in the dark, but since he came in his masculine presence was palpable. You sense him shifting in his seat, wondering if you are going to fulfil your part of the deal. Almost as if you hear someone else saying it, you whisper,

‘Let’s get out of here. I want you all to myself.’

You face each other and as the brightness swells on screen, you see the lust on his handsome face and already know his answer.