Picture Show

[Un****]

Boy it’s been a hard week. For both of us. You with your coursework…***y deadlines, and me with all those students draining me. I love my job, you love your study, but sometimes we both need a release. So … here we are, on out way to the cinema. Nothing amazing, just a chance to share some time, engage in a pleasant distraction, and leave the pressures behind.

Getting two tickets, a bag of popcorn to share and inching our way through the darkened room we find two seats easily, me seated on your left, near the aisle. There’s just us and another couple. It’s not exactly crowded on a Monday evening.

The film begins. And about five minutes later my mobile buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and scroll down to the texts. You dig me in the ribs as I’m reading it. I dig you back and we both giggle. You’re hogging the popcorn.

“Back in a minute,” I whisper, “work … as usual.”

“Typical,” you reply. You’re only half-joking. It’s been a bone of contention lately.

“Ten minutes maximum, really” I say as I start to rise, “I’ll bring you back a coke”

“Big spender” you hiss conspiratorially as I start to edge along the row of seats.

“That’s why you married me, remember” I grin, as I exit discreetly.

I’m as good as my word. About fif*** minutes later I’m back. A cold coke thrust into your hand as I take my place. The ring-pull pops loudly as you open it, and the couple further along give us a disapproving look. As if that isn’t enough, a latecomer cramps our style as he apologises and moves to the vacant seat next to you. Annoying.

The movie progresses, and it’s sadly not very good. I don’t like chick-flicks that much and you only watch them if you’re in the right mood. This one is packed full of cliches and obvious humour. I can tell you’re bored.

You gasp slightly as you feel my hand grip yours tightly and guide it between your legs. A slight thing really, but you’re not a fan of public risk, nor are you comfortable with me making you masturbate in general. Something about you being watched. About being the object of my voyeuristic pleasure, I know. You’re fine with all sorts of deeper play; *** play, the sting of the cane, my sadistic ***-inflicting self, but this seemingly more innocent activity makes you squirm. I guess now you know why I was insistent about making you wear that short skirt.

Nevertheless, you don’t fight the pressure that ***s your fingers to move aside the flimsy panties and presses on your knuckles, insisting you find your clit, and encouraging you to explore yourself.

You’re excited, I can tell, despite any misgivings. I can hear your breathing change. You’re so aware of being heard, of disturbing anyone else, of, frankly, being discovered. The shame. The ***. But even now, that risk is part of your pleasure.

You’re getting close. I can hear you closing your throat to minimise the sound of your orgasm. And then you cum. Beautifully. God I love you cumming. Your pleasure fills me whatever we do. I’m nice like that.

Your hand is released. And now the shame kicks in. Not overwhelming, for sure, but that tingle of embarrassment, of almost schoolgirl guilt. Delicious.

I take the popcorn from you, where it’s fallen, nestled into the crook of your free arm. Your other hand is still resting on your cunt, almost absently stroking yourself.

You jump, and whip your head to the right, which is where I’m sitting, having squeezed past you earlier. Your breath is coming in short shocked gasps.

The guy on your left, rises and disappears towards the exit.

I lean in as the realisation hits you.

“So you’ll do it for a stranger but not for me” I whisper. “And for the price of a coke?” I shake my head, grinning in the dark.

You don’t say anything. I know you’re still processing what just happened. Yes I was complicit. Hell, yeah!

But I bet we fuck like mad later.