We’ve never met.
We’ve exchanged just enough e-mails to know that I make you wet, that you make me hard.
We pick a movie – maybe an action movie, maybe a thriller. Not one either of us really wants or needs to see.
You arrive before I do. You text me – “I’m in the back row, on the left.” You’re wearing a short dress. Boyshorts.
At some point – during the previews? Five minutes in? Fifty minutes in? I take my place next to you. “Look straight ahead,” I whisper to you, reminding you of what I’d told you to do in advance.
By now, your panties are soaked. There’s nothing hotter than waiting, than anticipating, and that is precisely what you’ve been doing. You haven’t seen my face. You barely know me. But you know that, shortly, as you sit in this movie that you don’t want to see, my fingers will be brushing against, pushing against, the fabric that covers your panties, the fabric that’s absorbing the evidence your body is producing, involuntarily, of how much you want me.
Because you haven’t seen my face, you turn your head, ever so slightly, toward me. Your eyes slide to the left, trying, trying to take me in in the darkness. But as you do this, you feel my hand on your chin, gently, firmly, guiding your face back to center. “Look straight ahead,” I whisper. This time, my tone is unmistakably firmer. You don’t dare do other than as I say, and you fix your eyes, rigidly, on the image on the screen.
Some moments pass. Minutes? And you feel my hand on your knee. First, it’s just a gentle touch, resting there, almost weightless. But slowly, imperceptibly, my grip tightens. “You are mine,” my hand is telling you, “and I will do with you what I wish.”
I pull your knee toward me, just slightly, opening your legs a little. Your thighs come apart. You feel the air of the theater on the inside of your thighs, under your dress – a light, soft sundress that I had asked you specifically to wear. As I guide your knee, you respond. You respond with your knee, taking it exactly as far as I want it to go, and you respond in your cunt, a spasm of anticipation surging through it.
More moments pass.
My grip loosens, loosens. I’m now barely touching your knee, but my hand is moving. Slowly. Slowly. Up your leg, under your dress. My thumb drags along the outside of your thigh, my fingers, on the inside. Up, up, up, my hand goes, stopping just before my pinkie would reach your panties. Involuntarily, you open your legs just a little wider.
I squeeze – not hard, not long – just to tell you that I like where my hand is, that I know where my hand is, and that I want all of your attention on my hand. (Well, not your eyes – they are to remain on the screen. You know this.)
My hand rests there, just a few millimeters from your pussy, and you find yourself sliding forward, trying to reach my pinkie with your cunt, trying to get the touch that is elusive. So far. But my hand moves with you. “Sit back, please,” I whisper. “Sit up straight.”
You do as I ask.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
More moments pass. Too many more moments. For both of us. My cock is stiff in my jeans. I want my fingers in your pussy as much as (more than) you do. But I like (hate) waiting.
Finally, finally, I move just a tiny bit more. I touch the elastic of your panties, just under your pussy. It’s wet. I slide my finger under – not far enough to do anything other than collect a little of the wetness. Then, back out, and up. My hand now rests fully on your panties, pressing against you. With my thumb, I find where your clit must be under your panties, and apply just a little pressure.
Do you let out a sigh? A moan? Do you press up against me?
We’re all of fifteen minutes into this encounter and already, I’m dying. Aren’t you?