by Orion Quinn
(01/30/02)

They entered the theater like a married couple, which they were. Their hands were joined casually but firmly, in the manner of people who are no longer surprised that they belong to each other. The usher checked their tickets and indicated their seats. As they edged down the row, stepping gingerly between the theatergoers, she stumbled and grabbed his shoulder, almost falling. A lingering glance passed between them as he held her up; if anyone had been watching, they might have thought it romantic.

They settled into their seats as the house lights dimmed. He gave her hand a quick, final squeeze, then let it drop.

She was surprised at the tension she felt. She remembered the feeling from high school drama, waiting offstage for her cue. Performance anxiety, she thought, trying to focus on the actors. And I'm not even on stage.

She couldn't focus. She wanted to turn and look at him, but wouldn't let herself. Was he watching her or the play? She thought back to the bedroom, only three hours ago, when it had begun over half-glasses of red wine. Thinking about it brought a shudder that she was sure he could see. If he was watching.

He'd taken his time. He started with her neck, kissing the back of it, breathing slowly round to behind her ear, then down to the base of her throat, massaging the tops of her breasts with his hands. She murmured, eyes closed, a smile creeping across her mouth. Then her lips parted as she felt his hand, from nowhere, cup her crotch through her skirt. The heat was immediate, direct. Oh, she thought. Hello. So that's how I feel. And his lips were on her breast, circling the nipple through the cotton blouse. He sucked, and she felt the warmth spread across her legs, up and in. "Oh," she said out loud.

He raised his head from the peaked nipple. "Yes?"

"Um," she said. "That was nice."

"This?"

"Yes. That. Do it again."

"I've got a better idea," he said, reaching under the back of her blouse. She raised her arms, loving the feel of his wide, strong hands running up her back. The blouse came off and she sat up, leaning toward a kiss. It was a longer kiss than she had expected, and deeper, and when he left her lower lip and kissed her chin and her throat, she felt the wave rising again.

"Oh Jesus," she said.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" he said.

"I want to be made holy."

"I think we can arrange that," he said, kissing the plain between her breasts. She lay back again. He kissed the arch of her ribcage, then the underside of a breast. His lips took in her nipple, suddenly, and at the same time he placed his hand over her crotch again.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Um."

He rubbed, and she felt the satin of her underpants touching just within her lips, just shy of the clit, and she pushed her hips against his hand. "I don't know why I'm responding so fast," she said. "I guess it's been a while."

"It has," he said. His first two fingers slid back and forth over the fabric. "But this is our night. It's just for us. We'll make up for lost time."

And they did. Her panties were around her shins, the rest of her clothes flung on the floor, and she was just beginning to settle into a long, slow rise to orgasm when he stopped cold and raised his head from between her thighs.

"No, please," she said. "Don't stop." He didn't answer, but sat up on the bed beside her. One hand lay warm on her belly while he stroked her hair with the other. "What are you doing?" she whimpered, frustrated.

"There's something I've been wanting to do," he murmured. "I've been thinking about it for a long time. But I need your cooperation."

"This is your bargaining chip?" she said. "Get me worked up and leave me hanging if I don't like the idea?"

"Not at all," he said. "I thought you might be more interested if you were worked up first. But if you're not into it, I'll go back to what I was doing." He kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips.

"Okay, I'm curious," she said. "What's this special something?"

He moved up on the bed, embracing her from behind. He traced her spine with his tongue, then his lips. His hands came up beneath her breasts and held them. He placed his lips behind her ear and whispered. "You know I'm turned on by public places."

"Yes," she said, stroking the rough hair of his legs.

"You know we're going out tonight."

She turned. "Uh-huh. To very public places. I don't think I want you groping me in the middle of Portofino's. Thanks anyway."

"Absolutely not. I'm going to enjoy my food and my Tennessee Williams like a gentleman. I'll keep my hands to myself, I promise. In fact, I won't even touch you."

"So what's your point?"

He nuzzled her ear. "I'm still going to make you come like Vesuvius."

"Without touching me."

"Yes."

"How?"

She could feel his grin against her neck. "I'll tell you, but first you have to agree to go along with it."

"What does that mean, going along?" she asked.

"It means that once it starts, there's no backing out except for emergencies. We're just two people out on the town. We eat, we take in a play, we go home. Nothing unusual. Nothing to attract attention. No indication of what's really going on."

"And what's that?"

He turned his head and looked at her. "Are you game?"

She closed her eyes. Am I game? Am I?

The softest of whispers against her ear: "I'll make it worth your while." His thumb and forefinger came up around a nipple and pressed, sending a thrill down the wires of her breast, over her belly and into her sex.

"I'm game," she breathed.

"Then keep your eyes closed." She heard him open a drawer beside the bed. I'm game, she repeated silently. Jesus. It can't be the wine. Why in hell am I so worked up? She jumped when he put his hand on her side. "Keep your eyes closed," he said.

"They're closed, they are," she said.

She heard a low hum just in front of her face. Her first thought was: Shit, he's going to shave me. "Keep still," he said, and then she felt something against her lips that buzzed and made her jump again. She blinked involuntarily and saw it.

An egg. A pale rubber egg, somewhat larger than a hen's, nestled in his palm, vibrating. She turned to look at him.

"For you," he said. And then a kiss that left her mouth limp and her lips shining.

His hand was at her sex, rubbing the bright, moist skin to the side of her clit. Oh God. Oh God. Then the touch of the egg on her exposed flesh. Oh God.

It took her a moment to realize that it wasn't vibrating, that he had a remote control. Then she felt it push in.

"Oh God."

It opened her wider, and then it was inside. She gasped.

"There we are," he murmured.

She tried to say something. Settled for a nod.

He stood. "We'd better get moving if we're going to catch opening curtain without rushing through the meal."

"What?"

He smiled at her, stepping into his pants. "It's time."

She came to the realization, midway through dinner, that she didn't like surprises. She liked that he liked them, because they made him come alive and that was a good thing. But she'd never shared his appetite for leaping without looking; she liked to explore new things, but not without a clear plan.

And now she was lost, even though she understood what was about to happen.

"How's the salad?" he asked innocently.

"It's a salad," she said, poking it with a fork. "How are you?"

"Well, thanks," he said, and smiled. He would not be drawn. He was enjoying himself.

She speared a leaf of lettuce, wishing she could seem disinterested. Instead, she was tense. She didn't like surprises, but she didn't like to back down either. Part of her was tempted to lay the damned egg right in the middle of the restaurant and walk out, but some other part was determined to see it through.

"It's so nice to do this with you," he said, wiping his mouth. "It's been a while since we've had time to just relax together."

"Ships that pass in the kitchen," she said.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Let's try to do this more often, okay?"

She smiled and started to say "Okay," but suddenly the egg came to life, buzzing inside her, shimmering. She dropped the fork and bit her lip to keep from yelping. Her hands braced against the table. Then it was gone, just like that.

"How is everything over here?" It was the waiter at her elbow. She nodded, not daring to speak. She felt herself poised to come, but backed away. Not now. Not here.

"Can I get you folks anything?" the waiter asked.

"No, thank you," he answered, smiling, looking at her.

She spent the rest of the meal waiting for the next shock. It never came. The food was good, but she couldn't remember what she'd eaten.

As they entered the lobby, he took her hand. His grasp was gentle, reassuring, a husband's touch. The fear subsided: this was just for fun. It would be over eventually. She relaxed, if only for a moment, and squeezed his hand. You said you were game, she told herself. Enjoy.

Then, threading down the packed row to their seats, she felt the egg again -- three staccato bursts that made her stumble. His eyes were mischievous, without pity. She set her chin and lowered herself into the seat to wait.

Now it was nearly the end of the first act. She checked in periodically to monitor her sexual desire, and each time found it at full throb. So she tried to think of other things, as best she could.

The first time he had kissed her, back when they were just friends, they'd spent the afternoon having a picnic in the park. She'd worn a long blue skirt and a hat with violets. He kept glancing at her as if he'd never seen her before. Later, listening to music in his room, he suddenly turned maudlin. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm probably not much fun to be around."

"I don't mind."

"No, I mean it," he said, not looking at her. "I know this sounds totally New Age, but I feel very vulnerable right now."

That was the moment she knew.

"Hey," she said, stroking his hair. He flinched. "We're friends, right? You can tell me anything. What's going on?" It was a rhetorical question, expected in such a situation. So she asked it.

"I don't want to say something I'll regret. I don't want to ruin the best friendship I've ever had."

"Then don't say it," she said. "I won't say anything either. I'll just sit here and read." And she reached into her shoulder bag for Great Expectations, pleased with herself.

A few minutes later, he cleared his throat. She looked up. He was studying the pattern of the couch.

"I...don't know why I'm saying this," he said. "If it upsets you, I'm really sorry. I..."

"Shh," she said, laying down her book and turning to him. "You don't have to say it." She put her hand on his shoulder and let it stay there.

"I'm really...attracted to you," he blurted. "I can't stop thinking about. Kissing you, Jesus I'm sorry."

"No, no," she said. With her other hand she raised his head until he was looking at her. "Don't be sorry. Don't be." She felt a mad sort of glee. "There's nothing wrong with that. I'm still your friend."

"Yeah," he said, exhaling. "I guess I sort of got carried away."

"If you still want to kiss me," she said, "I wouldn't mind."

They stared at each other for a moment, her heart thudding in her chest. It was going to happen. A flush spread over her face and her breasts.

Then with a terrible swiftness she was hurtled into the present, where an egg lay humming inside her. He had turned it up higher than before, and now her whole body resonated to the hum. She could feel it in her bones. Her insides were turning to cream: silver cream that lapped and licked along the nerves in a rush of feeling that she couldn't check or track. She wanted to writhe in her seat, right here in this darkened room full of strangers, rub her legs together and bring this shaking to a climax, but she couldn't. She couldn't. And it wouldn't stop. The remote was in his pocket and his finger was on the switch, turning it higher. He wanted her to feel this way. He wanted it.

"Bastard," she whispered between gritted teeth. She didn't know if he heard her. It didn't matter. In his element, she thought angrily. Man with remote control. The apex of evolution. He is remote and he has control.

"Aahhh," she said out loud.

The man in front of her turned his head. Quickly, she sneezed. "Excuse me," she said, managing a feeble smile. For the first time, she glanced to her right. He was looking at her. "Do you have a tissue?" she whispered.

"How many do you need?" The trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Never mind." She sat back in the seat. "I'm fine."

He turned it higher. She clamped her lips together as the egg glowed molten within her. She was going to come, she couldn't help it. Frantic, she squeezed, trying to push the egg out. She almost sobbed in triumph when she felt it move forward: one end protruded from between her lips. But that was as much as she could do. Tears rolled down her cheeks. It was too much, too much. Her whole body was shaking. A trickle of fluid crept down her thigh. Oh God, I can't be doing this, no. Not with all these people around me. I've got to get out of here.

She whispered, "I need to use the ladies' room."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "The first act's almost over."

"I'm sure." She stood up, holding the seatback in front of her.

"What a coincidence," he said. "I have to go, too."

As quietly as possible, they made their way back along the row, past people who glanced up in disapproval. The egg bobbed with each step. She began to walk quickly but carefully toward the exit. She heard his footsteps behind her.

"Anything wrong, ma'am?" the usher asked.

"No," she answered. "I just need some fresh air." She put on her best smile, which was none too good. The man looked concerned, but opened the door for her to pass.

The lobby was bright, too bright. It spun as she turned her head, looking for the restroom. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

"This way," he said, steering her down a long hall. She nodded, wobbled. The hall was lit by tiny bulbs that cast dim pools of light. The doors they passed were unmarked, locked.

"I can't."

"Shh," he said.

They reached a door at the end of the hall, marked by a red exit sign. He pushed the bar and it opened. She stumbled out into darkness. "Where?" She turned, uncomprehending, until she saw that they were in an alleyway between two tall buildings. The concrete was damp. She tottered backward and felt bricks against her back.

She was facing him. He advanced slowly. Put a hand on her arm.

"Please," she said. "Enough. I have to--"

His mouth closed over the sentence. She kissed him back, sucking his lip between her teeth, and then her hands were in his hair, pulling him close, and his hands were at the small of her back, slipping under her shirt, caressing. She felt drunk. She wanted to bite something.

"I need you," she whispered.

"I know," he growled. "Now you have me."

Her hands had an intelligence of their own, manipulating his belt and zipper without a hitch, burying her fingers in his tangle of hair. His cock pulsed in her hand. She hiked up her skirt while he pulled her panties down and off her legs. The egg sat at the threshold of her sex, buzzing audibly.

"I'm going to take it out," he said.

Thank God. She let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes. She opened them with a start when she felt his mouth press against her swollen lips. He was kneeling, sucking at the wet, throbbing thing.

"Fffff...ffffffuck," she groaned. She felt it pass out of her, into his mouth. And it was gone. There was an empty hole between her legs. She shuddered.

He rose, lips gleaming, and kissed her, caressing her tongue with his. The sweet salty flavor of his mouth: that was her.

She drew back. "Fuck me."

"Yes."

He entered so swiftly she almost didn't realize it. Her insides had melted; she was so wet she could hardly feel him. There was no traction.

"Hard. Fuck me hard."

He plunged into her, and she felt something, a twinge in the slipperiness. But it wasn't enough.

"Please."

He plunged again, and this time she felt his hands on her ass, spreading it as he lifted her against the wall, and a finger touched the center. Delicately.

"Ohmygodmygodmygod."

Again he entered, burying himself to the hilt, and his finger rubbed the tight hole, and that was it, that was what she wanted: friction, something to hold onto. He held her hips, moving into her, probing deeper with his finger, and she was sobbing because her body remembered, because she knew she was finally going to come. He sucked at her neck, plowed her, and she felt herself unbuckling, coming loose hinge by hinge, breaking apart, and she howled at the darkness.

Gradually, things started to matter again. The rough bricks against her back. The chill on her thighs and her face. She inhaled the night air deeply, and heard him take a deep breath in response. He was still inside her.

The kiss was sweet. They smiled at each other -- almost nervously, she thought. She felt him get smaller, and knew that he would withdraw in a moment. She wanted him to stay, although she also wanted to put her clothes back on and find something to wipe up with. It didn't matter, though. She laughed. He joined in the laughter.

"That was--" he said, and stopped, at a loss for adjectives. They laughed again, laughed and laughed, and he held her tightly. "Yes it was," she said. She didn't know why she was crying again, but they were good tears. She held the warm bulk of him, and wept with joy.

"I love you," they both said at the same time. Their arms circled each other. They looked into each other's eyes. If anyone had been watching, they might have thought it romantic.

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