20 October 2009

Written by Actaeon: Movie Theater

I have few expectations as we walk into the theater; she greets me with a wide smile as she always does, and I smile as I kiss her, that twinge of excitement as always makes my heart skip a beat. She sweetly takes me over, and lets me know what we're watching tonight-- Where the Wild Things Are . I feel ambivalent about the film, but I know that watching it with her will be more important than the movie itself.

We walk in, and I'm nonplussed by the empty theater. It's the afternoon; of course no one's there. But when she guides me to the very top row, I suddenly realize that I'm in for something new. I grew up reading erotic literature on sites like Literotica; I'm no stranger to the idea of play in a public place like this, but suddenly with a rush fantasy and narrative blend into reality.

As we sit, she smiles and notes the low-set armrests, and I smile, nodding, not really processing the significance. It means we can get closer, that's nice. I wonder idly if the designers of the interior of the theater had what would happen in mind.

The film starts, and we watch like any couple would; I munch on my gummi bears, a childhood favorite, and I smile as we hold hands. Shortly through the film, she pulls me into her chest, and I smile, cuddling up to her. She's so warm, I love resting like this; it feels so incredibly intimate. I haven't been feeling overly sexual for the last day or so; I'm going through a hormonal cycle at the moment, at least, that's what I'll blame my pimples on. And resting there, she slides her hand down my open button-down shirt, resting her hand there for a moment.

I feel myself flush instantly as her fingers rest on that sensitive place; they're still so tender, my body reacts quickly. I shift uncomfortably; she hadn't let me wear underwear in a while, and I felt my sensitive cock rub against the denim.

All too soon, she begins whispering in my ears, reminding me of how much of a fucking slut I am, and I blush harder, realizing that, yes, I am quite a slut. My cock's so hard in this theater. A family is nearby, in the otherwise empty theater, just far enough to be out of view, thank god. But I can hear them, I can hear the mother speaking to her children, and I'm ashamed. But not ashamed enough to want her to stop rubbing and pinching my nipples. And that is why, among other reasons, I'm a disgusting whore.

She begins caressing me, and kissing my neck. I try hard to stay still, to keep from moving, from making any show of my maddening need for more. I never think, oh, god, I want more-- it's deeper than that, something that escapes language. And I want it. Oh god, I want it so bad, she's running her fingers along my chest, I feel her wet tongue against my neck, and she turns my head, kissing me deeply. She turns my head back, and murmurs, a slightly ironic tone in her voice, "Watch the movie.."

She's nearly got me moaning out loud, now, as I watch the film. It's difficult to concentrate on the movie, and difficult to concentrate on her caresses, at once. I'm entering a strange headspace, and it's hard as well to concentrate on the fact that I'm in such a public place. When she whispers in my ear, she reminds me that yes, I'm a slut, I'm right there in the theater, practically begging to cum on my chest, and I feel myself harden. Yes. I am a slut. I am her slut. I want to crawl down onto the floor and bury my face into her moistness and suck her to orgasm. I want her to cum on my face. I want to feel her hot wet sticky cum on my mouth, I want to be bathed in her fragrance.

She has me undo my belt, and pulls my tender cock out of my pants. Oh god, I'm so painfully aroused; I listen with horror, watching the staircase, waiting for a cop to silently walk up and to expose me with a maglite. But no. I'm safe here, safe enough for Mistress to stroke my cock, to murmer into my ear. For me to make little whimpering sounds. I want her more than I can bear. I'm happy.

I'm forced to keep watching. It's not exactly a children's film, as she says-- I feel conflicted about it. I feel conflicted about myself. And I feel conflicted about the hand on my cock. I grow soft; she asks me to stroke myself. And I do. And I grow hard again, and it makes sense again. I'm a slut. That's what I am.

I want to cum in the theater, right there, I want to feel her shudder under my head as I cum for her, and eat it, and listen to her pleased murmurs, I want to hear the smile in her voice, the lovely little cruelty there. She tells me that she wants to fuck me, right there. The thought scares me, but I would open myself for her, I would bend right over that chair infront of her, cling to it, stay silent as she fucked me. As long as I could.

In my fantasies, the theater is crowded, and what starts as a subtle groping grows into a massive orgy, some bizarre feast out of the past; where humanity touches its roots, and chooses to make its fantasies reality. I feel the impression of the pressing reality that's been tearing at the plastic parapets of our happy little civilization.

I want her. I want to feel covered in cum, I want to feel it flooding my mouth, my ass, I want it in my hair, on my face, covering my back, I want to feel its stickiness dripping from my chest, I want to shake as I'm cold and aching and left sore and bleeding and crying, tossed into a small cage, a plug stuffed into my ass, a gag in my mouth, left to freeze and shake and eventually sleep. To be woken up to the same process the next day, and the next day.

And here, in this theater, I feel that reality pressing me, pushing me, holding me down and raping me.

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess