The Opera

After weeks of talking to one another on the phone and online, we decide to meet. We both make up stories for our spouses about someone at work having tickets for the opera that no one wanted . . . and we get away.

Since it's our first meeting, I take special care in dressing for you. Short black dress, colorful jacket, just enough makeup to tantalize, and my favorite perfume. We decided to meet at the the big downtown mall, the City Center.

When I walk into the bar where we're to meet, I'm a few minutes early. I walk up to the bar and order my Vodka and Cranberry juice. I notice a head turn as I order. As my eyes meet yours I know it is you. There is instant recognition in your gaze. You smile at me, motioning for me to sit on the stool next to yours. As I move toward you, I notice your eyes looking me up and down, and see you smile. It feels good to know you like what you see.

You stand up and help me onto the high stool, whispering "Hello . . . You look beautiful." in my ear. Your warm breath on my ear and neck are almost as promising as the husky sound of your voice, so familiar and yet so new without the phone lines changing it's timbre.

Once I'm perched on the stool, the bartender brings my drink and I reach for my handbag. You place one large, rough hand on mine and tell the bartender "I am here to provide whatever the lady wishes." All three of us smile and the very obvious multiple meanings of your declaration. I pick up my drink with a nearly shaking hand and do all I can to keep from giggling (with nerves? anticipation?).

After you pay for my drink and a nice tip, your hand is back on mine. We smile and make small talk until we've finished our drinks. Then you lean over and whisper in my ear again. There is no need for whispering, but we both feel the jolt of electricity as your face gets so close to mine again.

"It's about 1/2 hour until the overture will start, we should be going." You help me jump off the bar stool and notice my smooth legs in their black stockings. They're not long, but they're not badly shaped. You put your hand in the small of my back as we leave the bar, and I can feel it's warmth through my jacket and dress.

When we are walking the concourse of the City Center we dont' touch, in deference to anyone who might spot us. But I can feel your body near me, and you can feel mine. I feel the heat and tension of all those conversations we've had. The memories of lonely nights wishing I were with you, and the promise of the evening to come. It flashes into my mind that I should not expect so much from our first meeting, but dismiss the thought as foolish. You are my dear, kind, long-time friend. Meeting in person could never be disappointing.

You follow me as we go into the theater. Your eyes follow my rear as we climb the stairs, you body still so close I can feel your heat, and yet desparately far away. Knowing that you're watching me turns me on. I love feeling you close behind me, but not touching. And I can tell you're getting aroused as if I can smell it in the air. Perhaps I can.

We take our seats in the theater and start to read through the programs. I notice you looking at my knees as I cross my legs. It feels good to know you're still watching me. I allow my right leg to drift over a little and touch you, calf to calf. Our elbows touch on the arm between our seats as the lights go down.

I am so excited, and it is not just the nearness of you. I love the opera, and I love live concerts, and I love the tension that is already coursing between us. The concertmaster appears and the musicians tune. The conductor comes out and the music begins.

It is thrilling. The music is transporting. The voices and the costumes and the emotion are amazing. At one point, when the soloists are singing a beautiful duet of love, I reach over and put my hand on your thigh. I feel your muscles quiver at my touch, and I'm briefly distracted from the music.

I cast a glance at you. You look like a man just waking from a dream. Your eyes pierce mine as we share the beauty of the music. The song is so powerful, though, I can feel it pulsing through my body, and my attention is drawn back to the stage. When the song ends, the curtain comes down and the intermission is starting.

The house lights come up and I find my hand still clenching your thigh. I also notice that your hand is on mine, holding me captive there. It feels so solid and warm, how could I not have noticed when you placed it there? My eyes follow the length of your strong arm up the length of your jacket sleeve til I can see your eyes. You are looking at me with amusement, joy, and not a little bit of hunger. We smile at one another, knowing that tonight will contain more music than just that of the opera.

You break the spell by speaking softly. "It's intermission," you say "would you care for a drink?" I have to concentrate to hear your words over the rushing of arousal in my head. Your breath on my ear while your hand is on mine sends me into a dizzy spin. I shake my head lightly and laugh a bit to clear my thoughts.

"Yes, I'd love one, thank you."

We stand up and walk out to the lobby. The line is long, but we enjoy talking to one another as we wait. In some ways we are still strangers, yet in other ways we've known one another our whole lives. We don't touch, though, this being way to public of a place.

After we get our drinks we find a handy corner to lean in and chat. As we talk we are subtly flirting and teasing, but trying hard to be totally discreet, in case someone we know sees us. When the lights flicker for the end of intermission, we both breath an audible sigh of relief at the thought of the relative privacy of our seats. The desire singing between us is visceral.

This time, as soon as the lights go down, your hand finds my knee. MMMMMmmmm Again I'm struck by how warm your body is. I slip my arm around yours and run my fingernail up the underside of your forearm. The music has begun both in the orchestra, and between us. As the opera goes on, we are carried away on the music, but this time, nothing can distract us from the joy of finally touching one another.

Your hand is gently carressing my knee, and slowly goes to my lower thigh. With this, my hand gently lights on your thigh, and I feel that quiver again. I start to stroke your thigh gently - mimicking the sensations your hand is giving me. As the music picks up and the action on the stage is getting heavier, your hand starts to explore a little more, too. Your fingers sneak under the hem of my dress, and you let out the breath you'd been holding when I put up no resistance. Tickling up my thigh, enjoying the smooth hose on my skin, you suddenly stop. Your fingers found an unexpected surprise. They found skin. My stockings stop half way up my thigh, with a band of lace. All thoughts of the opera are gone as your head snaps around to look at me. My head is turned toward you, too, with a little knowing, teasing smile.

I can see your eyes darken with arousal and I feel your pants leg shudder as you realize what I'm wearing. You send one brave finger on a search mission. You run that finger up my thigh, the back of the nail firmly stroking my skin. You give an audible but very silent groan when you first feel the moist hair of my private parts. I'm wearing no panties.

You are astonished at what you've NOT found, and very interested. You look up at my face, searching for my eyes. I, however, and still looking at the stage. I am still smiling that half smile, and looking very . . . triumphant. I am avoiding your eyes, and pretending to watch the opera as I shift in my seat to offer you slightly better access. Your hand slowly moves up my leg, past my stocking, smoothing over the skin of my thigh. I shiver at your touch. So warm and gentle, yet electric.

As your hand moves over my skin, i decide to be a bit more bold myself. You look so good in your dark suit and tie. I smooth my hand slowly up your leg. I can feel your erection growing, and feel my inner core turn to hot liquid. I run a firm finger along the length of your shaft, through your pants. I am rewarded with a shudder of anticipation.

Suddenly your hand is gone from my lap, and I suffer a flash of abandonment.

"I have an idea." You remove your suit jacket and spread it protectively over my lap. "Mmmmmmmm" I murmer, knowing your plan will please me.

Slowly your hand starts it's quest under your jacket . . . under my hem . . . up my thigh. Oh, noble fingers, so brave and so pleasing. They have found their goal and will now show me their talents.

My mouth goes suddenly dry as your finger first starts to tickly my moist hair. How many times have I played out this very scene in my head? I bite my lip to keep from vocalizing the joy I feel at finally having you touch me.

Your finger is desparately slow in it's exploration. No, it's not exploration, is it? It is calculated. I glance at your face and see that you, too, are struggling for control. The look of determination on your face almost brings another giggle bubbling up my throat. But the giggle is choked on a gasp as your first finger is joined by another. Slowly they tickle my hairs, running back and forth so lightly I question if they're really feeling anything. Oh, but I feel it.

The teasing you are doing is starting to drive me wild. Mercifully, you finally end the torturous tickling and, and if you have choreographed it purposefully to coincide with the music on the stage, your fingers firmly clench my mound.

"Oh" I involuntarily exclaim. The music all but drowns my sighs as your hand, enboldened by that first grasp, starts to carress my slit with purpose. You smile as you dip into my dripping folds. Small gasps are swallowed by me as I use all my energy to keep from squirming obviously in my seat. I wonder, briefly, what the man to my left thinks, and try to keep my eyes focussed on the stage.

Our faces both remain studiously turned toward the opera as the music, dramatic and powerful, swirls around us. Your hand continues it's sweet ministrations, slowly moving along my slit, back and forth and wriggling. The all movement stops for a second as the music has stopped for a breath before the final crescendo of the song. Just as the singers break forth in glorious cacophony, one finger touches my throbbing clit.

"Ah" I gasp aloud.

"Are you enjoying the second Act?" Hot breath, voice raspy with desire, you've leaned over again and whispered in my ear.

"MMMMmmmmmmm" I murmer, fearful that if I attempt actual speach I will groan or shout or myself start singing. Your eyes glitter in the near-darkness as you smile, arrogantly knowing what you are doing to me. Your finger flicks over my clit as you grin . . . and flicks again.

Slowly, now, you put your fingertip on the core of my arousal and rub. Slow circles, smoothing over and around the nub. My eyes close and I bite my lip. The eroticism of being in public, with you, at this amazing opera are powerful enough, but you fingers on my most sensitive parts start to send me over the edge very quickly. Surely those around us must know what is going on. I breath deeply, trying to control the speed with which you are bringing me to climax, and I can smell my arousal on the air.

My hand on your thigh clenches as I feel a second finger join the first in it's sweet travels around my clit. Around and up and down and over they swirl and bob as in a dance. Perfectly attuned to my body, and perfectly in time with the dramatic music swirling around us. Your hand must be soaking. My mind, usually so very practical, cascades over the danger of being here with you and so very public. I briefly think about the huge wet spot that will be on my dress, and lean over to whisper to you.

"Lift my skirt out from under my butt for me - a wet spot there would be too embarassing."

You chuckle and shake your head, but you briefly leave your work and comply with my wishes as I slightly raise my hips off the seat.

"Silly Cat" you murmur.

Your hand resumes it's exquisite dance and I relax into the sensations. Fingers swirling, spreading my lips, smoothing my folds, rubbing and circling my clit. Then, just as the music swells again around us, explosion! FAbulous, marvelous, glorious orgasm makes my legs quiver with trying to sit still, and causes my hands to clench - one on the armrest, one bunching the fabric of your slacks. Your fingers are relentless, driving me to higher and greater sensations as I plummet over the edge again and again.

I groan deep in my throat and try to look like it's just the music. The man sitting to my left glances over and gives you a brief, knowing smile. We both laugh briefly at the knowledge that not every secret is unknown.

Your hand grasps my mound tightly again, calming my spasms and comforting me. You know what I need and enjoy because we've talked through every act time and again. You slowly move your hand out from under my dress and pull down the hem. I come down from mentally clinging to the high ceilings my breathing slows and my hands unclench.

"Your turn" I whisper, and I slowly remove your jacket from where it's blanketted my legs. I fold it lightly in half and you drape it over your own lap.

With your jacket folded on your lap, I can now explore with more privacy. I turn my face to watch the stage once more as my hand slowly feels the length and girth of your hardness. Mmmmmm it feels so tantalizing. I run one finger up the zipper of your pants, firmly. I glance at you out of the corner of my eye and see your eyes close briefly. Then I find the zipper pull and slowly bring it down. Having opened your zipper, I find silk boxers! Oh my! The cool, smooth fabric feels like liquid under my fingers and I fumble with freeing you from it's bondage.

Your magnificent erection under my fingers is such a good feeling that I breath a quick sigh and glance over at you again. The music on the stage has moved along to one of the final numbers of the opera, and several amazingly talented voices are raised in harmony as you tilt your head back, eyes closed.

My small hand seems even smaller wrapped around your cock. Your skin is hot and feels dry, but there is a very strong life force there, as my fingers wrap around you. I want so much to steal a peek at you . . . but I know that is a treat I'll have to save for later. I content myself with stroking the length, for starters. I run my fingers and nails up and down your shaft several times, lightly.

I love feeling you get harder under my touch. I run my finger tip around the head, swirling and stroking. Moving my hand down the shaft I then scratch lightly at the base. I feel your balls. I run my fingers around your scrotum and take each ball gently in my hand. It's as if I'm testing the weight of them. They feel so warm and solid, and strangely fluid in their sack. I groan a little as I feel you tremble at my touch.

I finally stop totally teasing and firmly clench your cock. I start to stroke in earnest now, pumping your cock with long, firm, steady strokes in time with the music. The head of your cock is rubbing your jacket. I steal a glance at your face again, and though it is pointed to the stage, your eyes are closed and you're clenching your teeth. I lean closer to whisper to you. "Do you want me to stop now?" I ask in a low, throaty whisper.

"God, NO!" you answer back.

I smile as the woman on the other side of you glances over at your exclamation. I smile kindly at her and chuckle a little. She still has no idea what is really going on, but I know that I owe you a good one. I start to pull my hand back, and you grab my wrist and turn your head to face me. Your eyes have a pleading look as you whisper.

"Please dont' stop now!"

"I won't, I just need to get something." I assure you. I claim my own hand again, and reach to the floor for my handbag. I pull out a large linen handkerchief and replace my bag on the floor at our feet. You smile slightly, and start to breath again. I slip my hand and hankie under your jacket once again. I maneuver the handkerchief around the head of your cock, and hold onto it with my fingers as I again start to squeeze and pump your erection.

The final song of the opera has started and the music is overwhelming. The feel of your hard cock is equally thrilling. As the entire chorus is singing and singing, the orchestra is playing, and I am slowly bringing you to climax. Your hands are clutching the armrests and your eyes are closed.

Your breathing gets short and ragged, and it's all you can do to keep from humping your hips. I reach my hand surrupticiously to my mouth and put some spit on it, then return to my task. When the moisture hits your cock, it's too much for you and sends you over the edge. You groan softly as my big handkerchief fills with your cum. My hand gently milks your cock as you throb and reward my efforts. The smile on my face is huge as I gather the edges of the hankie and take it back. I wait until your eyes are on me again and I raise the hankie to my nose and smell. MMMMM - my eyes close, and I dart my tongue into your cum for a taste. I see you lick your lips as you watch me.

The curtain calls have started now, so I tuck the handkerchief into my handbag again. Our eyes meet as you put yourself away . . . and we both smile. This is only the beginning of a marvelous evening, and we both know it.

We wait in our seats for the crowds to dissipate. We talk about the music, and the costumes and the orchestra. We speak about other operas we've seen (my experience in this, as well, is limited), and we compare histories. You tell me about plays you've seen in your life. I tell you about great songs and concerts I've enjoyed.

Once the crowds have thinned some, we stand and start to exit. Almost all of the other audience members have gone by now. We slowly walk down the great stairs from the balcony, and I excuse myself to use the restroom. When I return to the second floor lobby, you are leaning against the wall, gazing over the balcony. No one is around.

I come up behind you and stand very close. You feel the warmth of my body and turn around slowly. You grab one of my hands and slowly bring it to your mouth. Instead of kissing the back you turn my palm toward yourself and slowly, keeping eye contact with me, french kiss my wrist. Holding my wrist to your mouth, and staring intensely into my eyes, you start to back me away from the balcony railing. We are right outside the women's restroom and lounge, and you whisper in my ear.

"Is there a good nook or cranny in that lounge?"

"Yes," I say breathlessly "to the left inside the door looks like a quiet place."

You continue to back me into the women's lounge. You put your other hand in the small of my back, and we're moving slowly and smoothly as if in a dance. You maneuver me to the left inside the doors, and around the corner until I'm backed into a corner of the lounge. You bend over and put your lips close to mine.

"I thoroughly enjoyed the final act" you say.

"Yes," I agree, "it was truly inspirational."

You move your lips from my mouth without taking a kiss. Relocating your warm breath at my ear, "I am completely inspired, Cat" you growl. "I'm so damn inspired I don't think I can wait to get to the car."

You start to make love to my ear. Your tongue flicks in and around. Your ragged breathing brings heat and coolness inside. Your hands are still holding my wrist and the small of my back. You take your hand away from my back and take hold of my other wrist.

You hold my wrists down at my hips, and kiss me lightly on the mouth. As the kiss intensifies you raise my wrists to the walls behind me. You hold my arms out and kiss me thoroughly and deeply, sucking on my tongue and ravaging my mouth. I return the favor, sucking your tongue and running my own around your lips and teeth. You press your body against mine and I can feel your hardness against my belly. I squirm and rub against you, relishing the feel of you.