The Concert 2

It's funny how things happen. One thing sparks another, which sparks another, which sparks another, and then you have success or failure;love or war.

This time the outcome was success. It all began with a classical guitar concert. Something went wrong with the air conditioning at the original venue, so it was switched from a concert hall to a local theater stage, a new theater, at that. It featured seats that reclined and pull-down arm rests with receptacles for sodas. If you didn't want the arm rest, it just lifted and folded back between the seats.

On the night of the concert I didn't want the armrest between us. Who would? You looked wonderful and smelled great. Shortish black skirt, ivory silk top and pearls. Very nice. I was happy to be with you. I didn't even mind when you dashed off two minutes before curtain time to use the ladies room. Poor thing.

You returned just seconds after the lights went down, but that was another one of those critical "somethings". I put my hand out just before you sat down--a junior high bit of nonsense-- and found it trapped beneath you, palm up. You shot me a quizzical look, and I smiled. But I didn't move my hand. Holding my coat as I was, and in the darkened theater, no one could see.

It was a spontaneous gesture, a prank born out of my own playfulness, but it took me only a second or two to realize that there may be an opportunity for something more; an opportunity to repay you for taking my penis in your mouth and teasing me for the better part of a half-hour last night. Still, how much could I do with my hand crushed beneath your body? I wiggled it slightly, with little effect. Your weight and the fabric of the skirt conspired against me. I started to withdraw my hand, but then stopped. Was it really that hopeless? Was there nothing I could do?

There was nothing. You had all your weight on my hand as if to

fend me off. I could barely move a finger, but wiggle that finger I did.

You had other ideas, though. I could feel a quick downward pressure every few seconds. And that wordless gesture was unmistakable. You were telling me to knock it off. Quit fooling around! I understood but I wouldn't give in. Not a chance.

I continued trying to tease you, but with little effect. I know you felt my fingers, but that skirt was in the way. I couldn't get past it...or could I? I began pulling at it, millimeter by millimeter, inching it higher by the pressure of my hand. My fingers cramped with the effort, so I stopped every few minutes to rest, then started again. I saw your head turn and your glittering eyes looking my way, but I wouldn't meet them with my own gaze. I wasn't going to chicken out.

You kicked me, then. The toe of one high heel stabbed me several times. I stifled a laugh. This was fun!

It was slow going, but after ten minutes I finally reached your hem. Unfortunately, there was still some slip to contend with , but a few minutes later that slippery fabric was out of the way, too. You hadn't worn panties tonight, just pantyhose, so I wasn't "Home" by a long shot. I could, however, feel the heat of your pussy and maybe just the slightest bit of dampness on the cotton panel. Could you be enjoying this while fighting me off? I wasn't sure, but I continued my assault.

Your hose was stretched tightly across your pubic mound, but I could feel a yielding softness beneath it. I could even feel a depression between your vaginal lips, a warm and womanly crevice.

You dug your nails in my wrist in a last ditch effort to stop me, and that even hurt a little, but it didn't stop me. You would have had to dig them in really hard to hurt me, and you might have broken a nail doing that. What woman risks broken nails?

Meanwhile my fingers continued probing and stroking. My middle finger, mostly. I scratched at your damn hose with my nail, scratched and scratched and scratched and finally--finally!--made a small run. I

scratched some more and pulled with the tip of my finger. More nylon thread separated. The tip of my finger made sweet contact with pubic hair and your glorious vagina. Warm, wet, wonderful pussy! I

crooked my middle finger and pulled back, ripping more fabric. I actually heard it, but no one else did. They were concentrating on the music. Any other time I would be, too. I loved classical guitar, but I only heard it with half an ear tonight. Tonight I had other priorities.

I could wiggle my finger easily now, and I dug deeper, forcing the whole length of middle finger deep inside your warmth. I felt you move in response to the intimate assault, slumping almost imperceptibly in your seat. I varied the speed: slow and as deep inside your vagina as I could reach, then fast and light stimulation of the outside of your slick pussy lips.

You were fully wet now, and it wasn't the rhapsody of the music that caused you to close your eyes. People around you may have thought you were shifting your body slightly rhythmically to the music, and you were, but the beat was mine. I had found I could touch your clitoris if I extended my middle finger as far as I could and shoved it forward. Now I was rubbing that throbbing little bump and watching your legs twitch in the dim light, faster and faster they twitched, faster and faster you breathed, until finally, finally....nothing. Next to nothing, anyway. I had decided to tease you longer, so I slowed down my stroking of your clitoris, then stopped entirely for a while while I caressed your slick labia. I felt your hot glare upon me, then turned and smiled, my eyes laughing at yours. The corners of your mouth twitched for a moment as you fought the urge to smile. Your face changed slightly, just fractions of an inch, but I knew what you were asking. Finish me. Please let me come.

I thought about it for a while as I slowly caressed the soft inside of your vagina with my finger. Thought about your sweet pussy and the aching caused by my finger. Thought about how lovely you looked, how feminine your attire, what sweet curves your breasts made. I thought about what new way I could tease your clitoris with my hand.

Then I had a moment of inspiration. I pulled my hand out from beneath you and buried it in my coat pocket. I felt your body go stiff with frustration. I felt you kick me. But I laughed silently. The music was good, the night was lovely---and---with you stewing for another hour or two, I would have something delicious to eat when I got home.