Double Feature

This is a work in progress, but I've been slaving at it too long and am beginning to wonder if it's getting away on me. All my old "fans" and anyone else who reads it, please rate, review, and give me your honest opinion.

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Part 1

The old Metro Theater was one of the few remaining buildings in Old Towne. A fire had claimed most of Morris in 1923, with the exception of this, since it was brick, not so flammable as the wooden storefronts that had surrounded it; and perhaps four square blocks of sprawling Victorian and plantation-style homes, already considered old at the time. The half dozen or so still standing were definitely seeing the ravages of time. They had all been converted into between four and seven apartments each, courtesy of the local slum-lord. Mostly they were populated by the seedier aspect of those who worked the various warehouses and trucking companies which made up the majority of the district.

Melissa had moved in from out of state, right after her world caved in on her. She had never left. Well, that was not exactly true. Her apartment was good for sleeping, cleaning up, avoiding life when she chose, and a few times, none recently, a night of sin and debauchery. No one who actually knew her knew where she lived. She didn't care to say, and spent her time in the downtown area where she worked a hipster coffee bar/cabaret. Or as hip as you get in a city of under a hundred thousand, anyway.

Not many crossed the river into Old Towne. Why would they? Really, the only attraction was the Metro. Even Melissa, who drove by it nearly every day, had never attended. Tonight she found herself there, haphazardly, after an hour of cruising with Mark. Usually they just drove around town or up into the hills, but tonight they were crammed into hard plastic chairs, watching Monte Python for the fortieth time. Dark and musty, ripe with scents of butter and salt, the spacious high ceilinged cavern-room echoed once and damped in its weird acoustics as the second show of the double feature ran opening credits. Obviously, the management had recently revamped the sound system. There had been talk around town of some kind of grant and a restoration. Stereo surround-sound harkened from all corners. Overpowering at times, at others, it only tickled auditory perceptions.

They sat in two narrow seats, mid-row. Two long-deprived people, splitting an armrest and cup holder, sharing air and space and skin, were experiencing a heightened awareness of each other. The others sprinkled around them, breathing, rustling, they paid no mind to.

It started accidentally, knee brushing knee, "Oops, sorry!"

"That's okay." However, a question had been posed in that simple gesture. As though she'd been shocked, such was the jolt. Melissa's nerves tingled up her thigh and straight to her gut, where giddiness diffused slowly to far quadrants. Touch was needed and necessary. She parted her lips, and licked them nervously, holding back her want.

In the same shape himself, Mark understood why she did nothing further. The easy answer was because he was the man, and it was expected that he'd take the lead in such matters. It went beyond that, though. She respected his distance, albeit somewhat grudgingly. For as long as she'd known him up until a month ago, he'd always been involved. Plus, his major in college had been theology and he planned to go to seminary as soon as he scraped up the money. Since he'd graduated he'd been working two part time jobs and various odd jobs, swallowing his pride and living with his parents to save up faster. This was only a slight inconvenience for him. Nothing much stood between Mark and his goals once he got something in his head. He'd made this one in junior high, long before Melissa met him.

She knew this about him. Frankly, she hated it. Not the fact that he had goals, or that he'd sacrifice to achieve them. Not that at all. She thought that his choice of a profession was nothing but a waste of a good man, forever tied to religion in the service of ingrates. And then there was chastity, of course. She'd been burned in such an environment. They called it "ministry" but she called it "misery." Once resigned to that life, one could be nothing short of perfect and ideal without bringing constant fire. Oh, how she knew that. Her moments of weakness had put an end to all of her young-woman's dreams of service to the greater good. Now she scorned, quietly. Rebelliousness didn't need to be loud to be 'heard.' On the other hand, she retained enough of her own strict upbringing to be wary of 'making' him sin. There was no way she was about to give up her self-control without an open and obvious invitation.

Fifteen minutes into the second movie, Melissa felt someone's hand on her leg. This surprised her. She continued to stare straight ahead for some time, thinking that if she reacted she'd scare him off. He'd never touched her before in anything but a friendly or brotherly way.

This went on maybe 20 minutes. Mark fought with himself in his head the whole time. It was clear as day she considered him fair game, now more than ever. Why was she not making her move? Probably because he would shoot her down again. There was just no way he could give in to the vibes she was unconsciously throwing. No way. He'd watched her life go places he never wanted his to go. If he thought he could save her, he would, he'd tried, but she just laughed him off. No, she wanted him. Pure and simple. Well, he couldn't exactly use the word 'pure' in that context. If not, then she'd settle for friendship but she was not going to be a P.W. (preacher's wife). She'd told him so.

So why was he playing with her knee? All the little axioms about cows and milk, about wedding rings being the best form of birth control spun through his mind. He'd better start praying right now. "Oh, lord..." There was no answer, there was only her leg, and his, when she finally reached out and reciprocated. Settling into that for several more moments, Mark grit his teeth in an effort to not move. He did anyway. Turning slightly, he treated her to one of his always-special hugs; it was just his way, from day one when they'd barely known each other and were already saying goodbye it had been the same. Interesting how fate had found them in the same town only a few weeks later. Mark didn't give the quick and perfunctionary hugs he'd been doled out as a child. His were lengthy, more than simply "holding" or squeezing. They involved slight changes in position and re-clasping. Melissa had seen him do this to practically all of their mutual acquaintances. He was just a "huggy" person. None-the-less, one always felt extra-loved when he was finished with them.

There was that word again. They'd always thrown it rather carelessly between themselves. Well, it was normal they'd "love" each other in some form. That was a godly thing. If either of them chose to twist it, that was on their own heads, or so the popular dogma had led them to believe.

Fast forward 18 months, 2 collective fiancé(e)s, and several abortive come-ons. Once in her embrace, he found strange comfort in her much smaller person. He scooped her into his arms, laid her head to his chest, and ran his hands up and down her back or as much as possible within their tight confines. She extended her arms and did the same, since this was allowed, poking her fingers slightly into his lats and ribs. Though tall and quite slender, he had powerful muscles from riding bike all the time, and a heavy bone structure like an Eastern European farmer.

Drawing his head back, he looked down into the swirling green eyes, seeing what he always did at these times--desire, knowledge of forbidden fruit, and her understanding that it was something they couldn't share. He'd always had his terms, and she'd had hers; they'd never meet in the middle.

Enough! Why not? Why the hell not? He was in as bad of need as she. The amber eyes changed subtly, considering, while she stroked his unusually-colored auburn-red hair.

Melissa let out her breath in a hiss when he lowered his head to nuzzle her cheekbone, then under her hair to her ear. There were little ways he had to tempt her, testing the strength of her resistance, but it had never gotten this far. Her fingers clawed the material of his shirt, otherwise she remained motionless, waves of heat chasing all over her body. How much did he expect her to put up with, anyway, without feeling or saying anything? Early in their friendship, she'd learned perforce not to let on. She had done nothing more than announce she had more than friendly feelings for him, this after rolling around on his bed for half an hour, tickling each other and giggling. After that, he'd refused to see her for two months.

This, however, was different, and more. Sticking his tongue in her ear and biting on the lobe was not just teasing, or was it? Her spine arched. The rest of her body stiffened further in her effort to hold herself back.

He was not unaware of her struggles. And there were his own, too. She gave him a look that was pure (damn that word again) sex. He was trained to think it was evil, despite his body's reaction, which was hardly unpleasant. In fact, he enjoyed it, that she exerted her force of will this way. That she'd respect him enough to leave him be. Was his regard for her more than that of the 23 years he could remember of conscious training? The scent of her wavy blond hair, and her small round breasts pressed against his chest, were driving him mad. Deliberately, his mouth left her ear and found her lips. They were smooth and supple, and, after the first startled instant when she actually jumped, pliant, then aggressive.

Her whole mind screamed "Oh God!" when he kissed her. Once past that barrier of resistance, her whole factor of restraint uncoiled like a spring and she loosed her amorous attack. She kissed back, not just his mouth but his whole face, sucking and softly biting on his lips when he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She sucked on it rhythmically, running her own tongue up and down the sides of it, fully aware of what that symbolized. How she actually felt, Mark didn't know, but her control extended to her mannerisms. She was as skillful at this as at other talents of hers that were more tangible, very collected and methodical, way beyond high-schoolish. Experienced women were something he knew nothing of.

Debating, he yanked his head back; he was out of his depth. Truth be told, and his own innate sensuality aside, he'd only had sex three times in his life; twice with virgins who'd promptly dumped him out of shame, and once with his former fiancee, who after having lead him on for over two years had turned out to be frigid. So, yes, certainly, he had a complex about sexual frustration and resistance. And a guilt complex. Fighting the oncoming tide of chemical reactions from both of them, he was keyed to that aspect. This girl was about to tear that all away, if he went on. It was not in her nature to be coy, and she'd been toyed with too long already. She was no virgin, a fact that had always disconcerted him. Now he wondered if that wasn't a benefit.

Her body, in the hard, itchy seat, moved around in small wave-like undulations. She clung with both hands to his arms, giving the same kind of attention to his neck that she had his mouth. He closed his eyes, moaned silently, and gave in to it. While he'd been messing with her resolve, he'd been able to ignore his erection, which embarrassed him somewhat, being in public. Now he noted that shaft between his legs was angrily trying to get out of it's encasement. His pants were suddenly way too tight.

He buried his hands under her clothes, finding her skin, which was like crushed velvet. In an embrace turned very heated, he caressed her arms, back, stomach, anything he would get at, while she shifted restlessly. Her fingers forged paths of their own. The skin she sought was not as fine-textured, but mostly smooth. She concentrated on the differences between them--his sharply defined torso, his long graceful neck, the hair under his arms. Until the more commonly known ones here found, and they were, for they called like homing devices, both their bodies in total were erogenous receptors.

Sensory overload set in quickly, only to be overridden and overridden with more and more. Their light, quick kissing alternated with longer, deeper, till they had to come up for breath. Mark's little piece of reality gave way; he felt like he'd been drinking, or had been thrown out of a plane.

They drew in toward each other, magnetized. Giver alternated to receiver. Already he was fit to burst. Her small hands discovered his condition and called out reserves of fluids still dammed. Shaking, for it was so hard not to just throw her on the floor or over the seat and slam it home, he borrowed frantically further under straps and webbing and rubbed her hardened points. Her nipples were like knobs of glass. He squeezed them hard, then pulled, then swiped at the very tips with his thumbs. She arched into it again; a stifled choke in her throat made his penis lurch in response. She felt it, her eyes flew back up to his as she undid his button, and unzipped him. She spit into her palm and wrapped one shaking fist around his cock as far as possible, moving only barely, just squeezing. Their eyes locked, breath coming in small synchronized gasps as bodies hunched for leverage.

As if the thought were an arrow to his brain, suddenly and all-consumingly, he was obsessed with touching her pussy. If the path leading to his destruction ran between her thighs, then so be it. He moved his hand between her legs. The material there was moist, and so warm. No, no that was not enough. He tried again, under the tight waistband, lower, feeling a second waistband and the silk she swathed her privates in. Temporarily freeing one hand from his cock, she undid her fastenings to ease his access. He found soft crinkly pubic hair, then the top of her slit, and lower yet, shaved folds that are coated in her juices. Sliding in slickness he touched all the surfaces. The small hard node at the top part of her wet vulva ticked and throbbed under his fingers, like a tiny animal heart beating impossibly fast. Her head dropped back from their mouth-play, and her eyes closed. Still though, she kept up the steady stroking of his manhood, only pausing occasionally for more saliva. She'd been trembling all over since the beginning; his own hands were by now shaking in the effort not to let himself go and cum into her hand, and in his absolute testosterone-driven need to get into her pussy. Her opening was steaming hot and streaming with fluids. When his forefinger slid in, it was almost like getting sucked in. She raised her head back up and found he was watching all of her physical responses. Her breath hissed in once more through the sharp teeth she worried her lower lip with. "Please!" She whispered almost soundlessly, so no one but he could hear.

"What?" He knew what, but he wanted for once to hear a girl say something dirty.

"Oh, fuck, Mark, that's soooo damn GOOD. You're making my crazy...But you're such a tease!" He loved the torment in her voice. This was not a contemplation of giving in or not. There was doubt at his willingness or ability to satisfy her, as well as her own need to get off. He thrust a 2nd long thick finger into her dripping snatch, then a third. She squeezed down hard on his digits which he reflexively pushed in so hard he lifted her three inches off her seat.

"I can't stand it," is what she meant; but what came out of her mouth was more like each word swallowed, surrounded by a small silent breathy moan each. The movie was in a quiet moment, and she was trying still to avoid attention. He was quite sure that everyone around them knew exactly what was going on, which only further aroused him.

"Jesus," he breathed, surprised at himself for saying that, "Come! I want you to..."

She looked up at him with a glazed, agonized expression and said softly, "I can't, not like this..."

"Get on my lap! Now!" He wanted to see this; the magnitude of it burst into his consciousness. Her cum became his meaning, became more important than anything for the time being. He was slightly angered at her lack of faith in his abilities, and at the refusal at any level. He totally forgot it was he who'd been holding her off for over a year and decided, simply, heatedly, to make her. Make her cum, make her let him do it to her, make her let him watch her response and her orgasm and what a woman looks like when she has one.

Disconnecting her very skilled hand from his member, he dragged her bodily into his lap, so both of them faced the screen. With his throbbing man-flesh tucked between her buttocks, he pressed his legs together around his balls, parted her legs around his, and began again. His fingers still wet from her juices, he reached up her shirt. With so much better access now, he kneaded her breasts, each hand weighing and covering. Leaning sideways a little, tilting her head up, she kissed the underside of his jaw. She could only reach so far, licking and biting a trail down his neck. The tickling combined with a hint of pain. He moved both hands downward, over her belly, finding her gushing again. 'Like coming home,' he thought, chiding himself for the double meaning.

This time when he sank his fingers she went limp and surrendered to the sensation. Her hands came to rest on his forearms, tracing the hard muscles and tendons as they stroked her center. Because he could, she was letting him, he rocked her whole pelvis with the thrusts of his hand. At first, her internal muscles clenched and unclenched in time to his muted pumping, but gradually she simply contracted, tighter and tighter. It was impossible not to think of what her tunnel could feel like against the fire of his cock-skin. Pre-cum trickled from his tiny hole onto her back. He wondered briefly about it; he'd never had more than a few drops before.

She was now beyond turning back but what he was giving her was not quite enough. "My clit...my clit..." she whispered urgently. Moving her hands off his arms, she spread out her folds for him, laid them back flat and guided his right fore- and middle fingers to just the right spot, one on each side of her tiny feminine phallus. He rubbed, using her natural lubrication all over it. Her whole lower half was doing some combination of quivering and twitching, her pelvis gyrating slowly and deliberately, but unconsciously.

"Harder," she commanded in another whisper, as she pushed momentarily on his fingers. As soon as she returned to holding her labia back, he increased his pressure and speed.

All she wanted in the whole world was to cum. Mark's fingers felt so damn good to her, first just touching her at all, then more-so as he gained skill. Her clitoris vibrated on its own and his touches were like frosting on it. Luckily, by this time a chase scene was on-screen, accompanied by loud metal/rap which blared throughout the theater. Like two fists knotting simultaneously, a dual avalanche of ecstasy rumbled then roared down her insides. She came on his hand, locked in place, holding her breath, clothes askew but still covering everything. Her pussy spasmed and let go another outflow of wetness. As his motions slowed she shuddered with aftersparks, and he removed his hands from under her clothes.

Languidly, she flopped back into her original seat. It only took seconds for her to catch her breath. Like quicksilver, she licked her palm and she soon had him ready to unload. Her stroking was relentless, fast and full of urgency just like that of a man in such dire need of release he jacks himself off in a bathroom stall. When the friction worked away her saliva, she bent down and actually spit on him. It was nearly as slick as her cunt slime. Just the though of that brought him to the brink of orgasm. He spread his thighs apart, slouched, tucked in his pelvis to push into her hand. His cock felt powerful like steel to him; and overly full, like it was congested. A second hand joined her first, and she double-fistedly pumped up and down his length. Faster than he would have liked, but it felt too good to help it, his cum jetted into her waiting hand. She caught it all, then straightened till his eyes were on a level with hers. The tongue that had been in his mouth not long ago shot out and slurped his cream out of her palm. Watching that, his penis tried to come to life again.