Alphabet: O Is for Opera

He watched her from the opera house mezzanine for a time; thrilled by her.

Helena stood in the foyer, beautiful, elegant and alone as the crowd streamed around her. She wore the Claudert de Moen mini with opaque thigh highs and white blouse, black heels, the silver chain and earrings; hair in an updo. She watched the people as they came through the doors, smiled from time to time when she noticed them smiling at her, but always watched with her deep green eyes for Him.

He let her wait for a time, then went down to surprise her, coming up behind her, covering her eyes with his hands, nibbling at her ear. He could feel her give a little excited shiver. She smelled of lavender and Eau de Montage.

"Let's undress you now," he whispered.

Her hand came up to gently pry at his. "Mmmm," she said and giggled. "Who might we offend?"

When he escorted her to their box, she leaned into him down the dimly lit corridor. He let his hand fall to the small of her back when they entered their box nearly overhanging stage left. They emerged into the light, sight and sound of the gorgeous Baroque opera house with its gilded ceiling, enormous chandelier, the elegant men and women below.

They sat and she leaned into him again. She was warm and there was now just the faintest tang of her perspiration. She held his hand and her palm was cool and her hand firm in his. He commented on the full house. She praised their excellent seats. And each did not say to the other what they really wanted to say.

But when the lights dimmed and the orchestra began the overture, he gave her hand a squeeze, leaned in and whispered, "now take down your skirt."

She did not react in that instant but he watched with delight her awkward fidget, a slight pressing together of her knees, the age-old defense mechanism. She looked out across the opera house. She took a breath. She squeezed his hand, then drew hers away to her lap.

He saw her rise slightly in the dark and knew the skirt was off her waist. But not just the skirt, her panties too, down off her hips and beneath her as she nestled back into her seat. She took the skirt down to her knees, exposing the bare flesh of her thighs just above her stockings. Just as the big timpani drum was struck in that rhythm that set the coming scene of the storm at sea.

"All the way off," he said.

She quickly brought skirt and panties down to her ankles, leaned forward to pull her feet through and then hand the bundle of silky fabric over to him.

He stuffed it in the space to the right of his chair. He waited for the moment when it was clear the overture was nearly at an end.

"Now the stockings," he said.

She slipped them off her thighs, left first and then the right, down to her ankles working quickly so as to find some way to hide her nakedness once the curtain rose.

She made to cross her legs but he stopped her with a gentle touch at her knee. Then, as the curtain lifted and the Captain of the floundering ship came out to sing "La Madeliana," he began to run his hand up and down the smooth, cool flesh of her leg, circling at her knee, squeezing gently, knowing how that brought her quick to excitement.

Up and down, up and down he went, ever closer to the warmth between her legs but never reaching it even as the singing went on through the first act. She rested her head on his shoulder and he felt her part her legs, relaxing into the moment. But he avoided her sex, her mat of pubic hair he knew by now was moist with drops of her honey.

Not even during the heroine's duet with her love, when Helena most expected it because the operetta was nearly at intermission, did he touch her where she so much wanted. But he could feel the slickness on her inner thighs and she squeezed his arm, swallowed and whispered hoarsely, "please."

Instead, he merely continued the gentle caressing and took her to the curtain and the house lights up. In the sudden chandelier brilliance all sparkling and orange-warm, she sat legs spread, pretty labia engorged, in some far-away land of her own. The red velvet seat fabric was wet where she sat.

He gave her leg a gentle squeeze, bringing her back to their reality. She brought her legs together, pressing her knees, held the Playbill in her lap.

"Take me home now?" she said and her face was rosy pink, her eyes deep and dark and smoldering.

"That's impossible," he said, "you're half-naked."

He let her cross her legs instead, noting with satisfaction how composed she kept herself. Her breathing slowed to normal. The flush in her cheeks faded.

When the lights blinked twice to summon the audience back, he made her part her legs again. She leaned forward to hide her sex from view of those returning to their boxes across the house and those in the upper levels who might chance to look. It was going to start all over again she knew and she felt at once desire and shame.

He started playing with her again even before the lights went down. Again he caressed her bare thigh but this time, slowly, ever so slowly, his hand dipped down between her legs. He felt her settle herself in the chair, raising her hips to give him better access.

But this was only a tease for he did not touch her there again all during the scene of the lover's quarrel, concentrating instead on her pretty knee, circling with his thumb in that mysterious way that filled her with a funny, gradually building warmth.

As the third act began, he finally let his fingers stray into the wet mess between her legs. Her labia spread like the just-unfurled petals of some nectar-covered flower. He traced around, around and back out to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, back again for just the slightest touch. Her legs spread as wide as she dared, begging him.

He dipped his finger between her petals and felt the little sticky suction, pulled away as she squirmed, continued touching her thigh, her knee, back to her pussy, brushed her clit. Helena, refined, elegant, heart racing now, nipples hard, breath strained.

He timed it with her just so-- with the heroine in the grove pining for her love lost at sea and watching the quiet of the new dawn.

In that silent and miraculous moment, his finger just brushing Helena's clit, he brought her to orgasm.

She pressed her knees together hard, grabbed the armrest in something like terror as she gave a tiny, suppressed cry that hung in the quiet of the opera house and was unmistakably what it was.

Until it mingled with the flute and piccolo--the music of the dawn. When those thought lost come home from the storm.