It's a Sunday in September. A cool, clear evening at the end of a glorious weekend.
You've only been dating Amanda for a few weeks, but you've a good feeling about her. You just seem to click. She likes the things you like, laughs at the things you laugh at, and, best of all, is turned on by the things that turn you on.
Sitting opposite you in the restaurant, she looks amazing in a low-cut, short-sleeved top, and a thin, knee-length skirt, beneath which her legs are naked. You can't stop telling her how sexy she is, how much you fancy her, how much you want her.
She barely stops smiling throughout the meal, and from her constant touching of your arm, her stroking of your leg, it's clear the feelings are mutual.
After dinner, you walk hand-in-hand to the pub. Inside, as she stands next to you at the bar, you move your hand down from Amanda's waist to begin exploring the curve of her arse, feeling the outline of her knickers beneath her skirt.
At a table in a corner you sit with your back against the wall. She moves her chair to one side of the table so you can sit next to each other, facing each other, your legs interlocked.
Staring into her eyes, watching her reaction, you move your hand onto her knee, under her skirt. Amanda closes her eyes as you slide up the sheerness of her thigh. Opening her eyes again as you stop tantalizingly short of her panties, she smiles at you.
The thrill of foreplay in a public place, the knowledge that people might be watching, makes you hard, and you know she's wet. Downing your drink you beckon her to do the same, then grab her hand and lead her out of the pub.
Outside in the street you're not quite sure what you're doing. Or, more precisely, you know what you want to do, but not where. You look around for somewhere suitable and finally you spot it.
Across the road is an arthouse cinema, unlikely to be busy at 8.30 on a Sunday night. Even better, find a long, foreign language film and the place will probably be yours.
Pushing Amanda against the wall to kiss her, to let her feel the hardness of your cock pressing into her groin, you whisper into her ear.
'Fancy a film?'
She says nothing, but giggles with excitement, with secrecy, with anticipation, then kisses you. You grab her arm and direct her across the street.
Stepping inside, your luck's in. A two-hour-long Icelandic film starts in Screen 3 in fifteen minutes.
You buy the tickets, then scurry downstairs for Dutch courage. A double vodka each means that, no matter what, you're going for it. Amanda's face looks flushed already, as though she's begun to come just thinking about what's coming.
Finishing your drinks, you move back upstairs. She buys popcorn as a cover, though few fans of Icelandic cinema would do likewise. Still, at least it will enable you to get through the adverts and the trailers, to the point where the lights dim and the film starts and the action can begin.
Your heart is pounding. Hers is too. She can't stop giggling and you can't whisper, and a couple of the half-dozen other people in the auditorium glance at you accusingly. But they're sad, single men and you pay no attention, getting on with eating the popcorn. Sitting to Amanda's left, you try to lift the armrest that separates you. Annoyingly, it's fixed, but you realise this only adds a new dimension.
'Looks like I'll have to take you from behind then,' you breathe, and she twists accordingly in her seat, and laughs again.
You try to shush her, but you're laughing too, and your hand is already pushing the hem of her skirt up and baring her thigh.
She twists back in her seat again, but keeps her skirt raised. The tub of popcorn is now nestled between her delicious legs, so your hand rests next to it, softly stroking her skin, edging her skirt up a little further, and occasionally taking some popcorn.
With a giggling sweep of her arm, she picks up the tub and places it between your legs, allowing her to turn the tables. Now she pretends to search for popcorn whilst 'accidentally' running her hand down the wrong side of the box and onto your crotch.
