Private Box

Private Box

We arrive at the theatre on a rather cold night. There's no wind but it promises to snow at some point. You comment the chill has made your nipples

oh so firm.

It's a good thing you've brought your fur.

Hypocrite! You said you'd never wear fur. Then again, we've done

oh so much

you said you'd never do. Your inhibitions are as pages in a book that I've taken upon myself to rip out and toss over my shoulder while I read.

You show the nice man our tickets. He tells us we'll enjoy the musical. He tells us he's a fan of Pirates of Penzance himself.

He and you are alone in that regard. I hate Gilbert and Sullivan, (too corny and far too over the top). He then mentions one of the boys can take us to our box. You tell him,

"No need, my husband and I can find the way, we've been here enough times."

The man shoots me a look, like

'Who's she kidding? Her husband's nearly seventy and he's out of town if the papers are to be believed.'

Still, appearances have been kept and palms have felt silver... so that tongues will stay silent.

We make it up the box just in time. The house lights are going low. Up until now, the orchestra has been tuning up like a noisy barnyard, but presently it plays simply one long sustained note.

Applause rises to the ceiling. The stage dims, the curtains pull back. The spotlights begin dancing upon the actors.

It's good. No one but the man out front saw us up those stairs. No one saw us arrive at the box. I close the door and lock it from the inside. The box curtains are a bit open for our taste but we are bathed in darkness. Just to be safe, you scan about with opera glasses.

Nope

... you can't see a thing in this pitch black soup, save nondescript heads and they certainly can't see you...

or us!

Satisfied, you drop the glasses back in your purse.

"You've seen Pirates of Penzance?" you ask.

"Unfortunately, yes," I reply, "your husband is the fan."

"You mean," you chide, "your employer, yes?"

"Of course," I chuckle, pulling you in for a kiss, "at least until my uncle or my brother on the board of directors decides otherwise, then you'll need another bowl for you to hide your sugar in."

With that, my hands are upon you. It's all gropes and caresses, nibbles and snogs. You could have put up more of a fight but who are you kidding? Half a minute into things and I feel like I'm the one to be in need of protection. You're pawing and clawing, mewling and biting at me like a wild beast in heat.

The orchestra is the perfect cover. Loud and bombastic, nobody hears a thing as my hands do their work... flipping open your coat, finding access to your more intimate regions. Oh, they're tricky to get to at first; you've wrapped your presents well... but not well enough!

In no time at all I've located my first treasure. Your bean feels the brush of my finger. You sigh softly in my ear. Your tongue probes my eardrum and then your lips and teeth suck and rake upon my cheek, egging me on.

Your blouse is open. A snap and a tug later and your brassiere is now a useless bit of debris. You tuck it down a side pocket of your coat, lest it be left here and set tongues wagging unnecessarily.

My focus is now below your navel again; with my hand between those thighs at your naked nubile crotch. With the care of a diamond cutter, I go to work upon that clit, brushing it EVER so lightly with my digit. My mouth finds your neck. Your nose forces out a steamy little hiss and your lips find my ear again, to nibble and coo sweet words of approval.

"How's the performance?" I ask.

"Yours is better," you reply all breathy and stricken.

Impatiently your fingers spring into action. You're all about bold tugs and zips now. Presently my trousers find themselves open. As if on cue, my throbber springs forth ardent, proud, and rude.

I'm down to the floor. I hope they've swept it. I'm on my knees between your legs as almost instinctively you raise and bend them, holding your thighs up and apart with both your hands. My tongue is at your sex.

The time for holding back is long since passed. Your clitoral bean isn't met by a mere tongue tip... it's SWALLOWED WHOLE! A clitty blowjob is what this calls for and you get it good and strong. You haven't felt a mouth upon you like this since your lesbian housemother seduced you in college during that thunderstorm.

I'm jowl tugging your clit and it's as if I'm trying to extract your very soul out through it and overcome physics along with human anatomy, all you can do is recline back in your fur and stare at the ceiling. The odd little cupids painted up there above the box are nice. You focus on the cherubs and thrust hips; grinding my mouth... fucking my face... wishing you could cum from that wickedly throbbing pussy nub of yours!

My fingers aren't shirking, mind you- OH NO, far from it! In fact, they're up inside you; hooked around backwards, stroking with hard vigor at your juice button while my lips nurse upon that rock-hard twat-nipple of yours. Your jaw goes slack and open-mouthed it twists to one side slightly. You commence grinding my face appreciatively, telling me all I need to know.

Your dew is now running freely; flowing in briny trickles. I draw forth my fingers and spread your secretions about your twat lotus. In no time I've made your petals as slick as a ball bearing dunked in baby oil. Satisfied with my artwork, I now trace fingers up and down your inner lips, until I find the vestibule bulbs beneath your skin. You didn't know I could do this. I'm full of surprises!

You feel a rush and a flow of something wonderful tumble through you like a wave. You raise knees as I pick up the pace. Faster and faster my tongue works in concert with my paws.

It's now that you feel it. An explosive tremor. Your hands are in my hair as you are coo filthy names at me.

Good thing I've seen Pirates so dreadfully many times. I know exactly where we are in the opening number. Now my tongue is a full hummingbird-flutter upon your clitoris and my fingers blur on your juice button, just as the orchestra hits their crescendo. My face and mouth are met by a torrent of salty ablutions and I'm all gluttony upon your gash; gobbling your stew in great greedy gulps.

You heave. You gasp. YOU SOB!

It's all you can do as you heave and buck and force yourself upon my face; having your way with my lips, teeth, snout, and chin stubble, like some horned-up harpy in heat; reveling in your "happy little death." Your cries and chokes are drowned out by the explosive clattering of applause. You quiver and shake away the last tremors; lying back in that fur of yours, and it's only then you realize the method to my madness. I didn't give you your climax, I conducted it as surely as if I'd used a baton instead of fingers and tongue.

"GENIUS!" you gasp, barely able to find your voice.

The couple in the next box from us, although not in view of the proceedings, most certainly heard the last thirty seconds of our public indecency. They've drawn all the wrong conclusions, however; now firmly convinced you've been swept up in as much passion for Gilbert and Sullivan as they! Figuring us to be of like minds, the wife calls over above the roaring audience,

"Yes it was, and it's only the opening!"

That puts us in fits of sniggers and chuckles for several seconds; our hands over one another's mouths. It's just the beginning of a very wicked night. We sit half-disrobed in the darkness of that private box while the performance outside resumes.

Music begins to build and I ponder precisely where I'd like to stick my cock. You pull me inside your fur; pressing me skin on skin with you but with bits of garments still upon us. Your body is covered in sweat and I can feel it. It's lovely and primal for me. What's more, I sense your inhibitions have now floated away from your husband's box; swept up and out by the orchestral notes, to bounce and reverberate off the ceiling, your enthusiasm for the theater having now been rekindled.

The End.