I’m too old for prom but I want to dress up for you.
I want to kick you out of the house for an afternoon so I can take my time; draw a bath, light candles, put on music. I want to shave my legs, put curlers in my hair, do my makeup sitting down while I drink white wine (maybe with an ice cube in it since you aren’t around to jokingly admonish me).
You will knock on my door a single minute early and I will be standing in front of you in a bright green sparkling dress. My eyes will dance and I’ll ask for your help and turn around, letting you clasp the final pin. Your hands will tremble and I will smile knowing that what is ahead is a reflection of what we repress inside of us.
We will arrive at the opera early and you will laugh at my delightful childish behavior. The way I quickly ‘hop-skip’ around the auditorium, practically dragging you, even in my heels. I am eager to hear this Opera. My aural senses are already on fire waiting for the crescendos and diminuendos.
You will guide me to the plush red seat, one over from the aisle, you will help me adjust my dress and offer to buy me one last drink, to which I will decline and pat the last seat in the row, happy that you’re on the aisle – as if you are protecting me, shielding me, keeping me from your blind side. I know you don’t adore Opera like I do, but you adore me and you hold my hand tightly as it starts.
An hour into Act I, my fingers search for the fleshy part of your left thigh. I know the suspense is coming, I know the building atmosphere that will wait for a climax, Opera’s own version of edging, and I want you to feel the tension in my fingers so I rub softly, slowly until the back of my hand is pressing against your heavy, slightly swollen cock. Glancing up at you I know you are both perplexed and annoyed with my brazen physical advances but I press on. Running my fingers gently against you as you harden; the Soprano is almost screaming now, the kind of sound that amazes you but leaves you slightly cringing too; painfully beautiful. Leaning in, I coyly put my head on your shoulder, aiming my button nose into your masculine jawline and being to whisper.
‘I want you to fuck me. Not gently. Violently. I want you to fuck me like you’re leaving me.’
Your eyes are fire now, lightning bolts headed towards the magnetic field of my heart and for a second I am truly frightened by the fury I see. Act I ends with your hand crushing my wrist as you pull me from the seat. I am hanging on to my clutch for dear life as you whisk me around doors, past older couples who are no doubt celebrating milestone marriages and finally into a hallway.
My eyes are busy adjusting to the bright light, processing where we are – we must be in a stage lighting stairwell of some sort!- and I feel your body slam into me, hard. You pull my dress up frantically and push me over the railing. The manufactured halogen lighting is so bright I can see glitter from my dress and dust particles from the stairs joining in midair.
'I’m going to spank you until you cry.’ I hear your throat constrict and know you are equal parts putting on a show and equal parts angry so I oblige. Your hand hits my ass and I suddenly feel hot. My whole body is shaking and my skin is shimmering with expensive makeup and sweat as you strike again and again. The lump in my throat is growing, I know the tears are close and I bite my tongue to fight it but that does no good. I start to wail, not a pathetic sniffle, but the wailing of woman madly in need. Even as I cry the tension in my body is dissipating, I can feel the endorphins flowing through me like a drug,
‘No no, I’m not done with you yet’, I vaguely hear you say. You push me roughly to my knees and unzip your dress pants with one hand, your other searches for my chin. You raise my face, eyes looking up at the sky, up into your own visual horizon and you communicate through the softness that I have a choice. And I choose.
I swallow your scorching hot cock in my mouth hungry for you like we are kids breaking rules. My fingers find every sensitive spot I know on your body that I can easily access. I lick your balls and the thick fleshy head of your cock as you moan for me. I can feel you against the back of my throat when I fear I’m fainting but it’s only the house lights dimming. You whisper, ‘five minutes to get to our seats’ and then as if on queue you take your big masculine well-traveled hands and put them into my immaculate hair and fuck my throat until your cum spills into my mouth, the last effort of passion landing lazily on my lips. Brushing it off, you grab my finger and lick it.
I am covered in tears, sweat, mascara and the lingering scent of cum. You lean in and kiss me hard before patting my ass and giving me final instructions.
‘Go get cleaned up, you have less than two minutes now. I’ll have a drink waiting for you at our seats. You will behave yourself.’