"Just a minute longer, love.....there! Okay, I'm ready." She emerged from the bathroom, posing artfully before his admiring gaze.
She'd been worth the wait. Stunning and statuesque in that emerald green dress, diamond necklace glittering on her low cleavage like a spray of snowfall, raven hair piled high, pinned up with tendrils trailing artfully down her shoulders. She looked like a Greek goddess. His mouth watered so hard it hurt.
He growled and reached for her, almost involuntarily, and she stopped him with one finger. "Ah-ah! Late, remember. Come on, I don't want to miss the performance."
He swallowed hard and followed her out the door, carefully adjusting himself to avoid embarrassment in public.
**********************
Near darkness and silence, but for the small coughs and shifting in seats that accompanies any live performance. He sat calmly, pulse pounding, not only in anticipation of the curtain's rising but also in appreciation of her electric presence, bare inches away. Twenty years together and she still affected him like a schoolboy.
Her fingers trailed lightly across the cuff of his tuxedo, brushing against the hairs on his wrist. He felt them rise in response. He couldn't see her face for the darkness, but knew she was smiling.
Her fingers trailed lightly across the cuff of his tuxedo, brushing against the hairs on his wrist. He felt them rise in response. He couldn't see her face for the darkness, but knew she was smiling.
And then: the orchestra began. Lightly, quickly, flitting through the opening notes of the "Overture". The curtain rose, revealing the stage: the Silberhaus home, brilliantly lit by candles in preparation for the family's Christmas party. The maid entered, with a tray of drinks, twirling gently to the music. He breathed in, breathed deep, felt his heart expand. How he loved this performance. He glanced at her, face now visible in reflected stagelight, and saw her lips parting in wonder and pleasure at the unfolding scene.
How he loved her!
Onstage, the festivities continued, urged onward by the orchestra. As ever, he beat time silently against his thigh with the "Children's Gallop and Dance of the Parents", grinned at the dramatic arrival of Drosselmeyer, and felt a lump in his throat as the Christmas tree burst into brilliance, candles twinkling, heralding the arrival of the holiday.
And then he felt her hand on his thigh. That was new.
He glanced at her in surprise and she speared him with a look, nodding towards the stage. "Keep your eyes where they belong," that look said. He obeyed, but now his attention was less on the intricate choreography and Tchaikovsky's musical strains than on the warmth of her touch as she caressed him, her fingers raising his temperature by twenty degrees instantly.
And raising other things, too. Of course her hand was working its way upward, and of course it eventually encountered the inevitable: a ridge in his slacks. He heard her murmur softly, "Naughty, naughty!" and then he twitched violently as she squeezed it quite firmly. He looked around furtively but their box seats meant privacy; no one else's attention was on anything but the stage.
He couldn't say the same himself. He gulped as her fingers squeezed him again, gently this time, molding themselves along the length of his hardness, pressing slowly, releasing, massaging him insistently, stoking the flames higher. He couldn't help stealing a glance at her again, and this time she met his gaze with a gleeful grin of her own. Mischief sparkled in those eyes, and he was reminded yet again that she was always capable of absolutely anything.
Her hand now stole higher and found his zipper. The orchestra's strains rose higher as the Rat King's armies did battle with those of the Nutcracker Prince; they covered the slight purring sound the zipper made (or was it she that made that purr?) as she drew it down. Slowly, so slowly, her fingers slipped inside. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her hand further and further into the widening gap. Slowly, so slowly, she wrapped her fingers around his length, squeezing firmly, keeping him good and hard.
She seemed to reach another decision then, and pulled her hand free, but not completely -- as she drew it out, she pulled his cock along with it, leaving him sitting there with his shaft sticking out of his slacks for anyone to see. He gave thanks yet again for the privacy of their box seats and for the darkened theater, and then was startled anew when she took his hand and guided it to her own thigh.
Well, now. Time for a little payback. He slid his hand experimentally higher, delighting -- as always -- in the velvety feel of her skin, the little shivers she made as he touched her, the soft "ahh" she emitted. Slid it higher still, wrestling a bit with the dress as it bunched up, but refusing to be deterred by a bit of cloth.
Meanwhile, she had gone back to work on him, her hand impatiently pulling his cock out even further. Now she encircled him with thumb and forefinger and began a maddeningly slow rhythm, squeezing him tightly as she reached the base, then milking him upward, forcing more and more blood into his already painfully hard cock. Soon he was throbbing so hard that his cock twitched with every thump of his heart.
She kept up her slow rhythm. By now she'd abandoned all pretense of interest in the ballet, and was concentrating solely on driving him mad, or so it seemed. She leaned over a bit, as if reaching for something she'd dropped on the floor, but shifted in her seat to give him freer access below her dress. In that instant his exploring fingers encountered heat and wetness far beyond what he'd been expecting. She was bare under that dress. Incredulously, he pushed a bit further, and his index finger sank into her with no effort at all; in a trice his entire palm was soaked. She moaned softly and shifted again, her pussy clamping down tightly on his digit, and leaned downward a bit more. Apparently retaliating, she opened her mouth and without fuss or fanfare slid his cock all the way down her throat until her lips were actually inside the slit of his zipper.
He grunted as she hummed quietly to herself along with the music. Onstage, the Nutcracker Prince danced for Clara, leaping and spinning. Here, it was his brain that was spinning, as she began to bob her head slowly up and down, drooling saliva all over his slacks, ramping the friction on his tortured cock up and up and up. Her throat clutched at him, milked him; her lips and tongue shaped his trembling. He stroked his fingers deeper into her, found her clit, tweaked it viciously, slid his palm all over her slick cleft. She gurgled a moan of delight and slid her hips forward to meet his invasion; he bucked his own hips upward involuntarily as she sucked particularly hard on his shaft. He tingled, his blood boiled, his balls churned. She trembled, spasmed, shivered in pleasure.
The music built and built. The Waltz of the Snowflakes spun out its tableau onstage. He gasped as he pulled her upward and off his shaft. "No," he breathed raggedly. "Damned if I'm going to blast off down your throat." She nodded, hair coming loose from its pinnings, stray wisps straggling across her face, and panted, "Yeah, yeah, c'mon baby, do me" as she wriggled into his lap, rucking her dress up even further. He heard it rip as she spread her legs and had time to mourn yet another dress's demise before she was fumbling between the two of them, yanking him around and pointing him the right direction for her. He threw back his head, forgetting about propriety now, no longer caring who saw, his hands sliding up her chest, grabbing double handfuls of her tits and squeezing through the dress. She swore under her breath and wriggled some more, raising up, then sank down hard, gushing out onto his slacks as he speared up and into her.
They paused for a heartstopping instant, then began moving together, his hands on her hips, lifting her, dropping her. He bent his head forward and licked at her throat, tasting the sweat trickling down her neck, smelling her jasmine perfume mixed with the now very evident scent they were both creating. They clutched at each other, gasping harder now, bucking deeper into the throes of ecstasy. The orchestra built towards crescendo as Act I neared its conclusion, and as one they increased their efforts, spiraling higher, straining and moaning, hoping to finish before the house lights came up for intermission, but in reality not caring a whit for what might happen if they didn't.
A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. I intend to return in the new year with more regular entries, and thanks to everyone who's written me urging me to come back.
-- PB
He glanced at her in surprise and she speared him with a look, nodding towards the stage. "Keep your eyes where they belong," that look said. He obeyed, but now his attention was less on the intricate choreography and Tchaikovsky's musical strains than on the warmth of her touch as she caressed him, her fingers raising his temperature by twenty degrees instantly.
And raising other things, too. Of course her hand was working its way upward, and of course it eventually encountered the inevitable: a ridge in his slacks. He heard her murmur softly, "Naughty, naughty!" and then he twitched violently as she squeezed it quite firmly. He looked around furtively but their box seats meant privacy; no one else's attention was on anything but the stage.
He couldn't say the same himself. He gulped as her fingers squeezed him again, gently this time, molding themselves along the length of his hardness, pressing slowly, releasing, massaging him insistently, stoking the flames higher. He couldn't help stealing a glance at her again, and this time she met his gaze with a gleeful grin of her own. Mischief sparkled in those eyes, and he was reminded yet again that she was always capable of absolutely anything.
Her hand now stole higher and found his zipper. The orchestra's strains rose higher as the Rat King's armies did battle with those of the Nutcracker Prince; they covered the slight purring sound the zipper made (or was it she that made that purr?) as she drew it down. Slowly, so slowly, her fingers slipped inside. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her hand further and further into the widening gap. Slowly, so slowly, she wrapped her fingers around his length, squeezing firmly, keeping him good and hard.
She seemed to reach another decision then, and pulled her hand free, but not completely -- as she drew it out, she pulled his cock along with it, leaving him sitting there with his shaft sticking out of his slacks for anyone to see. He gave thanks yet again for the privacy of their box seats and for the darkened theater, and then was startled anew when she took his hand and guided it to her own thigh.
Well, now. Time for a little payback. He slid his hand experimentally higher, delighting -- as always -- in the velvety feel of her skin, the little shivers she made as he touched her, the soft "ahh" she emitted. Slid it higher still, wrestling a bit with the dress as it bunched up, but refusing to be deterred by a bit of cloth.
Meanwhile, she had gone back to work on him, her hand impatiently pulling his cock out even further. Now she encircled him with thumb and forefinger and began a maddeningly slow rhythm, squeezing him tightly as she reached the base, then milking him upward, forcing more and more blood into his already painfully hard cock. Soon he was throbbing so hard that his cock twitched with every thump of his heart.
She kept up her slow rhythm. By now she'd abandoned all pretense of interest in the ballet, and was concentrating solely on driving him mad, or so it seemed. She leaned over a bit, as if reaching for something she'd dropped on the floor, but shifted in her seat to give him freer access below her dress. In that instant his exploring fingers encountered heat and wetness far beyond what he'd been expecting. She was bare under that dress. Incredulously, he pushed a bit further, and his index finger sank into her with no effort at all; in a trice his entire palm was soaked. She moaned softly and shifted again, her pussy clamping down tightly on his digit, and leaned downward a bit more. Apparently retaliating, she opened her mouth and without fuss or fanfare slid his cock all the way down her throat until her lips were actually inside the slit of his zipper.
He grunted as she hummed quietly to herself along with the music. Onstage, the Nutcracker Prince danced for Clara, leaping and spinning. Here, it was his brain that was spinning, as she began to bob her head slowly up and down, drooling saliva all over his slacks, ramping the friction on his tortured cock up and up and up. Her throat clutched at him, milked him; her lips and tongue shaped his trembling. He stroked his fingers deeper into her, found her clit, tweaked it viciously, slid his palm all over her slick cleft. She gurgled a moan of delight and slid her hips forward to meet his invasion; he bucked his own hips upward involuntarily as she sucked particularly hard on his shaft. He tingled, his blood boiled, his balls churned. She trembled, spasmed, shivered in pleasure.
The music built and built. The Waltz of the Snowflakes spun out its tableau onstage. He gasped as he pulled her upward and off his shaft. "No," he breathed raggedly. "Damned if I'm going to blast off down your throat." She nodded, hair coming loose from its pinnings, stray wisps straggling across her face, and panted, "Yeah, yeah, c'mon baby, do me" as she wriggled into his lap, rucking her dress up even further. He heard it rip as she spread her legs and had time to mourn yet another dress's demise before she was fumbling between the two of them, yanking him around and pointing him the right direction for her. He threw back his head, forgetting about propriety now, no longer caring who saw, his hands sliding up her chest, grabbing double handfuls of her tits and squeezing through the dress. She swore under her breath and wriggled some more, raising up, then sank down hard, gushing out onto his slacks as he speared up and into her.
They paused for a heartstopping instant, then began moving together, his hands on her hips, lifting her, dropping her. He bent his head forward and licked at her throat, tasting the sweat trickling down her neck, smelling her jasmine perfume mixed with the now very evident scent they were both creating. They clutched at each other, gasping harder now, bucking deeper into the throes of ecstasy. The orchestra built towards crescendo as Act I neared its conclusion, and as one they increased their efforts, spiraling higher, straining and moaning, hoping to finish before the house lights came up for intermission, but in reality not caring a whit for what might happen if they didn't.
A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. I intend to return in the new year with more regular entries, and thanks to everyone who's written me urging me to come back.
-- PB
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