An Afternoon at the Cinema

Asian

It had been a bad mistake, arriving at the hotel so ridiculously early. I now had the whole of Sunday afternoon to sit and worry about tomorrow’s conference without the benefit of any distractions. The red wine I had ordered only a few minutes ago had already lost its appeal. I had imagined I would come across as ultra-sophisticated, ensconced in the deep leather chair, reading my papers and drinking red wine; now it just seemed the staged act of a lonely, thirty-something woman trying too hard to be different.

I sighed and placed my notes back into my handbag, picked up the wine and sipped as I gazed around the hotel lobby. The chair I had buried myself in faced a mirrored wall, allowing me plenty of scope to watch my fellow guests without their knowledge. I watched myself, watching them. Everyone seemed to have something to do, somewhere to go, someone to be with … everyone but me. Smiling wryly at my self-pity, I picked a piece of white fluff from my jumper sleeve.

My attention drifted from the guests to my own reflection, which I proceeded to assess with critical eyes; I did at least look the part of a sophisticated business woman, even if I felt anything but. The black jumper and skirt I had chosen earlier still looked appropriate; my blonde hair was reasonably tidy and my full lips still lightly glossed. I grimaced as I noted that, even with losing a little weight over the summer, my body retained its ample contours; that elusive svelte outline was still several pounds out of reach. And as for all my efforts to “Free The Thin Girl Within”, to quote the title of the last dieting article I had read, I might as well have tried to dig a hole in dry sand. The bane of being short is that every extra inch shows; maybe I wasn’t overweight, merely under-tall? Perhaps I should stop dieting and try gaining height instead? I smiled to myself as I imagined turning the entire diet industry upside down by coming up with a way to make people attain a slimmer figure by growing taller rather than thinner. Visions of enormously tall, pencil-slim women towering over their menfolk sent me into girlish giggles, and I had to bite down on my lip to keep a straight face and preserve the professional image I’d been trying to create.

The wine had disappeared from my glass, and I considered whether to have another. It was only half past two; too early to start drinking myself into a better mood. I sighed again. Time was passing too slowly; I had to find some way of occupying my mind. I considered my options: I could retreat to my room and seek solace in daytime TV, or I could take a walk and explore my surroundings. The latter option held slightly more appeal, although it was a close run thing. I made my way back through the reception area to the hotel entrance, out through the large swing doors and into the grey autumn afternoon.

I stood and pondered which direction to take. The town was hardly more than a glorified village, so my choice was severely limited. The hotel perched at the top of the small high street, the very last building between shops and open fields. I looked down at my black court shoes and decided that the fields were not really a viable option – the shops it would have to be, then.

Dark, gloomy clouds blocked out the sun and gave the row of shops a tired and depressing appearance that did nothing to brighten my mood. I paused at one window display after another, straining to conjure up even the mildest interest in the goods and services on offer: second-hand lawnmowers, Chartered Accountants – two of them, toilet cisterns and plumbing paraphernalia – “Half-Price Ballcocks!” – and “Please Come In – We Stock Absolutely Everything For The Dedicated Military Modeller,” an invitation which, despite my boredom, I chose to decline. My spirits perked up when I caught sight of the magic word “Chocolatier” on a sign just up ahead, but closer inspection revealed that the shop had recently closed down. I swore under my breath. Passing a few strolling locals carrying shopping bags, I smiled greetings to no response, and wondered whether all those sullen faces were a product of the woefully lacklustre feel of the place, or one of its chief causes. The dull weather certainly didn’t help.

Even though I had attempted to kill as much time as possible by dawdling along at a snail’s pace, I soon found myself running out of shop windows. A maze of uniform suburban houses stretched out before me, and I resigned myself to returning to the hotel. It was then that I happened to notice a small alleyway just across the road. It was really no more than a brief gap between buildings; a person with less time to waste could easily have missed it. My curiosity got the better of me, as it often does, and I went over to investigate. A sign, dirty and bedaubed with red graffiti, announced “Cinema – 20 yards on right”. After a moment’s hesitation I proceeded down the alleyway. The walls of the surrounding buildings blocked out the little light tuzla escort seeping through the grey clouds overhead, and I began to feel slightly uneasy, and thought seriously about turning back. But then the alleyway opened out into a large courtyard and, as promised, there on my right was a small cinema, nestling incongruously amongst the old buildings, its brightly coloured posters shining out in the gloom. Relieved, I smiled and made my way towards this perfect anecdote to my boredom. I had never before been to the cinema without a companion, but anything was preferable to returning to the hotel and sitting on my own all afternoon.

I could feel my heart begin to beat a little faster as I pushed open the cinema doors. The confident image I took such pains to present to the outside world normally hid the shyness I often felt. The slight tremble in my hands and faltering of my steps told me that it was still there.

The foyer was bright with that harsh unrelenting glare of modern lighting, and completely empty except for a yawning teenage girl at the cash desk. I hesitated: was the place closed? As I stood there, in two minds about whether to continue forward or make a beeline back to the security of the hotel, the girl glanced up and smiled as though welcoming even the slightest break in the monotony. I returned the smile; it would be embarrassing to leave now, so I steeled myself and walked towards her.

“Can I help? The film’s just started, but you won’t have missed much.” She smiled again. “Just the one ticket?”

Automatically, I responded with a nod, and promptly realised that I didn’t have the faintest idea what film was showing. It might have been anything from Gone With The Wind to Revenge Of The Teenage Cyber Virgins IV: Chainsaw Mayhem.

As the girl busied herself with the ticket machine I peered across at the poster behind her, hoping for a clue as to the particular cinematic offering I was paying to see. The poster showed a stunningly handsome young man kneeling naked before an equally striking young woman. The image seemed slightly odd, and it took my mind a second or so to work out why. The young man’s beautiful, vulnerable nakedness offered a provocative contrast to the modesty and confidence of his fully-clothed partner. The poster proclaimed in large gold letters, “Erotic Hearts – A Controversial Story of One Couple’s Relationship”.

I felt myself blush; my hands began to tremble again and my heart took off at a gallop. I had heard about this film. The newspaper critics were divided as to whether it was art or pornography. The gossip surrounding the film hinted at real penetrative sex having taken place between the actors, and some of the larger cinema chains had refused to show it. Thank God no one knew me here.

“Up the stairs, on the left”. The girl held out the ticket and I took it from her hand, unable to meet her gaze. I kept my eyes down and hurried to the stairs. I had to go in and see the film now; it would be even more embarrassing to chicken out.

As I climbed the stairs, my heart pounded in my ears. I clenched my hands into fists and, taking a deep breath, pushed open the doors. Here goes nothing, I thought. My first solo conference; my first solo cinema experience; my first porn film: a real day of firsts. At least I would be able to call upon first-hand experience when discussing with my friends whether the film was art or porn. They would never believe I had gone to see this! And on my own! I almost giggled as I imagined their reactions. Well, I told myself, it might be worth the embarrassment just to see their faces.

As I walked up the narrow aisle, the cinema screen loomed in front of me, the rows of seats lit up by a huge image of the couple from the poster kissing passionately. Pulsing music accompanied their moans and hid the sound of my late arrival. Not that very many seats were occupied; evidently only a few brave souls were willing to risk corrupting their minds with sordid imagery. I selected a place near the back and settled down in the dark, entranced by the Technicolor scene being played out in front of me.

The moans of the onscreen couple increased in intensity, the man clasping the woman to him ever more tightly. I stared in rapt fascination as the woman’s fingers venture downwards, caressed the large bulge at the front of her lover’s jeans and then unzipped him to release a penis that was impressively large and fully erect. Shuddering beneath her touch, it was displayed across the huge screen in all its graphic, pulsating glory. As the woman wrapped her arms around her lover’s neck, his rampant organ squashed itself against her belly, and she began to tease him and elicit gasps and moans by thrusting against him and making slow coital motions. I could feel my sex becoming moist as I gazed at this hypnotic spectacle – no fancy computer wizardly here; the actor was obviously genuinely erect, his real, actual hard-on nudging into göztepe escort the smooth material of the actress’ skirt. His hands were all over her, and, inevitably, were soon trying to loosen her clothes. But she pulled back and protested, and I was amazed, intrigued and excited by the way she allowed his fingers full access to her body, but ignored his repeated pleas that she undress. The audience received nothing more than occasional tantalising glimpse of the young woman’s soft flesh as her lover’s hands repeatedly delved beneath her clothes, in outrageous contrast to his own naked body, not one inch of which was left to the viewer’s imagination. (I hadn’t noticed the name of the film’s director, but I felt sure that it had to be either a woman or a gay man). Perversely, the female character’s curious refusal to permit her lover any visual stimulus seemed to inflame his passion ever higher and, as he began to grind himself against her in rhythm with her own teasing movements, a trail of his essence glistened on her skirt.

As I watched the scene unfold I could feel the heat of arousal flushing my skin and moistening the soft satin of my panties. I wriggled in my seat and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. A man sitting two rows away from me was staring up at the screen, entranced. He must have sensed my eyes on him, for he glanced in my direction, and I quickly looked away. A few seconds later I glanced over at him again. He was still looking. My blush deepened and I now felt uncomfortably warm. My nipples hardened and rubbed painfully against the lace of my bra.

I looked over at the man again; he had returned his attention to the film. The light from the screen outlined his profile, and I could tell that he was probably no older than the handsome actor whose nude antics I was observing with such pleasure. The two of them even looked slightly alike; I trembled and imagined how his hands would feel, roaming over my clothed body. I wriggled in the seat again; there was an ache deep at the core of my being that was crying out to be touched.

The stranger rose and moved along his row, out to the aisle. His departure sent a shiver of disappointment through me. As I watched him walk towards the back of the cinema I noticed with relief that he was heading for the toilets. As I stared after him he half turned, almost as though he could feel my gaze, and looked back at me. Heart thumping, I caught his smile again and returned it. He made a movement with his arm, almost beckoning. I looked away, ashamed – what kind of woman did he think I was? Obviously, the type who goes to watch dirty movies alone. I bet he thought I wasn’t wearing any knickers. But then I told myself that I was mistaken, that he couldn’t possibly be interested in me. But really, what harm would it do to follow him and find out what he wanted? The prospect was scary but, at the same time, undeniably exciting. I argued with the voice in my head, but the wetness between my legs and the need of my body shouted down the caution urged by my principles. I wanted, and the feelings of desire far outweighed any fear I felt.

I rose from my seat and moved cautiously down the row until I too stood in the aisle. The stranger had waited. I could see the outline of his body at the toilet door, his face hidden as he watched me move towards him.

As I reached where he stood, he moved aside to let me go into the toilet first. He stood so close I could feel the heat of his body through my thin shirt, and smell the sharp citrus of his aftershave. My body swayed towards him and as I moved my hand to open the door it brushed against his arm. The contact sent a tremor through me and I glanced up at his face to see if he had noticed. He smiled again and before I even had the chance to think, my hand instinctively reached out and took his. Our eyes met in a moment of instinctual understanding and I pulled him into the toilets after me.

In the harsh glare of the toilet light, I turned to face him. Our hands were still joined, his large fingers clasped tightly around mine. I looked up, meeting deep blue eyes that shocked me with their intensity. I walked backwards, drawing him with me, into the toilet cubicle. I leaned back against the wall, and gave a groan as I felt him push against me. My juices were now flowing freely, soaking my panties and dampening my thighs.

I moved around him, our bodies still pressed close in the confinement of the small cubicle. I pushed the door shut with my elbow and, impatiently, felt for the bolt and forced it home. He drew me back against him, the hard, hot length of his penis, still sheathed in his jeans, pressing into my soft belly. He moved against me, echoing the actions of the young man on the screen, and a groan escaped my parted lips. I pulled him to me, the intensity of my need turning my kiss into an aggressive attack. I writhed against him, my tongue dancing in his mouth, revelling in his taste and his üsküdar escort blatant desire.

I delved down between us and fumbled with his zip. Our groans were muffled by our ravenous mouths as his penis, at last released, strained against my clutching fingers. The pulsating, velvety skin was slick with his juices, and with my thumb I smeared them over his glans; he moaned loudly, and I found myself wondering how much his arousal was my doing, how much it owed to the film, and how much to his own imagination. Trust me to come over all philosophical at a moment like this!

His hands reached for the buttons on my shirt. Grabbing him gently but firmly by the wrists, I shook my head; surely he could guess the particular game I wanted to play? I took his hands and placed them on my aching, swollen breasts, then watched the whiteness of his fingers move over the blackness of my shirt as he explored. I arched my back to give him better access, and shivered as his thumbs toyed with my erect nipples. He bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth, playing hungrily with it through the impeding cloth of my shirt. The material became wet with his saliva; my breasts were tingling fit to explode, my nipples points of unbearable, exquisite heat. My breathing was becoming rapid, my moans turning into urgent little cries of need as he pushed me back against the toilet wall.

I stilled his hands and looked up at him again, my eyes signalling a request, – no, a demand – and I pushed him down until he knelt before me. I smiled as I looked down at him, the slight confusion on his face prompting me to bend and plant a tiny, tender kiss on his forehead. My fingertips brushed gently against his eyelids in another mute demand and, compliantly, he closed his eyes. I did not wish him to see me; I wanted this moment to be mine alone.

I felt a delicious – and quite unaccustomed – sense of control, with this stranger kneeling in front of me, eyes closed. The heady intoxication produced by this feeling of power sent a shiver of pure need through my aching body. I was completely in charge of our sexual release. Moving my hands down to my skirt, I wriggled it up past my hips. As the material rustled, a smile passed across my lover’s lips, only to be replaced by a soft groan as the scent of my heated juices reached him. Had I ever before been this wet? Almost immediately, my lover’s hunger got the better of him, and I gasped and steadied myself as he darted in with his tongue and started lapping at my sticky thighs. I pulled away, tugging my sodden panties aside, and a positive torrent dripped from my sex and ran down my legs to be promptly licked up like a precious delicacy. Gently, I pressed his head into my softness, moaning deeply as I felt him nuzzle his sweet lips against my flesh, the slight roughness of his skin setting my sensitive skin tingling. The moan increased his ardour to the point of frenzy. I held myself open for him, wider and wider, stretching the tender flesh so fiercely, so painfully I felt I would tear. The soft tickle of his tongue on my engorged centre sent trembling waves of pleasure through the whole of my body and, instinctively, greedly, I ground against him, my need engulfing, devouring him. I felt his hands caress the backs of my thighs, then grip me tight and hold me hard against his searching tongue. His lips closed over my clitoris and suckled, and the explosive, pulsating contractions of a violent, earth-shaking orgasm robbed me of my breath.

My cry of pleasure was cut short by rapid knocking on the toilet door. I looked down at my anonymous, kneeling lover, my juices glinting on his lips and his cheeks, and we broke into laughs which, like two naughty schoolchildren, we immediately fought to stifle. I wriggled my skirt back down and smoothed it into place, licked a finger and tried to dab away the glistening trail left across my belly by his arousal, then ran a hand through my hair as I watched him stand up and straighten his clothes.

He looked at me inquiringly: OK to open the door? I nodded, smiling, and we emerged to find ourselves confronted with an agitated woman whose displeasure was no doubt due, in equal parts, to a full bladder and our obstruction of her desperate need to attain blessed relief. She stared at us, from one to the other and then back again, and her expression of shocked embarrassment almost had me giggling. I felt wonderfully light-headed and giddy.

Only then did I notice my lover’s penis, still semi-erect, poking cheekily out of his unzipped jeans. Stepping forward to shield him from the woman’s gaze, I reached behind me, took the half-tumescent organ between finger and thumb and, with delicate care, tucked it away, coughing to cover the sound as I zipped him back up.

Outside, we parted without a word. He merely touched my arm very briefly, gave me an equally fleeting half-smile and returned to his seat. Returning to mine, I settled back, sated and satisfied, to watch the remainder of the film. The woman still wouldn’t let her boyfriend see her body, and I knew that her adamant refusal would hold fast, right up to the end credits, and the film would offer no explanation. It would be left for us, the audience, to ponder.