The Movies


“Hi baby,” I say sweetly when you answer the phone. “What are you doing?”

“It has been a shit day and I’m not in a good mood at all,” you snap testily. “You are running late, as usual, too. Where are you?”

“I’m just pulling up to your place Grumpy,” I say back teasingly, trying to lighten your mood, to no avail.

“You know I hate it when you are late,” you growl.

“I know I know … but I was doing something for you,” I say, getting out of the car and walking to your door.

“It doesn’t matter. Can’t you just for once, be on time?” I hear the click of the phone as you hang up at the same time I hear the door open. Sighing at my inability to lighten your mood, I plaster on a smile determined not to make your day worse.

“Hi sweetie,” I say, leaning up to kiss you gently on the lips. “Are you ready to go?”

“I’ve been ready to go for half an hour,” you say sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, really I am. Can we please drop my lateness and get to the show?”

“Fine,” you glower, marching towards the garage. “But we’re taking my truck tonight.”

“No problem,” I say, rushing behind you, wondering how I’m going to gracefully get into your truck in a skirt. “What happened today that your day was so bad?”

“It was just a rotten day at work. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Typical,” I think to myself, while keeping up idle chit chat with you while you drive to the theater.

“We won’t have time to wait in line for popcorn since you were late,” you announce when we arrive at the Cineplex.

“No problem,” I reply, trying to hold my rising temper, reminding myself of my plans and hoping that if anything will change your mood, that will.

Half way through the theater on the way to our movie, I slide two fingers into the front pocket of your jeans and wiggle them gently against your hip, close to the little ticklish spot you have there and say, “I’m really looking forward to seeing this movie.” I feel you relax just a tiny bit at my little flirt and you agree that the movie should be good. “I think we should sit in the back, and then you can kick your feet up and relax a little.” You agree and guide me into the last row of the darkened theater.

“So what happened today,” I ask again.

Your eyes narrow and you turn to me growling lowly, “Did I not say I didn’t want to talk about it?”

“You did,” I nod in agreement, as the lights dim further and the trailers begin to play on the screen. “Sorry,” I whisper.

You say nothing, and stare at the screen, crossing your arms over your chest, firmly back in your grumpy mood and apparently determined to punish me for whatever transgression made your day go south. As the movie starts, I start to bite and lightly chew on my lower lip, not really watching the movie, and contemplating your day, a tight little knot forming in my stomach about your mood and wondering if the movie will change it. In the middle of wondering what possibly could have ticked you off so much, you lean over and whisper angrily in my ear, your hot breath fanning across my neck making me shiver, “Stop doing that, you know I find that erotic as hell and I’m trying to watch the movie.” Guiltily, I release my lip from the grasp of my teeth and sit stiffly next to you, my lower lip quivering as I feel tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “Damn it,” I think to myself. “I spent all day talking myself in my surprise for her and I can’t do it when she’s so angry.” A searing disappointment shoots through my chest as I stand up and mutter “Excuse me.” Wiping at tears of frustration I slide past you and leave the theater, taking headlong flight into the bathroom.

Locking myself in a stall, I press my forehead against the cool metal and sniffle, dabbing at my eyes and giving myself a mental pep talk, “Today is not the only day you can work up your nerve to be the aggressor. You can do it again and it’ll surprise the hell out of her and she’ll love it.”

Then a soft tap on the door, “Baby?” I hear you ask. Mortified that you might figure out I was crying, I clear my throat and acknowledge you with a little more force than needed. “I’ll be right out. You can go back.”

“Open the door,” you say softly. “Look, I’m sorry I was an ass.” Quickly dabbing the moisture from my face and plastering on a smile, I slide the lock on the door and open it to walk out to you, but you push me back gently and crowd in the stall with me, wrapping your arms around me and whispering in my ear, “I really am sorry. I’m not mad at you and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Forgive me?” I lean into your hug, taking strength from you and nod, then whisper, “Let’s go back to the movie.” You thread your fingers through mine and walk us back to our seats, your thumb absently brushing the base of my wrist lightly, as you put your other arm around me and pull me closer to you.

Heartened by the change in your attitude, I make the decision to follow through with my plans. A clamor of nerves skitters fikirtepe escort through me as I unwind my hand from yours and glance at you to see that you are engrossed in the movie. With confidence I do not feel, I firmly place my hand on your upper thigh and begin to gently scratch and dig my nails into the denim of your jeans at the seam that runs down the inside of your thigh. I feel you tense in surprise at this uncharacteristic action from me — you have always, always made the first move of intimacy. When I feel your head turn to look at me, I bite my lip and force myself to look straight ahead at the screen, refusing to meet your gaze while continuing to every so slightly move my hand closer and closer to the juncture of your thighs.

“What are you doing,” you whisper in my ear, I can hear the tightness and questioning tone in your voice. “Shhhhh,” I whisper back, never glancing at you, “Watch the movie.” I feel you stiffen in response and wriggle back in your seat.

After what seems like ever, I take one deep breath to fortify myself, and cup my whole hand around your strap on through your jeans, pressing and moving it gently against you. I hear you growl lowly as your hand clamps down on my shoulder and you lean in and repeat gruffly, “What are you doing?” “Shhhh,” I whisper back, “watch the movie.”

You drop your hand from my shoulder down to my breast, your fingers reaching to brush against my nipple. With my free hand, I take your hand and put it back on my shoulder and shake my head gently, moving forward just enough that you can’t reach me easily and I hear a gasp of surprise from your lips. I grin to myself, knowing that you were going to try to take back control of this and feeling bolstered at the quickness with which you tried to touch me … you know my nipples are my undoing and if you can reach one, you’ll turn the tide and have me gasping in moments. I press my hand against you more firmly, rubbing harder and faster, enjoying the power of hearing your breath quicken and feeling your fingers dig into my shoulder.

Slowly, I turn slightly in my seat and reach across to unbutton your jeans. I glance up to see your eyes widen in surprise — and I grin at you mischievously, licking my lips seductively. Again, you reach for my breasts and I evade your fingers. While slowly lowering the zipper, I place my lips against your ear, drawing the lobe of your ear into my mouth and suckling gently for a moment, then whispering, “If you touch me, I’ll stop what I’m doing. Understand?” I press my hand against you firmly and you arch into it, but don’t answer me. I nip your earlobe and repeat, “Understand?” I hear your sharp intake of breath and feel your slight nod of agreement as my fingertips wriggle under the band of your boxers. Your hips begin to arch rhythmically and your breath becomes low and shallow as I push the tip of my finger under your cock to brush it against your clit. Your hands are clutching the armrest and the back of my neck. My finger rubs slow circles around your wet clit, teasing it, pushing against it, changing the pressure to keep you off balance and unsure. Inching your jeans down a little further, I pull your cock through the opening in your boxers and slide down on my knees between your legs. I hear you whisper, “Oh fuck.” I grin at you and whisper back teasingly, “Not yet.”

Losing grip on your control, you lean forward and roughly cup my breast, pinching the nipple harshly. Immediately, my finger stops moving on your clit and I pull back from you. “Those aren’t the rules,” I remind you, looking into your eyes while trying desperately not to show a reaction to your fingers ravishing my nipple through my shirt. I struggle not to cry out when you swear softly and clench your hands into fists and slam them into the upholstered seats in frustration.

Grinning that the rule about not touching me has frustrated you, I begin again flicking and rubbing at your clit, watching your fingers clench and unclench the air. You mutter to me lowly, “Stop this now.” I laugh quietly and say, “Not a chance darling” then lower my mouth slowly over your cock. You groan loudly enough someone in the theater shushes you and you slouch down further in your seat as my fingers work faster and more firmly on your clit while my mouth is sliding your cock in and out of it. My breathing quickly matches yours and we are both panting … you from my ministrations and mine from the rush of feminine power I feel over you at this moment.

You bury both hands in my hair and told my head firmly and I suck on your cock, your hips thrusting it in and out of my lips in time with my movements. I press hard, fast circles against your clit and I feel your orgasm gathering and gaining force when your hands suddenly go under my arms and you pull me on to your lap, straddling you, my finger still under your cock on your clit, rubbing hard and fast. You bury your head in my breast and grab my ass with your hands. The moment your lips close over the fabric-covered gebze escort nipple, I stop the motion of my finger on your clit. You bite at my nipple and dig your fingers into my ass, trying to move against me, but I remain firm in ceasing all action with you touching me and bite my lip so hard so as not to react to your demands that I taste blood. “Not another touch until you stop,” I whisper in your ear. You suck a sharp breath in through your nose and press your forehead in between my breasts and nod.

My fingers again start circling your clit, harder and faster. I lean forward and hover my lips just above yours, every so often flicking my tongue out to swipe across your lips, but never kissing your or allowing you to kiss me. I know the pressure of your fingers gripping my hips is going to leave bruises and I revel in having the power to make you lose that control.

I slide back down on my knees and take you once again into my mouth, my fingers on your clit working up and down, while I take my other hand and begin to inch, ever so slowly, two fingers into your wetness. Fingering you, sucking you and rubbing you to the rhythm you have set with your hips, I know your orgasm is just on the precipice when your legs grip my shoulders in anticipation … and then with one final thrust you bury your cock in my mouth, as I bury my fingers in you and my finger pressing in and upwards on your clit and I feel your orgasm shudder through you.

Slowly, I wriggle your jeans back over your hips and give one final, long kiss to your cock before zipping up your jeans and returning to my seat, a self-satisfied smile playing across my lips. Leaning over to me you growl, “We’re leaving now!” I gently place a finger over your lips and say, “Shhhh, watch the movie.”

You shake your head “no” and grab my hand to pull me up. I untangle my hand from yours and look from your eyes to my hand and back, directing you to watch. Your eyes follow and widen slowly as I spread my legs slightly apart, pull my skirt up with the hand you are watching, show you I am wearing no panties, moisten my finger with my own wetness, then place that finger on your lips, while crossing my legs and pulling my skirt down and say again, “Shhhhh. Watch the movie.”

You spend the next 40 minutes of the movie digging your fingers into my thigh, trying to reach my wetness, but I keep my legs firmly crossed and deny you access to my nipples by crossing my arms in front of myself. Your frustration is palpable.

The credits for the movie barely begin before you stand up, grab my hand and drag me out of my seat. “We are leaving,” you growl. “What about dinner?” I ask sweetly. You turn, look at me, your eyes dark pinpoints that drill straight to my core, and say harshly, “Unless you want me to fuck you on the table at dinner, no dinner.” You stalk out of the theater to your truck, me nearly running behind you to keep up.

Once in the truck, you flick the radio off and gun the engine, chirping the tires as you back up. A nervous curl starts in the pit of my stomach; the confidence I gained by my actions in the theater dwindles as I begin to wonder if you are angry with me or if I crossed some boundary with you that I didn’t realize.

Gently, I clear my throat and say, “I hope …”

“Not another word,” you say, tension emanating from you. “I mean it,” you add for emphasis. “Not another word until we get to the house.”

Pursing my lips shut, I fold my hands on my lap and begin plucking nervously at my skirt, certain now this has backfired on me in a horrible way. Your face is a mask of concentration as you drive aggressively in the direction of your place. Without thinking, I begin once again to gently chew my already bruised lip as my nerves are stretched to their limit. With a low growl, you reach across the cab of your truck and flick my lip out from my teeth and say, “What did I tell you about that?” By the time you pull into the garage, my knees are so shaky I nearly stumble getting out of the truck. You haven’t uttered another word to me, looked at me nor attempted to touch me. My head is swimming with a million flashes of thought and I take a moment after you enter the house to try and gather enough esteem to walk to the front door and leave without showing the turmoil of emotions I’m feeling.

Before I get to the garage door to walk inside, you jerk it open and just point past you, clearly indicating I should get inside and right now. I slide past you in the doorway, praying my shaking legs will carry me to the front door without incident, when halfway through the living room you bark, “Where do you think you are going? I pointed to the den and that’s where I want you.” Pausing for a moment to weigh my options; certainly not relishing a sit-down talk, which we always did in the den.

“I .. umm …” I stammered, hating that my voice sounded quivering to my own ears. You approach me and take my hand roughly, glaring, “I said I wanted you in the den. I meant içerenköy escort it.” By the grasp you have on my hand, I have no choice but to follow you.

Once in the den, your hand still holding mine, I sink down onto the couch, too nervous to speak or look at you; I look at the carpet, skittering my gaze to inanimate objects around the room, thinking “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I don’t want to talk about this ever.”

“I didn’t invite you to sit down,” you say, grabbing my other hand and pulling me to my feet. “So,” you say, taking a step towards me, crowding my personal space. “You enjoyed your little game at the movie did you?” I nod slowly, not speaking. You take another step closer to me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off of you. “And you liked turning me on beyond control and then denying me what I want?” I flick at a quick glance at you to try to determine what’s going on, but your face betrays nothing, and I give you a barely perceivable nod of agreement.

In a flash, your lips descend on mine roughly, your tongue thrusting between my lips, harsh and demanding. You drag my wrists behind me and hold them in one hand, while the other grabs my nipple and twists hard. Gasping at the pleasure-pain, I lean towards you and start to kiss you back. You jerk my wrists sharply, forcing me to straighten slightly and you say, while still twisting and tweaking my nipple, “You are not in control now.” Dazed, I nod my agreement, your fingers on my nipple making my breaths come in short, shallow whimpers. Then without notice, you turn me around and quickly secure my wrists together with what feels like a soft tie. “What …” I start to say. “You are not in control now sweetheart,” you interrupt, placing your hands on my shoulders, turning me to face you and giving me a gentle push towards the couch. My knees shaking from the combination of events in the last few moments, I sink gratefully into the cushions.

Pulling the ottoman over in front of me, you straddle it and sit down facing me, then taking my hips in your hands you drag me forward closer to you and lower your lips to my nipple. The searing heat of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue seeping through my shirt and bra combined with your fingers harshly twisting and tweaking the other nipple cause me to wriggle, but I’m unsteady without the use of my hands for balance. You continue your assault on my nipples, your other hand kneading my thigh over my skirt. I whimper in desperation to at least feel your lips and tongue on my uncovered nipple, you grin, knowing what I want. A soft, “Please …” escapes my lips.

“Oh no, baby. It’s not going to be that easy.” You grin when I cry out my frustration. “Careful baby, remember you did this to me when I had to be quiet — and I have much, much more experience at this game than you do.” My eyes fly open to look at you and I’m rewarded by the vision of your lips and tongue laving at my shirt. You continue your attention over my clothes, your hands roaming from my hips to the inside of my thighs, barely brushing my wetness through my skirt. “You aren’t wearing panties,” you state matter-of-factly. “I bet the tops of your thighs are glistening already.” I respond with a low moan of frustration at the truth of your statement.

“Please,” I hear my own voice, raspy. “Please?”

Your only response is to sink to the floor and spread my legs apart, gazing blatantly under my skirt and confirming, without touching, “Oh yes, you are wet.” A heated blush at the blatant observation rushes to my face and I try to arch my hips towards you, but end up falling back against the cushions on the couch. “Oh fuck,” I mutter, vaguely aware that I am repeating what you said in the theater. You chuckle and respond by pushing my skirt up around my hips, shoving my knees apart and whispering, “Not yet.” As your tongue flicks out and touches my clit. With little leverage, I plant my feet on your thighs to arch up to your mouth. You counter by draping my legs over your shoulders, leaving me no leverage and completely exposed. Your lips close over my clit and suckle at it gently, but I want more. I want to feel you inside me, I want harder and faster and I cry out my desire to you, but you ignore my pleas and continue your gentle assault. Dizzy from being unable to catch my breath and frustrated at the helplessness of my position, tears seep out of the corner of my eyes. “Stop, please stop,” I plead to deaf ears as you slip one finger inside of me, my muscles grasping violently at the invasion to hold you there, but to no avail as you quickly remove your finger and trace the wetness down my thigh. “Please, please,” I hear a voice, not realizing it’s mine until I hear, “Please make me cum.”

You chuckle and completely withdraw from touching my clit. “No!” I gasp, as your fingers close over my nipples again, tweaking and grabbing the hard nubs, rolling them with little gentleness. I’m squirming now on the couch, uncaring that I can feel my own wetness on the upholstery.

“Frustrating isn’t it baby?”

I groan without abandoned in response. You stand, lean down to kiss me and then rip the front of my shirt, exposing my bra, my hardened nipples poking and straining against the fabric of my bra. “I …, want …”

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