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With two fingers inside me, I feel stretched and stuffed to oblivion. But Rory doesn’t stop. Calmly, his index finger presses against my entrance, brushing against the two fingers already stuffed inside me.
“We can’t,” I mutter wildly, though my hips tilt upward, trying to create the optimal angle. It’s as though I don’t have any say: my yearning body guides me, not my panicking head. I manage to balance myself on trembling arms that hold me upright from behind, widening the stance of my legs for Rory to enter me.
Rory doesn’t seem to care about what we can and can’t do. He holds his third finger aloft at my entrance, next to the other two, and waits, and waits.
My body clenches around Rory. It tries to adjust to the pressure of being filled, of being used by Rory Munro for his own delectable pleasure.
Beads of sweat cling to my hairline and dimly I wonder when it grew so hot. Has the theater always been a furnace? I’m barely able to think. I’m working on feeling, on sensation alone, and every nerve in my body is already in furious overdrive.
Eventually, through time and gradual insistence, Rory’s third finger enters me. Tears spring to my eyes, giving the lights a star-like glitter, and I blink a hundred times to stop my dysfunctional body from caving in. It feels exquisite. Insane. I’ve never felt so full before, and I should feel ashamed, I should feel humiliated, but the only thing running through my head is that this is the truth, this is the one thing I’ve experienced all evening that’s true — not the opera, not the protesters, not the movie set restaurant, but the blinding truth of two people fucking in love — and so I guide Rory into me and hold him as close to me as possible, pushing the back of his hand against me with my palm. His knuckles enter me soundly, gliding alongside his other two fingers, while the heel of his palm grinds shockingly, unexpectedly against my clit.
It feels so good, I want to cry.
Rory quickly removes his palm from my clit as though the joy singing through my veins from that single touch had been a terrible mistake. I’m beginning to understand his evil smile, and I don’t like it.
I’m stuffed with Rory, mind and body. It’s as though he’s possessed me. Sitting in a private theater box, in public where anyone could look up and catch us together and wonder why my face is so strained, so contorted, why I’m barely able to watch the stage.
And still, Rory’s face wears that captivating little smirk, like there’s something he has yet to say, something he’ll do, that’ll make the cruel undertone of that smirk worthwhile. It keeps me on my toes — literally, my calves are raised so that I’m balanced on tiptoes, my legs spread almost into a straight line so that Rory has full access to my cunt.
He rotates his fingers slowly inside me, and I swear I hear my own wetness shifting between Rory’s digits. My face burns red-hot and bright. And then Rory’s thumb brushes, finally, against the swell of my clit. My body shudders as though ready to collapse over itself.
But he does it once. Only once does Rory touch my clit. Instead, he pumps in and out of me — achingly slow to start with, his fingers slick as he leaves me, growing wetter as he returns. I feel every clench of my muscles, every squeeze that clings Rory’s hand to me. My hips buck in a desperate attempt to trap Rory’s thumb against my clit, and damn the consequences. But he continues to pulse in and out of me, as easy for him as breathing isn’t for me, that agonizing little smirk growing constantly at the corner of his mouth.
My hands scrabble anxiously behind me, desperate for stimulation.
“What?” I end up hissing, as I rock my body against his hand. “What’s so f-fucking funny?”
That cruel smile of his only widens. It reminds me of before, of last year, when his hands had seemed more inclined to strangle than pleasure.
It takes every single shred of dwindling willpower not to tip my throat back and moan up at the heavenly ceiling, to become one with the frolicking angels. But out of spite, I remain frozen in place to stop that stupid, irresistible smile from spreading across Rory’s face.
Another pull of his fingers leaves me momentarily bereft. When he swiftly returns, ecstasy follows. The bliss is overwhelming. It’s as though Rory’s slamming it into me, an act of violence that renders me some kind of babbling vessel of pleasure.
“I need you,” I whisper brokenly to the side of his face, noting his fake look of absorption as he watches the stage. But from the angle of his head, he’s listening. I know to God he’s listening out for every ragged, thready breath I manage to wreak from my body. “Please.Please. I need something.”
His smirk widens, and in a second I realize why it’s there at all. “Touch yourself,” he tells me smoothly, sounding as though this is a most common and reasonable demand, like a request during dinner to pass the salt.
I goggle at him. “What?”
“Touch yourself,” he repeats, and then glances in my direction. “Really, little saint, you shouldn’t be talking during the climax of the first act. People will bewatching.”
My face burns. I hate him. I hate him and his stupid mocking, all-knowing tone. He knows how easy it is for his low murmur to get me off. With his fingers bunched inside me beneath my dress, he knows for a fact that talking is far behind the level of sin we’re at right now.
“Is that a promise?” I mutter spitefully, because God, I feel incredibly spiteful right now. Spiteful and more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. But Rory’s eyes flare with heat at my question, like he didn’t think I had it in me to be anything other than his meek little submissive.
“Yes,” he says experimentally, and this time his head swings around from the stage to my face. “They’re all watching you right now.”
I bite back my groan. God, we’re twisted, such twisted little freaks. This is wrong. How can I be getting off on this? A fancy theater, a night at the opera, and Rory entering me over and over.
With a trembling hand, I spread my fingers over my dress. If someone were to see, it’d almost look innocent. It’d almost look innocent, a girl toying with the fabric of her dress, if only her hips weren’t rocking to meet the three tight digits pumping in and out of her cunt.
I swallow, glancing at Rory. “Why won’t you touch me?”
“Because I want to see how desperate you are,” Rory tells me, matter-of-fact, and in his gray eyes there’s a flash of the steel that I associate with Oscar Munro. “I want to see what I can make you do.”
I shiver at his words, but my hand doesn’t stop wandering across my front. It settles neatly in my lap, and hesitantly I begin to stroke my clit in slow, innocent rotations.
Rory wants to see what he can make me do?
