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A lot, is the answer. Right now, I suspect he could make me do anything.
I continue to stroke myself, trying to match Rory’s pace. I swear I can hear him — of myself on Rory. Behind the incessant rumble of the orchestra, there’s the low, obscene slap of slickness between his fingers.
My head is spinning with music and angels. It’s no use. It’s not enough. If Rory wants to see how easily he corrupts me, he must quickly realize it when, with fury, I slide my hands underneath the material of my dress and panties. I need skin. I need the buzz, the rightness of skin-to-skin contact.
Rory stares at me openly, his attention no longer onTosca. Maybe he didn’t expect this. Maybe he thought I’d be more shy and sweet about it. But no. He drove me wild long ago, a year ago, before we ever stepped foot in this box.
As Rory strokes into me, my fingers find my folds with a victorious yearning. The moment I touch my clit, a heavenly sigh slips past my lips. I sweep my fingers across the hard — achingly hard — little nub, careening and careening closer to total oblivion. I rock my hips harder and harder against Rory’s palm, craving the fullness, tightening my thighs to keep him locked in place. His eyes widen at this, as though he never expected my desires to be this strong, but right now I feel like my thighs could crush his hand into dust, and wisely he chooses not to move it.
In the end, Rory’s secret hope is answered and reversed — he wanted to use me for his own twisted curiosity, and in the end I use him to get off. I grind my hips toward his hand while furiously drawing tight circles across my clit.
All attempts at pretending decency fly out the window. The only thing that matters is getting off, and it makes no difference if anyone is lucky enough to witness my public orgasm. It all fades away, my inhibitions drifting like the thoughts in my head, until I’m a writhing bundle of nerves, of sensation on a plush red seat, craving satisfaction.
I reach higher and higher with every buck of my hips. The orchestra clashes and collides with the sense of an impending crescendo, the music increasing in volume the closer I soar toward orgasm. My mind is empty, a blissful free state that makes me so happy, so pure. My world fills with bright white light, of melody and harmony weaving through my ears and suddenly connecting together, suddenly making sense.
It touches me, straight to my heart. The music… I understand it now. I want to tell Rory I understand it, that I finally understand opera. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but listen to the strings soaring alongside my arching body, to the cymbals crashing like waves, to the shimmering chimes and the sense of wonder that perhaps I’ve sprouted wings and can fly. The music bonds with my soul. For a moment, it’s as though I even understand Italian. I comprehend the pain, the heartache, in every over-wrought, anguished syllable, and I hurt for the characters, for their mad passionate desires and their stupid, addictive love.
Rory’s fingers explore parts of me that hitch my breath, that destroy me in small, subtle ways. He strokes something tight and spongy, something that makes me want to scream aloud, and it’s so insistent, so maddening, that I almost do.
Instead, I yearn and I shudder on my chair. At some point, tears slide down my cheeks, from my racing heart and the galloping desire to chase orgasm, from whatever spell Rory’s weaving across my taut, bowstring body, from the precarious, public climb to reach the peak, and maybe something beyond that, something in the chord progression, in the magic of the music that envelops us completely.
On stage, the woman bursts out with the most beautiful aria. And I shatter. Pleasure engulfs my belly. It consumes me, catching fire and lighting my nerves in strips that run up and down my body. In less than a second, my firmly closed mouth opens, expelling the last of my dignity and decency, and I can tell I’m going to spill my cries, I’m going to make a noise, a loud, unforgiving noise—
And Rory’s palm slams against my mouth. I sob my release into him, huge bracing gulping shuddering sobs that he quashes, that he forces me to swallow back. I stagger against him, grateful, even though I’m crying and I don’t understand why. I’m so turned on, every nerve in my body is red-raw and bright.
All the while, Rory looks at me like I’m a marvel. Like he wouldn’t miss any of this for the world. His eyes trace me in fascination, and slowly, when my shuddering subsides and I lie, slumped, in my chair like a doll, he peels his palm away from my mouth.
I stare at it dimly, at the saliva glittering across it, at the bite marks scoring his flesh.
I realize I miss him on my mouth, that confident, dominant press of his hand in order to save my skin.
Rory may not be on my face, but he’s still inside me. My hole flutters around his questing fingers as he slowly withdraws from me.
He holds out his hand, and the sight is so obscene that I have to swallow down my shock. Every inch of his skin is drenched in my juices. I’ve never, ever been so wet before. Clear, thick, slick cum coats every bone, every knuckle, every joint of his fingers.
Even Rory doesn’t seem to have expected it. He examines my release dazedly, and then, ever so slowly, drags his hand up to meet my lips.
I lick my own cum from Rory’s poised fingers. I swallow down the tangy, salty taste of it, trying to act like this is normal, licking other people’s fingers is a normal thing for audience members to do at a theater show. I glance to my side as I drag deeper on Rory’s fingers, wondering if I’m imagining it in the interplay of dim light and dark shadow, or if his cock really is leaping in those formal suit pants.
Finally, when Rory’s hands are clean, Act One ends. The first thing Rory does as the lights come up is capture my mouth in a swift, sudden kiss. I’m still trembling slightly, my nerves yet to adjust in my post-orgasmic haze, but Rory stands as soon as the audience’s rapt applause finishes, and drags me through to the curtained area behind us.
He whirls me against the wall, pressing a hot, bruising kiss to my mouth. His erection digs insistently against my hip, and in a dark tone, he murmurs into my ear, “You’re wilder than I ever gave you credit for.”
With strong hands, he pins my wrists against the wall and devours my mouth like it’s his for the taking.
It is. I’m all for him, every single inch of me.
“You’ve driven me fucking insane,” he mutters roughly, feasting on my neck and sliding a hot hand back down to my bare cunt, as though he never wants to stop exploring it. “Been counting down the minutes.”
I swallow at the obvious truth behind his mad, impassioned words, in awe of how good an actor he was able to be, how stringently he focused on the stage. How wild, how destroyed with desire he appears before me now, as though I’d spent the entire opera dancing on his lap instead of coming on his command.
I like it. I like this side of him, the one he keeps so buttoned-up behind stiff, formal overcoats and black leather gloves and cashmere scarves and dark midnight suits. The one unleashed after hours of pent-up desire.
The side he only reveals to me.
At first I wonder how far Rory’s willing to push this, because from the intense hunger in his gray eyes, the answer to that is pretty fucking far. But there are people behind the door to our box, and the box isn’t locked. A thousand thoughts stampede through my head as clearly as the footsteps on the other side of the door, a pile-up of worries and anxieties developing as my mind catches up from its earlier state of bliss.
Rory grinds against me, his soft caramel-colored hair whispering against my cheek along with the whispers of his wants and needs.I want you. I need you. I fucking love you.
He’s broken. I’ve broken him. I’ve turned him into this, and God, do I love it.
But the decision is made for us. We don’t have to move or react or do anything at all, because from the mixed noise of the crowd below, there’s some kind of urgent commotion happening in the theater.
I meet Rory’s questioning gray eyes.
And I get a flashback. A flashback to us in an almost identical position, Rory pinning me against the wall, staring at me with deep and shocking awe, and Benji in his skull-and-crossbones mask, prowling at the top of our hidden passageway.
Jeers begin to poke through the crowd, followed by a smattering of cheering. Mostly, there’s just noise. A din of chatter and outrage. In the corridor behind us, there’s the rush of footsteps, of people running to see what’s happening.
With enormous reluctance, like whoever’s causing a problem is about to rue their very existence, Rory peels away from me. He wipes a large hand down his face to compose himself, takes a deep breath, and sweeps back the separating curtain to see what chaos lies beyond.
