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Only five minutes into this production that they’ve written and staged themselves, and I’m completely sucked in. Which is why I don’t notice at first who slides into the auditorium seat behind me.
I smell his cologne before he touches me, which is lucky for him. If I hadn’t, and I’d had no warning before the arm circled around my shoulders from behind, I might have elbowed his nose in fright.
But his spicy, woodsy scent raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck, my neck that’s exposed to him with my no-nonsense bun at the crown of my head.
As Miles slides his arm around me, I feel his breath in my ear. “I came looking for you tonight, Martha, but you weren’t home.”
I shiver. “Miles. What are you doing? We’re at my school, you can’t—”
“Nobody can see us. We’re in the back of the theater, nobody’s near us. We may as well have the entire room to ourselves.”
My eyes blink softly even though he’s being utterly ridiculous. I turn my face. “I don’t know what you have planned but you can’t…we can’t.”
“Shh,” he breathes right in my ear so no one else can here. “I’ll be silent as the dead. Except for my whispers in your ear. And…you might be able to hear this.”
The sound of a belt unbuckling behind me has my body lighting up with anticipation, fear, shock and lust. My lips part and my breath shallows. What the hell is he thinking?
Then come the whispers. The filthiest, darkest whispers I’ve ever heard. So quiet. So wrong.
“I want you, Martha. I want you for myself.”
“Miles,” I start. But he shushes me with a gentle hand over my mouth.
“Don’t let them hear you. Nod if you want me to keep my hand over your mouth. Shake your head if you want me to remove my hand.”
My breath quickens, I can see my chest rising and falling rapidly at this lurid suggestion. But something in me wants this. Unbelievably, even to myself, I nod my head slowly.
“Good girl,” he whispers. The words make my mouth water. The swish of material and the creak of a zipper sends a hot pool of moisture into my panties. This is so wrong. I know if I wanted him to stop, I could stop it all with one word, one gesture. But I don’t. Ah well, I can see the play again tomorrow night, and the next.
More rustling. He has his dick out. He’s holding it, I just know it.
“I couldn’t wait to see you, Martha. I need you to know what you do me.”
More movement. “Do you hear me stroking it? That should be you.”
My eyes roll back in my head as he verbally guides me through his self-pleasuring. His breath grows more and more ragged with every stroke. I’m so turned on, yet also so appalled at his brazen behavior that I want to turn around and climb over the seat, smack him, straddle him, and punish him until we’re both spent.
“That should be your pussy drawing me in, squeezing me, making me come. I’ve spent eight long years wishing my hand was your hand, your lips, your pussy, wishing I was coming inside you, on you, on your tits, into your sweet mouth.”
I feel as though my joints have lost all ability to hold myself upright. His voice is so hot in my ear I nearly lose control of my senses. He’s actually going to do it. He’s going to come right here in my school. And unbelievably, I don’t even care. In fact, I want this.
I briefly open my eyes when I hear murmurs from the audience. The actors on stage have stopped saying their lines. Furiously, I shake my head and Miles instantly removes his hand from my mouth. I bolt up in my chair. What’s happening? Have they seen me? Am I completely busted? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
But no. That’s not it. Recovering my composure, I see what the disruption is. Down at the front of the stage, a woman, not a cast member, is
kneeling. It’s clear from the looks on all the actors’ faces that this is not a part of the show. They look shaken, mortified, unsure of what to do next.
I stand up and move to the center aisle to get a better look. The woman is not just kneeling. Her hands are up by her face, her mouth moves silently and her eyes are closed.
Oh my God. It’s Mrs. Chamberlain. And she’s praying. What in the actual hell do we do now?
14
Miles
If I didn’t want to marry Martha and make a hundred more tiny versions of her already, what she does next seals it for me.
I watch her gather her thoughts for a moment, as shocked as everyone else. Then she pats her perfect bun and rolls her shoulders back. Her chunky, witchy shoes march down to the front of the stage to confront the woman, who by now I’ve determined is Mrs. Chamberlain.
