A Quiet Motion: The First Act

 In the beginning, she was naturally apprehensive and cautious. It was not her nature, but she had heard all those stories evolving from the computer venue, some merely mythical, others based in sad and frightening realities. The tales of abuse, misrepresentation, disappointment that seemed to contradict the many advertisements and polished representations offered by the many services seeking, primarily, a path into one’s financial resources and not the actual happiness or fulfillment of their clients. Their meeting, so to speak, was a stone’s throw from those places, nonetheless, so very different.

He had, from the beginning, seemed very apart and perhaps even arrogant, but in a charming manner. She had responded gradually to his quiet prompting and allowed herself to become vulnerable in some very personal ways. He always seemed to respect and appreciate her efforts to understand and trust as he knew that this was not always easy for her, this surrender, this vulnerability. He sensed that he had asked things of her and about her that no one had before. It was a new and simple path, but sometimes flocks of doubts flew over casting momentary shadows and pragmatic concerns before her. When he sensed this, he would discuss, clarify or enable her to find new bearings in her perceptions, her view, her security. He did not judge, but at times required she merely trust until, like the director of a small magic show, he would reveal an explanation or intent, often so surprising in its cleverness and benign context, she would truly be amazed. It was his gift and his inspiration to bestow upon her and it was her gift to allow it and, in fact, come to thrive upon it.

It was to be a social event, an attendance for their mutual exposure to culture, only slightly formal. She had complied with his wishes for her dress, simple in black with her long coat and a modest shelf-brassiere and stockings. He had requested that she wear no panties, and while this was new at one time for her, he had asked this before. This omission always made her feel secretly naughty and even when he was not present, his presence was felt. She had come to enjoy this sensation, the secret exposure to the elements and often waited for his request for such attire or lack of it. The compliance to his wish also brought her a new sense of achievement , knowing she had pleased him and would be rewarded as well. But was also quite embarrassing when he asked for a report of the experience and then consequently coerced her into admitting the pleasure and arousal she had derived from it. He seemed to enjoy these little “interrogations” as he called them and despite her initial response to such discussion, he had convinced her to admit that she, too, like it very much.

 It was a perfunctory and rather uninspired performance that evening. The cast, the dancers, the musicians all seemed to have become road-weary perhaps and the production seemed to lack lustre and enthusiasm. He took an opportunity just before the intermission to grasp her wrist and encircle it with his fingers and hold it firmly, but quite still and constant. It was a small symbol to him, apparently, and there was no mistaking the meaning. She tolerated it quietly thinking to herself that it was his way of holding hands and bringing a silent intimacy to her amid the audience. It was after the intermission that, while others returned to their seats or departed, he led her to the balcony, choosing to climb to the last row of seats in the partially filled venue. She was unsure of his intent, but did not question , and found herself conjuring images so contrary to social proprieties. Yet, she trusted knowing he would make some decisions and expect not to be questioned, but would always protect and cherish her compliance.
 
 After the performance had resumed for a time, he handed her a small set of opera glasses and quietly suggested that perhaps she should stand to obtain a better view and then focus on the nuances of the performers. “Pay attention…” he said quietly, knowing her posture would not obstruct others and would probably not even be noticed. When she did stand, leaning slightly on the seat before her, she felt his hand slide very slowly along the inside of her calf, then her thigh, caressing in a patient manner, slowly. He would work his way almost to the top of her thigh and then retreat slowly and begin again, gently retreating each time and then resuming. She felt her hand tighten on the glasses and the seat before her in anticipation and she shuffled her feet and legs , fidgeting a bit but holding the glasses to her eyes intently.

They became like a blindfold and he would not even notice that she had closed her eyes completely and only focused on the sounds and his caressing. She would shuffle very concertedly so that the motion would not bring attention, although there seemed to be no one near.

She gasped under her breath as she felt his palm slide slowly along the profile of her buttocks, and his finger gently folding into the crease. Even more slowly, he stroked her there, to the base of her spine and the prolonged return to the top of her thigh. Then again, seemingly more slowly each time causing a nervous anticipation within her. His hand slipped down between her thighs, which she nervously moved slightly apart more as a response than a conscious act. He touched her briefly there and without entering her, quietly noted her arousal with a soft tone, “Mmm?” as if a question, then returned to her backside.

His fingers were slightly moist from her and he very slowly placed one against the opening of her ass, her rosebud as he called it sometimes. He held it there without moving , such a slight and yet firm pressure. She fidgeted more, but he held his finger still, adjusting with her motion but the minute magnitude of touch never changing. She felt her muscle contract slightly, again then again as he seemed to enjoy her predicament, her body asking and wanting. His finger tapped firmly in the very center of her erotic nature…slowly, but each time a little more pronounced, then resuming the constant pressure. Again and again, this little ritual…until she moved her hips in a downward motion seeking more. His finger only retreated with her effort and resumed the token caress, constant in nature, when she became still again. He was teasing her, asking her body to beg, almost openly. She felt like a mare in heat, wishing to rub her flanks against the fence, toss her head in the air wildly shaking her mane and buck backwards onto his fingers, but she did not. She knew this was his moment, his performance and he wanted her lust heightened to extremes, but well-bridled in his soft, firm hand.
 
Then , after what seemed like hours, but was more accurately only a few minutes, he slowly inserted that softly round protuberance a small distance, too small she thought…and allowed her muscles to expand and contract around it, but again holding it quite still. She had now dropped the glasses from her eyes and was clutching then in both hands as she rested them upon the back of the seat before her. Her breath became irregular , slight sounds escaping from her lips, as he began a very slow massage, always allowing her opening to respond in lustful diameter, but never penetrating further. It was a very slow almost-but-not-quite fucking and it captivated her wantonness, her proclivity, and amplified her need. He had found her center and her thirst and while his attentions exhilarated her lust, it was like a sip of water to a thirsty animal…just enough to entice but not satisfy.
 
 The performance on stage had become secondary, almost non-existent, in her psyche. Only his touch, his orchestration of her body in minute detail became the music, the dance, the performance. Then, in one quick moment, he ceased any motion, and felt her contract around him. Every synapse of her body seemed to center in one tiny place, her most forbidden and glorious orifice. She felt as if he moved once more, she would come and she awaited the shudder, melting on the precipice. Still he held her at that place.

 Quietly, he spoke in his soft and confident tone, almost a whisper. Perhaps, C, ” and he accentuated the syllable of her name to a long harmonic tone, “we should depart, before the crowd and consider... the second act?”

She nodded a hollow motion of agreement, not quite realizing that she would have signaled her compliance no matter what he had said.

She sat quietly on a bench in the mezzanine as he excused himself to wash without explanation. She almost wished he hadn’t, wanting the scent of her to prevail upon him, just a her own lust betrayed her state. Her thighs and, in fact, her whole being seemed to tremble slightly, not noticeably to anyone but her. Her eyes were cast to her the lap of her dress, her demeanor not seeking any distraction but his quiet words and his even more silent attentions. It was her first performance, and his, but it was only the first of acts.