“I want to get fucked on a stage,” she said, extending a long, graceful leg towards him, curling her toes. He took the foot, bringing it up to his mouth, and examining the toes carefully before putting it back down.
“Hmm,” he answered.
“Thoroughly fucked.”
“Where?”
“Stage centre. Three feet from the edge, so they can see every tiny, juicy detail.”
“They?”
“The audience. Five hundred of them, maybe. A select group.”
“Do they know you?”
She considered that for a moment, drawing her feet up under her, fiddling a bit with her sweater. “No. I’m a complete surprise to them – they haven’t even been told what’s going on.”
“What stage?”
She bit her lower lip, played a bit more with her sweater. “Hmm. Well – I guess the Winter Garden Theatre. Where they’re showing that musical – ‘Cats’. You know, maybe I can even get all those various hunky cats watching. Maybe licking themselves or something.”
“Real realistic.”
“What’s not realistic about it?”
“That you could ever get a booking at the Winter Garden while that show is going on.”
She sighed, moved her hand towards her left breast, pinching it a little under the sweater. “Oh. OK. Well, some other New York theatre, then. Medium size. Lots of showy lights that can go off and on, depending upon how excited the light guy gets.”
“Is he going to get excited?”
“When you start ramming me, yes. And even before that. This isn’t going to be a fast thing, you know.”
“Oh, am I included in this?”
“If you want to be,” she said. “But you’ll have to be incredibly ready. Incredibly horny, incredibly hard. I’m going to be using you, hard.”
“How?”
“Well, the show’s got to last – what, two hours? You won’t be fucking me all that time, of course — ”
“Do we get an intermission?”
“No one will want one.”
“I don’t know,” he said, putting a doubtful tone in his voice. “I’m not entirely sure you’ll be able to keep up.”
“You’re the one that has to audition for this.”
“Haven’t I already?”
“That wasn’t on a stage, though.”
“Why don’t you just give me my stage directions?”
Her lips pursed again. “OK. This is Broadway, right? So, you come on. You’re dancing. Just like it’s a regular Broadway show. You’re doing – I don’t know – ‘Forty-Second Street’ or something like that.”
“You have to be kidding.”
“It’s not for very long. The audience is like – what is this? Because of course you don’t dance well – ”
“Understatement – ”
“But then you suddenly stop, and as the music is playing, you slowly take off your shirt. To the beat of ‘Forty-Second Street’.”
“And the audience falls over laughing.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do. Start over.”
“Anyway, as you’re dancing, I come out on the stage. From the left. I see you, and I giggle, and I announce that you’re going to have to pay for that.”
“God.”
“OK, I don’t really. I see you, and I start to breathe hard. I let the audience see my chest moving, and I move a hand up to my throat and start to unbutton my blouse.”
“You’re wearing a blouse?”
“Yeah. Black. Silk. And a long skirt – black. It flares out. And fishnet stockings, of course.”
“No originality, huh?”
“What’dya mean?”
“Never mind.” He shifted his chair so that it was touching hers, so that he could reach out and touch her body simply by extending his wrist. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Anyway, I tell you that since you can’t dance on the stage, you’re going to have to dance all over me with your tongue. Artistically, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The audience judges. It they think your tongue’s performing well, they’ll clap, and then you can go on to the next section. But only if you do it artistically.”
“How can you tell?”
She shook her head. “I won’t be able to. That’s exactly why it’ll be up to the audience. I explain this, letting the spotlight shine on me as I tell them that they’ll have to watch your tongue dancing all over me and tell me how good you are. A few of them giggle nervously – they’re not really up to this kind of thing – but a few of the others get real hard or real attentive. They take a long look at me, and they start to clap when I take off my blouse.”
“How?” he asked, flicking a hand close to her chest, almost, but not quite, touching her. He brought his hand back and placed it on his thigh.
She breathed hard, swallowed, then touched her tongue to the top of her lip. “What do you mean?”
“Are you just ripping off the blouse, or taking it off slowly?” His fingers began stroking his own thigh, lightly, gently. She saw him; he watched her eyes widen slightly, stare at his legs.
She breathed deeply. “Slowly, I think. After all, this is Broadway, and they’ve been promised quite a show. So I undo the buttons one by one, staying with the music.” Her hands danced down to her own thighs, touching them briefly before returning to her chest, to touch her sweater where buttons might have been.
“What am I doing?” he asked, continuing to run his fingers up and down his legs.
“Watching. You’ve stopped dancing, of course – although you’re still tapping your feet. But, like everyone else, you can’t take your eyes off me. You start to pull off your shirt, and come up behind me. When your shirt’s off you put your arms around me. I lean into you, and you begin stroking me with your hands, getting me ready. My nipples jump to attention.”
“Like this?” he asked, moving his hands to his own chest, making swift circles around the nipples, and suddenly pinching a nipple, hard.
“Yes – but slower. Much slower. I want this to last, after all – I want the audience to get ready with me. I want them to be getting excited and – ”
“And this gets you ready too damn fast.” He suddenly moved one hand away from his chest and snapped his fingers together, grinning. She shook her head; she almost laughed, but she recovered herself, keeping her hands on her breasts.
“Exactly. So I step forwards, pushing away from you a bit, and suddenly turn to the side, so the audience can see you clearly. The spotlight suddenly shines on your pants. You’re bulging. You look at me, and I nod. I can’t have you too uncomfortable, after all, and I let you take off your pants and your boxer shorts. The spotlight illuminates every single detail. You’re huge – huger than you’ve ever been before, you’re so turned on.”
“Am I?”
She nodded. “Three of the women in the front row pass out.”
He laughed. “Stop it.”
“No, really. They’re, like, nuns or something. Anyway, I let the audience take a long, slow look before I pull you to me. You’ve got work to do, after all. I point to my breast.” A slender finger on her left hand pointed at a breast as a thumb moved towards the nipple, stroking it. “You’re so turned on that you forget about the whole thing – that your tongue’s supposed to be dancing over me. Instead, you grab the breast with your whole mouth, taking in the entire nipple, and begin sucking on it. I let you do this for a bit – it feels pretty good, after all – before I remember the audience. I push you off.”
“Ooh,” he said, with a pathetic pout.
She put her hands on her legs, rubbing gently. “I remind you that your tongue’s supposed to be doing the dancing, not your teeth. The audience laughs . . .”
“Are we miked?”
“Yes. So they can hear everything we say or breathe. Anyway, they laugh, and then I let you start working on my breast again. Only this time, you just use your tongue, nothing else. I let us swirl around a bit so that the audience can see every angle.”
“Right. You’d be moaning helplessly and you know it.”
“I would not.”
“Right.” He flicked a careless finger towards her right nipple. She gasped, almost on cue. “I know you, remember? Since when have you ever been able to focus on anything once I’ve even noticed your breasts?”
“If that were true, I’d get nothing done. You’re fixated on them.”
He gave her a long look, touching his tongue to the top of his lips as she took a deep breath and allowed her hands to wander back to her sweater. He hid a grin. Not that everyone would notice, but she had moved one or two fingers under the sweater – and they were wandering towards the edge of her panties. “True. Not that anyone can blame me . . . So, you’re on the stage, moaning, I’ve got my tongue dancing over you — ”
“In rhythm – ”
“Rhythm?” he said, unable to move his eyes from her dancing fingers. He lifted an eyebrow. She smiled back.
“ ‘Forty-Second Street’ is still playing. The sound guy’s so turned on that he’s forgotten to change the music.” The fingers moved a bit lower.
“I glare at him.” He had, he realized, his own problems now. But he couldn’t stop watching those fingers. And – she couldn’t be. But she was – three fingers slipped in, even as she kept on talking.
“No, you don’t. You’re dancing your tongue over me, over my breasts, my nipples, my stomach – over every single inch. You’re trying to make me beg for you. But I’m managing to hold it in — mostly. I let out a few moans, and the audience starts to clap. You suddenly grin, and remind me: if the audience claps, you get to go on to the next stage.”
He watched her fingers moving up and down just inside her jeans, even as her other hand continued to play with her breasts. He covered up his groan with rapid speech. “Which means that I turn to the audience and shout, ‘Right?’ and they all scream back at me. Right?”
“Pretty much. You yell out to the audience, and they start clapping and cheering. You grin back at me, and ask me if that was artistic enough. I can’t really come up with any witty repartee – I just moan, and the audience cheers. I spread my legs out wide – sorta like an Olympic gymnast – and let everybody have a good long look.” In the chair, her legs opened, gaping; her fingers snuck out from under her jeans and moved back to the tops of them, still rubbing lightly. “I hold that for maybe 15, 20 seconds, even while you’re panting behind me begging me to let you fuck me. The audience is loving this – a few of them are even cheering you on, or cheering me on, telling me they want a longer look, even while most of them are remembering that they are on Broadway, after all. So they just clap politely.”
“They’re clapping politely?” He allowed his fingers to trail over his own erection, never taking his eyes off her.
“You can’t stand it. You’re hearing the audience and seeing my legs spread and hearing your own voice begging me to let you fuck me and all of a sudden you go nuts. You grab me and move me forwards and suddenly ram into me from behind. You pull my butt up, getting me into doggie position. I can’t resist; you’re filling me up so hard and so well that all I can do is hang on to the floor. I groan, and the audience is cheering.”
“Oh, yeah.” He kept his movements as slow, as discreet as possible, but she saw him, and gave him the tiniest of grins.
“It totally, totally gets you off. You keep pounding into me, going deeper, deeper, shouting out to the audience how hot I am, how tight I am, how no other woman could ever do this to you. I don’t let you stop. I make you keep going and going — every position, every angle, left, right, front. You on top, me on top. Doggie style, sideways – you name it. For hours.”
“Hours?” He tried to slow his own fingers, found this impossible.
“We’re so turned on by this time that we can’t stop – it becomes endless. It tortures the audience. The men have their fingers up and down their dicks and the women are playing with their clits, aching for me to come. Waiting for me to release it. And when I finally do, they gasp out, and come too. Almost at the same time. Five hundred simultaneous orgasms. It’s wonderful. It’s art. They’re gasping and cheering and calling out to God.”
“Do I get to come, too?”
“Oh, yes, just after I do. While the audience are still recovering from me. You come, and when you do, they all come, every one of them, all over again. Five hundred people coming at once. All because of me.” She circled her hands around her breasts, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Their moans go right through my body, making it vibrate and shake.”
“Because of you.”
“Well, and you too. A bit.” She gave her nipples a sudden pinch; he watched blood rush into her cheeks. She placed her hands carefully on the sides of the chair, drawing her legs together. “What do you think?”
“That’s your idea of art? Basic fucking?” he asked.
She leaned back in her chair, the picture of calm domestic comfort. “What else? How would you do it?”
He mimicked her movements, sinking back into his black chair, placing his hands on the arms and gripping them firmly. “Well, for one, you never described the set.”
“I was just thinking a bare stage.” Her grip, too, he noted, was fairly tight. He kept his grin to himself.
“Oh, come on. For one thing, it’s too hard on the knees. We’ve gotta have something there – some type of elegant Oriental rug at least. It’s the only old thing on the stage, though. Everything else is absolutely modern – black leather couches, those real ugly black lamps, you know. Everything in black. Except us.”
“We’re not wearing anything, right?” A few of her fingers lifted off the chair’s arm.
His own hands stayed tight. “We’re in costumes. But the costumes don’t fit.”
“They don’t?” Her fingers moved back down.
“No. When the audience first sees us, they think there’s something wrong with our costumes – that we’ve stepped onto the wrong stage. We look like figures from the Commedia D’ell Ante – you in a soft pink gown and a butterfly mask, me in a Harlequin costume. Almost. The mask is right – slightly primitive, a leather one rather than that plastic crap you see on stages – but the patches on the costume aren’t diamonds, they’re dicks. Red against the black.”
“Erect?” Her hand trembled.
“Of course. Not that I’m giving anyone time to study the costumes. The stage goes dark almost immediately. Five seconds of total darkness, and then the spotlight comes back on. Two tiny narrow spots that just illuminate our masks, nothing more. The audience watches, puzzled and just a bit bored. They can’t see that, behind your mask you’re beginning to moan, and they can’t see that in the darkness, I’ve flipped up your skirt – it’s cut short in the back – and I’m running my hand up and down your clit.”
He took his hand off the chair, moving it towards her, keeping just inches away from her hand. “The audience is starting to get a bit suspicious though. Even though you’ve been told to keep absolutely still, you can’t help breathing more deeply, can’t help moving your face a little with my fingers, a movement that makes your mask dance in the cool spotlight. And they’re starting to hear something as well. You’re trying to stay absolutely quiet, but my fingers just happen to strike that one place on you, and you start to moan. Loudly. You tilt your head back, and suddenly another spotlight comes on, aimed directly at your hand and my fingers. The audience blinks, not quite sure what they’re seeing at first, and then suddenly gasps. When I hear them, I stop.”
“Hey.” Her fingers backed up along the chair, away from his.
He extended his arm. “It’s only for a moment. I show them my hand, still dripping with your juices, and let it shine in the spotlight for a moment, before I lead you to the table, making you sit on its edge. I want to make sure that they have a good view.”
“No cushions?” The arm crept back out.
“You don’t care about cushions; all you care about is getting my fingers back inside you. You sit up and spread your legs out on the table and grab my hand. The audience is mesmerized. They watch my fingers dance on and in you in total silence. The only thing they can hear is your moans, which are filling the theatre by now, especially since I won’t quite let you come. Not yet. The audience starts to mutter. They know I’m torturing you, know that I’m keeping you right at the edge, and they can’t decide if they like it or hate it. As they start to mutter, you start to beg for it. Softly at first – with the music, only I can hear you – but then louder and louder.”
“Like you’d be able to resist for that long.”
“Surprisingly, I can. Maybe it’s the audience, maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, I keep you going for a long time before I suddenly twist the table so that the audience will get a good side view and, before anyone quite realizes what’s happening, I’ve slid into you, and you’re coming, moaning through your mask.”
“What’s the audience doing?”
“Masturbating. They can’t help it. Even the ones who’ve seen live sex shows before have never seen anything this primal, this forceful, on the stage. They’re used to bored people licking each other and going at it like porn stars. This is different. This is real. Maybe more real because they have no idea who we are, because we are two faceless people behind cold masks. They breathe with me as I tear into you, as I thrust myself completely into you, trying to become one with you even through the masks. They breathe with you as you reach up to grab my back, to dig into me, to push me into you. They can’t believe the energy that we’re creating, the energy that’s going throughout the stage and throughout the theatre. And they can’t believe how long it takes us to come.”
“Do they come with us?”
He considered that for a moment. “No. They’ve waited, and they continue to wait, not one of them coming until they can clearly see that it’s over, until they can see you draped across me, spent. We don’t move for a moment, wondering what they thought about it. They can’t tell us; they’re all too busy fucking themselves and moaning.”
He paused, and looked at her. She placed tapered fingers against her lips. “That’s your form of art? Something totally fake?”
He shrugs. “Seems to be pure Broadway to me.”
“Not that you’ve ever been to a Broadway show, of course. And Cats doesn’t count.”
“Why don’t we let an audience decide?” he offered. “Pure applause. Whoever is louder wins. And no cat-calling, either. Pure clapping. For you – ” he paused, waited, smiled broadly “ – and for me.” He paused again, and grinned at her. He took her hand, and they stood, side by side.
His pants were still bulging; her face was flushed and open. He raised one hand, pointing at her, and waited for a few minutes. She grinned again, and he pointed at himself.
“I think I win on loudness,” she offered, after a moment.
He shrugged. “Maybe.” He allowed a doubtful note to enter his voice. “It’s very close. But I definitely win on length.”
“Length wasn’t the criterion.”
“Point taken.” He bowed mockingly to her. “Shall we call it a tie?”
She bowed back, and gave him the hand that had been so recently playing under her jeans. He realized again that he should have worn looser pants. It was too late now. With a final smile at each other, they turned and bowed.
In front of them, the audience of investors applauded again. He noted with a grin that several of the men should have worn looser pants as well, and that at least one woman was doing an odd sort of one-handed clapping. His grin got even broader when he saw that at least three of them were reaching for cheque books.
They might be able to turn this from art into reality after all.