“All the world’s a stage . . .” I prefer to think of it as a movie. How ideal it would be to create my own reality – to leave the imperfect scenes of my life on the cutting room floor, to be the star in my unfulfilled fantasies, to direct the actions of co-stars of my own acquaintance and choosing engaged with me in the pursuit of my innermost desires.
It’s my personal escape, my frequent fantasies unbound and uncensored by the harsh reality of my entrapment in this suburban ulcer buried in the agricultural belly of California.
So let the curtain rise and let’s light up the silver screen with the projection of a little X-rated version of my “reel life” . . .
My Friday nights had become a social desert, with not even a mirage of a sexual oasis in sight. I had been restless, so restless, with the need to get out and not have to go deaf listening to my thoughts echo throughout the emptiness between these walls. I swigged the last mouthful of wine from my glass – cold wine, chilly as the blood coursing through my veins towards the reheating furnace of my heart – and turned out the lights, locking solitude behind the door as I turned the key.
Downtown, downtown, the drumming in my blood urged me on a four-block stroll to the brick sidewalks and jasmine-trellised walls of the downtown cafes and bars. It was still early in the summer here in central California, hot days melting into balmy nights. I wandered along the pathways, glancing in through plate-glass windows at the lovers holding hands at candlelit tables as they laughed and kissed. I turned away and kept walking westward toward the blazing sunset, its yolk-golden eye winking goodnight to tangerine-and-sloe-gin clouds. Music beckoned from the little bistro on the next block. As I neared, the trumpets sassed me – are those tears we see, wah-wah-wah – brassy throats muffled with their mutes; and the lone saxophone wrapped its sensual tongue around me and lured me into its moody melody. Come here, baby, you got the blues, you come to the right place . . . them blues, they come to life in this joint . . .
I found a small table off to the side and ordered a Merlot from my favourite waitress. Her name’s Thomasina, but she goes by “Tommi”. She’s a cute little thing, tight arse, big breasts that haven’t had the time yet to go anywhere but forward. This particular night, they strained against her thin shirt, some flimsy knitted material, white with thin red horizontal stripes that magnified those magnificent knockers. Tommi has short hair, dyed red with purply feathers of colour at the ends, and wide, green cat-eyes dripping with dark eyelashes. She lines her eyes with kohl green eyeliner and brushes the lids tin-can rust. She leaned over to deliver my drink and smiled slyly at me as she noticed me watching her cleavage.
“Enjoy,” she whispered in my ear, the heat and puff of breath sending a shiver through me. I watched her arse undulate beneath her black miniskirt, admiring the firmness and musculature of her calves – she’s a hiker, a real mountain girl, and she has the legs to prove it.
The crowd was small for a Friday, all of us drawn in by the pulse of the ensemble resurrecting Charlie Parker and Dinah Washington up on the stage. The lights were low and there was a light haze settling throughout the room. How that room could always be smoky with a “no smoking” ordinance is beyond me, it must be the spirits of the old jazz and blues musicians flowing in with the music.
By my second glass of wine, I was feeling easy and loose, the sax’s wail crying a river into my body, the notes tapping on the nerves of my thighs and my pussy. I surreptitiously slipped a couple of fingers under the hem of my short skirt – I was wet down there and I could feel a thrumming between my nether lips. My nipples, long-neglected by pursed lips, were swelling against the silky blouse I was wearing.
Tommi came up behind me and ran a hand lightly across my shoulder, then leaned over me and whispered again. “I’m on a half-hour break. Why don’t you come join me?”
I followed her as she manoeuvred across the dance floor where couples were engaged in the tango of foreplay to the groaning of the saxophone. She removed a key from the pocket of her waitress apron and unlocked a door marked “Private” located just beyond the restrooms. There was a steep claustrophobic staircase and she motioned for me to follow her upwards. I watched the muscles ripple across her calves and the back of her thighs and felt something drip down the inside of one of my own thighs.
At the top of the stairs, we turned left and she unlocked a door with “2B” in carved wooden figures in the centre. “Home, sweet home,” Tommi said, untying her apron and tossing it over the back of a cane-backed chair.
“You live here?” I asked, scrutinizing her pocket-sized living quarters.
“Yep, it’s convenient and cheap,” she answered as she wandered around the apartment while she lit candles on the counters and bookcases. The sweet smell of gardenias filled the room. A flamingo flaming in pink neon stood guard in the one window I could see.
Tommi turned to me and those green eyes swallowed up my body, running from my nipples fighting the irritating tightness of my pink silk blouse, down my long waist, down to where my clasping grey pinstripe skirt halted mid-thigh. I’m taller than she, maybe three or four inches, and older by a good ten years. I kicked off my shoes, dusky pink stiletto heels that match my blouse.
She came to me, and brushed a thumb across the nub of one nipple that protruded through the silk. I grunted and moaned softly as she continued with the other hand, then cupped my breasts – heavy breasts, but not as endowed as hers – and I felt that drip continuing down my thigh. She unbuttoned my blouse and unclasped the frail bra that imprisoned my breasts, letting my blouse fall to the carpet. She leaned forward and tongued my nipples, her breath warm, her tongue warm, her hands warm against my skin.
I fondled her tits through her shirt, tugging at the fabric until she pulled back and skimmed the shirt over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but those huge globes jutted forward even without artificial support. Tommi’s so young and so athletic. Her smooth tanned skin was beading up with droplets of perspiration. I hadn’t noticed before how warm it was in there, even with the small window air conditioner running.
Tommi undid the two buttons at the side of her skirt and let it pool to her feet. She was wearing a thong, red, shimmery, with some design of roses embroidered on the fabric. The springy pubic hair peeking out from the front triangle was dark and shiny. She came to me again, sucking my tits harder, her hands gliding down my back to the zipper of my skirt. Slowly, she lowered the zipper, the metal snickering down over the teeth. I preferred a garter belt that night, deep pink and satin, with silky pink stockings. She pushed me onto the bed and gazed down intently as I raised one leg at a time and slicked my stockings down my smooth legs. I, too, stay in shape, dancing and roller blading to fend off the agents of time.
“Let me touch you,” she said quietly, the candlelight flickering shadows along her little body.
I lay back on the bed, such a small bed, but with just enough room for the two of us. She knelt between my legs and ran her finger up the inside of my thigh, first one, then the other, from the back of my knee to just where my pubes start. My sensitive skin shuddered at the sensation and a nerve jumped between my labia. Her finger wandered further upward and she played with my lower lips, squeezing and pulling the flesh until we both felt it swelling and thickening. She slipped her finger inside my pussy, inside the hot flesh, inside the steaming folds. My eyes closed as she played with one nipple with her free hand, rolling the nub between thumb and fingers. I sighed as she inserted another finger and explored my crevice.
I reached for her, my hands touching her beautiful tits, feeling their firmness, their softness, rose-petal soft. I touched her waist, her hips, and undid the strings of her thong. She withdrew her fingers and put them to her lips. Her tongue snaked out, a tongue imbedded with a single red tongue ring, and she licked my wetness from her fingertips.
“Popcorn,” she whispered. “You taste like hot, buttered popcorn, sweet and salty all at the same time.” She straddled my waist and leaned down to share what was on her tongue with my own. Her tongue probed between my lips and I answered with my own exploration of that pink, studded organ, the two of us encircling and enwrapping tongues.
My hands rested on her hips, supporting her as she leaned in. My fingers took off on a journey of their own, travelling between the tight cheeks of her arse until I reached her tiny puckerhole. I dipped in a finger and she hissed with pleasure. I pushed in further and could feel her sucking me in with her sphincter muscles. She pushed herself up above me, her arms straight, her head bent back as she welcomed my probing fingers.
Her head fell forward and those cat eyes gazed into mine, then closed again. She lowered herself down my sweating body, kissing my breasts as she descended, kissing my navel, kissing my bikini line. She dipped her tongue into my pussy, quickly, like a little cat lapping at its water bowl. Then Tommi settled into her desire, into my desire, her tongue pushing deep into my swollen crevice. I felt the stud from her tongue ring rub against my clit and the little bud swelled at the contact. Tommi knew this, that’s why she wears the pearl-like orb. She continued rubbing it against my clit, just grazing it, drawing out the nectars of my inner flesh.
Her hands were clenched around my hips, holding them in place as I tried to arch against her mouth. I moaned, I muttered. “Fuck me, fuck me, you red-haired puss, suck it out me,” is what I was saying, but mostly in my head. What came out of my mouth were the unintelligible words of rapture, whispered, moaned, grunted, cried out.
She flicked harder now against my clit, and I could feel the gears shift inside my body, I could feel the build-up starting, the line growing taut. The line snapped and whipped as Tommi shoved her thumb up my arse and pressed against the thin wall separating the two orifices. I thrashed on the narrow bed, my head whipping my long hair from side to side as I came inside Tommi’s talented mouth. Without breaking the tempo, we managed to switch positions, and I became the one sliding down Tommi’s juicy, compact body.
I filled my mouth with her breast, circling around the nipple with my tongue. Her nipples are large and chewy, and I giggled, thinking of red liquorice whips as I nibbled on her. As I slid south, I noticed that she had a small rose tattooed just above her pubic hair. I kissed it, kissed the rose, kissed the soft petals of her pussy. I liked the fact that she doesn’t shave her mons like so many of the younger girls. Why look like a child when you are all woman?
As I played with her labia, I discovered that she was pierced down there as well. I had heard about the benefits of having labial rings. I pulled with the tip of my tongue at the two she wears and she cried out, not in pain, but in ecstasy. I fluttered my tongue across them, across the opening into her tight little pussy and her hips rose to meet my mouth.
I felt Tommi straining above me and heard a drawer slap shut. “Here,” she breathed heavily, shoving something at me with one hand while she raked my hair with the other hand. “Put it in my arse.”
It was a dildo, short and thin, one of the expensive ones that has the texture and colour of the real thing. I put it in my mouth and sucked at it, then slipped it inside my soaked pussy, lubricating the surface of the instrument of pleasure. I poked and prodded at her little butthole with the dildo, slowly making headway as she sucked it inside her.
I returned to my investigation of her pussy, lapping at the lips, enjoying the taste of her juices as they ran over my lips and chin, all the while working her slender little joystick inside her back hole. Tommi was a noisy gal, mewing and crying out as she bucked on the bed. I hoped the band was still performing or the bistro patrons would be getting a different type of entertainment in a minute. And it was a minute, a New York minute, quick as the little red-haired fox she resembles. Tommi exploding in orgasm. Her thighs shook and clenched about my head, and she rammed her pubic mound against my mouth as she drenched it with her inner ambrosia.
The storm subsided and we lay there on the bed, our skin cooling in the flow of the air conditioner. We heard the distant rumble of thunder and the pattering of rain on the protruding shell of the air conditioner – another rare summer storm. Tommi was the first to rise, gathering up clothing and putting herself in order to finish her shift downstairs. I couldn’t find one of my stockings, so I gave up on wearing any undergarments whatsoever and pulled on my skirt and blouse. I bent over and ran my hands through my hair until I’d cleared out most of the tangles.
Tommi kissed me gently on the lips as she passed on her way to retrieve her apron. She smiled. “Thank you. I always wondered what you were like, seeing you in here on Friday nights, all by yourself.”
“Popcorn, remember. A full box of hot, buttered popcorn,” I answered, slipping into my shoes.
Tommi laughed and applied a thin layer of lipstick as she contemplated herself in the mirror hung over her dresser.
There was a gentle tap at the door. “Tommi, girl, you in there, baby?” A man’s voice, soft and inquiring. The knob turned and a man’s curly-haired head appeared around the door. “Oh, sorry, baby, didn’t know you had company. Your break’s over and I was just wondering if you were okay.”
“I’m fine. Just fine,” Tommi emphasized with a smile as she looked at me. “Come on in, Boone. This is my friend, Autumn,” she introduced me.
The man and I shook hands and I felt something surge between the two of us. I tried not to react, but Tommi had already noticed. She smiled again. “Boone owns this place. He lets me stay here for minimal rent. We’re really close,” she added.
“Nice to meet you.” He finally withdrew his hand which was powerful and sinewy, yet surprisingly gentle in his touch. He coolly assessed me with blue eyes the same ice-blue hue as that of a Siberian husky. I met his gaze with my own assessment of his qualities.
He ran a hand through his deep-red curls. Boone is my age, with a spattering of freckles across his cheeks, but his skin is bronzed, not the pale cream I usually associate with red hair. “Tommi, I’m heading over to the old theatre for the late showing. I think they’ve got something with Bogart and Bacall. Can you lock up tonight?”
I could already see the gears turning in Tommi’s little head. “Sure, Boone. In fact, I think Autumn likes the old movies. Maybe you two should go together. Nothing like a little popcorn on a Friday night, right, Autumn?” She grinned a devious imp’s smile.
“Hey, that would be great,” Boone jumped in without waiting for my reply. As though I would have answered anything but “yes”. I could feel something quivering between my thighs and I didn’t think it was from the previous half-hour’s gymnastics.
Tommi scampered down the steps ahead of us as Boone urged me ahead of him with a gentle nudge of his warm hand in the small of my back.
We walked out into the humid evening air, the jasmine’s scent thick in the darkness. The thundershower had passed, but an occasional sprinkle drizzled down on us as we walked the four blocks to the old theatre which shows the classics every Friday and Saturday night. We spoke of our occupations, how we had come to know our mutual friend, Tommi, of how talented the band was this evening. Moths, some with wing-spans as wide as Boone’s hand, knocked against the lights flaring at the top of the old-fashioned lampposts.
“Two, please,” Boone said pleasantly with a charming smile to the ticket girl. “My treat,” he waved off my offer to pay my own way.
“So, do you want some popcorn?” he asked, remembering Tommi’s earlier comment.
“Urn, not really. Actually, I feel like some liquorice whips,” I said.
“Hmmm, a woman who likes whips. My kind of woman,” Boone growled, then flashed that smile at me. I felt something contract in my loins and my skin flushed. He handed me the box of liquorice whips and, as his hand brushed mine, I felt that familiar fluid sliding down the inside of my thigh.
We headed into the darkness of the theatre, his warm hand pressed to my back, this time just a little lower, as he guided me to the back row of seats. There were only about two dozen patrons there, most of them sitting towards the front. Real film aficionados, I guessed. The storm had come back again, a thunderclap rattling the old building. “Looks like it’s going to be a wet evening,” Boone commented in a low voice as we settled into our seats.
The lights in the theatre went down, and the film reel started unwinding its tale of murder and love on the rocks with a twist, with Bacall giving Bogie a good look at those half-mast eyes, her husky voice and no-holds-barred attitude reeling the tough man in.
I’d opened my box of liquorice whips and took one into my mouth, savouring the red sweetness, remembering the chewiness of Tommi’s erect nipples. I could see Boone from the corner of my eye, his head turned just slightly, pretending to pay attention to the movie. He was watching me intently, his ice-eyes nearly glowing in the reflection on the silver screen, watching me tongue my candy whip, watching me suck on it.
There was a squeak as he shifted in his seat and draped his forearm over the wooden armrest between us. He lowered his hand, its warmth resting on my naked thigh. He slid his fingers higher, exploring my skin, feeling for the panties that weren’t there. I spread my thighs apart as his fingers reached my muff. He inserted one digit into my already damp slit and slicked it around inside me. He pulled out his finger and tasted what clung to his skin.
“Sweet and salty,” he whispered into my ear as he leaned over the seat.
“A good night for popcorn,” I whispered back, and he chuckled as he realized the joke.
It was my turn to play. I placed my hand in his crotch and felt a thick bulge beneath his zipper. I unzipped him, the metallic rasping noise well-covered by the swelling violins onscreen. He wasn’t wearing anything, no briefs, no boxers, no anything. Just a handful – well, a little more than a handful – of heated, pulsing flesh that jumped at my touch in excited greeting. I ran my fingertips gently over the plum-shaped head, down his veined shaft, down to his heavy balls. “Feels like a full load in there,” I whispered into his ear.
He slipped down a little in his seat and I stroked him harder, keeping an eye out for an usher. Boone sat up suddenly and I withdrew my hand, startled. He zipped himself up and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet. He drew me to the rear of the theatre, behind the scarlet velvet curtains draped along the back wall.
“What are you doing?” I whispered ferociously. It was dark and dusty back there, and I had a sudden mental view of big, fat spiders hanging at the end of their webs, just waiting for a couple of tasty morsels such as ourselves.
“Secret passage,” he whispered. He was feeling along the wall with his hands, and I heard his hand make contact with wood, then the rattling of a knob. Boone swore. There was the jingling of keys, then the sound of a key slipping inside a lock, turning, and the snap as the tumblers ceded to the key.
Boone pulled me inside the door and closed it behind us. It was pitch-black in there, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t stayed up and watched all those midnight monster flicks as a child. There was the sound of a lighter igniting and a small flame lit up the tiny room. Boone held his lighter aloft with a smirk of triumph on his freckled, bronzed face.
“Where are we?” I asked sotto voce, looking around me at the empty wooden shelves, barren wooden desk, and plaid cloth couch, its two seat cushions looking a bit dusty, but none the worse for wear.
“This is the old storage room. They used to keep special stuff that the owners managed to purchase from the studios back here. The former owner was quite a collector. We used to come here and smoke and grab a beer or sometimes a thermos cup of coffee and something stronger when I was a teenager.”
“Did you used to work here?”
“Yeah. Long time ago. My dad owned the place and made sure I was gainfully employed as usher, janitor, ticket-taker, you name it, to earn my keep.”
“And you still have the key to the door?” I shook my head in amazement as I looked around at the room.
“Well, I have a skeleton key to some of the doors in my bistro. Dad owned both places and I remembered while we were sitting out there that he used the same locksmith for both joints. It figures that the key would fit some of the doors here.” Boone rummaged through the desk drawers.
“Hah, here we go,” he exclaimed, holding up a couple of stocky red candles with a waterfall’s worth of drippings frozen along the sides. “We used to smoke some stronger stuff than cigarettes back here, so we had to have something to cover the smell.” He lowered the lighter to the wicks, and after a protesting dust-choked crackle and spit, the candles lit up with a rosy glow. He placed them on the desk and turned to the couch. Boone picked up the cushions and slapped them together, knocking off the gathered dust of the past, and replaced them.
“Come here, Miss No-Panties,” Boone ordered, plopping down on the couch and crooking an index finger at me.
“Who, me?” I asked innocently. I sashayed to the couch and arranged myself on the cushion next to him.
Boone put an arm around my shoulders and drew me to him. He kissed me softly on the lips, mouth closed. He touched my breast through my blouse, then began to unbutton me. I felt like I was eighteen again, the thrill of a boy’s hand on my breast and his lips on mine making me tingle down below. He broke the kiss for a second, ridding me of my blouse. His lips returned to mine, pressed harder this time, more urgent. Our lips parted, and I tasted the minty sweetness of his breath as his tongue reached in and snaked around mine. I curled up, kicking off my shoes; I heard his loafers hit the floor at about the same time.
I pulled away and unbuckled his belt, unzipped him, and tugged at his pants. He raised his hips and I yanked his pants off. I hunched down on the couch, backing up until my arse hit one of the cushioned arms. I kissed him on the hip, on his flat, lightly furred belly, on the head of his swollen cock. He played with one of my breasts while he urged my head down onto his phallus. I licked the shaft, licked his balls, and took them into my mouth.
“Oh, yeah, girl, don’t stop that,” he hissed. He pinched my nipples; the sensation walked the tightrope between pain and pleasure.
I rolled my tongue around his balls, feeling how packed they were. Yes, it was certainly going to be a wet night. I moved on to the shaft of his cock, thick, solid, veined with throbbing channels of heated blood. The skin was marble-smooth. I lowered my mouth onto him, taking his length into my mouth until the tip of his dick entered my throat. He shoved it deeper into me, wrapping his fingers in my hair. My tongue glided up and down the shaft, my lips suctioning him in, savouring his humid flesh. He was starting to exude the fluids building up in those swollen balls at the base of his cock.
“Not yet,” I heard him whisper breathlessly. He took his dick in his hand and pulled it from my mouth, rubbing the head against my lips and cheeks. I flicked out my tongue and tasted the tiny droplets of come leaking from the tip.
“Turn around,” Boone directed me. “I want you from the rear.”
I complied, curling up into a tight ball, displaying my arse to him. I was still clad in my short skirt, and Boone shoved it up until it bunched around my hips. He still wore his shirt, but the buttons had been undone, and it flailed on either side of me like wings as he mounted me. He drove his cock into my pussy slowly, then withdrew it. He did this several times, teasing me with his instrument.
“Give it to me, Boone,” I begged him, wanting his length inside my valley of wet, swollen, pink flesh.
He relented, ramming the entire shaft into me up to his root. He filled me completely this way, from the rear. He reached around my hips and played with my pussy lips, played with my clit as he rocked within me. God, it felt so good, the pressure of his fingertip against my swelling bud. My wetness lubricated his shaft and the sucking sound of him riding my inner shell filled this tiny room. I arched my shoulders as he drove into me and pumped my ass back into his crotch.
He slapped my arse cheeks, softly at first, testing the waters and my reaction. I gasped, but with pleasure at the brisk crack of his hand contacting my white flesh. Realizing I welcomed the touch, he grew bolder, spanking my arse harder and harder until the flesh burned red and heated, almost unbearable, but just bearable. His breath was loud as he flicked his tongue into my ear. It drove me fucking wild and the combination of his tongue and his finger tips and his punishing palm bringing me to orgasm. I mewed and cried and bucked, crazed with the stimulation and friction against my sensitive sensual spots. Explosions of black and red and brilliant white fireworks filled my sight as he slammed into me. He shuddered and shook, thighs trembling against my arse cheeks.
He came, the white froth of his heated cauldron a shotgun blast into my pussy, overflowing its small encasement, dripping down my thighs and flowing up into the crack of my ass. Boone cried out, a teeth-clenched rasping howl of ecstasy. His ramming eased back to short, stabbing pokes into my hole as the last of his jettisoned spume escaped his cock.
Finally there was no sound but the harsh, oxygen-deprived gasping of our combined breath. Boone withdrew his cock from me and sat on the couch, pulling me into his arms. He kissed my lips gently and smoothed back a lock of my hair that fell over my perspiring brow.
The candles were guttering – had we been there that long? We pulled on our clothing, racing the failing light of the dying candles. They died out almost simultaneously, and once again I heard the rasp of the lighter as Boone flicked the starter. He relocked the door behind us and we cautiously retraced our steps back along the curtain and out into the theatre. The music was swelling as the credits rolled and the last of the patrons were already filing out the exit.
“Come on, let’s take the back way,” Boone said, heading for one of the exits that led us out into a back alleyway.
It was raining again, a gentle drizzle that made my silk blouse cling to me. Boone looked down approvingly as the fabric stuck to my breasts and my nipples extruded through the thin cloth. We ducked under awnings and into doorways as we headed back to the bistro.
“Why don’t you come on in for a nightcap?” Boone asked hopefully as we arrived at the bistro. The lights were out; Tommi had closed up for the night, but her flamingo stood gaudy guard in the window above us.
“Not tonight,” I answered, kissing him briefly on the cheek. “Let me take a rain check on that invitation,” I added.
He grinned that perfect-toothed smile and waggled his fingers in farewell as I headed down the emptying streets to my home.
For now, the curtain has come down and my characters are silent. But all I have to do is change reels, flick that sensitive pink switch, and another mental manuscript flickers to life within me.