Row F, Seat 12

[OD****]

We walked in like any couple might. A casual brush of hands. Shared popcorn. Eyes on the screen, not each other. The theater was packed—bodies all around, murmuring, shifting in seats, drowning in Dolby surround. Perfect cover.

I chose the seats carefully. Sixth row from the back. Offset from center. Just enough of a dip in the floor to hide movement. Just enough crowd to blend in.

She didn’t say a word. Just slid her hand onto my thigh partway through the previews. Flat. Possessive. Not teasing—claiming. Her touch was calm, but my pulse wasn’t. I stared straight ahead, hyper-aware of the weight of her palm and the subtle drag of her fingertips.

I felt myself harden under her hand. Couldn’t stop it. Didn’t try.

She waited until the second explosion on screen. Something loud and messy. That’s when she moved—slowly, casually—adjusting her jacket, leaning forward like she dropped something. I glanced sideways. Her hair fell like a curtain. Her mouth was already close.

The first contact was subtle. Just lips through fabric. A warm, damp kiss over the bulge in my jeans. I sucked in a breath, held it. She did it again. Firmer. Her tongue pressed against the seam, tracing the shape of me. My hands tensed on the armrests.

When she unzipped me, it was like sleight of hand—fluid, practiced, quiet. Her fingers slipped in, curled around my cock, already stiff and twitching with need. She freed me with care, just enough to lower her mouth and take me in.

And fuck—she took her time.

The heat of her mouth was unreal. Wet, soft, engulfing. Her lips wrapped around the head first, teasing, tongue circling like she wanted to taste every nerve ending. I bit down a moan. My hips jerked, barely, and I ***d myself to still. She deserved every second of control I could give her.

She sank lower. Sucked deeper. Worked her throat around me with patient, decadent rhythm. No rush. No clumsy urgency. Just pure, knowing devotion. I could feel the saliva coating every inch she swallowed. Could feel the flex of her tongue on the underside. Could feel the dangerous thrill of her breath against my skin between sucks.

Around us, the audience was lost in some car chase. Bright lights. Deafening sound. But for me, time had narrowed to the hot, wet pull of her mouth and the roar of *** in my ears.

My cock throbbed with every stroke. I was close. Too close. I reached down—not to stop her, not to push—just to touch. My fingers tangled in her hair, gentle but clear: not yet.

She eased off, letting my tip slide from her lips with a quiet pop I felt more than heard. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking slowly, keeping me right on the edge. I was dripping, flushed, desperate—and still buried in the thrill of not getting caught.

She licked me once more. Long. Slow. Up the length of me like she meant to brand it into memory.

Then she tucked me back in, zipped me up, and sat like nothing had happened. Sipped water. Crossed her legs.

I didn’t move. Just breathed. Just tried to remember my name while the movie kept going, unnoticed.

Her hand slid back onto mine. Our fingers laced. The rest of the room could’ve vanished.

But my leg wouldn’t stop shaking.