And so, a minute or two later, Sandra began to cum. Right there, in her seat, at the San Francisco opera.
It was all involuntary. The orgasm was lit as much by the risky, risqué situation I had placed her in as by my constant nipple play. She gave a series of small, quick jerking motions between short, snorting breaths. Her exposed thighs pressed together hard. She gently rocked her hips in the padded opera seat. Another, stronger orgasm followed. Her knees parted and I watched her hands grasp the padded arms of our seats. Followed by a kind of quiet shock wave that rolled up her torso from thighs to hips to shoulders.
What a good-good girl.
Thru closed eyes Sandra gave another gasp and sort of ‘imploded’ again, holding the orgasm close and tight across her body.
Impressive discipline, I thought. Delightful.
Time for phase two of our own little opera play.
I continued with the nipple by alternating the pressure and pulling outwards, stretching the nubby skin and holding her tight like that until… yes, she came a fourth time, so hard that her entire body shook in the semi-darkness of the opera’s third and final act.
Four orgasms. Held so close and tight that no one nearby seemed to be aware.
She grasped the hem of the dress and crushed the material into fists. The hem lifted higher. She came again, a convulsion that this time pushed her hips outward and up offering a momentary view of bare inner thighs and vulva fully revealed at the edge of theater shadows.
Her breathing was fast, body trembling now. Her head dropped onto my shoulder. I slowly released my hold on her, gradually slipped my hand up and onto the back of the seat. Giving her a minute or two to consider what had just happened, I reached across with my left arm and slipped the left strap of her dress down her shoulder. The slippery material tumbled away as it had in the lobby, this time fully revealing the breast closest to me in the flickering stage lit shadows of that great hall. Apart from an occasional downward glance I paid no attention to her exposure. I just let it be. Her bared breast surrounded by thousands of strangers in one of San Francisco’s premier venues.
Sandra didn’t move. Her breathing continued to be short and shallow. This went on till the finale, to rousing applause, while the theater lights came up full and I returned the spaghetti strap to its shoulder.
Had anyone seen my hand inside her dress? Had anyone noticed the series of fantastic orgasms given up in public? Did anyone else enjoy all that bare skin set free for nearly the entire third act? I never knew. There were no looks cast our way, no words spoken. No one approached us afterwards.
But, really, it didn’t matter if anyone had seen. It only mattered that Sandra had served her Sir well, first by teasing the tuxedoed men in the lobby, then surrendering to my attentions in the theater, cumming in the semi-darkness as I hoped she would, sitting exposed to the players on stage. It was the opera, after all. It was the theater. A place for lively entertainment of the highest order. Surely this woman’s beauty and her ‘forced’ pleasure fit the standard. Surely this was all just an important part of proper power exchange training. She was safe, serene, owned and adored. Slippery too, I was sure.
As we walked to my car her thoughts may have wandered to the two business cards inside my tuxedo pocket. Did she ask herself, what’s next?
We drove to our weekend retreat — a room at the Mark Hopkins hotel — where I slowly undressed her in front of the uncovered fourth floor window overlooking California Street.
Before making a few phone calls.