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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Private Box © 2009 Barrie
Abalard
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Private Box
By Barrie Abalard
Chapter 1
Elizabeth Lawrence vowed that, even if she couldn’t have the career she longed for, she would at least have the sex life she wanted, and the family name be damned.
The family name—she’d always thought of it in letters fifty feet high, its font something understated yet classic, like Garamond or Goudy Old Style. The family name, the thing she’d sold her soul—or at least, her calling—to tend.
Well, no more.
She looked down from her private box at Boston’s Symphony Hall to the audience below. Money traveled in small, select circles, so she recognized a number of people in the orchestra seats. Some of them were clients of her family’s investment firm, the firm that had yanked her out of the world of art, and dumped her into the world of numbers and formulas and currencies.
Choosing a man she’d never seen before, she studied him. Perhaps he was new in town, or using a regular’s ticket. His thick brown hair, streaked with grey, was expensively-styled, and his shoulders seemed to span the width of the aisles. Best of all, she saw no female companion.
She had to have him.
She was alone in the box, as she always was. The rest of her family found classical music boring. She attended the Symphony because she loved music, but she pretended she took it upon herself as her duty to represent the Lawrences there. When the Symphony had named the entire mezzanine level after your ancestors, someone had better damned well show up for the occasional concert.
No one in the family knew that her rebellion, her personal sexual revolution, had begun in the box. With no one above her and only the top third of her body visible to those below, she had found it easy to finger herself at her leisure. She’d used dildos and quiet vibrators to good effect, managing to time her orgasms to coincide with the orchestra’s wildest efforts. But tonight, the idea of solitary sex bored her. She needed to take her sex life to the next level.
The symphony would end their performance with Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony,” whose fourth movement would begin with a soaring climax. It was sex in a series of notes, and she wanted to have sex during that series of notes. She wanted to match her orgasm with the symphonic one while fucking a stranger. So, when she spotted the thick broad-shouldered man, she decided she would enact her most secret fantasy, one of perfect, heart-stopping public sex.
As she watched the man, he gazed at the various private boxes above him, almost as if he were studying them. Once he saw her, their glances caught, and they held eye contact for a long moment.
She smiled. He smiled.
When the conductor strode on stage, she broke the contact. She could barely contain her impatience during the first half of the night’s performance, and touched herself to calm down.
Ten minutes before intermission, Elizabeth positioned herself by the wine bar. The fact that the man might have been gay, or simply not interested, never entered her mind. Instead, she focused on the fifteen minutes or so she would have to convince him to join her in her box for pulse-pounding sex.
Her assumptions were correct—the man drank wine, and liked sex with women. She approached him after he received his glass of red, not sure what she would say. She thought it a good sign that he checked out her cleavage. She smiled with teeth, and he returned the favor.
“And what’s your name?” he asked.
“Aphrodite,” she said. “And yours?”
“Dick.” He reached out to slip his finger under her dress’s only strap, his digit slipping to the swell of her breast. “I’m an ER doctor. Lovely dress, very artsy, brings out the silver in your eyes. What do you do?”
She allowed herself a moment of personal pride. Her asymmetrical, shimmering-gray dress highlighted her figure, yet she wore it because it was, as he said, artsy. Stepping close enough to brush her body against his, she said, “Investment banker. Care to join me in my private box?”
His hard length pressed against her belly. When the lights flickered, signaling that the audience should return to their seats, he said, “I’d be delighted.”
Once they were alone in the stairwell that provided entrance to the boxes, one of his hands clasped her bottom as she climbed the stairs. He pinched—hard—and the twinge jittered her heart.
He looks like an older version of—
She coughed to cover her nerves. Tonight, she would act out a favorite fantasy and flip off the family name simultaneously. She would not allow any other reasons—or any emotion whatsoever—to cloud her mind.
When they reached her box, she locked the door behind them before they sat. Leaning toward him, she murmured, “Here’s how it’s going to happen. We’ll sit and watch the orchestra perform Beethoven’s Fifth. You are free to touch me below the waist, as I am with you. No one will be able to see anything as long as touching is limited to our lower halves. Remove my clothing, if you can do so without attracting attention.
“At some point, we’ll fuck back there–” she pointed to an area in shadow, where a dark curtain hung, “–where we’ll be free to do whatever we wish, as long as we’re fairly quiet. You’re not a shouter, are you?”
When he shook his head, she continued. “No one will be able to see us, and we won’t be able to see anyone, including the musicians, though of course we will hear them. I don’t care how many times you make me come, or how many times you come, as long as we’re fucking when the third movement crescendos into the fourth, because I want to come at that precise moment, with you inside me. Do you know what I’m talking about? You’re familiar with the Fifth?”
He nodded.
“Three rules apply. One, tonight is a one-time deal. Two, no anal sex–I don’t care for it.”
Well, in actuality, she cared for it quite a lot. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Three, no talking once you agree to these rules. Do you?” she said.
His only answer was a smile, his hand already on her knee. She settled back in her seat, closing her eyes. When the music began, she let her fingers wander to his crotch while his slid under her dress. She ‘d worn thigh-high stockings and the briefest of thongs, so he would have no difficulty accessing her pussy.
Though he didn’t try to, not at first. He skimmed his fingertips up and down her inner thighs until she slumped in her seat, legs akimbo and trembling with anticipation. The first movement came and went, and he was still caressing her legs. By then, she’d progressed to unzipping his trousers to pull out his cock.
He was cut, with a lovely shape and size that her hand loved. She opened one eye to peek at it, and caught him staring at her.
At that moment, he moved his fingers to her pussy, raising his
eyebrows when he felt smooth hairlessness. She preferred to shave her entire genital area. The nakedness, as well as the idea of the nakedness, aroused her. Plus, it served as one more private rebellion against her white-bread background.
She played her fingers over the head of his cock, teasing the hole, rewarded with a bit of moisture. Meanwhile, he had pulled aside the thin gusset of her thong, exploring her cunt for wetness before sliding his fingers toward her clit. She bit down on her impulse to gasp, affecting what she hoped was a neutral expression.
The man definitely knew his way around a pussy. His finger lightly circled her clit, each orbit drawing closer to her engorged nub. By now, she was having trouble concentrating on his pleasure, but struggled on, grasping him with her full hand to masturbate him.
It was his turn to swallow a noise when she increased her hand’s speed and motion. Their gazes locked, each of them trying to make the other come first. The competition was an unexpected bonus of fulfilling her fantasy. His free hand covered hers, stopping the masturbation. Expression unreadable, his eyes shone with a darkness she hadn’t noticed before.
Bringing his lips to her ear, he said, “Are you sure you’re the one in charge here?” Then, he bit the nape of her neck, his fingers vibrating against her clit.
She enjoyed her first orgasm with him, even as the sting of his teeth lingered.
During one of the louder portions of the second movement, she slid to her knees, ensuring that her head wasn’t visible above the box’s rim, and took him in her mouth. He could no longer touch her, and that fact forced him to focus on his own pleasure.
She had always enjoyed playing the skin flute. She licked his hard length, the way one would a candy stick, several times before concentrating on the sucking, one of her hands gently manipulating his balls. His cock pulsed once, though he didn’t come. But when his hands grasped her head, she knew he couldn’t hold out much longer, so she redoubled her efforts. Locking his legs around her, he held her head down so that she had to take all of him while he came. He restrained her head a good long time, so that she would swallow–her punishment, no doubt, for making him come so quickly.
The third movement of the symphony began.
After he let her remove her mouth, she looked up at him. His eyes glittered as he leaned over to reach inside her dress, pulling out her breasts to pinch both nipples. It hurt, but she liked it. Eyes closed, she remained in a submissive posture while his fingers tweaked and twisted, feeling the pain that was pleasure deep inside.
She’d played such games before, but had rarely enjoyed such blissful torment as this man was producing. He played the game with gusto, fighting her for control, their contest pushing the pleasure of her secret rebellion to the edge. When he withdrew his fingers from her aching nipples, she opened her eyes. He slid out of his chair, indicating wordlessly that she should crawl behind him to the rear of the box. There, out of sight of others, he pulled her to standing, her breasts still out of her dress.
She braced herself, the odd stiffness of the wall’s brocaded covering scratching her bare back. His hands rucked up the dress’s skirt, tearing off her thong with one strong jerk. Pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, his mouth covered hers in a rough kiss, his tongue marauding. The other hand claimed her pussy, two stiff fingers stabbing inside while his thumb massaged her clit.
He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, biting it more than once, while his hand continued manipulating her pussy. She writhed, very near to orgasm. Abruptly, he released her lower lip, and she explored the bitten areas with her own tongue. Closing his lips around one nipple, his sucking and biting grew painfully exquisite.
The music broke through her sex-fogged mind. The build-up to the crescendo in the Fifth was nearly at hand, as was her orgasm. He held her nipple between his front teeth while worrying the tip with his tongue, still violating her pussy.
Her orgasm broke over her in waves that rippled into her extremities. She needed all her self-control not to cry out as pleasure washed through her. His pussy-stroking and nipple-biting continued until she grew limp. She barely noticed when he let go of her to flip her around, so that her cheek, breasts, and belly pressed against the wall. The fuck must have been perfect, because all she could recall later was the sensation of impalement when he thrust inside her. She felt stretched by his cock, even though she knew he wasn’t terribly large. She suspected her feelings were more psychological than physical as he rammed her. She gave back as best she could, fucking with all her strength while touching her clit. His mouth sucked one side of her neck, and his hands found her nipples. The one he’d bitten screamed in protest when he rolled it between his fingers. She masturbated, unable to keep from moaning as he fucked her fast and made her nipples ache so prettily.
The crescendo seconds from starting, he moved his mouth to her ear lobe. She never heard his groan, because by then she was coming again. Her pussy contracted fiercely when electricity shot down her legs and up her torso until she thought her head would fly off, glorious Beethoven pounding her eardrums, his cock pounding her cunt.
Afterwards, she sagged against the wall, her nipples and pussy throbbing from the rough treatment. Never had she been so viciously, and yet enjoyably, fucked. She realized that she truly was a bit of a pain slut, a fact that, previously, she’d only suspected.
He slid out of her. With a fond pat on her bottom, he left, and she sank to the floor in sheer exhaustion. Several minutes passed before she realized he hadn’t simply gone to the men’s’ room—he’d departed.
She’d lost control of the scene that was supposed to be all hers, the scene that would scream her protest at having to do as her family wished. If only she didn’t like having money so much. And yet, without money, would she have found tonight’s partner?
Tucking her breasts back into her dress, she located her torn thong, stuffing it inside her purse. When she used a small mirror to check her face, it appeared slack-jawed and stunned, her makeup smeared, her hair in wild disarray. If any of her clients saw her now, looking as if she’d had the stuffing fucked out of her, they’d have no doubts about what she’d been doing in her private box. Such a possibility would not do. Her brother and she handled money even older than their own, and their image banked on decorum and propriety.
She left before the Fifth Symphony was over. For her, doing so was a sin against great music, but she knew she had to escape the crowd. In the ladies’ room, she smoothed her hair and fixed her face. Outside in the dark, she would appear normal, as long as no one stepped close enough to discover that she reeked of sex. Then she phoned her driver, ordering him to pick her up a block away, the better not to run into any clients.
She kept her head down until she was through the Hall’s front doors. The doorman tipped his hat to her as she left, but she pretended not to see him. On Huntington Avenue
, breathing the cool air, she regained her composure. She turned the corner and waited in the shadows.
When her driver arrived, she told him to take her home, pleading a terrible headache, which nicely short-circuited any chitchat. When they arrived at her narrow brick townhouse, she asked him to pick her up the next morning at six. The financial world never closed, so she rose as early as she could stand, to get a jump on her competition.
Once out of the public eye, she relaxed, pouring a Scotch and carrying it to her nubbed-silk couch. The experience had shaken her more than she’d expected. Closing her eyes, she let the evening’s pleasure meld with memories of Hunter, the match that lit the fuse of her frustration back in B school.
Her relationship with Hunter had begun as an experiment. In her second year at Harvard Business School, her anger had raged just beneath the surface of her false equanimity. A life devoted to the arts, her passion, had been subverted by her father’s demands.
You’ll go to Business School and afterwards help your brother run the family business, he’d said. That’s what we Lawrences do. And if you don’t like it, you can try s
upporting yourself for a change, and see how you like that. Or you can find someone suitable to marry. Your choice.
Then, Father had taken away her Jag and her cute little Cambridge pied á terre. He’d also taken her name off family credit card accounts, and had stopped depositing money in her bank account.
She’d tried. She’d truly tried. But she’d been a colossal failure at starving for her art, which had meant waitressing and file-clerking and living with two other bohos in a three-bedroom Somerville dump. She missed the money too much to keep living in Slummerville. Marrying some boring old-money Yankee in her family’s social circle had never been an option. For one thing, they all reminded her too much of Father.
She’d lasted all of fourteen months before she’d filled out her B school application and given it to Father, who had immediately funded another cute Cambridge residence and restored the rest of her toys and privileges. And, he’d gotten her into HBS, despite her lack of a suitable undergrad major. Fortunately, she’d always been good at math, so she’d succeeded at learning the ropes of finance during her first year. She’d worked hard to keep up.
During her second year, with most of her learning curve behind her, her fury at feeling backed into a corner had erupted. The only way she could rebel was to make her private life shocking, even if she was the only person who knew exactly how shocking it was. She’d needed a release from always being in control, from keeping her feelings tightly-wrapped.
Enter the aptly-named Hunter Folkman, an aggressive middle-class guy from Queens who was determined to reach the upper classes, and the B school was his ticket. He’d matched her rage at having to conform to upper-class values with his own anger at how much he despised the upper class he longed to be a part of. He’d seen her simmering below the surface, and had, without pretense, pursued her.
He’d been hot, so damned hot, and kinky as hell. They’d shared an intensity she’d never repeated with anyone else.
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