Slammed

by Teagan Kade

  Maddy, how crass you have become.

  I squirm and twist in the seat, eyelids fluttering and boozy brain in overload how to get this party started.

  On the way back through town we pass by the Emporium, an old 1950s movie theatre screening classics. I remember coming here with Mom. In fact, the three of us came here right before she left.

  Brock points at the board. “Hey, Vanishing Point is on.”

  “What?”

  “Classic 1970s road movie, Barry Newman?”

  “Sorry. If it doesn’t have someone by the name of Gosling or McConaughey in it, I don’t want to know about it. Hell, it’s Tuesday. I’ll take Owen Wilson if needs be.”

  “With his fucked-up nose?”

  I run my finger over Brock’s, broken countless times, not quite straight but still perfect in its imperfection. “Says you.”

  He parks on the side of the road and gets out, coming around to open my door. “We’re doing this.”

  Yes, we are.

  He tugs my arm toward the ticket box. “Come on. My treat.”

  I’m tired, I’m horny. I just want to get back home to bed, to getting that leather jacket off and find out if my stepbrother still works out as much as he used to.

  We purchase our tickets from a teenage girl who has all the personality of a potato crisp packet and proceed into the lobby, a crazy cross-hash of cultures, kids and adults prepping pre-movie, stocking their arms with popcorn, candy and soda. The ADA would have a heartache just looking at it.

  “Arrrrrgggggghhhhhhh,” some kid goes screaming past me into the semi-darkness of the cinema.

  “Someone’s excited,” Brock says, his hand tight in mine, a weighty anchor. I hadn’t even noticed him take it. The cinema’s large, a sort of art deco vibe about the place. We stand in the middle sweeping the seats for somewhere quiet where we’re unlikely to get some idiot kid spilling drink on us or crawling down the aisles.

  We head for the back row. A group of hipsters swings past us throwing popcorn at each other. This whole area has come in for a quasi-urban revitalization of late. Only the hippest of the hip need tread these streets now, and hip I am not.

  Mercifully, the back row remains empty, the theatre half-full, a giddy excitement continuing on through the ads.

  Brock places his hand on my leg, the exposed flesh there, covering the goose bumps that have risen in that chill all cinemas seem to exude. It’s a bold move.

  The movie starts off with a delivery driver in a black car. He’s at a biker bar, wants pills. He’s a bit like Brock in many ways. Of course, I’m concentrating more on the feel of Brock’s touch, and for the first time in a long time I feel safe. I feel at home.

  I wriggle in my seat, lift my feet from the floor. It’s sticky, with what I really don’t want to know.

  I look to Brock, but he’s right into the movie, probably seen it a hundred times already. He always loved this kind of stuff even as a gangly teenager, all cars and guns and black and white morality.

  A flicker goes through my head, an idea. I dismiss it at first, as always, mitigating risk, but it refuses to go. It lingers there, a heat.

  What’s the worst that could happen? You get kicked out. Whoopee doo. No one here knows you. They’re complete strangers.

  I reach down to the hem of my dress. Color strobes across the material from the screen, my flesh green, red, white.

  I lift my butt ever so slightly off the seat, feel material and float there in the no man’s zone.

  I take my hem in my fingers and drag it back slowly, the edge of the dress riding up over my thighs.

  Brock looks down to me, a quizzical look. I have his attention.

  His hand hasn’t moved on my thigh.

  I spread my legs wider, feel the cool air sweep between them, goose bumps now rising on the soft skin of my inner thighs.

  Only a sliver of dress and shadow keeps my panties hidden.

  Brock’s eyes look on hungrily.

  I see his pants start to tent.

  I spread my legs until my knees hit the arm rests and push out with my pelvis. My skirt rides up onto my hips showing my bare legs and, between them, the cobalt silk of my panties, a flat, thin strip of fabric.

  I take the hand on my leg, his hand.

  Wow, you’re really doing it, huh?

  I move it up, over my leg, feel his finger pads glide over them until they’re so close to the silk border, refugees at its edge.

  I lift his hand entirely from my skin. I cup his fingers. I press them into my groin.

  Tension leaves his body. He falls into his seat and exhales. His fingers press against me and already I feel the cleft of my panties getting wet.

  He slides his index finger over the silk, pressing down on my slit. I arch my back and push my pelvis forward to meet it. Every time his finger brushes my clit, trapping the silk between his fingers and the delicate mound, my lips part ever so slightly and I look at him wide-eyed and wild.

  The cinema laughs, not at the movie but some idiot who’s fallen over in the aisle, a few late-comers chuckling post-joke and Brock’s fingers continuing to move with confidence, cupping and pressing, pulling at the material, desperate to please me.

  I’m breathing hard, hot.

  He brings three fingers together and adds pressure to my clit, moving them in a circular motion. Blood rushes to meet them and my entire lower half feels flush.

  He presses them down and I moan, loud enough that an old biddy two rows forward looks back, yet even though my body burns below I retain total calm in my expression, eyeing him back.

  My panties dampen where the two cheeks of my ass meet the seat, trapping the moisture in the wedge there, sliding away in a thin rivulet from my heated core.

  I watch the images of cars racing together underwater, a lusty, thick fog enveloping my senses. I flick my eyes sideways, see the pointed bulge in Brock’s pants, obscene in this environment, and wonder if there are cameras around. Some kid in the projection room probably has his cock out already, stroking it back and forth, watching us.

  Brock’s left hand moves over the front of his pants, wrapping itself around his member. He just holds it there, not willing to take it further. His full concentration is on me and this thought makes me so horny, so hot for him that I lean over, trapping his hand between my thighs. I cup a hand to his ear and move my lips until they touch his earlobe. I pause. I breathe. I whisper, “I want your finger inside me.”

  I move my head away but do not break eye contact. I see in his eyes, illuminated by the screen, that fire, that youthful burn between us. It’s back.

  I spread my legs again. The muscles around my pubic bone strain. I can smell my heat and my opening as it widens to meet him, waiting.

  He takes his time. At first his hand stays there, applying light pressure to my pubis, pressing down on the area above my clit, lit green and gold now. Dark blue. Ivy. Red.

  Slowly, so slowly, I feel a finger slide down the silk, dropping to the bottom, catching one corner of the damp cloth and drawing it back, exposing me to the world.

  He’s delicate, folding the fabric over my labia, leaving my slit exposed, open now an inch, widening to a wet canyon. I press it forward to meet his finger, but he moves the finger away, savoring it.

  My hands clench at the armrests, my fingers tight.

  Laughter again.

  A finger dips forward and downwards, pausing at the ring of my muscle, the very entrance to my body. Moisture gathers around it. It slides in effortlessly, up to the knuckle and I feel it run over the corrugated roof of my cunt, the bumpy indentations there soaked.

  In and out he moves it, attempting to press deeper each time, exploring me. When he does the solid underside of his palm presses down against my clit and I grind forward to meet it, careful to restrict my movements. His face remains steady. His eyes face the movie.

  He draws his finger out slowly and I can feel how wet it is.

  I want to grab his wrist to force it bac
k inside, but I hold firm.

  He cups his chin with his hand, two fingers pointed up to his nostrils like a gun. He rests his elbow on the armrest, and to anyone else it would look like a gaze of contemplation, The Thinker in any other circumstance. Yet I know my juices coat the finger that rests under his nose. He inhales my scent with each labored breath. His eyes close. He can’t get enough.

  It’s happening. It’s finally happening.

  It is some time before they open and glance my way. A smile falls onto his lips. I smile back, enflamed, my legs spread and my pussy still exposed.

  I picture one of the ushers coming up the aisle with a torch, catching us in the act, taking in my bare vagina, the lips plump and moist, that fissure of a mouth hungry between them. He’d think of how he could feed it, his cock growing stiff in his pants.

  Brock leans over to me. I feel his stubble on my cheek. He’s careful not to make too much sound or exaggerate the movement. He waits until a moment of action on screen, the crowd to cry out or gasp before he whispers, “Take them off.”

  Questions roll into my head, hesitation, but I force it all out.

  I keep my eyes locked on his.

  I raise my butt up, pressing up on my heels until I’m no longer in contact with the seat.

  His tongue rolls over his bottom lip as he watches, staring into the dark void between my legs.

  A kid screams at some cheap popcorn thrill.

  I find the back of my panties with my hands, one each side of my hips, and slowly push them forward over my legs.

  There’s a blinding white on screen and it lights up the top of my pussy, the dark triangle there that dives down into my bare lips, now spread and glistening in the light.

  When my panties are halfway down my legs, I place my butt back down on the seat, feeling wetness between my ass cheeks, on my anus, staining the seat with it. It’s slick up the side of my inner thighs, my juices everywhere.

  Ass on the seat, I lift my feet up, pull my legs together and attempt to pull the panties free over my knees, but as they stretch over my kneecaps they stick to my cleft, stretching thin, the stickiness keeping them attached, a sexual glue. I pull and they spring free, a stained patch clear in the deep recess of the D shape they create swinging between my legs. I let them fall over my legs until they dangle around my ankles.

  I loop one out from my heel so that they hang from my left foot. I reach around and sling them off. Scrunched up in my hand, I place them in the space between our seats. I’m completely naked around the waist, my bare ass on the chair, my pussy completely uncovered, my dress pooled around my hips. I spread my legs again, eyes still locked on Brock’s face, his hand moving over his groin.

  He’s focused on the ball of panties. I know he wants to snatch them up, to breathe me in, cover his face in my wetness, but he restrains himself.

  His eyes flicker up into mine. I stare into their azure abyss, the screen a tiny square in his pupils, fragmented into two.

  “Make me cum,” I whisper, as I spread my legs wide, my pussy opening. I can feel the moist cinema air deep in my hole, cooling the fire there such is the level of my excitement.

  My heart races. I see Brock’s thudding underneath his blazer.

  Duh-dum. Duh-dum. Duh-dum comes the music. Both cars on screen are hurtling towards a one-way bridge, one of them shooting off into the river.

  He moves himself over as far as he can go in his chair, picking his moment.

  A desert road looms on screen, a vanishing point little more than a pinprick in the center.

  All thought is sexual.

  Fingers.

  Pussy.

  Cum.

  Brock’s right hand moves to my genitals again. He cups his hand slightly and reaches under my bum, fingers spread evenly over each cheek. His middle finger presses between them, feeling the resistance and then, thanks to my arousal, slipping between them to rest its length along the rosebud of my anus, clenched tight in anticipation, My mouth falls open as he adds pressure onto the muscle there, almost pushing beyond its barrier, but not quite. I feel the underside of his finger and then the top as it dips just below the muscle, the long phallic length of his longest finger running up into my perineum, that short length of softness separating my anus and vagina, running over its solid surface before plunging deep within me, his knuckle grazing the slack bottom lip of my cunt.

  My mouth falls open. I’m drooling.

  I rest my head against the back of the chair lest it fall forward.

  I press my tongue to the top of my mouth to prevent myself crying out at the stars and colors that collide inside my eyelids.

  His finger comes out and there’s a terrible emptiness there.

  Then I feel three fingers widening me, cupping in and out, shoveling their way into the deepest confines of my cunt and opening up new sensations, finding long-forgotten areas of erogeny.

  My head explodes a-new, my body washed with chemicals and strange reactions.

  An urge to release, to let go and come rises, but I force it down. I squeeze my buttocks down on the harsh fabric below, forcing my chest out.

  My nipples bite into my bra, longing to be freed.

  His fingers probe deep into my pussy, hooking up into the fleshy ceiling, grinding against the hard acorn of nerve endings there and sending a new wave of sensation fresh through me.

  He’s breathing hard, trying to muffle the sound.

  I can’t close my mouth as his palm rubs back and forth over my clit, now rising to attention. I turn my head sideways and bite into the back of the chair to stifle my moans.

  I can hear his fingers below, the squelch of fluids as they move in and out, picking up pace. I feel my outer labia flex in and out with the effort, his three fingers filling me, and I picture them as his cock, smooth inside me, stroking out wet up to his balls.

  The sound of his fingers pushing through my cum is loud, but the soundtrack rises in intensity and washes it out. I’ve never been more thankful for a chase scene in my entire life. Lights flicker on and off. Speakers boom. Noise and sounds and colors and feelings bounce around in my head, a never-ending tempest of sensation while his fingers plunge into me again and again.

  The urge to let go is knocking. I need to take the edge off. I need a distraction before I come, writhing against his hand.

  Clenching the armrest tight with my right hand, I keep my left low, moving it to the front of his pants, walking my fingers up to his belt. I work at the buckle, feeling his heartbeat reverberate through the metal, the constricted head of his cock desperately pressed against denim.

  The buckle loosens with an audible click and I’m pushing it away, twixing his top button in one hand, bending my elbow to run my hand through his pubic hair. It goes underneath the waist band of his jocks and grabs the bulbous head of his dick, already wet with pre-cum in anticipation.

  I wrap my fingers around this warm organ, lift it upwards and into the air so that we’re both exposed. He desperately tries to maintain composure. His free fingers brush my own, my hand already slipping down his shaft from the wetness that’s gathered at the top. I roll my fingers over the head and it’s as if he’s been stabbed such is the look on his face. Momentarily, his fingers stop moving inside me, but I press forward with my pelvis and they resume their motion, quickly bringing me back to the peak.

  The soundtrack is building in strength, moving to a crescendo. There’s an orchestra hit, and another, as a car swings in and out of focus in my periphery.

  I’m jerking Brock off with my left hand, running it up and down his cock. Each downstroke pushes his jocks around the base of his length, spreading his jeans open like a paperback. Pre-cum dribbles over my fingers and I relish it, that I can make him, my very own stepbrother, this hot so fast. His head is back. His fingers rush in and out of me faster than ever before, a sloppy smacking sound as they slap against the bone and the puffy swelling of my labial lips.

  I push my stomach out, my breasts pressing painfully
against the front of the dress. I reach up to hold one in with my right hand, knocking old popcorn aside that was resting on the armrest there. It spills out between my legs.

  I smell the salt, the flavoring, all of it mixing with the sweetly scent of sex.

  A piece falls between his legs and my thigh, rolling until it’s trapped by my ass cheeks, tucked up against the puckered opening of my anus.

  My hand is slick as it runs up and down Brock’s dick, making a wet flapping sound only we can hear. I temper it back, concentrating on squeezing his glans before I roll back over his head, twisting my wrist and making him spasm in delight.

  I press my stomach forward again and sit into his hand, pushing it deeper and further than ever, his fingers as far as they can go.

  As they work me, riding no deeper, it becomes too much. The music builds to a climax and so do I. Brock bucks his hips to meet my thrust.

  I have his cock in one hand. The other is over my dress, my breast. Half his hand is buried in my cunt. This equation, this mental addition in my head, is the final straw.

  I’m about to come when I feel his breath on the side of my face.

  “I’m going to come,” he announces in a rushed whisper.

  I realize he can’t just come here, all over his pants. The walk of shame would be too much.

  Between deep breaths, biting my lip to keep the orgasm at bay, I scan the head of the cinema’s occupants in front of me, but they are too engrossed in the movie to watch us making out like teenagers in the back.

  The projection beam burns overhead.

  I take my hand off Brock’s cock, already starting to contract, to reach between us and take my panties, still wet. I bunch them in my hand and place the crotch over the head of his cock, wrapping the rest of the silk around the thick length of his pole. I move it, using the silk and my wetness to masturbate him. I barely recognize this sudden seductress I have become. Officer Collins has left the building.

  He adds a fourth finger to my pussy, stretching it to its limits. The extra feeling of fulfilment brings on an orgasm so hard and strong I’m unable to stifle myself.