The Performance

The evening’s theatrical presentation was a popular production, but not so engrossing that a young couple couldn’t find a moment of special intimacy.

 

(MF, dry, MF, exh)

By: Maurice Littlefield, as told to Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

 

London, England, 1898

The evening performance was of M———’s T———. It was quite well-known that the production was excellent, so many more people attended than could possibly be seated in the theater. I came late—by comparison—and took up a position at the rail in the balcony, with many other lovers of theater.

Not long after my own arrival, there came a young woman alone—very pretty—who stood beside me in the crowd. The press of flesh was extraordinary, and so I soon found myself nearly crushed against her in the crowd, she at the rail and I beside. This woman, however, seemed engrossed in the production—it was, as I have said, very fine—and seemed not to care at all. I had imagined that I might never be kept in such close quarters with a woman without the proper introductions and an afternoon’s tea—if not actual marriage—yet there I was, pressed against a beautiful girl to whom I was a total stranger.

She smelled of lavender and rose and was dressed impeccably. She was obviously a society woman, perhaps nineteen, and fresh from school in Europe, I supposed. She was jovial; her laughter tickled me quite maddeningly during the humorous scenes. Indeed, she seemed at those moments to give deliberate point to rubbing against me, but this I chalked off to my craze of lust—for lust had indeed gripped me.

As the performance continued, I found myself little able to pay attention to anything but the beautiful rosebud beside me. With each incidental touch, each casual brush, I became more enflamed. Soon, I rose to full erection, which I feared would scare away the poor girl, for she surely had to feel it pressed against her hip, we were that close.

It was then that the production broke for intermission, and I was forced to part with my sweet flower. I went into the lobby to smoke a cigarette while she paced the floor, fluttering her fan to cool her overheated breast and speaking politely, tho not intimately, to certain acquaintances. For the briefest time, I imagined she spoke about me, gossiping at my audacity.

When I returned to my place at the rail, I was astonished to find her waiting nearby. All the more astonished was I when she took up her place at the rail next to me—when, after all, she could have stood anywhere.

My lust was immediately aroused again as she squeezed in between an older gentleman and myself, sliding very close against me and settling in comfortably against the rail. In a few minutes, my manhood was as hardened as before, if not more so, and the girl’s laughter was as jolly and invigorating as before. I quite forgot the production before us and again became interested only in my lovely companion.

Then, in one amazing moment, at a time when the music had fallen to the background to allow the players to speak, the girl before me breathed deep and sighed a blissful sigh, turning toward me slightly and pursing her lips tightly for a moment. Then, she glanced directly at me for a long moment, meeting my gaze with bright brown eyes, and blushing terribly.

At that moment, I saw that this girl was as taken with carnal lust as I. She fanned herself feverishly as I became bold and put my hand directly upon her narrow waist. I bent close to breathe lightly in her ear and saw her gasp and purse her lips again. She gripped the rail tightly with both gloved hands.

All eyes were riveted on the performance below, with no mind on the bawdy exhibition in the darkness beside them. In the moments when my attention strayed from my delicate wanton, I found the spectators caught up in the rousing music and stirring spectacle being played out on stage.

Emboldened, I took the slender form of my strange acquaintance in both hands and pulled her tighter against me. Her breath was hot and heavy as she tried to keep her emotions under control—or, at least, discreet. I found myself pressing hungrily against her, driving my erection against her warm, round backside. I wanted so hotly to tear away the skirt and petticoats and press my hands to her bare thighs that the sounds that emanated from my throat were low and guttural growls, like the grunts of apes. Her own, higher, softer, groans were nearly drowned out by the rise of music, but my ear was pressed to her cheek to savor every unintelligible syllable.

Then, in an exquisite moment of impulse, her right hand tore itself away from the safety of the brass rail to feel its way to my thigh. She pressed me closer by the hip and thigh and huffed in time with the rising music. I continued to press her against the rail, now with short, rhythmic strokes of desperate desire.

Her right hand left my leg then and found my hand instead. She pulled it off her waist, and for a moment I thought that I would be denied. But no! My lover brought my hand directly to her own thigh, pressing it hotly between her legs and rubbing urgently.

I stroked her crevice boldly to and fro. Soon, the girl was moaning softly between tightly-closed lips, full and red lips that I longed to kiss and knew, were the time and place only slightly different, I could have willingly.

Our passion continued in rhythm as she replaced my hand between her legs with her own. Now I took hold of the rail as she caressed herself as only she could know how. My lust had grown to a rage and I thrust up against her then just as the audience convulsed in laughter. My lover’s muffled moans burst to life as a single, great groan. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand, biting it for a little more desperate certainty of silence. A few strokes later, my passion spilled out and covered the interior of my trousers with thick, gooey jism.

In a moment, our public tryst was over. She straightened her hat and dress, taking deep breaths to calm herself, and I did the same. Then, my nameless lover pressed her hand against mine, holding it tightly in her glove for a moment, then releasing it without a word. I quickly stepped away to the gentlemen’s lavatory to clean up myself lest my trousers show thru the wetness and become stained. The libertine damsel went to the ladies’ lounge for similar purpose; I only wish I could have followed her to those private stalls—or she me.

A few minutes later, calmed and keyed with great keenness on finding this girl again, I stood in the breezy cul de sac at the end of the corridor, where the open French doors welcomed the night air at a half-round stone rail—a tiny balcony. I would have smoked a cigar if I had had one with me—which I did not as I had smoked the remaining one that afternoon, waiting for the train.

Just as these thoughts passed thru my mind, my darling buttercup appeared in the corridor, glancing about furtively, clearly searching for her paramour. With the merest gesture of my hand, I caught her attention, and—with great timidity at first—she picked up her skirts and hurried toward me, casting a momentary glance backward over her shoulder.

It was at that moment, seeing her there full figure advancing toward me with purpose, color raised in her cheeks, her large and beautiful eyes wide with trepidation, that I struck upon the wild scheme of having her again, in totality, there in the shadows of the bulging window space. It was, as I described, a tiny balcony, with French doors to shut out the cold—or lovers. The traffic below was light and unassuming; the shadowy light from the corridor would make us unnoticeable. The idea was a shameless burst of insight that I hardly dared share with the delicate young lady who approached me now.

“I am Maurice,” I told her as I took her proffered hand. “Maurice Littlefield of London.”

“Mr. Littlefield,” she said kindly. “It is a pleasure.” Indeed. “I am Alice T——, Miss Alice T——.”

“My apologies to you, miss, if I caused you some...distress earlier,” I said earnestly, not relinquishing possession of her hand.

She flushed red, then covered her pretty mouth. “No apologies, sir,” she protested. “I am as much at fault. The evening has taken my head away.”

I pulled her lightly by the hand, further out of the corridor’s light and onto the window balcony. “Mine as well,” I admitted. Her eyes were large and expressive, her nose a tiny knob. Her face was round, with a dainty chin and her neck slender and frail. Indeed, here frame was slight in general and her hands like those of a porcelain doll.

“The night air has a chill,” I remarked, turning away from her pretty, rounded face to peruse the starry sky.

“The stars are not so bright here as in the country,” she observed. “The city lights—”

“As if the stars care less what happens in the city,” I suggested.

Alice gazed at me askance. “As if, winking, they give their blessing.”

It was completely mad, of course. I saw now the balcony was far too small, her skirts too voluminous. There was little more I could hope to accomplish here than opening her bodice and smothering her pale breast with admiring kisses.

“Alice—” I began.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” I asked stupidly, dazed by her directness.

“I’ve never been kissed before—not by a young gentleman. I wish it.” Her request was simple, her desire obvious.

I bent slightly, kissed her lightly, lingeringly, on the soft round lips, amazed at their feathery feel. Her lavender scent caught my attention again, and I was heady.

“You’re a wonder,” I concluded.

“That was nice.”

“I want to kiss you again,” I said, only barely hesitant.

“Close the doors.”

I immediately complied, bringing shut the French doors with somewhat overzealous haste, closing it roughly so that it made some noise rattling and clicking. A careless mistake.

“Quietly,” Alice urged. And, “Kiss me again.”

Determined to go about it properly, I took her in my embrace and held her for a moment very close. Our breaths mingled, puffs of whiteness in the chill air. Then we kissed again, this time a harder, warmer kiss, full of our true passions—exposed.

“My dear—” she said at last, staying close in my arms. “Mr. Littlefield, you’re quite intoxicating.”

“I am drunk in your arms,” I said. “My head is spinning.” I kissed her again, quickly on the mouth, then on the cheek, and down her throat. Her throat was best, its softness and warmth inviting deeper hunger than I had ever felt, more desperate craving than I thought possible. If only more of her flesh were exposed, I would have starved before I had tasted enough.

“Oh, Maurice,” she gasped, clinging tightly.

“Alice, you are an angel,” I whispered.

“No,” she murmured. “No. I desire you too much. I want so much more. I am far from being an angel.”

We kissed again, this time open-mouthed, with tentative, playful tongues. I wanted desperately to open her bodice and tongue her throat, her full, round cleavage.

“Inside,” she breathed, “when we— When we met. I was in heaven.” I ran my hand up and down her back, feeling the whole length of her, nearly mad with desire to strip her out of her dress.

“Then I was an angel,” she said. “In total bliss. Absolute bliss. But now—” She took my face in her hands and stared deeply into my eyes. “Now I desire it. I desire you...completely. I want you to possess me utterly.”

“Oh, Alice—”

She turned her face away. “Oh, I am insane! What is this wild desire you’ve conjured in me? I am a wicked girl, Maurice.”

“Not wicked, my dear,” I protested. “We are young. We’re taken by the moment.” The absurdity of the claim, given that it was made in the moment, was lost on us.

“I want you to take me, take away my...innocence...my virtue. Make me wicked, Maurice,” she gasped.

The words were foreign to her. She struggled to name her desires, but I knew them. I felt them in myself—the gnawing hunger, the mad desire, the will to strip away every piece of clothing and take her, naked as an animal, without reserve. Nothing more stood in our way.

In moments, we unlaced her bodice, tearing at the strings. I pushed the dress off her white shoulders, kissed them, breathed in the scent of her bare skin, hot with desire, chilled by the cool air. She pushed off my coat, tugged at the buttons of my shirt. She was without shame.

Soon, her dress slipped down around our feet, her silk sash fluttering wildly to the ground below, whipped by the night wind. Her breasts, encased in sheer, white cotton, were pert and pointed, astonishingly lovely to behold. Her hips were covered still in sheer, white drawers, the silk bow begging to be drawn.

Alice’s tiny hands pulled at my belt and rubbed my groin up and down, feeling the strength of manhood inside. “I want to see it,” she whispered huskily. “I want to touch it.”

I quickly did off my trousers, pushing them down to my ankles. My member stood out proudly in the chilly air, pink beneath my white drawers. “Take it out,” she begged. “My God, it’s big! It’s simply too large!”

“Nonsense,” I told her, embarrassed by her praise.  “It’s made to fit.”

“My God, we’re mad!” she moaned. But still she pulled at my drawers to free my manhood. I caressed her smooth body thru the silk that encased it, then tugged at her drawers. In her haste, she pulled me to her only as I pushed her drawers down, giving me only the barest glimpse of her sweet, dark thatch of fur. It was moist against my naked prick, softly scratchy, like my own. Our pubic mounds mingled as we embraced a moment, drinking deep one another’s desperate kiss.

“What are the words?” she asked. “What do you say?”

I was bewildered. “What words?” I asked. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me what you call them,” she breathed. “What men call the act, the actors.”

Then I understood, but was too embarrassed to tell. “Ah—” I sputtered. “My…John Thomas; your Lady Jane.”

“No,” she said. “The wicked words, I mean. The vulgar terms.”

“My cock,” I said boldly. “My cock and your sweet cunt.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Put it in my cunt. Stick your cock inside of me.” She fumbled with it between us.

“I’ll fuck you with it,” I grunted, emboldened by her own use of the vulgar tongue. “I’ll fuck you to a crisis.”

In a moment, she had spread herself out, using her delicate fingers to prepare the path for my member. Her other hand and my own guided my rod home, straight and true. She gasped quite loudly, pulling away at first.

“Slow,” she said, fear gathering in her throat. I understood that there was often pain for a woman in her first experience, but it was only then that I realized this beautiful creature was giving me her maidenhood.

“You’re a virgin,” I said stupidly.

“Of course,” she said aside, now eager for full congress. She pulled closer and we slid together like the mechanism of a lock.

“Oh!” she huffed.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, holding her closely and reeling at the warm delight of her bare thighs against mine.

“No,” she said with amazement, “only a little. I felt it tear.” Her maidenhead was broken, now. She was an innocent girl no longer. I possessed her.

“Go,” she urged hotly. “Drive on.”

We fucked for several minutes, our moans growing slowly. She rocked back and forth against the railing with reckless abandon, whispering over and over, “Fuck me, darling. Fuck my cunt,” and “Take me, Maurice. Drive me.”

I grunted and panted thru our liaison, groaning thickly about her delicate beauty, her sweet cunt, and how she was a wicked, wicked girl. She moaned in delicious agreement. “Mmmm, yes, Maurice. I am a wicked girl. Oh! OH! YES!”

Our heads were miles away from the performance we had enjoyed inside, engaged as we were in a command performance for gods of lust. Our bodies ground together in a savage rhythm, our throats huffing and grunting in accord. At last, as my strength gave out, my paramour gasped in short, sharp moans, urging me hotly to complete fulfillment.

“Yes! Yes! Oh, oh, OH, YES!” she fairly cried. “OH, DEAR! OHHH”

“Oh, my lovely!” I rejoined. “My lovely, lovely cunt! Unh! OHH!” I shot my balls deep into her, filling her with my hot cream in spurts and spasms.

We collapsed together against the rail, a heap of disheveled sin.

“Oh, Maurice, you are wonderful!” she breathed. She pressed her mouth against my ear and panted as she regained her breath. “You have fairly worn me out.”

“My God, you are a beautiful creature, Alice,” I praised her. “I shall treasure this moment forever.”

“Oh Maurice,” she said trembling, “I cannot imagine a greater joy. I must see you again.”

My heart rose up. “Yes. Oh, yes. And soon.” I kissed her again, holding her close. Her skin was chilled. “Good God, you’re freezing.”

“Oh but my heart is warm,” she protested.

“Let’s dress and get inside,” I said. “We’ll die of exposure out here.”

We dressed hastily and stepped inside, still disheveled and unbuttoned in places. We kept our backs to the corridor, pretending to look out the French doors at the swirling snow even as we straightened our respective dress.

When the hall was clear, we kissed again sweetly and parted again for the gentlemen’s and ladies’ lavatories to clean up, promising to meet again in only a little while.