On Sunday I went to see my love Charlie perform in a play in upstate New York. After the show, I snuck into his dressing room. When he came in, he closed the door and locked it while I provocatively installed myself on the counter. He came over and his cock was in my mouth before he was out of his costume. We hadn't seen each other in three days (an eternity when you're in love) so we were both as frisky as squirrels in Spring. Charlie bobbed like a marionette at the mercy of an invisible string connecting cock to mouth and mouth to breast.
"I shouldn't be...ohhh...I can't...oh yeah..."
He should've been striking the set. But he couldn't stop stroking me.
How irresistible is the man who can't resist me! At the sight of a perky nipple or tuft of pubic hair, blood drains from his brain to his cock, and he turns into a helpless schlmeil. I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. What happens is this: the power of biology reduces male mental faculties to the fulfillment of a primary need. As this need dominates the brain, all other thoughts, needs, and obligations disperse into confused particles of intelligence that have no place to go. Even a genius is vulnerable to this twist of nature. If he is in the middle of saying something, and I slip a strap off my shoulder, accidentally revealing my breast, he forgets the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He tries to retrieve them, but he can't even remember the subject of the intelligent stream that moments ago, flowed smoothly from his mouth. His mouth regresses to infancy, wanting the breast and nothing but the breast. I'm no scientist, merely an observer of men. I can't think of a better way to describe this amusing spectacle.
Two more points on this subject.
1. A man is far more likely to exhibit this behavior around a woman with whom he's madly in love. (More pheromones = a greater gap between the penis and the brain).
2. A woman is far less likely to exhibit similar behavior around a man she loves...because women have different primal needs. She needs to maintain a higher intelligence throughout sexual play in order to choose the most evolutionary fit father for her children. If not, she may end up with children on Ritalin (or an undesirable lover if children are not on her conscious mind). Unfortunately, too many women ignore the "intelligence" nature has provided them.
I'm not saying I never become flustered when my lover gazes at me with his soulful eyes or plows toward me with a bulge in his pants. Oh I can be a bumbling fool at times, but I feel like I can always pull back--let me rephrase that--I feel like I can usually retreat from primal lust. He may be at the mercy of his cock, but I am not, unless I choose to play the submissive. My brain is almost always in command of my pussy.
On this occasion, I felt even more in command because I was on the first day of my period, when aching uterus and horniness combine to create an empowering feeling of female-ness. Full and tingling with the heavy hormonal lightness of being, my primal body enhanced rather than diminished my mental acuity. Hence a balance of forces simultaneously inflated and belittled by the almighty, insignificant COCK.
How he squirmed in my arms! He was caught between the pleasures of me and the responsibilities to his fellow castmates, while I could've stopped at any moment. There are few better aphrodisiacs than having this kind of power over a man, especially when in public, when our actions are within the radar of people who might find out, either through direct witnessing or speculation based on clues such as a closed door or a girlfriend sucking on a strawberry with Lolita-like suggestiveness, or the flustering gestures and overly compensating transparent words of the guy who was supposed to be assisting in breaking down a theatrical set.
How vaudevillian it was when he closed the door and ran to me with an arrow in his pants, then opened the door and pulled his shirt down and stuffed costume pieces in his bag while rambling on about what he had to do next! And how arousing it was when people walked by as I teased him with puckers of my lips and undulations of my hips! We knew they must've known, or at least had guessed that something unprofessional was going on, and this knowing was all part of our act. What happens on stage is not half as interesting without an audience, or at least the possibility of a witness to the action. Whatever might have been happening in the dressing room was undoubtedly confirmed by our displays of giddy affection in the theatre--our furtive squeezes and smiley kisses, our back and forth whispers of exciting things to come...how sickeningly cute we must have appeared.
So we made a plan.
While he was finishing up his actorly duties, I would await him in the lobby, where he would meet me and we would both slip into the ladies' room to resume the unfinished business we started in the dressing room. All went well as we successfully bypassed the lone wandering theatre employee, and planted ourselves in the handicapped stall, where I promptly began sucking his cock. He was maybe three minutes away from orgasm when the distant cries of hungry actors forced us to disband and join the cast for dinner. He exited first, feigning coolness. I heard him say, "It's in the bathroom with Stephanie." Then I nonchalantly emerged to find an actor wondering about his sweater which he had given to Charlie who had brought it into the bathroom...now why on earth would the sweater be with me in the women's room? The actor must have been wondering this but nothing was said.
Charlie and I laughed at the hilarious obviousness of antics unexplained as we headed off for dinner. At the grimy Irish pub, the undercurrent of suspicion flowed plainly through the banter and jokes and Charlie's several mentions of us having just drinks and an appetizer because we were saving ourselves for a romantic dinner for two at one of the classier joints up the street.
We tripped out of that pub with sex in our bones, and laughed at the inevitable gossip we left behind. They must have been skewering us! After all, theatre people live for subtext. The idea that they were laughing about the sweater made us even hornier, as we contemplated the whereabouts of an unfinished blow-job...