A Night at the Theatre

The auditorium hummed with the sound of a thousand different conversations. None of which involved me. Being a sad and pitiful singleton, I was alone, and had no-one to talk to.

However, had I not been unaccompanied, there was one subject that would have dominated any conversation - the bloody seat I was being forced to sit in. Trust me: It was the most painful thing my arse had ever come into contact with.

And that includes the gargantuan cock that belonged to the Norwegian doctor I dated whilst at nursing college. And, honestly, that had been huge; every time we'd had sex, I felt like I was being penetrated with an aircraft carrier.

For the umpteenth time, I fidgeted in the seat, trying to find a position that offered a sliver of comfort. But it was impossible. Despite the fancy gold paintwork, and opulent crimson upholstery, the chair was more an instrument of torture than an item of furniture. It was okay though; there were two seats in the Box. I'll just sit on the other one.

Careful not to spill my gin and tonic (heavy on the gin, light on the tonic), I shuffled onto the other chair. And...

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

No matter how I sat, regardless of where I positioned my backside, the same discomfort as before wrapped itself around the lower half of my body

Two chairs. Both shit.

Which means I'd basically paid five hundred pounds to sit in pain for three hours.

Great move, Aimee. Really, girl - well done.

I took a huge gulp of my drink, hoping the alcohol would act as a physical and emotional anesthetic. No chance: My arse still throbbed, and I wanted to cry.

To top it all off, the really ironic things was that I didn't even like the theatre. Never had. It was either overly earnest, or utterly incomprehensible. I've got no problem admitting that I'm more of a 'Scandal' or 'Grey's Anatomy' kind-of-a-girl. I'm not dumb; I've read 'Ulysses' for Christ's sake. I just liked my stories to be entertaining, a quality I'd never found in all the hours of 'live' drama I'd endured.

No, I loathed the theatre. I only ever came to please Thomas...

I sighed aloud at the mere thought of him.

Sensitive, shy, and beautiful Thomas. My soul-mate. My partner for life. At least he was until...

No. Not tonight, young lady. This evening is not about pining for your lying, cheating ex-boyfriend. It's about moving on. It's about closure. It's about...

What?

What was this about? Really, Aimee; why did you come tonight?

Truth be told, I didn't know why I was here. At least, not any more.

We'd always come to the theatre together. It was 'our thing'. Well, it was more 'his thing' but, considerate girlfriend that I was, I'd embraced his passions (I'm wonderful like that). And, every time we did come, we'd study the Royal Boxes, and, for our own amusement, make up absurd back-stories about the people we saw sitting there.

One night, we turned a frumpy, unhappy, middle-aged couple into a pair of seedy, low-ranking aristocrats - we'd also arbitrarily decided that the husband was fucking the family maid, whilst the wife had a drinking problem.

On another, we transformed a smart, seemingly innocent-looking family into an omnipotent, foreign oligarch who was treating his well-groomed, doll-like wife and daughters to the very best London's West End could offer.

Although we laughed, there was a tinge of jealousy behind the giggles. Especially from Thomas. Because, it was only after he'd brought me to a dozen productions that he mentioned he'd never even stepped foot in a box before.

I couldn't believe it. Thomas loved the theatre, always had. Actually, he more than just loved it: This was his temple, his place of devotion. Ordinarily, he wasn't exactly the most tactile of people, but, once the curtain rose, I wasn't even allowed to hold his hand.

The moment the play begun, he only had eyes for the stage (I remember, once, trying to sneak a kiss half-way through the first act of some dreary Pinter revival; the look of shock on his face stayed with me for weeks)...

From nowhere I was suddenly struck by a thought I’d simply never allowed myself to think before. Because the theatre had cast such a shadow over our relationship, it had blinded me to an obvious truth: Thomas' lack of physical affection wasn't just confined to the 'empty space' - it was everywhere. I couldn't even recall the last time we'd had sex...

I shook my head; I could come back to all that at a later point...

As soon as Thomas had said he'd never watched a show from the luxury of a box, it became my mission to make that dream come true.

Over the next six months I managed to save five hundred pounds; an impressive feat considering that my nurse's salary was far from generous, and that the mortgage for our flat in Walthamstow was eye-watering. But I'd done it. And, on the occasion of our seventh anniversary, I readied myself to unleash my largesse on my unsuspecting (but soon to be incredibly grateful) boyfriend.

Ideally, I'd wanted a marriage proposal in return. At the very least I hoping he'd go down on me - something he'd often promised but never delivered on. Instead, I got his admittance of an affair. I'm not going to lie: I've had better evenings.

He moved out that night, and, thanks to us both hiring solicitors the very next day to sort out the mountain of paperwork that came with transferring the flat solely over to me, I never saw him again.

The next few weeks were the usual mixture of drinking to excess, uncontrollable sobbing, and trying not to text him. And, it was only after I'd got all that nonsense out of my system that I remembered his present: The Royal Box. Of course, I wasn't going to go. Now that the feckless buffoon had vanished from my life, I didn't need to go to the bloody theatre any more. Good riddance.

But...

Part of me, a large part of me, wanted to go.

It wasn't about not wanting to waste the money; I live in London, after all - if I was really that bothered about making the most of my hard-earned cash, I would have long ago moved somewhere more cost-efficient. Like, you know, anywhere. No, it became about closure. About being able to come to a place ripe with associations of Thomas, and face them. And, by facing them, move on. That's why I had come on my own. I could've invited a friend, but that would have lessened the catharsis: I had to face this spectre alone.

(Yeah, yeah, I know; I was probably drunk when I came up with that one.)

As misguided a plan as it was, it might have worked. Coming here, alone, really might have helped me finally get over my philandering (former) other half. But that scheme was dead in the water as soon as my bum touched these seats. It was always going to be a tough night - these fucking chairs had now made it impossible.

I sighed. I would also have slumped my body in a defeatist gesture if there wasn't a risk of slipping a disc thanks to the sodding horrid chair beneath me.

Should I just leave? After all, it's not as if...

For God's sake, Aimee: Shut up. You came here for a reason - to face the ghosts of the past. You can't do that if you hitch up your petticoats, and run away at the first sign of trouble. Stop your moaning, and get on with it.

I took a fortifying swig of my drink, and looked at my watch; five minutes until the curtain rose. It was probably going to be awful, but at least the play might stave off the desire to flee...

With Thomas knocking about in my mind, a thought suddenly struck me: What if someone down in the stalls was watching me? What if other people played that same game that had amused the two of us for hours on end?

Was someone down there studying me, wondering who I was?

What would they think?

That I was an alluring yet deadly spy on a top secret reconnaissance mission?

Or maybe a Countess from some unpronounceable European principality who was so self-confident, so at ease with herself, she has no issue in attending the theatre on her own?

Would they…

Would they find me attractive?

Well, only if they had a thing for a short, red-haired women who seemed to be in a constant state of anger at her seating arrangements, and appeared to fidgeting around like a Ritalin-deprived teenager with ADHD.

However...

What if...?

No. Calm down, Aimee. Let's not get carried out away, shall we, girl? You're here to emotionally let go of your ex-boyfriend. You're not here to find a new mate. Nor someone who'd be good for a quick tumble in the hay...

But why?

Why couldn't I?

This was a public place, after all. People meet each other in public places. Christ, my friend Susan met her future husband in a library. Why was it so ridiculous to think that I could meet someone here?

Again, Thomas flashed across my mind....

And I recalled, again, that night he pulled away from me when I tried to kiss him.

Anger bubbled up inside of me.

I wasn't sure what I wanted, but I was certain I didn’t want to meet to another Thomas. I didn't want another man who wouldn't even kiss me in this hallowed place.

I wanted one who would.

I wanted one who'd smother me in kisses in the dark of the auditorium. I wanted one who'd surreptitiously put his hand in my crotch.

I wanted one who'd, if we had the chance to sit in a Royal Box, away from the prying eyes of the stalls, would have the playful courage to risk a quick fuck in the interval.

I wanted one who'd make me sit in one of these of these extortionate seats, pull my legs open, and then gorge themselves on my pussy.

And, in return, I'd...

"Good evening."

I jumped out of my chair, terrified, and my arms flew upwards. I deposited the remains of my drink down my dress, whilst simultaneously slapping myself in the face with the programme I held in my left hand. I've never been the most graceful person, but this latest display of physical ineptitude was impressive even by my standards.

Pissed off and embarrassed, I span around to face the owner of the voice that had frightened me, ready to unleash a torrent of abuse.

"What the....!"

"I'm so sorry," the newcomer said, raising hands in a conciliatory manner, as if trying to placate a toddler. His handsome face was half-embarrassment, half-apologetic. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well, you did! You scared the living shit out of me!"

I regretted the words as soon as they'd left my mouth.

"I'm so, so sorry," he said.

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. It was trick I normally used to calm myself after one of those regular patronizing, insulting exchanges with a junior doctor that formed a large part of my working day. I wasn't sure it was going work here, but I couldn't see the harm in trying.

After a few restorative breaths, I opened my eyes, and looked at the man who'd, without warning, suddenly appeared in my box.

"No, I'm sorry, that was very rude of me," I said, calmly. "You just gave me a fright, that's all."

"Please accept my apology," he said. "Completely my fault. I really should have knocked before I entered."

"It's okay," I said, trying adopt a relaxed air. An air that, thanks to the seat beneath me, made it impossible to pull off. "How can I help you?"

"I'm Marcus. I'm your steward for tonight."

"Steward?" I asked, utterly confused.

"As part of your Royal Box package, you also get the services of a steward."

"I'm sorry," I said, still bewildered. "But what does that mean, exactly?"

"Basically, I fetch you alcohol and sweeties whenever you want. Saves you having to wait in line with the riff-raff."

Now my shock over his sudden appearance had subsided, I finally looked at him for the first time properly. And, it was blindingly obvious he was a member of staff. The give-away wasn't just in the industry standard uniform of black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat, and black bow-tie. The biggest clue was the whopping, gold name badge pinned to his lapel.

"You're a servant, essentially."

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "It's not much, is it?"

"No," I said, laughing. "It's a lovely touch, but, along with these bloody seats, I'm not sure it's worth half a grand."

"I know! Those chairs are awful," he said, enthusiastically. "Everyone complains about them. But the management are too tight-fisted to do anything about them. As long as people are still willing to pay to sit in one of these, why spend money they don't have to?"

He was in his mid-twenties, touching six feet, and slightly-built. Although smiling now, I could easily see how his young, angular face could turn cruel, once the jollity was dropped. His mop of black hair was plastered down, but, with a few swift ruffles, it could quickly turn into a pleasing, unkempt mess. A chameleon.

As such, I instantly pegged him as an actor, probably in training. A lead actor in training. With his changeable appearance, he could just as easily play Heathcliff in 'Wuthering Heights' as he could be James Bond. If his talent matched his looks, he stood a chance.

And, without warning, those dirty thoughts I'd been having just before my steward arrived, came flooding back.

"Hardly towing the company line, are we?" I said, provocatively.

"Just being honest, madam," he said, performing a little mock-bow. Oh, he was funny as well. I liked him.

Liked him enough to...?

Behave, young lady. He's a good decade younger than you.

"Please call me Aimee," I said. "None of that 'madam' bollocks."

"And you already know my name," he said.

"That I do," I said, staring at him. Surprisingly, he stared back.

Should I...?

"Can I get you anything?" he finally asked, breaking the silence. "To dry yourself?"

"No, thank you," I replied, slowly. "There wasn't much left in the glass anyway."

I was still horny. And, to be honest, still angry. All those images of what I'd like to do in Thomas' oh-so scared temple had set something off inside me. Thoughts, that thanks to the good-looking young man in front of me, were not in any hurry to dissipate.

I still wanted to defile the sanctity of my ex-boyfriend's church.

I still craved to commit my own form of heresy.

I still wanted to commit vulgar acts, and taint this special place.

I wanted to be a slut, and do perverse things.

I wanted to...

I wanted to suck this young man's cock dry.

I would also probably enjoy it. Yes, the delicious frisson of naughtiness that came from knowing it was almost sacrilegious (to Thomas anyway), was satisfying. But, let's be honest? It wasn't as if it was going to zero fun.

Holding hands in this pantheon of high art was too risque for you, Thomas? Well, I'm going to perform fellatio on this stranger. How's that for blasphemy?

"I can fetch you a refill, if you'd like? Complimentary, of course."

"That'd be just lovely, thank you," I said, warmly. "But could you do something for me first?"

"Certainly, madam... I mean, Aimee."

"Shut that door, and come and stand in front of me."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I want to suck your cock, of course." The words were out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop them. But I didn't regret them. Not in the slightest.

They were freeing, and joyously dirty.

"Pardon?"

"Shut that door, come here, and let me suck your dick."

"I'm not sure that's part of my job, Aimee," Marcus said, with pretend-seriousness. If he was nervous, he wasn't showing it. Perhaps offers of cunnilingus from middle-aged women were a common occupational hazard for ushers in the West End. Who knows.

"Do you have a partner?" I asked. As I spoke, I opened my legs.

"No," he replied. "I'm straight, but single."

"My dear, sexual preference doesn't come into it; a good blow job is a good blow job, regardless of orientation," I said, confidently.

It was as if a switch had been thrown somewhere deep inside of me; one that was labelled, 'How to Banish the Ghost of your Prissy Former Partner.' I was purring now with the same level of self-belief I used on the ward to charm and overpower resistant patients.

There was also the knowledge that, having now uttered the words, I was committed this; I couldn't retreat now - I'd come too far. In for a penny; in for a pound.

"Whilst at nursing college, a good friend, a woman, once went down on me after we'd worked our way through three bottles of wine," I said.

My God! I'd forgotten all about that! Her name had been Lynne, and although our dalliance hadn't been enough to dent my heterosexuality, I never regretted our drunken tryst. Jesus - what other memories, what other feelings, were going bubble to the surface? Some dam deep inside of me had broken, that was for certain.

"We were both straight, but that didn't influence the net result. Which, trust me, left us both with smiles on our faces we wore for the next week."

"I suppose not," the steward said, slowly.

"Marcus, my sweetie. I'm offering you a free blow-job. And it'll be a good one. It's up to you."

A flash of concern suddenly washed across his face.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I've got four other boxes to attend to. I'll..."

"Don't worry," I said, smiling. "We won't be long. You'll be able to cum, and look after your other customers. Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. A question," he said, the corners of his mouth rising to form a wicked smile. "But, why? What do you get out of it?"

"I have my reasons. Trust me, you don't want to know - I'm beginning to tire of them myself. What I can assure you is that no beefy husband, or jealous boyfriend will seek you out after the event. I'm single too. And I'm in the mood to suck cock. You're handsome, young, and polite; I think you fit the bill nicely. So, it's a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Tick tock, Marcus; the clock is ticking."

"What if someone sees us?"

"Well, that only makes it even more delicious, don't you think?"

He didn't need to reply; his smile broadened, telling me all I needed to know. For the first time, I looked at his crotch; his bulging erection backed up his grin.

"However, two things: First, if you lock the door to the box, we're unlikely to be disturbed; second, the curtain is about to go up, and therefore the lights will go down. We may be in a very large room, with a thousand strangers, but unless they have almost superhuman eye-sight, they won't see us. Will they?"

"No," Marcus replied.

"So...?"

Without answering, he turned, walked to the door, and turned the small, silver latch under the handle. We were now safely ensconced. With perfect timing, the house lights slowly began to dim, and the auditorium fell silent.

"Where do you...?"

"Take a few steps towards me, and then stop," I interrupted.

He edged forward, and came to a standstill. He now stood roughly half-way in the box, which meant, that although his top-half might be vaguely visible, even in the near-darkness, to the audience down in the stalls with excellent eye-sight, his bottom half was obscured by the balcony that ran along the front of the booth.

I stood, and moved towards him, dragging the chair across the soft, thick carpet underfoot. I positioned the chair in front of him, and sat.

"Don't move," I whispered, looking at him.

I reached my right hand out. Gently, I traced around the outline of his erect cock. Bending forward, I began kissing his crotch. Starting at the base of his dick, I slowly nibbled my way upwards, until I reached the tip.

His body shivered as I kissed the head though the fabric of his trousers. I could smell the flowery laundry detergent he'd used; I don't know why it mattered, but part of was pleased his trousers had been washed so recently.

I leant back, and began unfastening his belt. I loosened the button on his waistband, and silently lowered his zipper. Slowly, I eased his trousers downwards.

Even in the gloom, I could see his white jockeys. I bent forward again, and blew on his protruding cock, causing him to convulse once more.

Warm feelings washed over me, glowing remembrances of who I used to be. I have never been voracious, but I'd always enjoyed sex. And, I know I have pleased men, as much as they had pleasured me. But, whilst with Thomas, it was as if that part of me had put into hibernation.

Tonight, that element of me had flamed back into glorious life.

I was being an unbridled slut, and I was loving it.

My heart was racing, and my pussy growing more and more wet at the thought of what I was going to do to my steward.

Fuck you, Thomas.

I pulled his underwear down, and, liberated, Marcus' dick sprang forward. It was large, but not ridiculously so. I knew I'd could take it my mouth with ease. Cruelly, I also noticed that it was bigger than Thomas'.

Bending lower, I started sucking on his balls. I'd learnt that there was an element of risk with this maneuver; not all men liked it. On the rare occasions I was allowed near Thomas' dick, I'd discovered that he distinctly did not like it.

However, Marcus did; I could feel his breathing shorten. As if in tune, mine did as well. Although I was the one giving the pleasure, I was enjoying myself too. I was as aroused as my willing steward was.

I continued to softly suck on his balls, treating them as if they were some giant, yet delicate, fleshy gob-stopper. Reaching a hand up, I softly ran a fingertip up and down Marcus' shaft. This combo was a trick I'd learnt from the massively-endowed Scandinavian doctor years ago. Pleasingly, it worked as well now, as it did then. Marcus was panting with the same ferocity as Tor had back in my student house, a different lifetime ago.

I stopped, and reached behind for my glass. It took a few seconds of scrabbling before my fingers closed around it. There was only a tiny amount of liquid left remaining. I lifted the glass, pouring what alcohol was left into my mouth. But I didn't swallow it. I lent over Marcus' cock, and dribbled the gin over it. I wanted moisture: The wetter the better.

I wrapped my palm around the steward's manhood, and slowly began moving my hand back and forth, coating the whole of his dick, and testicles in the gin. The wet, sucking noise was decadently filthy.

I leant in: It was time for the fun to start for good.

I formed a ring with my fingers, and thumb, and, inserted Marcus' cock through the hole. I squeezed, and moved my hand languidly up and own his manhood.

He exhaled, loudly. Too loudly.

I raised my fore-finger to his lips.

"Shhhh... you have to be quieter. I haven't got the time to gag you, so you'll have to show some restraint."

I felt his body vibrate as he nodded his head.

"Good boy. Now stand still while I suck your prick," I purred.

I pushed the ring I'd formed with my fingers to the base of his cock. Leaning forward, I kissed the tip, and then inserted it into my mouth.

I started to move my mouth up and down up the length of his shaft. I reached a hand around his waist, and placed a palm on one of his arse cheeks. I could feel the tautness of his muscles. Whether it was due to having his dick sucked in public, or the fact that he was, naughtily, disregarding his duties, or something else entirely, he was as wound up a watch spring.

He wouldn't need long. Nor would I later tonight when I replayed all of this from the comfort of my bed.

I increased my speed.

The sensation of his cock against my tongue, against my lips, elated me. The sheer wrongness of it all made me feel alive.

Screw you, Thomas.

I'd make Marcus cum soon, but I had one more trick to employ first.

My tongue made it's way to the front of his cock, searching for the small, stringy membrane that attaches the shaft and the head. It's medical name is the frenulum (I'm a nurse; I know this stuff). It's also a man's equivalent of a clit. I briskly flicked Marcus' frenulum with the tip of my tongue.

Flick, flick, flick... like a lizard trying to catch a flying insect.

He shuddered with each contact.

He was close. So, so close.

I resumed sucking his cock. Long languid movements... forwards... backwards.... forwards.... backwards....

I started to increase my pace. Faster and faster, my mouth travelled the length of his....

I lifted my hand off his arse, and swiftly moved it towards his anus. Given more preparation time, it would've preferable - for him - if I could have lubricated my fingers. But, time was the very thing we were short of.

I slid my index finger into his puckered hole. He gasped, but - with an iron discipline I found impressive - made no further noise.

I felt for his prostrate gland; just as the frenulum is the equivalent of a clit, the prostrate gland is a male's G-spot. I pushed my finger in further, looking for the raised and rippled mount.

My finger tip found it. I pressed down, and Marcus' body straightened, as if I'd connected him to the mains.

In time to my sucking of his cock, I started firmly stroking his G-spot.

Effortlessly, I fell into a rhythm. My mouth worked his cock, while my finger worked his arse.

I sped up...

He was close...

Faster and faster, I ran my mouth up and down his cock...

Faster and faster, I massaged his G-spot...

Marcus' held his breath...

We were there...

I wrapped my lips tightly around his dick...

He doubled-over, bending over me...

The first spurt was tame, and feebly ricocheted off the roof of my mouth. But, the second was ferocious. An explosion of bodily fluids. The inside of my mouth was filled with semen.

Gently, I removed my fingers from his anus. Slowly, I pulled Marcus' cock out of my mouth. A long string of cum followed me. Lifting my hand, I caught the offending strand between my thumb and forefinger, and pulled it away from my lips.

I sat back. At long last, the chair - ironically - now seemed comfortable. I waited.

Marcus stood upright. Through hooded eyes, he stared at me.

Once I'd given him a second to adjust his focus, I closed my mouth, and swallowed.

It was my final, 'fuck you' to Thomas. He'd always thought it more ladylike to spit.

Not tonight.

Here I was, in this Royal Box, with my back to the drama on-stage, swallowing another man's cum.

"Thank you," Marcus finally whispered.

In reply, I just smiled.

As Marcus began to dress himself, I stood, smoothing down my own clothes. I, unquestionably, looked a mess. But, as the rest of the audience were in the auditorium, I was confident I could sneak to the toilets, unseen, and ready myself for public consumption.

I opened my handbag, and puled out my cloak-room ticket.

Once Marcus' had re-belted his trousers, I handed him the slip.

"Would you be a dear, and hand this to the clerk in the cloak-room?" I whispered. "If you can tell them I'll be down shortly, I'd be very appreciative. I'm just going to use the ladies room first, and make myself presentable."

"Aren't you staying for the show?" he asked, quietly.

"No, thank you," I said. "I got what I came for."

"Which was?"

"Exorcism, Marcus. I've banished a ghost from my past."

Ten minutes later, having fixed my appearance, I joined the throngs of people jostling with each other on the busy streets of London's TheatreLand. For once, I was actually buoyant upon leaving a theatre.

I was even happier in the knowledge that, if I ever returned, it would be as a new, lighter person.

Leisurely, I strolled towards Leicester Square tube, one thought on repeat in my mind: Who knew that closure could be so much fun?

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