A Night at the Opera

“I hate the opera,” grumbled Erica, as she furled and unfurled the two-page program. She had noticed two typos when she skimmed through it.

As the orchestra tuned up, random notes of mediocre music drifted through the audience, though the term audience was pushing it a bit. Forty-two people in an auditorium that held two-fifty hardly qualified as an audience.

But there it was.

And so was Erica. Sitting in the back row of a near-empty auditorium, waiting for a fat broad with humongous boobs to come out on stage and sing at an octave only dogs would hear. It wasn’t over until she did. That, my friends, is a known fact.

“You agreed to come with me tonight.” Jason’s face was deadpan as he reached over, pressed his hand on her bouncing knee. He pressed just hard enough to make his point. Stop making a scene. Or else.

Erica stilled her leg, slumped back in her seat. She had worn her favorite evening dress—a black mid-thigh flare—and a lacy garter. She had spent thirty minutes on her hair, twenty on her makeup.

For this. This small-town, amateur freak show.

“That’s better.” Jason rewarded her with a light kiss on her cheek as the lights dimmed and the orchestra played the opening notes.

Pouting in the dark, Erica watched performers with worn costumes and tired voices drag through their scenes.

She deserved to be rewarded for this, for sitting through singers that sounded like cats in heat. She deserved to be rewarded for giving in to Jason’s ridiculous whims, his drive to support local arts. She deserved…

Her head swiveled over to him when his hand creeped up her leg, under her dress, fingered the hook of her garter that rested well up her thigh.

Erica smiled into the darkness of the near-empty theater. She swiveled her head back and faced the actors, let her head tilt back and spread her thighs in carefree invitation. Oh, yeah, she deserved this.

Jason’s hand slid up her thigh, his pinky grazing the folds of her pussy.

“You’re already wet,” he breathed into her ear as he palmed her.

Two fingers dipped down, came back up—lubed—to stroke her clit.

She could only nod as wave after wave of need ripped through her.

“You like when I finger you, don’t you?”

She nodded again. “Don’t stop,” she begged, but it came out more like a whimper.

That didn’t matter. She knew Jason had understood her message when he thrust two fingers into her cunt and fucked into her.

The sucking noises of her wet pussy matched the tempo of the music. Her moans melted with the aria, seemed to harmonize with the players. And when Jason made her cum, her cries of release were drowned out by the ear-splitting falsetto of the fat lady.



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