Chapter 9: Free Tickets

Noah is still on his knees, face wrecked, glasses fogged solid, tears and my spit shining on his chin. His cock is half-hard again already, twitching against his thigh like it never wants to leave my mouth.


I turn, brace both palms on the low counter, and arch my back hard. My skirt rides to my waist. The black lace thong is soaked through, clinging to my lips, the wet spot dark and obvious.


He makes a broken, animal sound behind me.
“Get to work,” I say, bored and cruel. “You’ve got about three minutes before your manager does his walkthrough.”


His hands are on me instantly, trembling so hard he can barely hook his fingers in the lace. He yanks the thong down to mid-thigh and just stares for one stunned second, like he’s never seen a pussy this close before.


Then he dives in.


No teasing, no hesitation, just pure, frantic desperation.


His tongue licks one long, sloppy stripe from my clit to my entrance and he groans like he’s dying. He buries his face deeper, nose grinding against my clit, tongue plunging inside me like he’s trying to drink me dry.


I bite my forearm to stay quiet.


He eats me like a starving virgin who’s been dreaming of this exact moment for years, messy, frantic, perfect. Two fingers shove in alongside his tongue, curling hard, scissoring, stretching me open while he sucks my clit in pulsing pulls that make my knees buckle.

“Oh fuck. Good boy.” I moan, dripping down his wrist in seconds.


That’s when we hear it: the jangle of keys and the heavy tread of the manager’s boots coming down the hall.


“NOAH! You alive back there?”


Noah freezes, tongue still buried inside me, fingers knuckle-deep, eyes wide with pure terror.
I reach back, fist his hair, and shove his face harder against me.


“Don’t you fucking stop,” I hiss.


He whimpers, actual tears rolling again, but obeys.
The manager’s footsteps get closer. Right outside the corridor now.
Noah is shaking so hard his teeth graze my clit. He’s crying silently, shoulders heaving, but he doesn’t stop licking, sucking, fingering me like his life depends on it because right now it feels like it does.
“Kid, I swear to God if you’re on your phone again—”
The manager rounds the corner.


Noah’s entire body locks up. He tries to pull away. I clamp my thighs around his head and grind down on his tongue.


The manager stops two feet away, clipboard in hand, staring at the empty concession stand.
Noah’s muffled, panicked sob vibrates straight through my clit.


I clear my throat sweetly. “He’s helping me with a… spill back here.”
The manager squints into the dim corridor, sees nothing but my upper half leaning casually over the counter, and grunts.


“Thirty seconds, Noah. Then I’m writing you up.”
Footsteps retreat.
The second he’s gone, Noah comes undone.
He licks me like a man possessed, tongue fucking deep, fingers curling hard against my front wall, thumb pressing my clit in frantic circles.


I come hard, silent except for the sharp inhale I can’t hold back, thighs clamped around his head, squirting into his mouth in hot pulses.
He drinks every drop, licking me clean while he cries and trembles and begs with his whole body.
Only then do I step away, pull my thong up, smooth my skirt.


He’s on his knees, face destroyed, glasses crooked, chin dripping with me.
I pat his cheek. “Good boy. Now lock the front and take me to Screen 3.”
His hands are shaking so badly he drops the keys twice.


Screen 3 is half-full tonight, some indie romance, maybe twenty people scattered throughout.
The theater is darker than sin. Only the flickering silver of the screen and the low amber exit signs give any light.

Twenty-three people tonight, scattered like loose change down front and middle. We slip into the very back row, far left corner, last two seats. Noah’s hand is slick with sweat around mine; he’s shaking so hard his teeth are nearly chattering.


I lift the armrest. One wide, plush bench now. Perfect.
The house lights dim to black. Opening credits roll in soft white French cursive. A swelling piano score. Everyone settles.
I straddle him instantly, facing away from the screen, knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his hips. My skirt is already bunched at my waist. His hands fly to my bare thighs like they’ve been magnetized, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow.


He’s panting against the back of my neck, tiny, panicked breaths that tickle my skin. His cock is trapped between us, still half-hard from the lobby, now fully rigid again and leaking through the fresh condom he rolled on with trembling fingers in the hallway.
I reach between us, line him up, and sink down in one slow, deliberate glide.
The stretch is perfect. He’s not huge, but he’s thick enough that I feel every inch, and right now he feels massive because he’s shaking so hard he can barely stay still.


A broken, open-mouthed moan slips out of him the second I bottom out.
I clamp a hand over his mouth, hard.
“Quiet,” I whisper against his ear. “Twenty-three people. One sound and we’re done.”
His eyes are huge behind his glasses, glassy with terror and lust. He nods frantically against my palm, tears already gathering again.


I start to move, tiny, filthy circles at first, barely rocking, just enough to feel the drag of his head against my front wall. Every circle makes his cock twitch inside me. His hands slide up under my cardigan, palms cupping my bare breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples in frantic little flicks that match his pulse.


The couple four rows ahead shifts. The woman turns her head, scanning the darkness.
Noah freezes completely, cock buried to the hilt, breath stopped in his chest.


I don’t.
I grind down harder, slow and deliberate, letting him feel me clench around him on purpose.
His muffled whimper vibrates against my palm. A tear slips free and rolls down his cheek, hot against my fingers.


The woman turns back to the screen.
I reward him by lifting up, agonizingly slow, until only the head is inside, then sinking back down in one smooth drop.
His whole body jerks. His hands fly from my breasts to my hips, gripping so hard I know I’ll have ten perfect fingerprints tomorrow.


I set the cruelest rhythm possible: Lift almost all the way off, pause until he’s shaking with the need to thrust, then drop back down hard enough that the seat creaks softly.
Every single time the seat creaks he panics, eyes darting to the rows in front of us, breath hitching in tiny, terrified sobs against my neck.


I just smile and do it again.
Ten minutes in, a guy three rows up stands to go to the bathroom.
Noah’s entire body locks up. He tries to lift me off him, hands frantic on my hips.
I pin his wrists to the seat with one hand and grind down in a slow, filthy figure eight.


His eyes roll back. A strangled, high-pitched whine catches in his throat.
The guy walks right past our row, close enough that I can smell his cologne, and never looks over.
The second he’s gone, Noah breaks.


He starts thrusting up into me in tiny, desperate jerks he can’t control, hips rolling, cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside me.
I let him.
I lean back against his chest, tilt my head so my lips brush the shell of his ear.


“Touch my clit,” I breathe. “Make me come while that couple right there has no idea you’re inside me.”
His hand shoots between my thighs like it’s on fire. Two trembling fingers find my clit and rub in frantic, perfect circles.
I come silently, biting down on my own wrist, pussy fluttering and gushing around him in long, slow waves.


He feels every pulse and whimpers into my hair, hips stuttering, trying so hard not to follow me over.
I don’t let him.
I slow to almost nothing, just tiny clenches around his cock that make him sob against my shoulder.
Twenty minutes later the film hits a quiet scene, just soft breathing on screen, no music.


A baby starts crying somewhere down front.
Everyone shifts, rustles, looks around.
Noah is a wreck now, tears streaming, glasses completely fogged, cock throbbing so hard inside me I can feel his heartbeat.
I start riding him again, slow, sensual rolls that make the seat creak on every downstroke.
Every creak makes him panic harder.


Every panic makes him throb harder.
It’s a perfect feedback loop.
I lean forward, brace my hands on the seat in front of us, empty, thank God, and start fucking myself on him in earnest, long, deep strokes that lift me almost off and take him back to the root.
The head of his cock drags over my g-spot on every single stroke.
I’m climbing again, fast.
He knows.
His hands grip my hips, guiding me harder, faster, even though he’s terrified.
I reach down, flick my clit once, twice, and come again, harder, squirting quietly down his cock and balls, soaking the seat beneath us.


The sensation rips a muffled, broken cry out of him.
He slams up into me one last time and comes, hips jerking in tiny, frantic thrusts, cock pulsing so hard I feel every rope through the condom.
He buries his face in my hair and sobs my name over and over, soundless, wrecked, completely gone.


We stay locked together through the entire final act, neither of us watching a single frame.
Only when the credits roll and people start standing do we separate, slow, sticky, shaking.
He’s crying openly now, glasses fogged solid, lips swollen, chest heaving.


I turn in his lap, cup his wet cheeks, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting salt and me and him.
“Good boy,” I whisper against his mouth.
He hands me the two laminated passes with trembling fingers.


“Anytime,” he whispers, voice raw. “Any fucking time you want. Just… please come back.”


I tuck the passes into my bra, kiss the tears off his cheek one last time, and walk out on legs that feel like warm honey.


Next Tuesday I’m bringing rope and the projection-booth key he’s already promised me.