I’m not sure if my butch girl feels are about being them or getting fingered in public places by them, but I had fun exploring those feelings in this piece. And as much as I’m not saying that anyone should actually do this, I’m super into the idea of being made to come in public places – whether I’m having to hide my orgasm noises or making those noise into a duet…
Content note for actually-pretty-public sex.
I turn to my fiancée, grinning and expecting to see my own excitement mirrored in her face. Instead, she’s smirking – her eyes bright with mischief. That smile, along with the shirt, tie and jacket that emphasise even more how ridiculously hot my butch girlfriend is, give my thoughts a different direction to the tickets in my bag. I catch her hands and pull her closer to me, pressing our bodies together.
“What are my chances of getting you to fuck me in the alley before we go in. We can miss the first five minutes, surely?”
She laughs, her breath hot against my cheek in the cold night as she replies.
“The way you’re looking at me, it wouldn’t be just five minutes, would it. What you really want is for me to take you home to bed, tie you up, and tease you while I take off my jacket and slowly – oh so slowly – roll up my sleeves. You want me to fuck you slowly, as though I can take my pleasure in you however I chose, and then make you whimper and writhe and beg me to pick up the pace and absolutely ruin you.”
“I mean… yes please?”
She grins and pulls back just a little, kissing my nose lightly.
“It’s our anniversary, and we have tickets to an opera that you’ve been excited about for weeks. I will fuck you, but later, and every note will be sweeter to me knowing that beside me my girl is squirming in her seat. Because she’s a dirty little slut, and I probably should have spanked her before we went out to dinner, shouldn’t I?”
I let out a small whine, burrowing my face in her shoulder as she takes my hand and begins to lead me towards the theatre. We continue our argument about whether we should celebrate today as our anniversary or the date of our first fuck, which happened some months prior to the first time I called her my girlfriend before realising what I’d said. She buys me a program and puts her hand on the small of my back to guide me up the sweeping staircase towards the stalls.
The warmth and wonderment of the theatre washes over me as we take our seats at the back of the theatre, and I’m able to forget the ache between my legs. Mostly, at least. When the overture starts and everyone’s voices hush, I turn to her and kiss her quickly.
“Happy anniversary,” I mouth as the lights dim.
“Ditto. Love you.” She takes my hand, and I turn towards the stage. I’m soon enchanted by the glorious music, but half-way through a song I realise that while my full attention is on the performance, her’s isn’t. Her hand is on my leg, somehow under my dress. I’m wearing fishnets, and she’s stroking my lower thigh – when I wiggle she squeezes the soft flesh there. An unspoken command to stay still.
I keep my eyes on the stage as she moves her hand further up my leg, caressing and once or twice pinching. The squeak that escapes me at the tweak of pain is caught by her other hand, which is suddenly over my mouth. Suddenly, the command to be quiet is a lot more explicit. I’m glad we’re in the back row of the darkened theatre, but the exhilaration of her playing with me in public is heightened because we’re at the fucking opera. Surely she won’t go further than this?
Applause erupts around us, and she takes the opportunity to hiss to me.
“Clap, little slut. You wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’m about to put my fingers inside you.”
The gasp I emit as she does is masked by the dying applause. My cunt is wet and greedily welcomes the intrusion of her fingers. They deftly find my g-spot and she finger-fucks me in time to the slow song, her other hand on the back of my neck, holding me in place. I lock my eyes on the stage, my own hand now over my mouth to hide my whimpers, desperate for her to fuck me harder while simultaneously terrified that someone will be able to tell what we’re doing.
Her fingers follow the tempo of the music, until two voices rise in a crescendo and I feel I’ll break if she doesn’t let me come. She expertly holds me on the edge, and it feels like I have become part of the music – unaware of anything except the beautiful notes building outside me and her tension her fingers are building inside me. It’s exquisite and so very wrong at the same time. I’m on the point of tears – from the fucking as much as the sad solo being sung onstage – when she gives me another command.
“Come. Make it a duet, and maybe no one will notice the noise a little slut makes when she comes.”
She makes me suck her fingers clean, and I delight in the taste of my own arousal. When the lights come up, the only indication of our misbehaviour are my flushed cheeks. That is, until she whispers a question that makes me moan aloud, even though we’re no longer in the secret-keeping darkness.
“Do you think I can get you off again in the second half, just with my fingers on your clit? Or would it be more fun for me to reduce you to a writhing mess who someone has to pull herself together when the show ends…”
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.