A Filthy Woman Visits the Theater

** You can read A Filthy Woman Visits a Church, but you don't have to if you don't want to**

My husband has taught me a lot about myself.

Before him, I had spent years believing I simply wasn't a very sexual woman. My first marriage had done little to convince me otherwise. Then I met the man who would become my second husband, and slowly--sometimes patiently, sometimes provocatively--he introduced me to a side of myself I hadn't known existed.

I discovered an appetite in myself that could be insatiable, nearly voracious.

That I could enjoy being lewd, filthy, unwilling to say no to the things he would have me do.

And that once I stopped being embarrassed by my desires, I had considerably more of them than I'd ever imagined.

I enjoyed discovering them with my husband. I enjoyed just how filthy I could be with him directing me.

Over the years, young women occasionally became part of our private adventures. Anna hadn't been the first woman we'd invited into that side of our marriage, and she certainly hadn't been the last. There had been others--different people, different circumstances, different things my husband encouraged me to explore.

And we hadn't stopped.

That was the part nobody looking at us would ever have guessed.

On Sunday mornings, I could sit beside my husband looking every bit like the respectable minister's wife people expected me to be, knowing that only days earlier he had cum all over my ass, or had me entice a reserved young woman to share his cock with me.

I loved that contrast.

More importantly, I had discovered that I loved the woman I became during those adventures--lewd, provocative, submissive. Everything the respectable minister's wife wasn't supposed to be.

And somehow, being one made becoming the other even more exciting.

For years, though, almost every sexual discovery I'd made had somehow involved my husband. He encouraged me. He challenged me. Directed me. Sometimes he recognized something I might enjoy before I recognized it myself.

Anna had complicated that.

My attraction to her had begun before my husband needed to encourage anything. I liked looking at her. I liked being close to her because I was just like her when my husband guided me.

That realization stayed with me.

Even as my husband and I continued having adventures together, a question gradually became impossible to ignore. How sexually uninhibited was I when nobody was encouraging me or directing me?

What might I discover that even he hadn't taught me?

I loved my husband. I wasn't trying to escape my marriage, replace him, or leave behind the life we'd created together. Quite the opposite.

He had helped me discover what was inside me, allowed me to express the sluttiness in me.

Now I wanted to know her on my own.

So one Friday evening, I drove across town alone and found a theater where nobody was likely to recognize me. I sat in my car staring at the glowing marquee, my heart beating considerably faster than it should have.

I had no plan, no husband beside me, and no instructions.

No one waiting to see what I would agree to. For the first time, nobody else would decide how far I went. Every choice would be mine.

I wasn't looking for another Anna. I was looking for Claire.

And finally, the night I'd been waiting for had arrived. Sitting outside a theater where no one would ever recognize me, I was nervous--but beneath it was a delicious anticipation. Tonight, whatever happened would be entirely up to me. I found myself hurrying inside.

I'd spent far too long standing in front of my closet before leaving home. I didn't want to look obvious. That wasn't me. But I didn't want to look innocent either.

Eventually, I'd chosen this dress because I knew exactly what it did for me. It fit closely against my small breasts and narrow waist before following the wider line of my hips, and the length showed enough of my long legs that crossing them would make it ride a little higher each time I uncrossed them--which I planned to do a lot. My red hair was down. I almost forgot the heels.

Now, standing just inside the theater, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realized I'd been so focused on choosing where to sit that I'd forgotten something. There were already men inside, and some of them had noticed me.

I could have hurried down the aisle and disappeared into a seat. Instead, I walked down to the middle rows, made my way to the middle seat, and waited, just for a moment.

Long enough to slip my coat from my shoulders. Long enough to straighten the dress and smooth my hands over my waist and hips. Long enough to let anyone interested get a good look at my body.

I felt suddenly, intensely aware of myself--the dress fitted around my curves, my bare legs beneath the short hem, the heels making them look even longer.

A man's eyes followed me. Then another's. I pretended not to notice.

But I did. Oh, God. I did.

I turned slightly toward the screen, knowing the movement showed the shape of my waist and my ass.

You want them looking, don't you, Claire?

The thought should have embarrassed me. Instead, it aroused me.

I'd chosen this dress because I wanted men to notice my body. Now I was deliberately giving them time to admire it. I would never have done something like this unless my husband enticed me to do it.

I chose a seat almost directly in the center of the auditorium and sat down so anyone entering after me would see me, and I would see them seeing me. I kept my eyes forward, enjoying the eyes that were still on me.

I crossed my legs and, just as I'd known it would, the dress slipped a little higher along my thighs. A small thrill passed through me as I imagined the men around me noticing. My fingers drifted toward the hem, then stopped. Normally, I would have tugged it back into place without even thinking.

This time I left it exactly where it was.

I'd chosen this dress and this seat exactly for this. For what I was feeling.

And apparently, I'd already discovered something else about myself. I didn't just want someone to come close enough to touch me. I wanted him to notice me first.

Finally, the lights dimmed another level as the trailers began.

I tried to concentrate on the screen, but I was far more interested in the man sitting a few seats away in the row in front of me. He had watched every move I made when I removed my coat and smoothed my dress.

A few minutes passed before I heard his seat fold upward, followed by footsteps moving along my row before stopping beside me.

"Anyone sitting here?"

I looked at the empty seat beside me, then up at him.

"No."

"Mind if I do?"

There were dozens of empty seats in the theater. We both knew he hadn't moved because he needed a better view of the screen.

I lifted my coat from the seat and placed it on the empty one to my left.

"Go ahead."

He sat, and for several minutes nothing happened, but that somehow made me even more aware of him. He was older than the boys who sometimes lingered at the back of church, solid through the shoulders, with a wedding band he didn't bother to hide. Good. I wasn't here to be anyone's first anything.

When his arm brushed mine once, neither of us moved away. I pretended to be paying attention to the movie. A little later, it happened again.

This time it didn't feel accidental. His hand rested on the armrest between us, close enough that our fingers touched.

I looked down.

He noticed.

"Okay?"

Such a simple question, but he had no idea what it was doing to me. My heart beat a little faster when I answered.

"Yes."

His fingertips touched mine slowly, tenderly, a little cautiously.

I turned my hand slightly beneath his, giving him easier access, and felt another little thrill when his fingers closed around mine. There was something very intimate about how careful he was being. His thumb moved across the back of my hand. Then his fingers traced lightly along my wrist before returning to close around mine again. Something so simple felt immensely intimate in that moment.

After a while, his hand left mine.

"Still okay?"

I nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes dropped toward my crossed legs and stayed there.

"Can I touch your legs?"

There it was. The question I'd wanted him to ask.

My nervousness returned immediately, sharpened by the raw thrill of knowing I was about to let a stranger put his hands on me. I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on the screen, and nodded.

"Yes."

I uncrossed my legs slowly and left them apart, the dress riding high enough that the soft inner skin showed, pale against the dark seat. I made no attempt to pull the hem down.

His hand settled just above my knee. Warm. Heavy. His breathing had already changed.

"Here?"

I nodded again. Still not looking at him.

His palm traveled up the outside of my thigh, then back down, then higher. Each pass was less cautious. He squeezed, and the give of my flesh under his fingers sent a rush of heat straight between my legs. I opened my knees a little more. He felt it. His hand slid to the inside of my thigh and gripped there, thick fingers digging into the soft skin, thumb stroking so close to the heat of me that I had to bite my lip.

I stared at the movie. I could feel him looking at my face, waiting for me to meet his eyes. I didn't.

Heat gathered under his hands until my panties clung, already a mess. My thighs loosened under his hand so I spread them wider, the dress bunching, offering him the pale inside of both legs. He used both hands then, one on each thigh, squeezing, stroking, pulling my knees farther apart like he was settling me open for himself. I made a small, helpless sound into the dark and kept my eyes on the screen.

My panties were already clinging.

His right hand climbed under the hem and closed on the softest part of my inner thigh, high enough that his knuckles brushed the soaked cloth. He groaned. I tipped my hips toward the touch without meaning to, legs spreading another inch, and let him grope me there--slow, greedy squeezes, his fingers pressing into me, the wet panel of my panties catching against his knuckles every time he squeezed.

I still didn't look at him. I watched the screen and let a stranger handle my thighs like they belonged to him.

For a moment, I simply watched his hand travel back and forth across both of my thighs. Each touch, each squeeze of my skin, sent another rush of heat between my legs, rising and falling almost in rhythm with his increasingly uneven breathing. His palms were hot and his fingers were thick. When he squeezed, I could feel the give of my own flesh and the faint tremor in his hand.

I covered his hand with mine and held it for a moment. His fingers immediately became still.

I slowly guided his hand farther inside my thighs--not much, but enough that there could be no misunderstanding about what I was doing.

I stopped when his hand was partially under my dress.

"There," I whispered.

His eyes met mine. I held his gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning back toward the movie. His hand remained exactly where I'd placed it, fingers now searching for my pussy.

My mouth opened, and the sound that escaped was thin and desperate, the kind of noise that told him I liked exactly what his hands were doing.

I shouldn't have wanted this so much.

I'd expected his touch to arouse me. I hadn't expected how much I'd enjoy letting him.

He'd asked. I'd said yes. And when I wanted his hand higher, I'd put it there myself.

His hand against my thigh felt fucking incredible.

His fingers started to move again, across both thighs, climbing in small, greedy passes. I opened my knees another inch and silently hoped he wouldn't stop. My eyes closed. My mouth opened slightly. The next time his hand came up, the side of it met the heat pouring off me. I was dripping. I felt buttery in the crotch of my panties, the cloth clinging when I shifted.

He felt it too. His breath broke.

"Jesus," he said, barely sound.

His fingertips found the soaked panel and pressed. Not hard. Just enough that the wet fabric kissed my clit and stayed there. A sound got out of me before I could stop it, small and filthy in the dark. My hips started moving without my permission. My God, he had to know exactly how swollen I was under them.

He rubbed once, then again. The second pass dragged the wet cloth over my clit and made my thighs shake. His finger slipped under the edge of the panty, just the tip, and found bare, slippery skin. He groaned like I'd put my hand on his coc

For a moment I left him there. One thick fingertip parting me, not inside, just resting in the slickness, barely moving before pausing, then teasing me again. I could hear how wet I was when he moved.

I covered his wrist. Not to pull him off. To feel how still he went the second I touched him.

"That's enough," I whispered, barely louder than the movie.

He nodded. "Okay."

His finger left me. The crotch of my panties cooled against my skin, stuck to me, I felt obscene.

My pulse was still racing and my body was trembling. I was so close to cumming that stopping felt like a kind of filth all by itself.

I hadn't stopped because I wanted it to end. I'd stopped because I wanted the decision to be mine.

"I enjoyed that," I whispered. My voice was rough.

His eyes met mine. He looked wrecked.

"So did I."

I smiled, stood, and slipped past him into the aisle. The wet drag of my panties between my legs followed me all the way to the car.

The next couple of weeks reminded me that going to the theater hadn't replaced anything in my marriage. If anything, my husband and I seemed more adventurous than ever.

One Saturday night, we met a beautiful woman in her thirties who had been flirting with me most of the evening. As she followed us to the church, there wasn't much uncertainty about where the night was heading.

She was beautiful, confident, and completely comfortable with everything my husband directed us to do to one another.

The three of us spent the night exploring how nasty we could be with each other, my husband encouraging the slut inside me whenever my old inhibitions briefly surfaced. Before long, I stopped thinking about being the respectable minister's wife and surrendered completely to the slut he had spent years helping me discover.

It was exciting. Familiar in its own outrageous way.

And afterward, as we drove home, I realized I hadn't thought about the man from the theater once, which surprised me.

A few nights later, the theater returned to my thoughts when my husband and I were alone. It began with one of those sexy games we'd played before--him sending me to my book club with his cum inside my panties, enjoying how completely I would surrender control to him, while I discovered all over again how much I enjoyed giving it.

He knew exactly how to entice me. Exactly how to direct me. Exactly how to make the respectable Claire disappear and set the filthy Claire free.

Eventually, I was laughing at myself for ever pretending to be shy with him.

But afterward, lying beside him in the darkness, the difference suddenly seemed obvious.

With my husband, I loved surrendering because I trusted him enough to give him control.

At the theater, nobody had control over me. I'd chosen the seat. I'd allowed the stranger to touch me, and I'd moved his hand when I wanted more.

And I'd stopped him when I'd decided it was enough, with his fingertip still wet from me.

That was what I kept remembering. The choice.

I had discovered something about myself that night, but instead of satisfying me, it had awakened an appetite I suddenly wanted to keep feeding.

Because now there was another question waiting for me.

What else would I choose?

A few weeks passed before I returned. This time, I didn't sit in the parking lot wondering whether I'd go inside. I already knew I would.

I'd dressed differently, too.

My black top was fitted and daringly low, exposing far more of my breasts than usual. They were small, but the neckline made the most of them. If a man decided he wanted to touch me there, there wasn't much standing in his way. My red skirt fit tightly around my waist and hips and ended high on my thighs--about as short as the dress I'd worn the first time I came here.

Before leaving the house, I tested it. I wanted to see what someone might see. Sitting down made it ride higher. Crossing my legs made it climb a little more. Exactly what I wanted. Under it I wore the lacy demi-cup I had bought for the next time my husband and I entertained someone he found interesting, and a pair of panties already damp from the drive.

I smiled at that thought, slipped off my coat, and walked into the auditorium. I chose the middle of the theater again, took my time looking for a seat, and paused for a few seconds before sitting down to allow several men to get a good look at me. I noticed one of them staring and let out a quiet, breathy sigh before I could stop myself.

Just as the theater went dark, I noticed a man several rows away watching me. I crossed my legs and felt my skirt slide higher along my thighs, and his eyes followed.

I waited for him to come over, but for some odd reason he didn't. Several minutes later, when I looked over again, he was still admiring what I had shown him. Offered him.

What the hell are you waiting for?

After several seconds of him looking but not moving, I finally picked up my coat and went closer to where he was sitting.

"Anyone sitting here?"

He shook his head.

Several minutes passed with an occasional glance from him. Finally, I leaned slightly closer.

"I noticed you looking," I whispered. "I wondered why you stayed here."

His eyes moved over me again.

"You're very beautiful, can I just look?"

That caught me off guard. I'd come here expecting hands on my body. I'd dressed knowing I wanted to feel them on me again. I'd even imagined how much farther I might let them go this time.

But this was different.

He'd been watching me for several minutes without touching me at all--and somehow, knowing that looking was enough for him sent a new little thrill through me.

I suddenly became very aware of just how low-cut my top was. My short skirt. How deliberately I'd dressed for touching. Now I wondered what it might feel like to give him exactly what he wanted.

I smiled faintly. "Only looking?"

His gaze lingered over my top and my partially exposed legs.

"If you let me."

I hadn't expected that.

I shifted slightly, giving him a better view of my legs. His breathing changed almost immediately.

"You really don't want to touch me?"

He shook his head.

"Just look?"

His eyes met mine before I looked down at myself and reveled in how provocative I had dressed.

He hadn't asked me to show him anything. His eyes were lingering over my body, just waiting to see what I would let him see.

And once again, the next choice was mine. His gaze always returned to my tits, stuffed into the top.

I knew what he wanted to look at.

Slowly, I drew the fabric aside at the shoulder, just enough to reveal the lace of the demi-cup. The upper swell of my breast showed, pale, the nipple already tight under the lace.

His breathing changed. Instead of satisfying me, his reaction made me want another one.

I undid one button and watched his eyes follow my fingers. When I opened the second, a quiet "Yes" slipped from him.

This time, I stopped. I sat still for several seconds, looking at the movie.

I wanted to know whether I could get the same reaction without showing him more of my breasts, so I slowly crossed my legs, letting my tight skirt climb higher along my thighs. His attention immediately followed.

I uncrossed my legs completely, paused with them spread open slightly, then shifted forward in my seat and deliberately crossed them again, letting the tight skirt drag higher along my thighs until I felt cool air against the heat coming from my pussy. The panties were a dark wet patch in the low light. I knew he could see it.

His breath caught.

"Fuck," he muttered.

His eyes moved from my tits to my thighs and back again, as though he couldn't decide where he wanted to look. For the first time, his hand lifted slightly from the armrest and fell into his lap.

I was beginning to understand the game--and becoming increasingly hungry for what each small reveal did to him.

My fingers returned to my top to undo more buttons.

I looked down at myself and smiled at how exposed I was. My top was unbuttoned and opened to my stomach, and my skirt had ridden so high it was practically at my waist, exposing most of my panties to him. The lace over my pussy was starting to cling to the shape of me.

Suddenly, another button seemed pointless. I didn't want to tease him with inches anymore, so I slipped the top from my shoulders and placed it carefully on the empty seat beside me.

Then I unhooked the bra. My tits spilled out, small and bare, nipples drawn tight. I set the bra with the top and settled back into my seat in nothing but the skirt bunched at my waist and the ruined panties. I looked at him for a quick second, then turned back to the movie, letting him take all of me in. I was sitting in the middle of a theater nearly undressed for a man whose only desire was to watch me expose myself for him.

His reaction was everything I'd wanted.

And somehow, it still wasn't enough.

Then I noticed his hand resting low in his lap, moving subtly beneath the darkness. A moment later he stopped pretending. He opened his pants. His cock came out into his fist, already wet at the head, thicker than I'd expected. Each time the screen flashed, I could see his hand shine.

My eyes lingered there for a second before returning to his face.

A slow smile spread across my lips.

"Do you like this?" I whispered.

He nodded without taking his eyes off me.

"Good." I settled deeper into my seat, making no attempt to cover myself.

"I like this. I like the way you look at me. Keep looking. Don't stop."

His breathing grew heavier as he settled in his seat. His fist moved faster, with purpose. A low grunt came out of him.

I'd touched myself countless times before, but never like this. Never simply because I knew someone was watching. This felt completely different. More forbidden.

My hands moved over me, slow. When they reached my breasts, I paused and held them together, pinching the nipples, holding his gaze as I did it. His cock jumped in his fist.

Then my hands drifted over my hips and along the inside of my thighs. I hooked the wet panties to the side and let him see me. Swollen. Slick. Open enough that the light from the screen caught on it. I dragged two fingers through the mess and held them up so he could see the string between them before I put them back on my clit.

I rubbed once. Slow. Then again, harder, until my hips lifted off the seat and a wet sound reached both of us. I stopped there. I wanted the ache. I wanted him to finish on the sight of me not finishing.

"Watch," I whispered.

He did. His fist blurred. A broken grunt tore out of him, and the first stripe hit his wrist, then his stomach, thick and white in the flicker from the screen. Another pulse followed, dripping over his knuckles onto the open fly of his pants. He kept stroking through it, eyes locked on my bare tits and the fingers resting on my leaking pussy, until the last of it smeared over the head.

I watched all of it. My own fingers were trembling. I was close enough that one more stroke would have finished me, and I didn't take it.

For another few moments, neither of us moved. I occasionally ran my hands over my body, but I mostly pretended to watch the movie and let him take in the woman I'd chosen to show him, while I quietly savored the mess he'd made because of me.

Eventually, his breathing settled.

So did mine.

Our eyes met, and the small smile he gave me told me everything I needed to know.

He'd gotten what he wanted and, unexpectedly, so had I.

I gathered my clothes and dressed slowly, no longer feeling embarrassed by what I'd done. The panties were a cold, filthy cling between my legs. I left them that way.

Nobody had encouraged me tonight. Nobody had told me what to show or how far to go.

Every choice had been mine.

I gave him one last smile and headed for the exit.

Over the next few weeks, something from my second visit to the theater followed me home. I think it was how that stranger made me feel, wanting only to look at me and my body, cumming all over himself just from me sitting there exposed. I felt powerful. I felt delicious.

I stopped waiting for my husband to bring out the slutty side of me.

One evening, I undressed to my panties before he came home and made myself wait in the foyer on my knees so he would see me as soon as he opened the door. Another night, instead of waiting for him to suggest one of our private games, I whispered to him, "Let's invite Mrs. Johnson over right now," and watched his expression change.

That was new. So was the pleasure I took in teasing him. Sometimes I deliberately made him sit back and watch while I played with myself until one of us came, discovering how much I enjoyed being responsible for the desire I saw building in his face.

He noticed.

"You've changed," he said after Mrs. Johnson had left our home.

I smiled. "Maybe I'm still discovering myself."

Then ordinary life returned--church, errands, dinners, responsibilities.

But eventually, so did the hunger.

By the third time I drove to the theater, I didn't wonder whether I'd go inside.

I knew I would.

The question now was what I might discover about myself this time, because every time I found another boundary I was willing to cross, another question seemed to appear behind it.

What else is in you, Claire?

When I walked into the theater, I waited in the lobby for a few minutes, where I noticed a nice-looking couple before they noticed me. At least I thought they hadn't noticed me.

They looked close to my age, perhaps a little younger, and there was something comfortable about the way they sat together that immediately made me think they were married. They sat nearby in the middle of the auditorium, in the same row I was in. Every so often I caught myself looking over at them.

Eventually, the woman caught me looking, after several times, and she smiled.

Not flirtatiously. Not exactly. More like she'd caught me doing something she found amusing.

I noticed her whispering in his ear a few times and looking over at me. A few minutes later, they moved closer. That immediately put me on familiar ground.

I assumed one of them wanted something from me.

A touch. A better look. Hopefully both.

But neither happened.

The woman sat in the seat next to me while her husband settled beside her. She looked me over once, then met my eyes.

"You've done this before."

I smiled. "Gone to a movie?"

She laughed softly.

"No. Come here hoping something interesting might happen."

That caught me completely off guard.

Her husband smiled but said nothing.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you keep watching people instead of the movie."

I couldn't argue with that.

She leaned slightly closer. "My husband and I have a little game we play sometimes."

I glanced at him. He looked almost dazed, his eyes fixed on me and his breathing increasingly uneven. He was still smiling.

"What kind of game?"

"When we meet someone we find interesting, we like to ask questions."

"Questions?"

"Yes. About things they've done. Things they've enjoyed. Sometimes things they still want to do."

I waited for the rest, but it didn't come the way it had before when I was here.

"No touching?"

She shook her head.

"No."

I glanced at her husband again.

"No looking?"

That made her smile.

"We're already looking at you."

I laughed quietly.

She leaned closer to me. I could smell her perfume, feel her body heat.

"I like hearing another woman talk about the side of herself she doesn't usually tell people about." Her husband's expression told me he enjoyed it too.

Oh, fuck. I'm sure my expression gave away what I couldn't say aloud.

The first man had wanted my permission to touch me. The second had only wanted to look.

This woman wanted something I suddenly realized might be considerably more difficult to give her. The truth.

She studied me for another moment.

"So," she whispered, "how adventurous are you?"

I turned toward the screen, suddenly grateful for the darkness.

Apparently, tonight I was going to find out how much of myself I was willing to reveal without taking off a single thing.

She gave me a moment to consider that, then leaned slightly closer.

"Let's start with something easy." I turned toward her. "Does your husband know you're here?"

"No."

The answer came easily enough.

She watched me for another second.

"Does he know the kind of place you've come to?" That one made me hesitate.

"No."

"And how does that make you feel?" she asked quickly.

I looked toward the screen for a moment before I met her eyes, lingering over her soft face.

"Excited," I said.

A small smile appeared on her face.

"Good."

"The way you've been looking at me, I have to ask. Have you ever kissed another woman?"

"Yes."

She waited, clearly expecting more.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks.

"And it was good."

For the first time, her husband reacted noticeably.

His eyes widened slightly before lingering on my body with a new intensity. He shifted in his seat, leaning more into his wife, and drew a slow breath, his lips parting as though he might say something, but he didn't.

But the look on his face told me he liked my answer.

His wife noticed too. Her smile deepened.

"Was your husband there the first time?"

"Yes. He encouraged me, you could say."

"Did you want to kiss her, or caress her, before he began encouraging you?" Her breathing had changed, her words now slower.

"No." The memory brought a small smile to my lips.

"But once he encouraged me, I remember looking at her differently--and suddenly I couldn't stop wanting to do things with her." My thighs pressed together instinctively, and I caught my lower lip between my teeth. Apparently, even confessing it could still affect me. I closed my eyes, remembering that first time I had sucked a woman's tongue.

I came out of the memory when I felt her fingers intertwine with mine. "Claire, I'm going to ask you something very personal, and I want you to answer honestly. We're both very interested in you."

She paused as she glanced over at her husband, who was now watching.

"When you and your husband are together, do you feel like you're fucking or making love?"

The answer came immediately.

Just thinking about the difference made my breath catch. I sank lower in my seat, suddenly very aware of both of them waiting for me to say it.

I swallowed, then let myself smile at her.

"We fuck."

"Mm-hmm. And have you and your husband ever invited other people into your marriage?"

This time, I didn't hesitate.

"Many times."

Her eyebrows lifted, and I could see her husband's hand drop into his lap.

I smiled at their reaction.

"We really enjoy it."

"Was fucking other people his idea? Women? Men too?" She quickly wet her lips.

For a moment, memories crowded together--different people, different nights, and all the nastiness my husband had helped me discover I enjoyed.

A slow smile spread across my face.

"At first, it was his idea."

I glanced at her husband before looking back at her.

"Women and men. Mostly women."

I paused, enjoying the admission more than I expected. "And after a while, I stopped waiting for him to suggest it."

"When did it stop being only his idea?"

"Oh God. It started after the first few women."

Their attention stayed fixed on me. My breath deepened, and I shifted in my seat, enjoying the little rush that came from knowing they wanted to hear more.

So I gave them more.

"Once I realized how much I liked touching a woman, how hard he would get watching me do things to her, how much I loved hearing him encourage me to be filthy..."

I smiled at the memories. "I started wanting more."

I smiled, no longer trying to hide how much I was enjoying these questions.

"Sometimes I'm the one who finds someone," I whispered to her.

Something moved beside her.

At first, I couldn't tell what it was in the darkness. Then I realized her husband's hand had settled against her thigh.

She noticed me watching, and so did he.

Neither of them said anything.

His hand began moving slowly upward, gathering the fabric of her dress with it. Inch by inch, more of her legs appeared in the faint light from the screen.

A quiet breath escaped her.

He kept going.

Her eyes remained on mine as the hem climbed higher, and another soft, breathy sound slipped from her when the edge of her panties finally appeared beneath the dress.

She glanced down at what he'd revealed, then looked back at me with a knowing smile.

She made no attempt to cover herself.

"Tell me something your husband first encouraged you to try with him that you now crave without needing any encouragement at all."

"Tasting a woman on his cock."

I swallowed, but there was no embarrassment left in me now.

"I can't help myself. If I know he's been fucking another woman, or we've been playing with someone together, I have to have his cock. I need it."

"Would you like to taste me on your husband?"

My breath caught.

I looked at her differently then--at her exposed legs, at her panties, the knowing smile on her lips, the confidence in her eyes. My thighs pressed together as the thought settled over me.

"Yes."

She held my gaze.

I swallowed and gave them both the confession they were waiting for.

"I've been attracted to you since you sat down. And right now, I want you more than I should be admitting."

She watched me for another moment.

"What's exciting you more right now, Claire--the things you're remembering, or telling us about them?"

I knew the answer before she finished asking.

"Telling you."

Her smile slowly widened.

"Why?"

I glanced at her husband, then back at her.

"Because I can see what my confessions are doing to both of you."

That admission sent another little rush through me.

She leaned closer.

"And how much are you holding back?"

I laughed softly, almost surprised by how easily she'd read me.

"Less with every question."

"Why?"

This time, I didn't look away.

"Because every time I tell you something I would never normally tell anyone, I want to reveal a little more about the kind of minister's wife I really am."

"Since you've already seen my panties, I want you to slip yours off from under your dress and give your messy panties to my husband."

She held my gaze.

"Would you like to do that for us?"

I didn't answer.

Her eyes stayed on mine, steady and knowing, as though she could see exactly what her words were doing to me. My hands disappeared beneath my dress.

The fact that both of them knew what I was doing made my pulse race. I shifted slightly in my seat, deliberately taking my time, feeling the fabric loosen around my hips, peel away from my pussy, and slide down my thighs. They clung. I had to peel them away. I held them open for a second in the light from the screen so both of them could see the slick string and the darker wet before I pressed them into his hand.

God, Claire.

I did exactly what she'd asked.

I couldn't decide what felt more shameless--the request itself, or how eager I was to do it. He brought them to his nose at once. His wife watched me watch him do it.

She studied me for a long moment, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"You know what I really like about you?"

"What?"

"Every answer makes me want to find out how deep the debauchery goes inside you."

She leaned slightly closer.

"The minister's wife. The woman your husband helped set free. The woman who learned she likes the taste of pussy. And now the woman sitting here enjoying telling two strangers all her secrets."

Her eyes held mine.

Neither of them asked another question. They simply waited.

After a few seconds, I heard myself say, "There's something else."

She smiled.

"My husband taught me how to be this woman--the one who needs direction, the one who likes pussy and lets herself be filthy."

I paused, realizing how much I wanted them to know the rest.

"Now sometimes I'm the one who goes looking for her."

She leaned closer, and I noticed her breathing had changed--slower, deeper, no longer quite as controlled as it had been when the questions began.

"I don't think I'm finished discovering you yet."

Her lips remained slightly parted after she said it. She held my gaze, her eyes heavy with unmistakable desire.

"Come with us."

She let the invitation linger between us, drawing another unsteady breath before moving just a little closer.

"I have a feeling there's still a lot about the minister's wife we'd both like to discover."

I couldn't help but notice how she said we'd both.

My eyes moved from her to her husband, my panties twisted in his fingers, watching me with the same unmistakable interest he'd shown while listening to my confessions, and suddenly I understood exactly what she was offering.

They wanted me to leave with them. Both of them.

I felt that familiar, delicious heat between my legs grow hotter. Bare now. Wet against the seat.

For the past hour, I'd been telling them about the woman my husband had helped me discover--the adventurous one, the slutty one, the woman who had learned to stop apologizing for what she wanted.

Now two strangers were asking me to bring that woman home with them. But what unsettled me most was how little I wanted to say no.

I watched her husband continue to play with my panties, running his fingers through the fabric, moving them closer and closer to his face.

For several seconds, I seriously considered saying yes.

Then I smiled and shook my head.

"Sorry."

Disappointment flickered across her face, but I leaned closer before she could respond.

"But if I see the two of you here again..."

I held her gaze.

"I'll tell you more."

Her smile returned.

"And I'll be willing to show you a little more of the woman I've been telling you about."

Her eyes lingered on mine.

"Promise?"

I smiled.

"Come back and find out."

A couple of weeks passed, and I did not stop thinking about the theater.

I thought about the first man, the one who only touched my thighs and the second, who had wanted nothing but to look at me. Those nights stayed with me.

I kept hearing her questions in the dark of the theater. Does your husband know you are here. Have you kissed a woman. Do you fuck, or make love. I had answered her. I had told two strangers things I had never said out loud to anyone but my husband, and then I had taken my panties off and put them in her husband's hand.

They had asked me to come home with them.

I had said no. I had smiled and told her that if I saw them again, I would tell her more.

What I had not expected was how badly I would want that again.

I went to church. I sat beside my husband and looked like the woman people expected. Under that I was restless. Aroused in a low, constant way that ordinary days did not fix.

In the grocery line I would remember her leaning close enough that I could smell her arousal. At night, after my husband slept, I would lie there and think about the invitation I had turned down.

I remembered her husband had brought my panties to his face. He knew what I smelled like. Only my husband had known what my pussy smelled like before that night. My body answered the memory every time. Wet, aching, unwilling to settle.

I did not tell my husband. Not yet. This was still mine.

By the end of the second week, I stopped pretending I was going to wait. I wanted to go back as soon as I could. I wanted the same dark, the same seat, the chance that all of them would be there. I wanted some of it to happen again... and more. Her questions. His eyes. Hands. I dressed for it before I had even decided I was going, and once I was in the car I knew I was not turning around.

I had noticed that couple from before again in the lobby before I even bought a ticket. The same couple, comfortable with each other in the way married people are when they have done this before. She saw me before I was sure I had seen her with that knowing smile.

A trace of her perfume reached me when she passed, warm and sweet. As I passed them on my inside the theater room, we nodded and smiled at each other. I went into the dark theater and took the same seat in the middle of the theater, and when my eyes adjusted, they were there too, a few seats down the row, but close enough that if I got too loud, they would hear me.

I had dressed for being touched: a low dress, a button-down blouse, no bra, black lace panties a size too small and already warm from the drive. I couldn't believe my crotch was faintly damp before anyone put a hand on me or looked at me.

As soon as the theater went dark, a man paused at the end of my row. I noticed how he had looked at me and watched me before I sat down. There were empty seats everywhere, but he was walking towards mine, I kept me eyes on the screen as he approached.

"Can I sit here?"

I nodded, eyes on the screen.

He sat. For several minutes he only breathed beside me, occasionally glanced my way, eyeing my face and my body. Only after I returned his gaze did I feel his hand settle on the armrest between us, close enough that his fingers brushed mine. His skin was warm. I could sense the desire in him.

"Can I touch you?" His voice deep and low.

"Yes." I felt myself turn slightly so he'd have more access to me.

The first visit came back to me as soon as I said it. That night I had barely looked at the man beside me. I had nodded, uncrossed my legs, and let him put his hand on my thigh. The more he groped me, the wetter I had become, until I was spreading my knees in the dark and a stranger's fingers were pressed to the soaked cloth over my pussy.

I had stopped him while I was still shaking. I had walked to the car with my panties clinging to me, shocked by how much I had liked being handled and still being the one who decided when it ended.

I was more excited this time. More aroused before he had even really touched me. My nipples were already stiff under the dress, rubbing the cloth every time I breathed. I could feel a warm gush wetting the lace between my legs, and my heart was beating the way it had that first night, only harder.

The couple was still nearby and looking my way, it made my thighs press together. I wanted this man's hands on me and I already knew I was going to love it more than the first time.

He slowly undid my blouse and opened it, pulling it wide open. My tits were already out and the movie had barely begun. His hand came up under the open edge of my blouse and covered my breast. Small as they are, his palm held all of me. I thanked God he did not rush. His thumb drew a slow circle around my nipple, barely there, then again, until it tightened into a stiff little point under him. The pad of his thumb was rough. Each circle left a tingling sting.

"You always this sensitive?" he asked, moving his hands across my chest to tease the other nipple. My eyes never left the screen.

"When I want to be."

He caressed me like that for a long while. One breast, then the other. The soft underside, lifted in his palm. Nipples rolled between fingers, pinched lightly, released, soothed, pinched again.

My chest rose into his hand every time he teased the tip of my nipples. Heat gathered low in my belly and spread, a heavy throb I could feel in the lips of my pussy. My thighs pressed together, spread, then pressed again. My panties had gone from warm to delicious.

He kept me on that edge. A pull, a twist, until the heat climbed, then his palm would soothe me and the ache would ease. Just when I started to settle, he did it again. And again. Arousing me, letting me calm, then drawing the heat until I could not tell which I wanted more.

Finally, I put my own hand over his and held it harder against my tit.

"Like that?" he said.

"Harder on the nipple. Yes. There."

A thin, desperate sound left my open mouth. I tasted salt on my lip where I had bitten it. I did not look at him, but I arched so he wouldn't stop. Somewhere down the row I felt the woman notice, but did not look at her either. The wet cloth between my legs made a faint sticky sound when I shifted towards him.

"You're shaking," he said.

"Don't stop." I whispered.

By this time my panties were soaked, I was panting. Every squeeze made my pussy flutter. I could feel the lace sticking, a warm pulse wetting the cloth each time he pulled a nipple and let it go. My own scent was starting to rise, unmistakable in the close dark.

I noticed the other man. He had been several rows away before but now was coming towards me. He moved to the seat in front of me and turned just enough that he could see. He did not speak. His eyes went to the bare stiff nipple between those fingers, then to my parted lips, and stayed. I could hear his breath change.

"He only wants to look," I whispered. I knew exactly what he wanted from me.

"You want him to?" the man beside me asked.

"Yes. Let him."

The watcher did not reach. He just watched my nipples being rolled, watched my mouth open when the pinch got sharper, and settled deeper into his seat. The leather creaked under him.

"Pull the skirt up," he said. Not a demand. Almost careful. "I want to see everything."

I did. The man beside me cupped me from underneath and pinched both nipples, one then the other, while the stranger in front of me watched my face go slack. Each pinch made my stomach jump.

My free hand drifted down and pulled the skirt up higher around my waist and slipped my fingers under the waist of my panties, I was buttery. The lace was glued to my pussy, and when I peeled it aside it clung with a soft wet sound.

I rubbed my fingers together; they were slick and warm. After the first touch of my clit, I slide a finger along my slit, another wet sound slipped out, louder than I meant.

"Jesus," the watcher said. "I can hear her pussy."

"Then watch," I said, and spread my knees so he could see the movement of my hand. Several slow passes of my finger over my slit. Circle. Press and a shiver I couldn't hide. My clit was swollen, slippery, almost too sensitive under my fingertip. I didn't want to cum yet.

"Say it," the man at my breast murmured. "Tell him what you're doing."

"I'm fucking myself." My voice broke. "I'm soaked. I like you knowing what I'm doing to myself."

Every pass of my fingers left me wetter than the last. My hips began to follow them, a small roll of my hips I could not keep still, and the ache stopped being something I could sit through. My own scent rose, sharp and sweet. I knew they could smell it too.

I stayed like that for a moment, panting, his fingers still rolling my nipples, the watcher still staring at the wet gathering on my finger. Being touched and looked at in the same breath was doing something to me. One man's hands handling my tits, another man's eyes on my pussy, and I could feel myself getting filthier for both of them.

I did not want to hide in the seat anymore. I wanted the one in front of me to see my pussy, really see it, and I wanted the one beside me to have my ass where his hands could reach it. The thought alone made my pussy clench around nothing.

I turned and knelt up on the cushion, one knee planted on the armrest, the other leg folded under me, and leaned back over the seat with my hips raised. My blouse was already open, but I opened it more and pulled it away from my shoulders so my tits were bare in the dark. The skirt had unrolled from my waist, so I pulled it back up over my ass.

I put my ass up and back toward the man who had been caressing me, close enough that he only had to lean in to smell me. I hooked the panties aside and worked them down. They clung, warm and sticky, and I had to peel them off my pussy. I made show of pulling them down to the middle of my thighs, stretched as much as my legs were.

I looked over my shoulder, gazing at the one who had been playing with my tits with one hand on my chest, fingers spread over the bare swell of my tit. I reached under myself with the other. My fingers slid through the mess, hot and slick, squeezed my pussy lips closed, then spread it open.

I held myself like that, swollen, shining and open, so the watcher in front of me could see me while the other man's hand came up between my thighs from behind and settled on the back of my thigh, gripping, keeping me offered.

"God, I love this," I said. My voice was shaky and filthy. "I love doing this for you."

I spread my lips more and turned the other way to gaze at the face the watcher,.

"Do you like me like this?"

"Yeah," he said. He sounded out of breath already. "Don't move."

I touched myself lower than I had all night, one finger wet with my juice, slowly circling my asshole while they watched. Just once. Long enough and slow enough for both of them to see me do it.

The skin there fluttered under my fingertip. Then I brought that hand back to my pussy, squeezed it again, and spread it wider. A string of wetness caught the light from the screen and the man on my left moaned. The one in front of me could not look away. I could feel their eyes on my hips, on my bare ass and on the fingers spreading me.

"Do you like what I'm doing to myself?" I asked, looking from the watcher to the man with his hand now on my ass. "Tell me. I want to hear it while I'm spread out like this."

"Yeah," the watcher said. He sounded needy. "Don't stop, I like watching you hold it open."

The man behind me squeezed my ass, leaned closer and I heard him breathing me in. "I like it. Stay just like that. Play with it for us."

Fuck, he was smelling my pussy as I used it for him.

I brought that hand to my opening and pushed two fingers in. They went in easily, the sound of a soft filthy kiss. I was burning inside, slick enough that my knuckles met me on the first push.

"I'm going to ride them," I said, looking back. "Watch me."

I pushed my hips back onto my own hand, slow at first, taking my fingers deeper until my knuckles met me, then drawing forward until only the tips remained, then back again slower. My ass rose and fell over the seat. Each rock made my tits swing, nipples dragging the cool air.

Each rock pushed a slick little noise out of me. His hand stayed on my ass the whole time, squeezing whenever I pushed back. I could hear how wet I was. I could smell it on my fingers.

"Slower," the watcher said. "Pull them out so I can see."

I did. I held my fingers up, spread, shining, a thin string between them, so he could see the mess, then pushed them back in and rode them again, deep and slow.

"You hear how wet I am?" I asked.

"Yeah." I noticed his fist was already moving, a soft rhythmic sound in the dark. "Don't stop."

I stayed like that. Ass in the air. Riding my hand. Looking back. My thighs shaking while sweet, hot wetness ran down my fingers.

That was when the couple moving closer.

I knew she was close before she sat. Her perfume came with her, mixing with the smell of my pussy. She took the seat beside the watcher, where she could see all of me, and her husband sat on her other side. Her eyes moved over my rass, my fingers buried in my pussy, the mess shining on my hand.

"Don't stop for us," she said. "He likes watching you ride your hand. Give him a better look. Spread your pussy with your fingers again."

I pushed back and held myself open. A wet sound answered me. The air on my spread opening made me shiver.

"Does your husband know you're here?" Her voice low just like before.

"No."

"Good. Then nobody told you to do this." Her voice stayed soft. "Keep letting him pinch those nipples while you answer me. Tell him not to stop."

"Don't stop," I said to the man under me. He rolled the stiff tip harder, and the pinch went straight to my clit, a bright sting. "Yes. Just like that."

"I already know you've kissed a woman," she said. "Have you licked pussy?"

"Yes." I moaned it, hips still working. "I licked her until she grabbed my hair. Her pussy was dripping. Like me, right now."

"And you licked her ass. Did you put your tongue up her ass?"

"Yes." The word came out shaky. "I spread her apart and licked until she came. Remembering it is making me wetter."

Her husband shifted. The seat creaked. "Do it slower when you say that," he said. "I want to see those fingers go in."

I drew my fingers out to the tips and sank back onto them. The slide was loud.

"What do you like more?" she asked. "Licking a woman until she cums, or tasting her on your husband's cock afterward?"

"His cock." My voice was barely a whisper now. "If I know he's been fucking her, I have to suck it. I need her on him. Sweet juice all over my tongue."

"Then don't hide how wet that makes you. Two fingers. Let the man in front of you see them disappear."

I did. The watcher groaned. "Fuck. She's dripping."

"Of the things you do when your husband isn't even in the room, which one are you doing right now because you want it?" she asked.

"This." I looked back at her. "Fucking myself with my ass in the air, while he plays with my tits and that one just watches."

"Then stay just like that. Which feels better, his fingers on your nipples or yours in that pussy?"

"Both." A desperate sound slipped out as the man tugged and my pussy clenched around my two fingers, hot and gripping. "I can't tell them apart. Pull on them harder, please." I begged.

He did. The sting made my eyes water.

"Do you like sucking cock, or do you like being fucked?"

"Fucked." I pushed back harder. The wet slap of my palm against my pussy was obscene. "Deep. While somebody is looking at my face."

"When you cum, do you like it in you, on your tits, in your mouth?"

"On me." I was panting. I could taste my own breath, shaky and hot. "I like feeling it. I like seeing it spreading on me."

"You're holding your breath," she said. "Don't. Tell the one touching you what you want his hands to keep doing."

"Keep my nipple between your fingers," I said. "Don't let go when I get loud."

I let the next sound out, deep and needy, and rode my fingers faster before slapping my hand against my pussy, the sound was loud between the seats. My thighs were trembling. Sweat had gathered at the small of my back, under his palm.

"What's doing more to you, Claire?" she asked. "Knowing how filthy you can be or saying it while they watch you fuck yourself?"

"Saying it." I looked over my shoulder at all of them. "Your husband just opened his pants. The other one can't look away from my fingers. I like that more."

She leaned in. I could feel her breath on my arm.

"Before you get fucked," she said, "can we taste your fingers?"

I pulled them out slowly, they glistened. I offered them to her, still looking over my shoulder.

"Yessss."

She took my wrist. Her mouth was warm. Her tongue slid between my fingers, slow, licking the mess from the webs of them, and she made a soft sound as she tasted me. Then she guided my hand to her husband. He sucked my fingers into his mouth, deeper than she had, his tongue curling under them. I felt the pull all the way down in my pussy.

"Sweet," she said. "And filthy. Put them back on your clit. Let him watch you get fucked."

The man who had been caressing my tits moved behind me. I felt the seat shift under his knee. His hands spread my ass apart, unhurried, holding me open for the row. I nodded, now looking back at the husband. My fingers, wet from their mouths, went back to my clit. It jumped under the touch.

"Ask him," the woman whispered.

I had to swallow before I could get it out.

"Fuck me," I said. "Slow. I want them to see it go in."

He did not push in yet. He rubbed the head of his cock through the wetness, hot and blunt, up between my lips, over my hole, then back down. I heard every pass.

I could feel how swollen I was against him. My hips tipped, trying to catch him, and he held me still with one hand on my ass.

"Not yet," he said. "You said slow."

"Please." Squeezing my clit between my fingers.

The watcher made a low sound and I could hear his fist pumping. The woman's husband had gone quiet. I stayed up on the seat, blouse open, head tipped back, one hand on my clit, and let them watch the head of his cock notch against me.

Then he pushed.

Just the head at first. My opening stretched around him, a burning fullness, and I cried out before I could stop it. He held there. I could feel my pussy fluttering, trying to pull him in, the wet heat of me clinging when he eased back a fraction and pressed in again.

"More," I said.

He gave me another inch. Then another. The slide was so wet I heard it, a soft filthy sound every time he sank deeper. My fingers stayed on my clit, slick and squeezing. My tits swung when my hips jerked.

The man who had been pinching my nipple reached under me again and caught one, rolling the stiff tip while filling me up.

"All the way," her husband said.

He did. One slow stroke until his hips met my ass and there was nowhere left for him to go. I gasped. The fullness sat deep, thick, almost too much, and my pussy clenched around the base of him.

"It's in," I said. "God, it's in." I cried out.

He stayed buried and I felt him throbbing. My thighs wouldn't stop shaking. A drop of wetness ran down the inside of my leg and cooled in the air.

"Don't rush her," the woman said. "Let her feel it. Tell him when you want him to fuck your pussy."

"Mmm fuck it," I said. "Slow. I want to feel every bit of it."

He drew back until I thought he might slip out, the drag exquisite, then pushed in again, all the way. I moaned. He did it again. And again. Each thrust rocked me forward on the seat and made my tits swing into the hand under me.

The sound of him in me was steady and obscene, wetter every time he bottomed out. The watcher never touched me. He only looked, fist moving, eyes locked on the cock disappearing into me.

"Look at him," she said. "Not the screen. Tell him what you want."

"Deeper." My voice broke on it. "Use me. I'm want it."

He gripped my hips and gave me what I asked for, still slow, but harder at the end of each stroke. The seat creaked. My fingers rubbed faster. I could smell myself, and him, and the woman's perfume when she leaned in.

"Is this the thing you think about when you're sitting in church beside your husband?" she asked. "A stranger's cock in you, fingers on your nipples, and people close enough to hear how good you fuck?"

"Yes." It came out ruined. "This. Fuck, I not going to be able to stay quiet. He's so deep"

"Then don't stay quiet." Her voice was soft against the wet slap of him fucking me. I could still smell myself on her breath. "Keep letting them. Don't cover yourself. Tell me when you're close, and cum with all of us watching."

"I'm so close." My pussy clenched around his cock, gripping, pulsing. "Don't stop looking. I'm going to cum on him. I'm going to cum". My mouth opened wide and I felt my whole body violently shaking.

He held me tighter and fucked me through it, the same deep strokes, and I came looking over my shoulder, watching their faces while my pussy pulsed around his cock and the sound I made filled the row. My thighs shook as my cum ran down them, hot. The smell of sex was thick around us.

The woman leaned closer. I could feel her breath at my ear.

"Do you like the taste of your pussy?"

"Yes."

"Suck that cock," she said. "It's covered in you."

He slipped out of me. I felt the sudden emptiness, the cool air on how open and swollen I still was. A trickle ran down my thigh and cooled there. I turned slowly and sat back down in the seat.

The cushion was warm where I had been kneeling. My blouse hung open and off my shoulders, tits bare, nipples still stiff in the draft from the aisle. He stood in front of me. His cock was shining with me, thick, still hard, the head wet and flushed.

I leaned in. The smell of my pussy was all over him, sharp and sweet, mixed with the heat of his skin. I licked him first along a stripe under the head. The taste hit my tongue at once, salt and my own cum, and I made a small sound I did not try to hide.

Then another lick, along the shaft, gathering what I had left on him. He was hot against my tongue. I moaned and took him into my mouth, hungry, cheeks hollowed, the head heavy on my tongue while I sucked.

"That's it, Claire," the woman said, close beside me. I could feel her breath on my cheek, smell her perfume under the sex. "Look how pretty you are with him in your mouth. Get all of yourself off him."

I did. I pulled back until only the head was between my lips. It pulsed there. I licked the slit and tasted a bead of him mixed with me, then slid down again, wet and unhurried, tongue pressed flat along the underside.

The sound was low and filthy, spit and suction in the quiet row. A string of saliva clung from my lip to him when I came off to breathe. I chased it with my mouth and took him deeper, until he nudged the back of my throat and my eyes watered.

"Good girl," she said. "Don't stop. Use your tongue. We want to see you lick every inch clean."

I moaned around him. The vibration made his thigh tighten under my hand. I kept going, one hand at the base, slick with spit, the other gripping his thigh, sucking and licking until the taste of my pussy coated my tongue and his cock was wet with nothing but my mouth.

My jaw ached. My nipples brushed the open blouse every time I leaned in. I could hear the watcher breathing, and the wet sounds I was making, and nothing else.

"Look at her," the woman said. "You're doing so good. Getting every bit of herself off him."

I felt his cock tighten in my hand when he began thrusting. Fucking my hand and my mouth at the same time. I knew he was going to explode. I pulled my mouth off it, but kept my hand working his cock. His thrusting grew faster and harder.

"On me," I said, still shaking, when I let him slip from my lips. "Spray me. Cum on me."

He stroked himself once, twice, and came across my tits, neck and on the blouse, hot stripes I felt land on my skin. I stayed in the seat, leaned back, and spread my pussy with two fingers so they could see I was still open. The air was cool on me.

"Look," I said. "I'm still ready."

The woman smiled like she had finally gotten the answer she came for.

"Would you like to come with us," she said.

I was still trembling as I adjusted my clothes, buttoned up my blouse carefully, I wanted to feel the cum running down my neck and breasts. For a second I wanted to say yes. Then I smiled and held her eyes.

"Not tonight," I said. "Come to church Sunday, please Sit up front. My husband is the minister. I think he'd really like to meet you. Both of you."

She looked at me for a moment, and the smile she gave me was quieter than the one she had used all night.

"All right," she said. "We'll be there. I would love to meet you husband." She smiled at her husband before kissing him.

I pulled my skirt down from around my waist with their eyes still on me. My panties were cold and ruined against me.