London’s West End is a magical place as dusk settles over the city. An air of excitement pervades; the hustle and bustle so familiar to Londoners takes on a new tone, a new zest.

And there you are, on line for the latest musical show, ticket clutched in hand, anticipation building. Standing there; unaware of the surprise I have planned for you; the one I have been secretly plotting to execute for ages.

You are accompanying an old friend — a countryman of yours from decades past. This is a favour you promised him years ago. Not to say that you are here under duress; not quite. However, not entirely by choice either.

Mere moments later and the bustling middle-aged usher has efficiently shown you to your seats. You find yourself in the last seat but one in the row; the sublime layout of the theatre being such that you have a thoroughly unrestricted view of the stage. The theatre is packed full; the only remaining empty seat next to you. The lights start to dim. You find yourself wondering about the tardiness of the person who has not yet filled the seat next to you — and then the orchestra strikes up and you concentrate on the overture.

Vaguely you are conscious of someone stopping at the end of the row, but so intent are you on the stage that you don’t turn to look as the person slides into the seat. You cannot tear yourself away from the spectacle in front of you, until you suddenly realise that the hand of the person sitting next to you has covered your lap with a coat, and is now wandering their hand up your arms to your face, which they are stroking in a manner that can only be described as tantalising.

You turn and look. It’s me. All thoughts of the show are instantly forgotten. You turn and kiss me deeply.


“I love you. What are you doing here? I thought you were out of town?”

” I am. I’m here. With you. Happy?”

You put your arm around my shoulders affectionately. I snuggle into you, under the strategically placed coat, my hand is idly creeping up your thigh, and wandering toward your groin. I pause, waiting to see if you’d rather concentrate on the show or encourage me, knowing in my heart that it will be the latter… and the telltale sigh that escapes your lips proves me right. I trail my fingers over the visibly swelling bulge and feel it grow even more, in response to my touch.

Unzipping your fly, your cock bounces out at me daringly. I look up at you – brazenly watching the show, with a wickedly innocent smile on your face. I feel the sudden need to change that smile into an expression of joyful disbelief, so in a flashingly quick move, I pull my jacket over my head, and settle my mouth over your cock, as deep as I can throat it.

Teasing and tantalising you, nipping and nuzzling, sucking and eventually swallowing you, to your ecstatic delight, I finish my endeavours and carefully squirm my body back up in the seat, as surreptitiously as possible.

And there we sit, watching the rest of the show.

Exhaling and happy; hand in hand. Together. Content just to be.

That’s how it should be… the beauty of just being.

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9 Responses to “Theatrics”

  1. I really enjoyed that …me thinks I may have to start going to the theatre …

  2. thats fucking hot.

  3. How very…. hot.

  4. Minerva Says:

    Wouldn’t that be FUN??!!

  5. Jenna Howard Says:

    Holy moly…


  6. crabcake Says:

    If I keep reading this stuff, I’ll never get my work done. You’re totally putting my head in a whole other place. LOL!

  7. Miz BoheMia Says:

    Oooh! sizzlin’! Bohemians applaud you fo’ sho’!

    Here is where “Encore” takes a whole different meaning! ;-P

  8. Londinium Says:

    Minxy, this makes me chuckle. Not because it’s funny — it’s not, it’s hot! — but because my brother in his acting days used to refer to “perforgasms”: when actors go “over the top”.

    And when you’re sitting in the front row watching an emotional and loud play, you run the risk of getting covered in “actoplasm”….



  9. crabcake Says:

    psssssst! Minx, where did you go?

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