The Cinema Fantasy and the Unknown Woman

The argument in the car left a knot in my stomach. I had asked an inappropriate question, and she answered me with a coldness that made me feel like an idiot. After a few seconds of silence, she started the car again and told me that if I still wanted to go to the movies, we would, but that I needed to calm down and stop talking nonsense.

I nodded immediately. I didn't want to ruin the afternoon, especially after seeing how upset she was. For the rest of the drive I looked out the window, pretending to be calm while trying to bring down the absurd horniness my own thoughts had provoked.

When we reached the mall, the place was packed. Several movies were premiering, and the ticket line stretched almost to the entrance of the stores. She sighed, adjusting her hair with a tired expression, and for a moment I thought she was going to tell me we'd better leave.

—Stand here and don't move —she told me—. We'll buy the tickets and then figure out what to do.

We joined the line together. I stood in front of her, and for several minutes all we heard was the murmur of the crowd, the beeping of the machines, and the sweet smell of popcorn floating through the air. It was an ordinary, everyday scene, but I was having trouble concentrating on anything other than my discomfort.

Then the line began moving backward because of a minor altercation farther ahead. We all took several steps back at once. She bumped into someone and turned her head slightly to apologize. Behind us was a group of young men, all adults, loud and carrying that insolent confidence of people who think nothing can happen to them.

The line started moving again and then stopped once more. More jostling, more backing up. This time one of the guys ended up pressed too closely against a woman who was several places ahead of me—a brunette with a firm body, tight jeans, and a dark blouse. She looked to be around forty, elegant, the kind of woman who drew attention without doing anything.

At first I thought it had been an accident. She seemed to think so too, because she merely tensed a little and looked straight ahead. But the movements continued. They were small, almost imperceptible if you weren't paying attention. A longer brush. Pressure. The way he positioned himself directly behind her ass.

I couldn't stop watching from the corner of my eye. The scene seized me immediately. She maintained her composure, her back straight and her chin held high, as if she didn't want to admit what was happening. But I could see the blush slowly rising up her neck, and once I noticed her squeeze her thighs together.

One of the guy's friends let out a muffled laugh. Another said something about how the wait “was going to be worth it.” She heard them, of course she heard them, but she didn't move from her place. She merely put a hand over her hip as if trying to cover something, then went still again.

My breathing grew heavier. I didn't know her. She had nothing to do with me. And yet I couldn't look away. There was something about that mixture of discomfort and desire, the way she pretended not to notice while he kept rubbing himself against her, that was making me rock-hard.

I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide it. In front of me, she took a short step, and the guy used it as an opportunity to press closer. This time it wasn't an accidental brush. It was an unmistakable, slow, deliberate grind. The woman closed her eyes for barely a second.

—What an endless line —she murmured, to no one in particular.

The words were ordinary, but her tone wasn't. Her voice came out lower, more broken. As if it took effort to keep it steady. I froze. I heard her take a deep breath. I watched her put a hand on her purse and then let it fall, undecided.

Behind her, the guy briefly placed a hand on her waist. Barely a touch. A test. She didn't push him away. Her shoulders tensed, yes, but she didn't push him away.

It was exciting me in a ridiculous way. The idea of being in public, surrounded by families, couples, and cinema employees, while strangers carried on with that dirty game a few steps away from me, twisted my head up. I could feel my pulse in my cock, insistent and hard, uncomfortably tight against my pants.

The line finally moved forward a few yards. Then it stopped again. The woman leaned slightly toward the person she was with, a man who seemed to be her partner, and told him she was going to the bathroom. He merely nodded, distracted by his phone. She quickly stepped away from the group without looking back.

One of the guys split from his friends almost immediately and followed her.

I kept staring straight ahead, but the image was already fixed in my mind. The rest of the line became white noise. I swallowed. I hesitated for a moment. Then I murmured to the girl beside me, asking if she could save my place, and walked toward the bathrooms with the false calm of someone who didn't want to draw attention.

As soon as I entered the men's room, I slipped into a stall and locked it. I was already so hard it hurt. I pulled out my cock and let out a gasp as soon as I touched it. It was hot, heavy, sensitive from the tip to the base.

I started jerking off slowly, leaning my back against the stall door, trying to imagine what was happening on the other side of the corridor. The woman entering the bathroom. The guy catching up with her. A word whispered in her ear. The door closing. Hands all over her before she had time to think.

My hand sped up immediately. I moved it up and down my dick harder, spitting into my palm to lubricate it. Every time I thought of that woman in tight jeans being cornered against a sink, a sigh escaped between my teeth.

Come on, show me how much of a slut you can be, I thought, imagining her.

Then I heard it.

A sharp thud on the other side of the wall. Then a short, muffled moan. It wasn't loud, but it was unmistakable. My hand stopped for a second and then began moving even faster. Another noise. The squeal of something metallic. A low, excited male gasp.

I didn't need to make anything up anymore. They were really fucking.

I gripped my cock tightly and jerked it shamelessly, breathing through my mouth. Every sound coming from the adjoining bathroom made me harder. I imagined her blouse open, her tits exposed, the guy licking her while pawing at her ass over the marble sink.

Her moans began coming more frequently. They weren't loud yet, but they had that hoarse vibration of someone who was starting to stop resisting. I squeezed my eyes shut and began fantasizing in detail. I saw her bent over, her face pressed to the mirror, while he pulled down her pants and spread her ass cheeks with both hands.

—Fuck... yes... —I heard, muffled by the wall.

I almost came right there.

My hand moved faster and faster. I lowered my pants a little and spread my legs farther so I could move my hips. I was lost in the scene. It felt real. I could hear her. She no longer moaned like an embarrassed woman, but like one receiving exactly what she wanted.

I imagined the guy kneeling in front of her, eating her pussy with his hard tongue, opening her lips with his fingers to suck her clit. I imagined her grabbing his hair, pushing his face, telling him in a broken voice not to stop.

A louder moan came from the other side. Then another, clearly muffled by a hand or by her own arm. After that came a rhythmic pounding. Dry. Repeated. Skin against skin or pelvis against ass. He was already penetrating her.

I grunted softly, yanking my cock furiously. I thought of him easing it in at first, feeling her pussy swallow him, then driving it hard all the way in, tearing a cry from her. I thought of that mature woman opening herself to a stranger in the bathroom of a crowded cinema.

—Like that... like that... —I heard her say again, now with far less restraint.

My thighs tensed. I was coming in my head before I did in my hand. Every word fed the fantasy. Every sound of a thrust made me imagine her body shaking against the sink, her tits bouncing free, her mouth open, her makeup smeared.

I began panting myself. I gripped the base of my cock for a moment and then continued. My palm slid, my foreskin moving rapidly up and down, the swollen tip leaking more and more fluid. I couldn't stop.

On the other side, the rhythm changed. I noticed immediately. Harder. Faster. She let out a long moan that ended in a broken gasp. He grunted something I couldn't understand. Then a blow harder than the others made the wall vibrate.

I imagined her on all fours now, her hands braced on the edge of the sink, her ass raised and her legs spread, taking every thrust all the way in. I imagined the guy spitting between her ass cheeks, fingering her before trying her ass. The idea turned me on even more.

My wrist was moving on its own now. Fast, savage. I bit my lip to keep from moaning. The sound of water running in the bathroom next door barely managed to cover the thuds and gasps. It was obvious they were doing it desperately.

—Don't stop... fuck... don't stop... —she moaned.

I felt a surge rise from my balls to my back. I was on the verge of coming, but I eased off for a second to prolong it. I wanted to keep listening. I wanted to wring every image dry. I imagined her turning around to suck him, sucking greedily, taking his cock down her throat before offering him her ass again.

The man let out a hoarse grunt. The pounding became even rougher, irregular, desperate. She began moaning almost continuously. She wasn't pretending anymore, wasn't holding anything back. She was really being fucked, and she loved it.

Then everything sped up all at once. He snorted something louder. She let out a sharp gasp, almost a scream. The blows came in one final burst. I squeezed the base again, holding on for barely a couple of seconds, until I heard the long, broken moan with which she came—or at least completely let herself go.

That was enough.

I came with my cock clenched in my fist, shooting thick jets over my hand, my belly, and the inside of my lowered pants. The orgasm shook my whole body. I closed my eyes, panting, while I kept pumping through the last spasms and trembled against the stall door.

It took me a minute to catch my breath.

When I could move again, I cleaned myself as best I could with paper and water, straightened my clothes, and went out to wash my hands with an expression of absolute normality. No one seemed to notice me. That reassured me a little, although my erection had barely gone down at all.

I returned to the line and reclaimed my place. The lobby was still just as crowded. The man accompanying the woman was still distracted by his phone. The guy's friends were talking among themselves as if nothing had happened. For several minutes I thought maybe I had invented half the scene, and that everything else had merely been sounds distorted by my arousal.

But then she appeared.

She came walking from the bathroom corridor with carefully practiced calm. Her hair was a little more tousled, her lips freshly touched up, her blouse arranged with excessive care. She wore a neutral expression, but an unmistakable color remained in her cheeks. And she walked differently, subtly, almost imperceptibly... as if she could still feel something between her legs.

The guy came out a few steps behind her. He looked at her with a satisfied, insolent smile. She didn't even turn around. She rejoined her companion, said something about the delay, took her purse, and resumed her place in line as if nothing had happened.

I watched her shamelessly, pretending to look at the movie posters. I wondered whether she had semen leaking inside her, whether her pussy was still throbbing after that stolen fuck, whether her ass burned from the haste or the thrill. The mere idea made me harden a little again.

She seemed to notice someone watching and briefly turned her head in my direction. Our eyes met for barely an instant. There was no recognition, since we didn't know each other, but there was a spark of something. An assessment. As if she were wondering how much I had seen, how much I had understood.

I looked away immediately.

We bought the tickets, then the popcorn, and finally went into the theater. During the previews I sat there trying to concentrate on the screen, but I was still trapped in the same thoughts. The bathroom. The moans. The way she had returned to the line with her face composed and her legs closed, carrying her secret through the crowd.

The movie began, and I didn't understand half of it. Every dark scene brought me images clearer than the screen. Her bent over the sink. Him pulling down her pants. His cock entering her. Her broken breathing turning into moans. My hand squeezing my own dick in the stall while I listened to everything.

I didn't see anything, I repeated to myself. I only heard. I only imagined.

But sometimes what you imagine is more exciting than what you see. Much more.

During an especially quiet part of the movie, I noticed movement a few rows ahead. The woman adjusted herself in her seat and slowly crossed her legs. Her companion remained absorbed in the screen. She placed one hand on the armrest, then on her thigh, for barely a second, as if she needed to make sure she was still there, present and composed.

I swallowed. The scene in the bathroom wasn't over for me. Nor for her, I suspected.

We left the cinema almost two hours later. The crowd dispersed toward the stairs, the concession stand, and the parking-lot exit. I deliberately fell a little behind, just to see her one last time. She was a few yards ahead with the man, talking about the movie with impeccable naturalness.

Before disappearing into the crowd, she turned her face slightly over her shoulder. I don't know whether she was looking for the guy who had fucked her, someone else, or whether it was simple coincidence. But for a second it seemed to me that her eyes passed over all of us with a new serenity—the serenity of someone who had already experienced the best part of the night somewhere else.

I stood still, that image burning inside me.

That afternoon I took away no real story I could tell anyone. I didn't speak to her. I never learned her name. I couldn't even be sure exactly what she had done in that bathroom. But I carried away a complete fantasy, filthy, detailed, alive. One of those fantasies that sticks in your head for days.

That same night, alone in my room, I pulled out my cock again while thinking of the woman from the cinema. Of her tight ass pressed against dark jeans. Of the way she pretended while they rubbed against her in line. Of her moans behind the wall. Of the possibility that she had spread her legs for a stranger just because she felt like it, just because it turned her on that he dared.

I jerked off more slowly this time, savoring every image. I imagined her standing before me, completely naked, telling me in that low voice to come closer. To kneel. To lick her wet pussy first and then her sensitive ass after taking all that cock. I imagined her hand on the back of my neck, guiding me. I imagined her scent, her breathing, the way she would ask me for more.

When I came again, her face was fixed in my mind, along with that brief look she had given me in line, which I kept interpreting as an invitation that had never existed. I came on my abdomen, breathing hard, knowing I would probably never see her again.

And yet, ever since then, whenever I enter a crowded cinema and hear the murmur of people waiting for tickets, I don't think about the movie.

I think about the bathrooms.

I think about the long lines.

I think about mature women wanting to misbehave where no one should discover them.

And I get hard again.