The Stranger at the Cinema Taught Me to Obey

I'm a little over fifty, and I've been married so long that I can't even remember what it was like to sleep alone. Nothing has happened between my wife and me for years. We love each other in our own way, I suppose, but the bed stopped being a place of desire and became somewhere we barely brush against each other before turning off the light.

What she doesn't know is how I fill that emptiness. I spend hours in front of the screen, watching all kinds of things, and over time I discovered that what really turns me on isn't just sex, but submission. Imagining myself surrendered, without making decisions, obeying someone who knows exactly what he wants. With my cock in my hand and my eyes fixed on men much older than me fucking other men's mouths, I would come thinking that the one swallowing semen could be me. I never believed that fantasy would leave my head. And yet it did, without my looking for it.

I'm a cinema lover. I go whenever I can, and I especially like the big, old theaters, those with worn red seats where you feel tiny in the darkness. One Thursday afternoon, they were showing an adults-only film, soft erotica, the kind almost nobody goes to see. I bought a ticket and went up to the back row. There were barely any people: two or three other lost silhouettes farther down.

I settled into a corner, pleased to have that whole section to myself. On the screen, two mature women dressed in black lingerie were kissing with a slowness that made me nervous. One bit the other's nipple through the lace, and the brunette moaned, throwing her head back. I let myself be carried away by the scene, relaxed, my cock already hardening inside my trousers, until I heard footsteps.

A man older than me, perhaps in his late sixties, came up the aisle, glanced at the empty rows, and, despite having dozens of free seats, came to sit right beside me. I felt his presence before his body: the creak of the seat, the smell of old-fashioned cologne, the warmth.

I didn't move. I pretended to keep watching the movie, but my heart was racing.

After a while he leaned toward me. His mouth was a hand's breadth from my ear, and I felt his warm breath when he spoke.

—Two women like that really turn me on. Don't they you? —he murmured.

—Yes —I answered softly, not daring to turn toward him—. Me too.

His knee found mine and stayed there, applying just the slightest pressure. He didn't move it away, and neither did I. That minimal contact ran through my whole body. I was frightened, yes, but more aroused than I had been in years.

—You like them so much you'd like to be there, on the screen. Right? —he said, and his voice had something sweet and dangerous about it at the same time.

Yes. That was exactly what I wanted.

—I don't know —I stammered—. I'm confused.

His hand fell onto my thigh and slowly moved upward until it found proof that I was lying. I was hard, obvious beneath the fabric of my trousers, and he squeezed my whole cock in his palm, measuring it through the denim. The man let out a low, satisfied laugh, too loud for that silence.

—That's what I like —he whispered, brushing my earlobe with his tongue—. You're going to be good for me, aren't you? Like those two up there. Tell me, which one do you like better?

My throat was dry. His hand moved slowly over me, giving me just enough to drive me crazy and not enough to do anything about it. He squeezed my balls through the fabric, ran two fingers up the bulge, rubbed the tip until I felt the wet patch spreading through my underwear.

—The brunette —I finally said—. I like the brunette better.

—I knew it —he laughed softly—. From now on, you'll call me sir. And I'll decide what you do. Is that all right?

—Yes, sir —I replied, and felt those two words release something inside my chest.

—Take off your shirt. I have a gift for you.

I looked toward the rows below. No one had turned around; nobody seemed to notice anything. The screen had entered a nighttime scene, and the theater was darker than ever. With clumsy fingers I unbuttoned my shirt and left it on the seat beside me. The cold air raised goosebumps on my skin.

He found my nipples and rubbed them until they hardened. He pinched them between two fingers, pulling until the pain mingled with desire, and every tug went straight to my cock, which was already throbbing on its own inside my trousers. I clenched my teeth to keep from making a sound. Then he took something from a bag he was carrying and placed it in my hands: a soft-to-the-touch black lace bra.

—Put it on —he ordered.

I did. It was difficult to fasten it in the back, in the dark, with my hands trembling, but I managed. The fabric hugged my chest in a way I had never felt before, and I loved it. Something inside me finally fit. He slipped his fingers beneath the cups, found my nipples again, and twisted them with the lace between us until a muffled moan escaped me.

—The trousers too —he said—. And what's underneath.

I obeyed. I took off my shoes, trousers, and underwear, and for a moment remained naked from the waist down in that theater full of invisible strangers. My cock rose against my belly, drenched in precum, its tip gleaming in the darkness. He grabbed it for a second, weighed it in his hand, ran his thumb over the glans, and then brought that thumb to his mouth, sucking it slowly so I could watch.

—You're dripping, you filthy thing —he murmured, handing me a pair of delicate black nylon panties, just like the bra—. This is what you'll wear from now on.

I put them on, and the fabric barely managed to contain me. The tip of my cock poked over the waistband, and the nylon clung to me as soon as I released another drop. Then I dressed again over them, trousers directly over the clothing he had given me. I could feel the bra's lace brushing beneath my shirt, and the panties were so soaked that the dampness was beginning to seep through.

—Look at me —he said.

I turned my face toward him for the first time. His hair was white, his jaw firm, his eyes fixed on me with a calm that disarmed me. He took my hand and brought it to his crotch. Without my realizing it, he had already lowered his trousers. I found him hard, much bigger than me, still covered by a tight, dark thong. His cock showed in its entirety through the fabric: thick, with the curve of his swollen glans bulging out to one side and a wet stain already formed at the tip.

I didn't resist. At that moment there wasn't a trace of my own will in me; I was his, entirely his, and that surrender was the most liberating thing I had ever felt.

I began stroking him through the fabric, slowly, almost reverently. I ran my hand up and down his entire length, pressed my open palm against the bulge, wrapped my fingers around his balls, and felt their weight and heat. I lowered my body in the darkness until my face was level with his lap. I pulled the thong aside with my fingers and freed his cock, which bounced stiffly against my cheek. It was thick and veined, its glans almost violet from swelling, and it smelled of clean skin and desire. He was shaved, smooth, and his balls were as well, drawn tight against the base.

I kissed it first, a wet kiss right on the tip, and stuck out my tongue to collect the thick drop already appearing there. I tasted it against my palate, salty, with a bitter undertone that made me squeeze my thighs together. Then I licked his entire length, from balls to glans, with my flat tongue, wetting all of it. I sucked his balls one at a time, taking each completely into my mouth, and he released a low growl that made me even hotter.

—Good boy —he murmured above me, laying his hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, only guiding—. Open that mouth for me. I'm going to fill it.

I took him all the way in. At first only halfway, sucking him from top to bottom with my lips tight around him, my tongue working his frenulum on every upward stroke. I heard him breathing through his nose, restrained, while his hips edged forward a little, seeking greater depth. Then I relaxed my throat and swallowed him to the base, my nose pressed against his hairless pubis and my eyes watering from the gags. I felt him tense, felt him hold his breath, felt him pulse inside me.

His other hand found my ass, first over my trousers, then slipping between the fabric and the nylon of my panties. His finger drew circles over my ass, over the wet fabric, while I continued with my mouth full, sucking him without stopping, strings of saliva running down my chin onto his balls.

Suddenly he pulled his hips away and placed that same finger in front of my lips. I licked it without his asking, wetting it thoroughly, sucking it as if it were another cock in miniature, and he smiled in the darkness.

—That's it, filthy thing. Lube it well; it's going in.

He thrust his cock back into my mouth with a shove that made me choke and, at the same time, slid his finger back toward my rear. He slipped his hand beneath my panties and sought my asshole with his wet fingertip, circling over it, pressing without entering just yet.

—Relax —he whispered—. Let me in; this ass is mine too from today onward.

With all that moisture, his finger slowly gave way. At first it was uncomfortable, a strange pressure that made me squeeze my eyes shut and moan around his cock. But my body soon surrendered to that too, and what had been discomfort became a heat rising up my back. His finger went in all the way, to the knuckle, and began moving inside me, searching for a point I hadn't known I had. When he found it, my whole body contracted, and I let out a long whimper with my mouth still full of cock.

—There it is —he panted—. That's your prostate, filthy thing. That's where you're going to learn to come from now on.

I began moving against his hand without shame, seeking it, impaling myself on his finger while I continued servicing him with my mouth. I pushed onto it and drew back at a rhythm he himself set with the hand on my neck. I had both hands on him, one caressing his taut balls, the other stroking the base of his cock in time with my mouth. My own erection was trapped inside the panties, pressed against the fabric of my trousers, dripping constantly, and I didn't dare touch it.

The pleasure built somewhere low in my belly, dense and on the verge of overflowing. Every time he brushed my prostate with his fingertip, another drop escaped into my panties, until I felt the stain spreading across my entire trousers.

—I want you to come like this —he said very softly, slowly slipping in a second finger and opening me a little wider—. Without touching yourself. Only with my fingers inside you. Show me what you are.

His two fingers filled me completely, moving in a scissoring motion, twisting, searching for that spot again and again. I kept sucking him as best I could, choking back moans against his cock, my thighs trembling over the sticky floor of the theater. And then it hit me: without a single caress to my cock, with his fingers moving in my ass and his member thrusting into my throat, he shook a climax out of me so long that I had to bite myself to keep from screaming. I felt jets of semen escaping into the panties, one after another, in spasms that seemed never to end. It all spilled against the nylon, against the fly of my trousers, in a warm, thick mess that I didn't care about at all.

He didn't give me time to recover. A second later he let go too. He drove his hips all the way in, gripped the back of my neck with both hands, and shot his load into my throat, jet after hot, thick jet, so abundant that it escaped from the corners of my mouth and ran down my chin. I had no choice but to swallow it all. I did it slowly, without pulling away, feeling each swallow descend heavily into my stomach, and I was surprised to discover how much I liked obeying even in that. When he finally pulled his cock out, I cleaned it with my tongue, gathered the last drops from his glans, and gave him one final kiss on the tip, as a farewell.

***

We stayed still for a while, composing ourselves in the darkness, the movie still flickering indifferently on the screen. When I finally looked up toward the aisle, my breath caught.

We weren't as alone as I had thought. Several silhouettes had silently drawn closer during all that time, spread among the nearby rows. Some were still there, watching without hiding it, one with his cock out of his trousers and his hand moving slowly over it, another with two fingers busy in a companion's lap. They had seen everything: how I had dressed like a woman, how I had sucked him, how I had come with his fingers inside me. And instead of dying of embarrassment, I felt a second wave of something like pride, and my already-empty cock gave another twitch inside the soaked panties.

I wanted to get up and leave, but then I realized the state my clothes were in. I couldn't cross the illuminated lobby like that, with my trousers stained with semen and the panties showing above the waistband. He noticed before I did. He took off the long raincoat he had folded on the seat beside him and held it out to me.

—Put it on —he said—. You'll have to return it to me.

I covered myself with it. It was spacious, reached almost to my knees, and smelled like him.

—There's a card with my number in the right pocket —he added, while arranging his clothes as if nothing had happened—. Call me. I want to see you in three days. Take the bag with what I put you in today, and come wearing it beneath your clothes. And I want you completely shaved—your cock, your balls, and your ass. Smooth as a little girl. Understood?

—Yes, sir —I answered, and my voice came out firmer than I expected.

He barely smiled, stood up, and went down the aisle without looking back, disappearing among the curtains at the exit. I stayed another minute, sitting in the darkness, his raincoat over my shoulders and the bag pressed against my chest, my body still vibrating and the taste of semen still clinging to my palate.

I left the cinema when the lights came on, walking with my head bowed among the few spectators who remained. In the raincoat pocket I felt the edge of the card. Three days. I had three days to decide whether I was the same man as always, the one who settled for a screen, or whether I would finally dare to be what I had discovered that afternoon I was: a whore on my knees for an older sir who knew how to use me.

That night, at home, my wife asked me whether the movie had been good. I told her yes, that it hadn't been bad. And as I climbed the stairs toward a bedroom without desire, the panties still damp and sticking to my ass beneath my trousers, I knew perfectly well that I was going to call.