The Stranger at the Movies Taught Me to Obey

I’m just over fifty and I’ve been married so long I can barely 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 a place where 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 everything, and over time I discovered that what really turns me on isn’t sex in general, but submission. Imagining myself surrendered, with no decisions to make, obeying someone who knows exactly what they want. I never thought that fantasy would come out of 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, the ones with worn red seats where you feel tiny in the dim light. One Thursday afternoon they were showing an adult-rated film, soft erotica, one of those almost no one goes to see. I bought my ticket and went up to the back row. There were hardly any people there: two or three silhouettes lost farther down.

I settled into a corner, pleased to have that whole little area to myself. On the screen, two mature women dressed in black lingerie were kissing with a slowness that made me nervous. I let myself be carried away by the scene, relaxed, until I heard footsteps.

An older man than me, perhaps in his late sixties, came up the aisle, glanced at the empty rows and, with dozens of free seats available, came to sit right beside me. I felt his presence before his body: the creak of the seat, the smell of old cologne, the heat.

I didn’t move. I pretended to keep watching the film, but my heart had already started 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.

—I really like two women like that. Don’t you? —he murmured.

—Yes —I answered softly, not daring to turn my head—. Me too.

His knee found mine and stayed there, pressing lightly. He didn’t move it away, and neither did I. That tiny contact ran through me. I was afraid, 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 at the same time.

Yes. That was exactly what I wanted.

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

His hand dropped onto my thigh and slid upward without hurry until it found the proof that I was lying. I was hard, obvious beneath the fabric of my trousers. The man let out a low, satisfied laugh, far too loud for that silence.

—That’s what I like —he whispered, and licked my earlobe—. 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 insane and not enough for anything else.

—The brunette —I said at last—. I like the brunette better.

—I knew it —he laughed quietly—. From now on you’re going to call me sir. And I’m going to decide what you do. Does that sound good to you?

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

—Take off your shirt. I’ve got a present for you.

I looked toward the rows below. No one had turned around, no one seemed to notice anything. The screen had moved into a night scene and the room was darker than ever. With clumsy fingers I unbuttoned my shirt and laid it on the seat beside me. The cold air raised gooseflesh on my skin.

He found my nipples and rubbed them until they hardened. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound. Then he took something from a bag he was carrying and put it in my hands: a black bra, lace, soft to the touch.

—Put it on —he ordered.

I did. It took me a while to fasten it at the back, in the dark, with trembling hands, but I managed it. The fabric hugged my chest in a way I had never felt before, and I loved it. Something in me finally clicked into place.

—The trousers too —he said—. And what’s under them.

I obeyed. I took off my shoes, my trousers, my underwear, and for a moment I was naked from the waist down in that room full of invisible strangers. I was completely aroused, already wet. He held out a pair of black nylon panties, just as delicate as the bra.

—This is yours from now on.

I put them on, and the fabric barely contained me. Then I dressed again over them, the trousers directly on top of the clothes he had given me. I could feel the lace of the bra rubbing under my shirt, and the panties 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 larger than me, still covered by a dark, tight thong.

I offered no resistance. 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 started stroking him through the fabric, slowly, almost devoutly. I lowered my body in the dim light until my face was at the level of his lap. I moved the thong aside with my fingers and kissed him, first gently, then with my mouth open, working him with my tongue. He was shaved, smooth, and he smelled of clean skin and desire.

—Good boy —he murmured above me, and his hand settled on the back of my neck, not pushing, just guiding.

I took him all the way into my mouth. I felt him tense, felt him hold his breath. And then his other hand found my ass, first over my trousers, then slipping between the fabric and the nylon of the panties. His finger drew circles on me, over the wet fabric, while I kept my mouth full, without stopping.

Suddenly he pulled his hips back and placed that same finger in front of my lips. I licked it without being asked, getting it thoroughly wet, and he understood. He put his cock back in my mouth and, at the same time, slid the finger back inside.

—Relax —he whispered—. Let me in.

With all that wetness, the finger gave way little by little. At first it was uncomfortable, a strange pressure that made me squeeze my eyes shut. But almost immediately my body yielded to that too, and what had been irritation turned into a heat climbing up my back. I started to move against his hand without shame, seeking him, while I kept tending to him with my mouth.

I had both hands on him, stroking him all over, my own erection trapped and leaking inside the panties. Pleasure gathered somewhere low in my belly, dense, on the verge of overflowing.

—I want you to come like this —he said very softly—. Without touching yourself. Just with my finger inside you. Show me what you are.

And I did. With not a single stroke, with his finger moving inside me and his cock in my mouth, an orgasm tore through me so long I had to bite myself not to cry out. Everything spilled into the fabric, against the fly of my trousers, in a warm mess I didn’t care about at all.

I didn’t have time to recover. A second later he let go too, in my mouth, all the way down, and I had no choice but to swallow everything. I did it slowly, without pulling away, and I was surprised to discover how much I liked obeying even in that.

***

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

We were not as alone as I had thought. Several silhouettes had silently drawn near over all that time, scattered through the nearby rows. Some were still there, watching without hiding it, one of them with his hand still inside his trousers. They had seen everything. And instead of dying of shame, I felt a second wave of something like pride.

I wanted to get up and leave, but then I realized the state of my clothes. I couldn’t cross the lit lobby like that. He noticed before I did. He took off the long trench coat he had folded on the seat beside him and held it out to me.

—Put it on —he said—. You’ll have to give it back to me.

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

—There’s a card with my number in the right pocket —he added, while adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened—. Call me. I want to see you in three days. You’ll take the bag with what I’ve put on you today, and you’ll come wearing it under your clothes. And I want you completely shaved. Understood?

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

He gave a slight smile, stood up, and walked down the aisle without looking back, disappearing between the curtains at the exit. I stayed one minute longer, seated in the dimness, his trench coat over my shoulders and the bag pressed to my chest, my body still trembling.

I left the cinema when the lights came on, walking with my head down among the few remaining viewers. In the trench coat 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 that I was.

That night, at home, my wife asked me if the film had been good. I told her yes, not bad. And as I climbed the stairs toward a bedroom with no desire in it, I knew perfectly well that I was going to call.