The Ice Cream I Shared with Him in the Back Row
This happened a few years ago, when I was dating Adrián. I’m telling it because it still makes me smile, and because it was the first time I understood what the risk of being seen could do to my body. That night I discovered something in myself I hadn’t known was there, waiting: a slut who gets off on being watched, who gets wet just thinking about a hard cock hidden beneath clothing.
I’m from the north, from one of those cities where by November the air already bites with cold as soon as evening falls. We had planned to go to the movie theater in the big plaza, the one at the intersection of the highways, the one everybody knows. It was Wednesday, cheap-ticket day, and we chose the first showing, the one at four-thirty. I don’t even remember what movie it was. For all it mattered, it could have been anything.
I’d put on a strapless black dress that came halfway down my thighs, a short denim jacket, and white sneakers with socks so low it looked as though I wasn’t wearing any. Nothing too daring, but I felt pretty. Underneath, I was wearing a seamless thong so the dress would fall cleanly, without lines. Those little details you think nobody notices and that, deep down, you notice all night.
At the concession stand we bought a combo: popcorn, two sodas, and, because I’m spoiled, a vanilla-and-chocolate ice cream in a little cup. Adrián carried the tray and I carried my ice cream, and we went in while the theater was still half empty.
We sat in one of the back rows, not the very last one, but almost. The middle seats were already taken, so we settled there. We raised the armrest separating us so we could sit pressed together, he left the popcorn between his legs, the sodas on either side, and I settled against his shoulder. The movie started, and for a long while that was all we were: a couple in the dark, eating popcorn, with no plan beyond spending the afternoon together.
Half an hour in, I took off my jacket because the cold was no longer noticeable. That was exactly when I noticed him change. Adrián began stroking my shoulder, at first distractedly, almost without realizing it, and then with a different intention, more slowly, drawing circles with his fingertips. I kept dipping my hand into the popcorn between his legs, and every so often some fell onto him. And every time I rummaged in the tub, my knuckles brushed against a bulge that hadn’t been there at the beginning of the movie.
“You’re covering me in popcorn,” he murmured, without taking his eyes off the screen.
“You’re the one who put it there,” I answered quietly.
And, of course, I began picking up the pieces that had fallen onto his pants. Just for fun, I swear. I caught them with my fingers and ate them one by one, noticing how each time I took a little longer to withdraw my hand. I didn’t have to look at him to know what was happening. I felt it in the way he breathed, in the way his leg tensed beneath my palm, in how the fabric of his pants stretched more and more over that hardness growing with every brush.
His hand slid down my arm and slipped beneath the edge of my dress, at first with just two fingers, barely touching. I let him. I was paying attention to the movie, or so I told myself. There were few people in front of us, but we weren’t the only ones in the theater, and that thought, instead of stopping me, raised goosebumps on my skin. My nipples hardened beneath the dress before he even reached them, and I felt a wet tug between my legs that made me squeeze my thighs together.
When his hand went all the way in and covered my breast, I turned my head.
“Adrián, not here,” I whispered. “They could see us.”
He didn’t stop. I looked from side to side: we were at the end of the row, and nobody was turning around. Then his fingers found my nipple and pinched it, hitting that perfect point between pain and pleasure that drives me crazy. He tugged it, rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, squeezed it until a low moan escaped me that I had to smother by biting my lip. Beneath the seamless thong, I was already drenched, a warm little puddle running over the lips of my pussy every time he circled the tip of my hardened nipple with his fingertip. We were in a movie theater, for God’s sake, and my panties were soaked.
“Easy, boy,” I told him, giving his leg a little tap.
But the tap landed higher than I intended, right where his pants were already having trouble closing. And my hand stayed there. I didn’t dare move it. I could feel everything through the fabric, firm, impatient, his cock so thick beneath my fingers that it seemed impossible it could fit inside his jeans. I pressed with my palm, following the bulge from root to tip, and noticed a damp spot on the fabric that made me swallow.
I looked straight ahead again so I wouldn’t think about what I was feeling. Useless. Adrián still had his hand inside my dress, stroking my breast in slow circles, and each turn stole a little more of my sanity. He took my wrist and, with a skill I still can’t explain, slid my hand inside his pants.
“When did you unbutton them?” I thought. “And with one hand?”
I turned to look around again, checking that nobody was watching us. The popcorn between his legs and the sodas on either side hid more than it seemed. No one could see what my hand was doing down there. I closed my fingers around him, holding my breath, pretending I was still following the movie with a calm I didn’t possess. I felt him pulsing in my palm, hot and swollen, with that thick vein running up the side that pressed against the pad of my thumb. I began moving him slowly, sliding my fist up and down from the base to the glans, squeezing every so often to feel a thick drop escape from the tip and wet my fingers.
And then, without warning, he pulled down the zipper and took it out. Right there. In the theater. I turned to stone. It was completely out, stiff as a rod, pointing toward the ceiling, its shiny tip wet from my own hand. It had never seemed so thick to me as it did then, in the bluish darkness of the theater, pulsing between my fingers.
“Put that away,” I told him through my teeth, without letting go for even a second.
“If you don’t let go,” he whispered, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
The shameless bastard was right. I wasn’t letting go. On the contrary: I tightened my fist and began jerking him off slowly, pulling the foreskin up to cover the glans and sliding it down again, feeling him throb every time I brushed the frenulum with my thumb. I looked straight ahead again, at the backs of people’s heads, all absorbed in the movie, unaware of what was happening three rows behind them. And something about that, about being hidden in plain sight, about knowing I was jerking off my boyfriend with a theater full of people in front of us, pushed me over the edge. I bent down quickly and kissed the tip. Just a brush, a tender yet mischievous little “mwah,” and I felt him give a small jump beneath my lips, as if he had fully awakened. The salty taste of pre-cum lingered on my tongue and made me squeeze my thighs again.
“Oh, look, he liked it,” I murmured.
He didn’t answer. He only nodded, eyes half closed, not daring to speak. I was already more turned on than he was. I felt him warm and rigid in my hand, while my mind fought an absurd battle between the decent girl I thought I was and the other one, the slut who was very eager to come out that night.
The other one won. I bent down again, and this time I ran my tongue slowly from base to tip, finally tasting his texture instead of merely guessing at it with my fingers. A shiver ran down my spine. It wasn’t the taste; it was the place, the people, the risk that someone might turn on their phone flashlight and discover me there, crouched in the darkness with my boyfriend’s cock stuck to my tongue. I licked slowly along the thick vein on the side, went up to the crown, and made a full circle around the glans with the tip of my tongue, feeling his entire abdomen contract. I went down again, licked his balls through the fabric of his briefs, came back up, and dotted his entire length with wet kisses, leaving threads of saliva that gleamed in the darkness.
Adrián took his hand out of my dress and gently gripped the back of my neck. I understood immediately what he wanted, and the truth was, I wanted it too. I looked around one last time. The theater breathed shadows, with flashes of light whenever the scene changed. I bent down again and, this time, went all the way.
I took him completely into my mouth in one movement, swallowing him until the tip touched the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose so I wouldn’t choke. Holding back the noise as best I could, I kept him there, still, feeling him pulse between my lips. I knew suction would make noise, so I didn’t suck, playing only with my tongue, wrapping it around him, pressing him against my palate, running over him from top to bottom, enjoying his warmth, his shape, even his scent. Then I began moving my head up and down very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, never taking him completely out, helping myself with my closed fist at the base so he could feel the pressure even though I couldn’t move quickly. Even so, little sounds escaped Adrián, muffled gasps he tried to disguise with fake coughs.
“Shhh, be quiet or I’ll stop,” I warned, lifting my head for a second, a string of saliva hanging from my lip to his glistening glans.
“Okay, okay,” he murmured through clenched teeth.
And I went back to what I was doing, slowly, alert to every whisper in the theater. I sucked the tip with my lips closed as if it were a lollipop, taking him out and putting him back in without making a sound, while my free hand caressed his swollen balls inside his briefs. I felt them drawn up, tense, ready, and knew he was close. I was so immersed in what I was doing, so hot, my pussy soaked and pressing me against the seat in search of friction that never came, that I completely lost track of time. I sped up without stopping my sucking and felt his whole body tense. Suddenly his cock lashed inside my mouth, and I felt the first hot jet strike my palate, thick and salty, with a strong taste that clung to my tongue. Then another came, and another, and another, and I kept him inside so not a drop would fall onto his pants, swallowing what I could and holding the rest between my teeth and cheeks while he bit his fist to keep from moaning.
When he finally relaxed and stopped trembling, I carefully let him go, without releasing what I had in my mouth. I hadn’t realized the movie was ending.
Until, all at once, the theater lights came on.
I sprang upright, my heart in my throat and my mouth full, certain that half the plaza had seen me. But everything was still normal. Well, almost normal. People were gathering their things and stretching; no one was looking back. Adrián, red all the way to his ears, managed to tuck away his still-wet cock and pull up his zipper in a single movement.
Then he did something I wasn’t expecting. He reached across in front of me and picked up my little cup of ice cream, which I hadn’t touched during the entire movie and which was already half melted. He held it for a moment, looked me in the eyes, and nodded toward it. I understood. I leaned over the cup and slowly parted my lips, letting all the thick cum I’d been holding between my teeth fall onto the melted vanilla: a thick white strand that tangled with the chocolate until it disappeared into the cream. I watched it all, frozen, half scandalized and half laughing hysterically inside, the salty taste still on my tongue.
“It’s mine,” I thought. “I earned it.”
He stood up as if nothing had happened, left the cup on the tray, and started toward the exit with the popcorn in his hand. I remained seated for one more second, looking at the ice cream, at that mixture of white on white that only I knew how to recognize. And instead of being embarrassed, I took it with me. Not out of modesty in case someone cleaned it up, though that too, but because the idea of leaving there with that secret in my hand, with my boyfriend’s cum floating in melted vanilla, was driving me crazy. My panties were so wet that I could feel the thong string stuck between the lips of my pussy with every step.
I caught up with him in the hallway, right where the exits from several theaters came together. Several showings were ending at the same time, and there were people everywhere, walking among posters for upcoming releases, talking, laughing, suspecting nothing. Adrián turned toward me.
“You brought the ice cream? Did you see what fell into it?” he asked, amused.
“That’s why I brought it,” I replied, holding his gaze.
I took out the little spoon, dipped the tip into the cup, and slowly stirred the mixture. I scooped up some of the thick cream and brought it slowly to my mouth without taking my eyes off him, letting a drop barely slide down the corner of my lips. I licked it with the tip of my tongue, tasting the vanilla and semen at the same time, feeling the salty weight against the sweetness, and licked my lips. The look on his face when he saw me was something I’ll never forget: a mixture of desire and disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe what a slut he was dating. And that look, in the middle of all those people, was what truly set me on fire. My nipples showed through the dress and my legs trembled a little, pressed together to hold the heat between my thighs.
We walked toward the exit without hurrying. I sampled my ice cream among the crowd, licking the spoon, feeling my face burn, enjoying the fact that no one around me knew what flavor that cup concealed, that I was walking through the shopping center eating my boyfriend’s cum mixed with vanilla. Adrián leaned close and spoke into my ear.
“You drive me crazy,” he murmured.
“Well, it tastes delicious,” I replied, slowly licking my lips and giving him my most shameless smile. “I think I’m going to order this flavor more often.”
I don’t know how many times we walked around the plaza before I finished it. When there was almost nothing left, I put my finger into the cup so I wouldn’t leave a trace, scraped the bottom clean, and put it in my mouth in front of him, sucking it completely the way I had sucked him minutes before, just to watch him lose his mind again. I was so aroused from having passed among all those people with my secret, my soaked panties rubbing against my clitoris with every step, that I could barely contain myself.
“Will you buy me another one?” I asked.
“And will you want it the same way?” he asked.
I only smiled and bit my lip, squeezing his cock through his pants as it was already beginning to wake up again.
***
That was how a habit began, one that lasted us a long time. We would go back to that same plaza, or to the parks downtown, and everything would start the same way: me choosing the flirtier dress or skirt I owned, almost always without panties, him buying something sweet—ice cream, or strawberries and cream when they were in season. The appeal wasn’t the flavor; I learned that soon enough. The appeal was the journey: strolling among strangers while savoring something only the two of us understood, feeling their eyes on us without anyone imagining what I was really tasting, what was really melting in my mouth along with the vanilla.
What I liked most was doing it in crowded places. Plazas, promenades, Sunday afternoons when everything fills up. I loved the adrenaline of doing something forbidden in plain sight, of feeling watched without being discovered, of walking through the crowd with my legs a little weak, my pussy dripping beneath my skirt, and a smile nobody knew how to decipher.
Even today, every now and then, we remember it. And still, whenever I pass an ice cream shop on an ordinary Wednesday, a smile escapes me and I look around, as if someone could guess, just by looking at me, everything that flavor means to me.
