Movie theaters are always dangerous places. At least, he had always thought so. Of course, movie theaters are also exciting places, fun places, romantic places. That’s what makes them dangerous. You go in, expecting something. You might find it, you might not. Movie theaters can also be disappointing places. Like popcorn that looks fresh and hot in the yellow lamp of the popping machine, smells of butter and salt and childhood, but there’s nothing worse than sitting down in that dark, expectant room and biting into a handful of yesterday’s luke-warm, flat bits mixed in with the good stuff.
Or not having your date show up. Especially to a movie like this. Third date was supposed to be the charm, right? He had picked this movie, a French film about a knife-thrower and a young girl. It supposed to be romantic and sensual and, well, French. He had hopes that it would put the final touches on what had been a few weeks of lingering seduction, started out over a shared table at the (over-crowded) coffee bar in the middle of town. Going to this movie alone would be like having either day-old popcorn or cold coffee. They look the same, but don’t have quite the same effect on the tongue and taste buds.
Since he had two tickets and the movie was about to start, he gave one to a young redheaded girl who was just about to buy a seat. She looked like the starving college student type, and he remembered being there himself. What the hell, random acts of beauty and all that. Since the theater was small, and the seats big, he wasn’t terribly surprised when she sat down a few seats over but in the same row. After all, theaters can be dangerous places, and a strange guy who gives you a ticket could be a killer or could be the person to save you from one, so you wanted to be near him but keeping an eye on him as well, just in case.
While theaters and popcorn can disappoint, previews never can. The slight rush as the lights go out and the screen flickers to life has never ceased to thrill him. And the trailers, little glimpses of alternate universes that gave you just enough to think about wanting more. Even if it’s the worst movie in the world, you see the best pieces in 90 seconds. Like a hooker on the street, you get a flash for free, without having to spend the money for the entire experience, which can, like popcorn, leave a flat and empty taste in your mouth if you feel like you didn’t get your money’s worth.
As the film begins, he relaxes into his seat. The theater is a modern “art film” house: meaning small theaters but plush seating, with the kind of arm-rests that can either hold a 40oz. Coke or be pushed out of the way for a snuggled-up movie-going experience. He always picks the seat in the far corner of the back row, so he can lean against the wall if he wants. He can also see the rest of the seats, and he amuses himself often by making up stories about the other people sharing the theater. As the smallest room in the multiplex, there are only 30 or so spots, and besides him and his unintended guest a few seats away, only a few in the front rows are filled. So it’s slim pickings for his imagination, he focuses on the film.
Like most French movies, the older man and the younger girl in the show are having a passionate, but unvoiced, flirtation. As the knife thrower trains the girl to be his “target”, at first still, but later on strapped to a spinning wheel, the sexual tension between them mounts. Slow motion becomes the order of the day.
In one particular scene, the girl, clad in a filmy negligee that conceals nothing, is slowly tied to the wheel. First one hand is stretched over her head, the strap wrapped around it, and brutally tightened. She winces, but willingly stretches her other hand over her head to be secured as well. Next, her legs, spread and slightly bent, are secured to the spinning platform. Only her absolute trust in the knife thrower allows her to stifle what the audience clearly sees as fear tinged with anticipation. She bites her lip, and strains slightly at her bonds. Her breasts are damp with sweat, her satin covering darkening as the tension mounts. Although she is sweating, her fear is rapidly becoming arousal, and her nipples stand out against the cloth. She gives a jump as the first knife pounds home, just over her right shoulder. A gasp escapes her, and another knife sprouts millimeters from the flesh of her ankle. The knife thrower is very good. She tosses her head to the side when the man comes too close with a blade near her left ear. Her entire body strains against her bonds, and a final knife strikes the wood between her thighs, and unbeknownst to the knife thrower, draws a small trickle of blood from the soft inner skin. The act, and the scene, is over and the film moves on.
While watching, he has become entranced with the film. He enjoys French film, and speaks the language well enough that subtitles are more an amusement than a help. At the end of the knife scene, a movement catches his eye and he notices the red-haired girl leaving the theater. A few minutes later, she returns, misses her seat in the dark and ends up next to him, a small smile of apology on her lips for having clearly invaded his film going reverie. He smiles back, and thinks of the girl on the wheel.
The film continues, the knife thrower and his assistant quarrel, part company, re-unite in a Turkish marketplace. He leans back again, relaxing into the wall and his seat as the on-screen couple take their act onto a boat. Suddenly, a breath, smelling of popcorn and butter, whispers across his ear “Shhhhhhhh.” The arm-rest is up, and a hand ferrets its way into his crotch, releasing his manhood with an expert touch. He catches his breath, and on screen, the couple finally kisses for the first time. His eyes on the screen, his peripheral vision shows a mass of red hair in his lap, and he is drawn into the mouth of this unknown girl. This is no playful teasing, this is absolute need as her tongue surrounds him, explores the shape and contours of his organ. She has placed a hand on his thigh, preventing him from moving as he starts to thrust softly. In his experience, this is a subtle reminder from his partner not to go too deep. In this case, it is only to prevent him from making noise, his entire length in buried in between her lips, and her tongue and throat stroke him from groin to tip. He has lost track of the action on the screen, although he hasn’t taken his eyes from it. The assistant is on the wheel again, this time the knife thrower is blindfolded. His precision is as good as ever, and his “target” gives free reign to her bound-up passion, chest heaving and head twisting with every throw.
In his seat, one hand is now wrapped in the girl’s red hair, and he is softly grinding against her. He can feel her saliva rolling down his rigid member, and the thought sends him over the edge. As the final knife strikes home, this time deliberately placed to draw blood between the French girl’s thighs, he gives a thrust which takes him even deeper than he was, and the redhead drinks him in, sucking more than he thought he had to give. He spurts into her mouth, again and again, and she swallows it down, each gulp clutching him from all sides and squeezing more out. He nearly faints, has to close his eyes against the desire to shout, and feels her tongue linger on a last drop as she draws away, and then she is gone.
As the lights come up, she leaves ahead of him and doesn’t look back. He sees his date standing outside the box office, she has mistaken which show they were supposed to see. She asks him what he wants to see now, and he replies that it doesn’t matter at all. Not at all.
(Note: This story originally appeared on everynighterotica.com, another early pioneer of the paid online erotica blogs.)