Backstage Pleasure

When I was a teenager and young adult, I often performed in plays at the local theater. I was usually in the cast along with my on-again-off-again friend-with-benefits, Jason. Jason was a couple years older than me, boyishly cute, with piercing green bedroom eyes. He had a rather small penis (which I loved stroking and sucking) and incredible oral skills.  Jason and I had been getting drunk and hooking up together for as many years as we'd been friends, but around other people we acted as casually platonic as we could, while still being a bit jealous of each other's romantic trysts. We'd date other people, but somehow always end up drunk and making out before long.

One summer, we were both in the chorus of the big summer musical at the theater. We did our usual routine of pretending to be just friends in front of other people while still secretly flirting. I knew we'd be in bed together before too long, and it gave all our encounters a flirty electric buzz between us, both onstage and off. I spent every rehearsal wet between my legs, dizzy from the delicious anxiety of knowing it would happen but not knowing when.

Finally, one night during a final dress rehearsal, Jason and I stood backstage, waiting for our cue to enter. There was no one nearby, and we were hidden behind a large wooden scenery flat deep in the wings. We chatted in whispers, passing the long stretch of time between songs.

"I think I strained a muscle in the last dance number," I complained, flexing my leg.

"Where?" Jason moved closer, rested his hand on my thigh. "Right about here?" He started to gently rub.

Immediately my pussy, already throbbing from just being near him, surged to life. I could feel my lips swelling, the slickness spreading, my clit hardening in an unbearably sweet ache. "A little higher," I breathed.

Jason moved his hand upward, still massaging gently. Then he moved and slipped his hand past the elastic waistband of my costume skirt. His fingers brushed across my panties. "Right about...here?" He found the swollen bump of my clit and rubbed gentle circles around it.

I moaned.

After a moment of rubbing, he pressed his fingertips between my pussy lips and pushed in, drenching my panties in my wetness. "God, you feel so hot," he whispered into my ear. I couldn't answer, could barely breathe. I was so turned on it felt like there was no blood left in any part of my body but my throbbing cunt. Jason's fingers fumbled to find their way past the edge of my panties and onto my bare pussy. He dipped his fingers deep inside, coating them with my wetness, and then rubbed them in slick circles over my clit. 

"You better cum quick," he whispered. "They're almost done."

I bucked against his fingers, humping hard. The adrenaline was almost too much to handle -- the danger of being caught, the short seconds slipping away, the swelling music from the orchestra pit mirroring my quickly-building orgasm as his hand tirelessly rubbed my aching clit. It felt so delicious I wished we were in his apartment, with all the time in the world, so he could edge me up and back down again, strip me naked, lick me all over, devour me, fuck me. "Oh god," I whispered in a strangled moan.

"That's right, baby," he murmured. "Cum for me."

The orgasm exploded out of me. I moaned as I humped hard against his rubbing fingers, thrusting with the gush of wetness that throbbed out in time with the pounding of my climax. "Oh god oh god oh god," I babbled stupidly. I had to grip his arm for support; my knees buckled, leaning my full weight against where his hand stroked my pussy.

It seemed to last forever. I was lost in the waves of pleasure. Much too soon, the opening notes to the next song began, and it was time for our entrance. Jason pulled his hand out of my skirt and grinned at me as he licked my juices off his fingers. "Ready?" he asked.

"No," I panted. I could barely see straight; I couldn't imagine dancing and singing at this point.

"Tough luck, babe." He grabbed my hand, lacing his still-damp fingers between mine. "Let's go."

I stumbled onstage after him, certain that everyone could read what happened in my flushed face, my wobbly movements. My panties were drenched with my juices and I was terrified I'd left a wet spot on my skirt illuminated by the stage lights. When the scene was over I stumbled down to the dressing rooms, checking myself in the mirrors. No telltale wet spots had yet soaked through. I took off my sopping panties and stuffed them into my bag, then changed quickly into a spare pair. I was annoyed at the position he'd put me in, and already plotting my revenge...