An erotic story, written about me by my good friend Wingonwing.
Puccini and Pussy. You're seated next to me toward the front of the opera house. Five rows back from the orchestra pit. It's Puccini this evening. "Madama Butterfly." You're dressed in a gorgeous, low-cut, red sequined dress that shamelessly flashes your substantial cleavage. Your dress is long, just past your tanned ankles but with a sexy slit along your right leg that reaches nearly to your hip, exposing the length of a beautiful, well-toned leg that's fully exposed in the dim light. You had given me a naughty, lingering smile when you sat down next to me as the symphony tuned up, and now, with the lights down, I can't resist gently sliding my hand across your thigh, risking an angry slap from you. But instead you let me caress you and reach slowly beneath your dress between your crossed legs toward the inside of your thigh where I can feel goosebumps cropping up. You relax your legs, open and move them toward me, inviting exploration toward your pussy. You're telling me: Yes. I like this. Feel more of me, please. As much as you want. And I do. As a Madama Butterfly aria crescendos, I find your pussy with my fingertips. There are no panties to stop me. You're a naughty girl, aren't you? And you wiggle a bit with delight as begin to I feel only the smooth, delicate warmth of your well-shaven pussy and the wetness around your clit which I lightly massage and flick with my middle finger. The aria climaxes. So do you, but discretely with the faintest vaginal contractions as the diva and orchestra roar toward thunderous conclusion to a piece of Puccini genius. Such a beautiful, delicate orgasm. I carefully withdraw my hand from beneath your dress. We applaud the beauty of the moment and smile at each other. I place my card in your hand. We wait for intermission.
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