The Big Performance

Both of the poems included in this story are the author's own work and can be accessed via her profile page [click on her name just under the title]. The second poem, "Something..." is on Literotica in audio format so you can hear the author reading it as it should be read. Why not play it while you read the story to get the full effect?

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My footsteps rang out loudly as I walked across the hollow flooring of the stage.

"Hellooo!" I called out, just to hear the echoes bounce around the empty auditorium.

It bounced a couple of times, then whispered to a halt. Theatres are built so as to amplify, not to echo and I felt a little silly for trying. A stage manager should really know better.

I walked over to the wing to check the props table. It looked exactly as I'd left it last night; covered with all things romantic. It was the day before Valentine's and we were preparing for a 'Weekend of Romance,' or three days of soppy sonnets, romantic skits and tear-jerking monologues. To be entirely frank I couldn't think of anything less romantic than dragging your other half to see something like this, but then I'm just the stage-manager, not the director.

That's the thing with these old, regional theatres though. They're glorious buildings that were erected at the height of the music hall era when there was precious little else for the general populace to do in terms of entertainment, but nowadays they struggled to even half-fill the seats available.

As a way of pulling in the audience, theatres up and down England were putting on 'seasonal' shows to maximise attendance. This went beyond the traditional pantomimes and ballets at Christmas time to Hallo'w'een themed shows in October and so-called 'Romance' performances on Valentine's Day.

I rolled my eyes in the dimness of the wings. I loved these moments when the theatre was empty and belonged, in its entirety, to me. It was one of the very few perks of being a stage manager.

This theatre was a new one to me; I'd been asked to step into the breach by the director, who'd worked with me before, because the usual stage manager was sick. I'd spent the previous two days watching rehearsals, making sure I knew the performance backwards, checking the lighting cues, props etc... At least the costuming was fairly easy -- black trousers and a pink or red top. I rolled my eyes again: there were so many hearts and flowers in this show that they ought to rename it 'Cliché Weekend.'

I picked up a copy of the script that lay, pages splayed, underneath the table. Hmmm... "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" Yawn. How predictable were their selections?

I flicked through a few more pages... now this was interesting. I'd been so intent on watching the staging, lighting and little extraneous details I hadn't bothered listening to the words properly; seems like someone had seen fit to include a little light erotica in the selection. I started reading out loud

"My body trembles. Is this passion just lust..."

I paused, this wasn't bad. It deserved a better reading than that.

I walked over so I was in the middle of the stage and, head up, read the first verse out loud.

"My body trembles. Is this passion just lust Or could it be the love It so resembles? My body trembles."

My projection was good, but it was a bit lacking in... expression. I tried the second verse, this time injecting a touch of breathlessness and some longer pauses.

"My body quivers. I wait, tensed, for the touch, For the kiss that sends Cascading ripples of little shivers. My body quivers."

I had caught the rhythm of it now and read the next two verses in the same way, relishing every line. I had forgotten how much fun it was to perform. Hastily I flicked through the script, seeing if I could find another piece of poetry.

Oh... here was the group piece we were going to do today. I remembered the director winking when he'd mentioned it and assumed it was some ghastly sentimental dross like the other pieces I'd seen so far.

"Something..."

I read the first few lines through in my head, then muttered them out loud. I understood why the director had winked now; this piece was really something and performed as a group piece... I heard the soft lines whispered and repeated, some actors repeating the base refrain while the primary actor spoke over the top. Oh yes, this was going to be good.

I dragged one of the chairs forward from the back of the stage and sat down on it in the centre of the stage. Rapidly I ran the lines through in my head, trying to memorise them. I wanted to try my hand at this before I heard how the actors performed it. It had been a while since I last recited and I'd stopped because it was so deathly dull and prescribed, but a piece like this could be... played with.

"Tight pulse, pulse pulse And growing dizzy"

I intoned the words in a rough, breathless voice, running my hand down over my breasts towards my waist.

"Wanting...something Anything Something"

My voice grew more urgent now, trying to communicate that need that I could feel building up inside me as I said the words.

"Slow and steady, Hot and heavy; Something like the something that you gave me before."

"When you touched me When you fucked me,"

I stumbled a little over saying 'fucked' out loud on a stage, but I liked how it sounded and repeated it a couple of times. It would be great to have the actors repeat that bit over and over: challenge the audience's preconceptions of theatre...

I closed my eyes then, imagined what it would be like to be on stage for real, in front of an audience full of people and saying "when you fucked me" over and over. My body was hot and tingling and I put my hand between my legs, running my thumb over the seam there, sending gentle pressure down to the hot and responsive spot underneath.

"When you touched me, When you fucked me, When you touched me, When you fucked me, fucked me, fucked me, fucked me."

I was so turned on now. I loved the thought of sitting up here, stroking myself and saying dirty words with a whole theatre-full of people watching me, getting off on me getting myself off.

I pulled in my stomach and slid my fingers down inside the waistband of my jeans. I pushed the soft cotton of my panties aside and slipped my forefinger into the crease of my pussy.

I couldn't believe how wet I was, the moisture had seeped all along my lips and wetted my finger as soon as I touched myself. I circled my finger a couple of times, then added a second finger.

I ran my fingers down between my lips, slumping down in the chair so my hips were thrust forward to give me easier access. I pictured myself naked, or in skimpy underwear sat, just like this, on stage with a busily silent auditorium.

I could hear my own breath harsh and ragged in the silence, filling the huge, empty space. My hand was working fast now, slipping and rubbing across my pussy as I panted for breath and muttered those two lines from the poem over and over.

It turned me on so much to be doing this most private of acts somewhere so public: a space devoted to observation of a performer and I was performing. Something inside me urged me on, prompted me to look at my watch and determine that I was the only person who had access to this theatre for at least two more hours.

Hastily I pulled off my jumper and t-shirt and sat there in my bra and jeans, stroking myself. I wanted more, though: more exposure, more risk, more bare skin exposed to the cool and theatre-scented air.

I reached behind myself and unfastened my bra, closing my eyes and freezing for a moment in anticipation and shock at my daring before letting it fall to the floor.

Next I stood up, brazenly facing the rows and rows of empty seats that faded away into the gloom. I stood tall with my shoulders down and back so that my breasts jutted out shamelessly.

Shameless. That was a good word for myself, I thought, as I kicked off my shoes and shoved my jeans and panties roughly down my thighs. I scrambled out of them with some kind of feeling that it was far more undignified, should I be caught, to be caught half undressed like that than wholly and shamelessly naked.

I revelled in that word. It described a person I could only be behind closed doors. Shameless. Brazen. Whore. Tart. Slut.

I licked the two fingers that tasted faintly of the sea and tilted my hips so that I could touch my pussy with them. Standing there, naked, playing with my pussy, I felt more excited than I could ever remember being before.

Although I had only dared to do this because I knew for a certainty that the theatre would be entirely deserted for the duration, some small part of me wished that there could be an audience. I loved to be watched; loved to be examined intricately, observed as I did dirty things.

Once or twice when I was online late at night I had done private webcam shows for men who I sometimes talked to. I put the camera close in front of my pussy with a desk-lamp behind it so that everything was brightly lit and then played with myself.

The image was sharp and clear, all the details of my deep pink folds of flesh, drops of moisture and frantically rubbing fingers being relayed to a man who was almost a stranger; who I had never met. I watched the camera footage on the screen as it was relayed to distant places all over the world, the sight of it and the knowledge that someone else was watching turning me on even more.

One time I had deliberately exposed myself to a man who lives in the building opposite me. I had seen him leaning out of his window and watching the people who went past and I wanted to tease him a little; show him there were things worth watching even closer to home. I gave him a strip show then played with myself as he looked and the fact that he was there watching me was intoxicating -- even more so than the webcam.

Now, as I came closer and closer to orgasm, the wet sound of my fingers in my pussy clearly audible, my legs spread as far apart as I could get them as I sat back down on the chair I longed for someone to be watching me.

My breath was coming fast and shallow in little pants and I was saying things, random profanities and dirty talk, "Fuck me, yeah, oh god, so good, fuck me, watch me, oh god, oh god..."

I kept my eyes fixed on the gloom of the auditorium as I neared orgasm, staring so hard I convinced myself I could see the shape of someone standing there. Maybe I was just hallucinating, because I wanted to be watched so much, but I pretended like it was true and started talking to them. "You like watching me, don't you. You like seeing how dirty I am, what a slut I am. Why don't you come play too, you can come and prove how much of a whore I am, come on, you can watch me from close up..."

As I gabbled all these things I felt that familiar tightening sensation in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that my whole being was drawing in to a tiny, fragile point that swells and grows until it explodes in a starburst.

The shadow in the darkness shifted slightly and, as I watched with fragments of lights glittering in my vision, stroking myself faster and faster, a shape detached itself and I clearly saw a foot step forwards and down.

Someone was watching me. I didn't care who it was or whether they were turned on by me or anything, all I knew was that someone was watching me and as I saw them slowly come down the stairs into the dim lights in the stalls I came in a rush; my body convulsing violently, crying out in passion.

The wave had crashed now and, as I felt the adrenaline seeping from my body in the aftermath of my orgasm, I started shaking all over again.

What on earth was I doing? I was sitting naked and prone on a stage in a theatre, my sticky hand still resting between my legs and walking towards me now was a man, a stranger, who had been watching me as I brought myself to orgasm.

My whole body flushed with shame, I could feel my face hot with the blood rushing there. I tried to stand up as he got closer, but my legs were weak and wobbly and I stumbled; having to hold onto the chair to support myself.

He was right at the front of the auditorium now, inches away from the stage. I could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows with strong brows and a cleft chin. His dark hair was tied back in a pony-tail and the blue shirt he wore reflected his glittering eyes.

He was smiling.

"You liked me watching, didn't you?"

It was a question, but he said it as a simple statement of fact.

"I, I wasn't sure that you were there," I stuttered, "I was just... pretending, or... hoping?"

He put his hands flat on the stage and swung himself up easily, even though it was at shoulder height. Slowly he got up off his knees and took a step towards me.

"You know, you made quite a picture... sitting there..."

I stuttered something incoherent about thinking I was alone.

"You were," he smiled, "I had to pick up the spare keys to come in. The director wants to change the lighting scheme."

I recognised him now, once of the technical crew, always hanging around in the shadows with a group of other shadowy men.

"Why'd you wait till you were alone? Sounded to me as if you liked being watched..."

"I..." I stumbled, cleared my throat and tried again, "I do. I like the idea of it, but it's scary and finding the right person and how do you set that up? I mean on the internet you can, but they don't know it's you."

I stopped. I wasn't making much sense, but he was nodding anyway. Perhaps he understood what I could barely comprehend and certainly couldn't articulate. I looked up into his eyes and tried to express something of the feelings I was experiencing.

He held my gaze for a moment, then took another step towards me. He was only a few feet away and I became even more conscious of my nakedness. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hide my breasts from him.

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?" he asked in a low voice, stepping closer again. "I've already seen everything you've got," he stepped closer again, "and I liked what I saw."

His voice was so low now that it was almost a growl and he was close enough that I could smell the tangy scent of his cologne. The hairs on my arms stood up as I shivered at his nearness and all I could see was the tip of his tongue flicking against his teeth as he enunciated each word clearly and distinctly.

Hot and cold chills ran up and down my body, I could feel my breath coming in long, shallow pants and I licked my lips nervously.

He stood right over me then, taller than me by nearly a foot with a broad frame. I felt small beside him and a little bit helpless as he ran his finger thoughtfully down my arm, then took hold of my upper arms in his big, strong hands and squeezed...

He pulled me closer and held my arms tightly as he lowered his face to mine. A fraction of an inch from my face he paused and looked at me closely; he was asking for confirmation. He wanted to take me, here, in public, but he didn't want to rape me. He wanted me to agree, to be a willing and complicit partner in an act of exhibitionism I had only considered in my most breathlessly aroused moments.

I met his gaze and moved in so that my lips grazed his. As soon as our mouths touched he was back in control. He pressed his mouth firmly against mine and thrust his tongue between my lips. I responded eagerly, opening my mouth, allowing him to take me.

I let my eyes wander briefly and was jolted back to the reality of my situation. I was on a stage in a public venue, utterly naked and locked in an embrace with a man whose name I did not even know.

A man who was picking me up, throwing me across his shoulder and carrying me, with one of his hands between my thighs and coming tantalizingly close to that part of me which longed to be touched more than any other right then.

He carried me to the back of the stage where there was a raised platform of rostra set up. Carefully he placed me on the rostrum: standing in front of him like that my hips were level with his face and he leaned forward and kissed me very softly, with wetted lips, in the little hollow below the round of my belly, his breath tickling the soft hairs just below his mouth. I sighed and waited for his next move.

"Lie down." Softly though he said it this was a command, not a request. "No, not like that. So your body is side on to the auditorium. So you can see the big, public space with all the seats that could be filled with people: people watching me fucking you."

I lay as he requested, so that my head and feet were pointed towards the wings.

He knelt in front of me and parted my legs, pushing them roughly with his hands. I was still slightly dazed, I felt as if I was under some kind of spell -- why on earth was I letting him do this to me? The touch of his rough and calloused hands on the delicate skin of my thighs made my stomach flutter.

He smoothed his hands along my thighs, over my calves, up my belly, round my breasts. Each scrape of his rough skin against my soft flesh tantalised and teased. I closed my eyes and arched my back as his palms brushed over my tits. My nipples sprang up against his touch, hardening in his hands. I opened my eyes to see him smiling predatorily: hungrily.

He let me go, then, and stood back looking at me with his arms folded across his chest. I lay there spread-eagled, panting and longing for him to touch me again.

I waited for him to say or do something, but all he did was look at me; devouring me with his eyes and examining every square inch of skin; every detail. I felt like I did when I showed myself to men on the webcam; alive and sexual and my arousal grew with every moment he did nothing but look.

When he moved it was to step forwards onto the rostrum in between my legs where he stood looking down at me before slowly unfastening his belt buckle. It was a well-worn brown leather belt, the strap dry and cracked, the leather moulded about the struts of the buckle. He undid it with the muscle memory of an action performed many times, not taking his eyes off me.

He pulled the leather out from the buckle with a faint snapping sound, then unfastened the button fly of his jeans with the same slow, ritualized movement with which he had undone his belt. The tension of the atmosphere heightened my awareness of every movement whilst slowing time down to a sticky trickle. It seemed to take him hours before he had finished.

My body was frozen in place, rigid with anticipation and a fear of exposure. Now he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and inched them down over his hips, forced them past the swollen flesh between his legs, then let them slip gently down his thighs.

Languorously he stroked his hand over the fabric of his black, tight-fitting shorts, caressing himself with casual ease, letting me know he had time, letting me know he was in charge and could choose what he did now.

I licked my lips, which made him smile, then shifted a little, arching my back and raising my hips towards him. My body was crying out to be touched and penetrated and he was standing so close to me that I could smell the hot, musky scent of him.

Carefully he lowered himself so that he was kneeling between my legs. He pushed down his underwear, allowing his cock to extend fully, thrusting from between his legs like a hunting dog eager for the chase.

He hooked his hands underneath my knees and pulled me towards him, bending my knees up and outwards so that I was completely open for him. His cock nuzzled at the hot, moist folds of my pussy and I wriggled as I tried to impale myself upon him.

He leant forward until he was on his hands and knees over me, his arms either side of my face and his face close enough for his breath to brush my face.