Sex in the cinema

The movie theater seats hide our bodies from the other customers. Hot buttered popcorn buckets sit forgotten between us, growing cold. My girlfriend slides her hand under my skirt and pushes two fingers inside me, right there under the flickering screen. She curls them hard, rubbing my clit with her thumb until my hips jerk and my breath comes fast. The seat creaks beneath us. I slip two fingers back between her thighs, under thin lace panties soaked through, and press deep. The popcorn spills onto the floor. Nobody looks back. We keep going, hips shifting, slick skin against leather seats. Every time she thrusts in, the squelch cuts through the movie’s drone. My knuckles grow wet. She bites my shoulder to stay quiet. Heat coils low in my belly, rolls down my thighs, and spreads. Someone stands a few rows ahead, blocking the projector beam for a moment, casting our bodies in shadow. She doesn’t stop fingering me. Neither do I. Our wrists ache from the angle, but we don’t ease up. Her soft walls pulse around my fingers. The climax slams into me anyway—fast, messy, shoulders shaking against worn upholstery. The screen keeps playing, dull and endless, while my body clenches and I feel hers clench around my touch. Another buttery kernel skitters under my shoe. Neither of us looks down.