Lotte in the Closed Cinema

The last of the invited guests had already gone down the stairs toward the canal, their coats pulled tight against the Utrecht autumn, and the projector had been shut off so that the empty seats held only the faint smell of dust and rain. I had booked this private night screening of her work myself, a closed canal-side cinema with the doors locked behind us, and I had spent the entire evening watching Lotte van den Berg instead of the screen. She was twenty-one, a professor of media studies who made the kind of sensual, body-positive films that filled a room without apology, and I was thirty-four, the man who had paid for the space and who had no intention of pretending I had come for the film alone. What sat between us in the dark was simple and not simple at all. If she meant what her eyes had been offering since the first reel, she would not leave this building as only the woman who had held the audience.

She stood in the aisle in a dark wool dress that sat close to her hips, her hair still a little wild from the wind off the water, and she looked at me as if a complete sentence were the least I owed her. I walked down until I was close enough to see the color in her face. The canal moved against the outer wall. Neither of us pretended this was still about the screening.

“I want you to tell me, in full sentences, whether you want me to dominate you tonight,” I said, and I did not hurry the words. “Not a joke. Not a maybe. I need to hear that you want me to take control of you in this room.”

She held the silence without filling it, the way she had held the room earlier, and then she answered without looking away. “I want you to dominate me tonight, Maarten. I want you to take control of my body in this cinema and use me the way you have been looking at me since the lights went down.” A small, bright cut of humor came into her mouth. “Unless you booked a private screening just to stare. In which case I should go home.”

I felt that check land exactly where she meant it to. I did not smile it off. I had been hard for most of the last hour, and the fact of her standing there in the aisle, still entirely herself, made it worse in the best possible way.

“On your knees,” I said. “Now. In the aisle.”

---

She went down without making a performance of it, wool folding under her, knees on the worn carpet between the rows, and she kept her face tipped up so that I could see she was still the same woman who had spoken in complete sentences a moment before. I opened my belt and then my trousers and took my cock out already thick from an hour of watching her, and I put my hand in her hair without asking again. She opened her mouth because she had decided to, and I fed myself onto her tongue in one slow push that made her eyes water at once.

The first wet sound of it filled the empty cinema. I held her there and used her mouth with a patience that was not kindness, the head of my cock sliding over her tongue and into her throat until she had to breathe through her nose against my belly. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips and then ran down her chin and dropped onto the carpet in a thin, shining string. I kept going. I fucked her mouth the way I had told her I would, deep enough that she gagged once and then took it anyway, her hands hovering at my thighs as if she wanted to hold on and did not yet know whether she was allowed. I told her to keep them down. She did. Drool soaked the wool at her knees and spotted the aisle, and I did not stop until her lipstick was ruined and her breathing had gone ragged and wet.

When I pulled back, a thread of spit connected my cock to her lower lip, and she looked wrecked and still entirely herself. I wiped nothing away. I wanted her to feel it on her skin.

“You wanted this,” I said. “Say it in a sentence.”

“I wanted you to use my mouth until I drooled on this carpet,” she said, and her voice was hoarse and warm at the same time. “I still want it. I am not lesser for being on my knees.”

I believed her. That was the problem and the pleasure both.

---

I had brought a length of soft black rope in the inner pocket of my coat because I had hoped she would mean it. I drew her wrists together in front of her and bound them, not cruelly, tight enough that she would feel every pull when I moved her. The knot sat between her palms. I made her look at it before I did anything else.

“You can still speak,” I said. “If something is wrong you will use a full sentence and I will stop. If you want more, you will also use a full sentence. Do you understand me, Lotte?”

“I understand you. I want the rope. I want you to keep going, and I want you to mean the offer you made when you put me down here.”

I pulled her up by the bound wrists and turned her toward a row of seats, and the dress rode up the backs of her thighs as she stumbled a step on the slope of the aisle. I put her over the back of a chair so that her ass was offered and her cheek nearly touched the next seat, and I rucked the wool up to her waist. She was wearing dark tights and nothing under them that would stop me. I hooked my fingers in the fabric and tore a hole wide enough, and the sound of it was loud in the closed room. The air of the cinema touched her bare cunt. She was already wet. I could see it even before I put my hand there.

I left her like that for a moment, bound and bent, because I wanted her to feel the wait as part of being taken. She did not fill the silence with a joke this time. She breathed, and the seat creaked under her weight, and I watched the small shiver that went through her thighs.

---

I put my hand on the back of her thigh first, feeling the heat of her skin through the torn tights, and then I spanked her. The first slap was not a warning. It landed hard on the curve of her ass and she made a sound that was not quite a word. I did it again, and again, until the flesh under my palm went hot and she was shifting on her bound hands, trying to stay in position because she had chosen this. I spanked her until she was wet enough that I could see it gathering, until her legs were shaking and the torn tights clung to the sting. I told her she was going to take more. She did. Each impact pushed a small, helpless noise out of her, and between them I could hear her breathing like someone who still wanted to be here.

My hand hurt in the good way. Her ass was flushed where I had hit her, and when I slid my fingers down between her legs I found her soaked, open, the kind of wet that made a filthy little sound against my skin. I spanked her once more on each side, slower, so she would feel the difference, and she pushed back into the last blow as if she were asking for it without using her mouth.

“Tell me what you want,” I said, my palm resting on the heat I had put into her.

“I want you to keep hitting me until I cannot think, and then I want you to fuck me over these seats.” She swallowed, and the next words came out clear anyway. “That is not a performance. I mean it. I want your cock in me while I am still shaking.”

I gave her two more, hard enough that she cried out against the upholstery, and then I stopped because I was done waiting and because she was done pretending she could hold still.

---

I pulled the torn tights further aside and found her cunt slick and ready, and I pushed two fingers into her just to hear her take them. She clenched around me at once. I lined my cock up and drove into her in one long thrust that made her cry out against the seat, and I started fucking her with the kind of rhythm that did not pretend this was gentle. The seats creaked. Her bound wrists were trapped under her chest. I talked while I used her, because I wanted her to hear every part of it and because I wanted her to stay inside her own wanting.

“You are going to stay like this and take my cock until I decide you are finished,” I said, and I bottomed out in her on the last word. “You wanted a man thirteen years older than you to put you on your knees in a cinema and then fuck you over the seats like you belong to him for the night. That is what is happening. Your cunt is gripping me every time I push in. You are dripping on the chair.”

I kept going. I held her hip with one hand and the rope with the other and I fucked her until her voice broke into sounds that were not sentences anymore, only the raw fact of being filled. She pushed back onto me when she could, which told me more than any speech. I reached around and found her clit and rubbed it while I thrust, not as a kindness exactly, as another way of using her until she came apart. The wool of her dress was bunched at her waist. The cinema smelled like sex and old velvet. I could feel how close she was in the way she tightened, in the way her thighs started to shake again against the seat.

She came on my cock with her face turned against the upholstery, shaking, her cunt clenching so hard I had to grit my teeth to keep from following her at once. I fucked her through it. I did not slow down because she was coming. I made her take the thrusts while she was still pulsing around me, and she made a broken, grateful noise that I felt in my spine.

---

I did not pull out. I told her I was going to come inside her and I did, driving deep and holding there while I emptied into her, pulse after pulse, my weight pinning her bound body to the row of seats. I stayed in her until I had given her all of it. When I drew back, my cock was wet with both of us, and I saw my come start to slip out of her, thick, catching on the torn tights. I put my fingers there and pushed some of it back in, because I wanted her to keep it, and she whimpered into the seat as if that small act were as filthy as the rest.

“Thank me,” I said.

She turned her face enough that I could see her mouth, smeared, honest. “Thank you for coming in me. Thank you for using me like that. I wanted every part of it.”

I pulled her off the seat by the rope and put her back on her knees in the aisle. I put my cock, still wet from her cunt, into her mouth again. “Taste it. Taste both of us.”

She did. She sucked me clean with a thoroughness that was almost tender, her bound hands in her lap, spit and come on her lips, and I held her hair and fucked her mouth slowly now, not to get hard again so much as to finish the claiming. She took it. She looked up at me while she did it, and there was no split in her, no respectable half set aside so that this half could be lesser. When I finally let her go, she was breathing through her mouth and looking up at me as if the room had not yet returned, and I felt something in my chest that was not only appetite.

I unbound her wrists and rubbed the marks with my thumbs. She flexed her fingers and did not pull away.

---

I took a leather cuff from the same inner pocket and buckled it on her left wrist, snug, the kind of thing she would feel every time she moved her hand. I did not ask if she wanted it. She had already said she wanted the agreement, and the cuff was the test of whether she had meant the sentences she had given me on her knees.

I dressed her. I smoothed the wool down over her hips and helped her stand on legs that were not quite steady, and I wiped her mouth with my handkerchief because I would not send her into the Utrecht night looking wrecked for anyone else. I did not take her home. I left her standing in the empty cinema with the projector dead and the canal moving outside the walls, and I gave her a card with an office address on it.

“If you meant what you said on your knees, you will present yourself at my office as my secretary,” I said. “You will wear the cuff. You will arrive ready to work and ready to be used. If it was only heat, you will take the cuff off in the morning and I will not look for you.”

She looked at the card, then at the leather on her wrist, and she did not take the cuff off. The cost of the night was already waiting in the daylight, and I left her there to decide whether kneeling for me had been a single hour or an agreement she would keep.