Coming In Concert

Coming In Concert

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Last weekend, my boyfriend, Cliff, and I went to a concert in the park. It was in the early evening, just as the sky was turning a royal blue. Thousands of people spread out over the park area in front of the band shell, where the orchestra was tuning up, many having arrived much earlier in the afternoon.

Picnics were scattered here and there. Cliff picked out a place off to the side under an oak, and we spread a blanket and opened our wine and munchies. As night descended, the orchestra played, and the air grew chillier. We wrapped a second blanket around us, lay back and continued listening to the concert.

At first I barely noticed it: Cliff’s hand on my thigh. Gently he caressed me, stroking my leg. It felt warm and pleasurable. Gradually my boyfriend’s hand slipped between my legs. He cupped my mound. I was startled at first, then aroused. I glanced around at the thousands of people scattered about us. Their attention was on the shell from which the music emanated.

Underneath the blanket, Cliff unsnapped my bra and pushed it, and my blouse, up under my chin. His fingertips grazed the sensitive flesh, especially around my pebbly areolas. He took a long nipple between the middle finger and thumb of each hand and twirled them until I moaned.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to him under the music.

He gave me a lopsided grin. “Take a wild guess,” he replied.

“Shh,” somebody whispered. The last piece on the program, the 1812 Overture, was beginning as Cliff unsnapped my jeans. He pulled them down until they were in a pile at my feet.

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