Educating Becca 4: Pure Cinema

Told ya there was smut in here eventually. Yes, yes, I know I said I was trying to release one a week. So sue me. Today Becca meets up with an old family friend who is visiting town!

~~~

The call comes at 6:04 p.m., as I'm elbow-deep in a spreadsheet for my economics final. It's not a phone number I recognize, which means one of two things: A better deal on my auto warranty (fingers crossed!), or one of my dad's friends. They rotate through the city on business trips, leaving awkward texts and Facebook quality memes in their wake. I answer, expecting to hear a familiar blend of condescension and generic fatherly concern.

Instead, the voice is smooth and bright, with just a hint of amused affectation. "Becca! It's Marcus Roth. You remember me, right?"

I picture the tan, square-jawed man who once made me a set of foam padded swords for my tenth birthday with which my sister and I spent more than a few evenings concussing one another. Of all the friends Dad sometimes sends to check up on me, he's easily my favorite. "Of course," I say, trying not to sound like a person who has maybe harbored an utterly inappropriate decades-long unrequited crush. These things happen. Hush. "How's the legal consulting grind?"

He laughs. "Still soul-sucking, but at least the per diem is better here than in Chicago. Listen, your dad said he hasn't heard from you in a few weeks and that you may have died. You wanna grab a bite so I can tell him you're fine? My conference doesn't start until tomorrow, and honestly, hotel food depresses me."

I could say no. I should say no. Finals, more time with Tyler at yet another party, conflicting priorities, yadda yadda. But c'mon, its Mr. Roth. I was never gonna say no.

"Sure, why not?"

He promises to send me details. The line is barely cold before a text pings my phone: Velvet Screen, 7:30. Dinner after. Don't be late. Movie starts promptly!

I stare at the screen, at the absurdity of the name, and feel a grin spread across my lips. Trust Mr. Roth to pick a place that sounds like a strip club. Wait, this better not be a strip club...

It's not a strip club. He's waiting outside when I arrive, leaning against the faux-marble awning in an outfit that looks too expensive for the venue: navy cashmere overcoat, turtleneck, tailored slacks. He's older than I remember. Salt-and-pepper at the temples now, face more lined, but the energy is the same, a taut coil of playfulness under a lacquer of discipline.

"Rebecca Sandsmark," he says, opening his arms for a hug. I bury myself in those arms. He's warm and solid, smelling of cedar and some kind of herbal aftershave. "You look the same as when I saw you at your graduation."

I grin, remembering how awkward I was, "Well don't expect me to follow you around with puppy dog eyes this time. And I go by Becca now."

He grins, then steps aside with a flourish. "Well then Becca, after you."

The Velvet Screen's lobby is a fever dream of red velvet and mood lighting, like the inside of a vampire's boudoir. The walls are hung with posters for foreign films and older cult classics that I bet makes this place a film buff's dream, but the marquee above the box office gives me pause.

PASSION'S PLAYGROUND, 7:30 PM

BOUND BY DESIRE, MIDNIGHT SHOWING

My throat goes dry. "Is this...?"

"An 'adult cinema,' yes." Marcus's tone is so casual that for a second, I think that maybe my hesitation means I'm the one with the weird hang-ups. "They have a full bar, and the popcorn is actual butter. Come on, how often does an old flame of yours invite you out? Live a little."

He winks, and I flush to my hairline. I want to run for the hills, but I force my feet to move so I can keep up with his stride. "I have absolutely no idea what you mean." I lie weakly.

"Sorry Becca, your sister outed you. I was more than a little flattered when she told me, but I'm fairly certain she had ulterior motives. Wanted me to whisk you away from the boy you were seeing. Or, as I've been informed, ceased seeing. So here I am, your very own living distraction."

He stops, faces me, his normal teasing smile turned serious, "Listen, I'm very well aware that this kind of film is... not what you usually go see at the movies. I halfway only invited you here to see the shock on your face when you figured it out. I've gotten my kicks, so if you'd like to head out to something less implication laden, I do know a good sushi place nearby. No harm, no foul."

I pause, my heart in my throat, barely able to look the man in the eye. My voice is soft, but steady, "I think I'd like to watch an... exotic film with you, actually."

His eyebrows creep towards the ceiling, and he smiles broadly, turning back to the ticket counter. He pays, of course, and steers me into the darkness beyond the snack counter. The staff here look like bored goths moonlighting as theater ushers; the one at the bar wears a mesh shirt and eyeliner, and greets Marcus with a "Back so soon, sir?" that implies more about his travel schedule than I ever wanted to know. He has the good graces to look a little embarrassed. "I came by last night out of boredom to check it out," he admits.

We grab drinks, Manhattan for him, overpriced hard seltzer for me, and Marcus hands me the most delicious tub of popcorn I've ever smelled. "Wow, you'd almost think this place was classy." I tease, regaining my footing.

"If it makes you feel better," he says as we make our way past the lobby, "it is actually an indie import. Supposed to be very highbrow, for the genre. Lots of subtitles."

I roll my eyes.

The theater itself is pitch black and cavernous. Plush seats in sets of two line up in ranks from a small stage up front near the screen to the back wall, all of them upholstered in deep scarlet. There are maybe eight other people scattered around, most in pairs, their faces indistinct in the flicker of pre-movie trivia and concession adverts. I note, with mounting unease, that not one of them looks under thirty.

Marcus chooses seats exactly in the middle. Not so close that you have to crane your neck, not so far back that you can't make out detail. When I sit the soft cushioning surprises me with how comfortable it is. I twist my hands in my lap, then remember the popcorn and clutch it instead.

The lights dim. The previews are, as promised, artsy and European, all gauzy closeups and sad piano music. The movie proper begins with a woman in a silk blouse typing at an old IBM Selectric. I only know this because I actually looked the darn thing up later. The camera lingers on her hands, her lips, the delicate movement of her throat as she sips coffee.

"I thought you'd like this," Marcus whispers, "because it's a office period piece made modern."

"Uh huh," I reply, looking over at him like he was crazy.

"What? You spent like two summers in highschool playing secretary at my office every time you and your father came to visit. I thought it was a thing with you."

I cringe at the memory, realizing that I was in fact giving exactly that impression. Rather than try to justify myself, I settle in to watch.

It's not even ten minutes before the first sex scene: the secretary bent over a file cabinet, moaning into her sleeve while her boss moves in close behind her in the small archives closet, his hand sliding down her back, then between him where he unzips his pants. It's shot tastefully, if that means anything, but the audio is... explicit. Someone in the row ahead of us actually coughs, and the nearness of the sound makes me jump, reminding me that I'm watching this with a number of strangers nearby.

I can feel Marcus watching me watch the movie. I try to act unimpressed and unmoved by the sensuality on screen, but my ears are on fire. I really couldn't tell you why I was bothering.

"You okay?" he asks, voice barely audible over the rhythmic slapping sounds and the grunts.

I take a sip of seltzer, more for something to do than actual thirst. "I'm fine. It's just... new. Not... not porn. Just the...setting. Here."

He leans closer, the scent of his cologne making me breathe harder. "We can always leave, you know. I was serious, I won't judge."

But I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

Onscreen, the narrative shifts to a different scene, the two leads deciding to celebrate landing a new account. The secretary kneels in front of her boss, who instructs her to count each time he strokes her hair with one hand, and strokes his cock with the other. The dialogue is stilted, but there's an edge to it that's both ridiculous and, god help me, mesmerizing. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs, and pretend to be very interested in the subtitles.

Then, from the next row up, a sudden sound: a zipper, sharp and definite. I sneak a glance and catch a man's silhouette, arm moving in a slow rhythm. The woman beside him glance down at his crotch and grins a little before turning back to the movie.

"Some people," Marcus murmurs, "just come for the vibes. Others for the company."

My stomach does a backflip. I stare at the screen, at the slow-motion close-up of a hand around a gasping throat, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of my own pulse, the heat radiating from my cheeks down my neck and chest.

"Do you want to hold my hand?" Marcus asks, sotto voce. He keeps his eyes on the movie, but the offer hovers between us.

I say yes by shifting the popcorn, letting my fingers curl around his. His palm is big and dry, his grip gentle but firm. We stay like that for a full scene, and I start to relax into the surreal normalcy of it.

Then Marcus moves, lifting my hand and placing it, carefully, on his thigh. At first it's almost chaste, but then he covers my hand with his own, guiding it higher, slowly higher. He gives me plenty of time to object, to pull away, but I don't, hesitating until I feel the unmistakable ridge of an erection under his fine cotton slacks.

He doesn't push further, just lets my palm rest there, a mute offer. My heart pounds, but I don't pull away.

On screen, the secretary is bent over a desk, her skirt rucked up around her waist, her boss's handprint reddening on her ass. The sound of each slap is crisp, deliberate, and I can feel it echoed in the tension of Marcus's flesh under my fingers.

He leans in, his lips at my ear. "You okay?"

My voice is little more than a whimper, "Yeah."

"Is this ok?" he asks, and I feel his cock twitch against my fingers.

I jump a little, but just nod, still watching the screen.

His hand moves, guiding mine with slow, incremental pressure. I find myself tracing the outline of his cock through the fabric, the heat of it is startling. He unzips, slowly and methodically, as if this is part of his normal viewing experience, and pulls himself out just enough to rest his length on the back of my wrist.

I freeze, staring at the screen, barely breathing.

Marcus places my hand over his cock, gently, and lets go. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then, with painstaking caution, My fingers curl around his shaft and I start to stroke him, feeling him grow with every beat of his heart. I stroke slowly, as if testing the texture of some rare fabric. He inhales, low and careful, and his hand moves to my knee, squeezing once before he slides it up under my skirt.

I nearly faint. My panties are soaked, clinging to me in a way that's both embarrassing and intensely erotic. He doesn't go further than just touching, the edge of his hand applying steady, firm pressure to my lips. I shiver, and my thighs squeeze around his hand even as my fingers squeeze around his hardening rod.

The movie builds to a crescendo: the secretary, tied to a chair, forced to watch videotapes of her lewd actions at work. Every moan, every gasp is amplified by the silence in the theater. My hand quickens. Marcus's breathing does too, and I risk a sideways glance. His head is tilted back, lips parted, face soft with pleasure.

He covers my hand again, whispering, "Slow down." I do. He's big, thick, the skin flushed and veined. I run my thumb over the tip, smearing pre-cum, and his whole body tenses.

"Good girl," he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. My thighs squeeze around his hand again, and I almost cum then and there.

I don't stop. I keep stroking, letting the rhythm of the movie and the sounds of quiet sex from the other theater goers guide me. When he comes, it's with a muffled grunt and a shudder that runs all the way up my arm. Hot liquid spatters my palm, and I still keep stroking, using his pleasure for lubricant while I just stare, transfixed by the rough masculinity of him.

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket (who even has those?) and pulls my hand away to wipe me clean, his touch unhurried, almost tender.

"Sorry," he murmurs roughly. "I get carried away sometimes."

I can't help it. I giggle, loud enough that the couple two rows up turn around. Marcus only grins, cleans himself off, then tucks himself back in and laces his fingers with mine.

We watch the rest of the movie like that, two conspirators among conspiring strangers. The closing credits roll and Marcus stands, stretches, then offers his hand. I take it.

In the lobby, the bartender gives us a knowing look, perhaps judging the college girl and the older man, but he says nothing. Outside, the air is cool and damp, the city humming with traffic and neon.

"Thank you," Marcus says, almost kindly. "For trusting me with that. Most people would've bolted."

I shrug, embarrassed but not sorry. "I guess I'm not most people."

He squeezes my hand. "Not even close."

We part ways at the El station, but I can feel his fingerprints on my skin all the way home. My phone vibrates with a single text: Had fun tonight. Next time, your pick?

I grin in the darkness, thumb out a reply: Deal. But nothing with subtitles.

When I step inside my dorm, the lights are off and my roommate is snoring. I crawl into bed, the night's images looping behind my eyes, Marcus's warmth still a phantom heat under my fingers.

Café Noir smells like espresso and a hint of caramelized sugar, and even though it's 10 a.m., the place is already packed with people looking to leech some wifi. We claim a corner booth, one with a cracked red vinyl seat and a fake potted orchid drooping over the barrier between us and the next booth over. Marcus takes the seat across from me, sleeves rolled just high enough to reveal corded, muscular forearms.

He leans back, surveying me with that same mixture of appraisal and mischief he had when we first saw each other last night. "Did you get home all right?"

I nod, stirring a whole mess of sugar into my latte. "Yeah. Had a harder time getting to sleep though."

He laughs, and the sound is so unguarded it manages to relax me as well. "Good. Wasn't sure if I'd freaked you out, but it feels like it would have been far more depressing not to have left an impression.."

I catch his gaze, hold it for a beat longer than feels safe, like some heat is going to grow between us in the middle of the table. "You definately did that. I'm just... still processing, you know?"

He raises an eyebrow, "Take your time. Getting your thoughts sorted isn't a thing you need to or should rush."

We lapse into a silence, not uncomfortable, but dense with unspoken questions. I focus on the foam spiral in my cup, trying to find the right words.

Marcus is the one who breaks the spell. He scoops up two sugar packets and a creamer from the little condiment basket at the end of the table, lining them up between us. "Okay, so here's the thing people always get wrong about power exchange." He scoops the packets his way, claiming the lot. "Everyone thinks it's about one person having all the power, right? But it's really about building a structure, a game, where both people get exactly what they need."

He pushes the creamer between the two sugars, like he's setting up a chessboard, then flicks one packet of sugar to me, and claims the other for himself, leaving the creamer in the middle. "See, this is the dynamic. The sweet spot. Both parties need to trust that the rules will be honored. We both get something, and if we need a little more..." he taps the creamer, "...then we communicate that. That's where the fun lives. We each only get what the other is willing to give us."

The metaphor is clear enough, but... "So, what does this have to do with," my voice drops to a whisper, "...me giving you a handy in the movie theater? Was that... do you mean to say you were also giving me something?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact!" Marcus beams, delighted. "We both had a need. Mine was the obvious one, what everyone thinks of when they think of men and sex, really. Yours was... a little more cerebral. Becca, you have always been a little...tightly wound. And for some people that leads to an opposite response when it comes to managing physical relationships. As in, you want your partner to take control. Am I wrong?"

I want to ask if last night was planned, if he knew what he was going to have me do before I even showed up, but I'm too afraid of the answer. Because he's not wrong about what I apparently want from the people I get physical with. I nod.

He sips his coffee, then fixes me with a level look. "I want to make sure you get this, Becca, if you decide that this stuff is how you like to have your play. If you ever want to call a timeout with someone, or change your mind, even right in the middle of things? That's sacred. Nobody worth their salt will ever shame you for hitting pause."

I nod again, and the tension in my jaw loosens just a notch. "I mean, it's not like I haven't read about this stuff. I just... It's different in person."

He smiles. "The kink side of the internet is 90% people arguing over what's 'real BDSM' and 10% memes about rope burns. But you should know the rules before you dive in." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a neatly folded napkin, sliding it across the table.

Printed in blue ink are three lines.

Check-Ins: "Are you OK?" is not optional.

Safe Words: Discuss them. Every time.

Consent: Not given. Continuously created.

I have to force down a mad giggle as I pick it up. "You made a cheat sheet?"

He shrugs, modest. "Old habits. I used to mentor newbies at the Chicago club scene. This is the stuff I wish someone had told me up front."

I run my fingers over the napkin, then glance up. "You really like this, don't you? Like, this kink is your kink?"

He grins, but the edge is softer, almost nostalgic. "I like how honest it makes people. The trust, the vulnerability... it's rare, and with my job I don't encounter a whole lot of it." He fidgets with his spoon. "You don't have to commit to any of this, Becca. But if you want to explore more, I can help." I almost laugh at how serious he sounds, but the sincerity is comforting somehow. "You're not the only one with weird hang-ups, you know." he continues.

That, I believe. I stare at the napkin again, at the careful slant of Marcus's handwriting. "And if I do... need to be told what to do?" The words are so quiet I'm not sure they even escape my throat, but his face lights up anyway.

"Then you negotiate that, joyfully. Like picking from a dessert menu. No one ever judges what desserts you like. No one who isn't a total shit-heel anyhow."

I laugh, this time loud enough to draw a side-eye from the couple at the next table. "That's the corniest metaphor I've ever heard."

He shrugs, not letting my laughter get to him. "Corny, but true."

We fall into easy conversation after that. Safe, neutral topics. He tells me about his legal consulting gig ("Think of it as herding middle management cats for corporations, but with only moderately less angry spraying on the upholstery and more paperwork"), and I tell him about finals and my gaming group, careful not to mention Jake by name.