rabbit fur coat

Right on time, I passed under the glow of the marquee, a haughty nod at the bored guy slouching in the box office. My heels click-clacked briskly across the pavement, as I sidestepped wind-swept leaves and trash. The wind was brisk and I felt the skin of my thighs goose-bump in the evening breeze. The fire exit in the alley was propped open slightly, just as he’d said it would be. Then, to the projection booth.

The alley was deserted. I anxiously checked the time and I slipped in through the theatre’s back door letting it click closed heavily behind me. My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and I followed the narrow hallway and climbed the stairs at the end of it.  I could hear the film, the slow funk of the music, staggered dialogue, moans, grunts and giggles. He had said the running time was 12 minutes per movie and it was a double feature, subtracting a few minutes to make my stealthy entrance and exit, this would be a quick and dirty rendezvous; exactly what I wanted. I reached the door to the projection booth and knocked twice like he’d told me to.

I waited in the dim hallway, bare nipples pert from the cold, pressing into the satin lining of my rabbit fur coat. He opened the door a couple inches and peered out. I smiled and he stuck his head out, looking up and down the hallway before pulling me into the small dark room. He pushed my back against the door and stepped back, looking me up and down.

“Fuck. You look like a streetwalker. Open the coat.”

I complied, unbuttoning the threadbare vintage fur slowly, a coy smile playing at the corner of my lips. He impatiently crossed his arms and leaned back into the metal desk next to the hulking projector. His face flinched as I pushed the coat back, hands on my naked hips.

“Just heels, as requested,”

He unzipped his jeans, pulling his cock out, mostly hard and growing as he stroked it, silhouetted by the window to the theatre, the flickering film revealing the projection booth in alternating light and dark. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor at his feet. I knelt between his legs and took him into my mouth. There was no pretence, no instruction or direction, just the heat of my mouth around his cock and one hand in my hair, the other gripping the edge of the desk.

The soundtrack of the room was encouraging, I imagined I was one of he heavily made up, lithe and wanton girls in the film. I imagined lush 70’s bush, smudged mascara and handlebar moustaches, free love and classic smut, filth for the sake of being filthy. I worked his cock expertly, swallowing his length, teasing and pulling his pleasure from him. He grunted something that sounded like “Touch yourself.” so I did. I feverishly stroked my fattened clit as he began to fuck my face in earnest. Our moans were drowned out by the whizz and click of film racing from reel to reel. His stomach and hips tensed and he bucked hard, wrenching his cock from my mouth, hissing, head rolled back as he splattered hot cum across my chest and neck. The smell and sight of him finished me off and I quaked, knees aching on the gritty floor, trying to contain my screams.

He zipped up and pulled me to my feet, buttoning the coat around my slick breasts.

“Don’t cleanup until you get home.” was all he said. He fluidly switched out film reels and adjusted nobs and switches. I waited, as he swung on his coat.

“I’ll walk you out.”

We surreptitiously left the projection booth and quickly made our way down the hallway, down the rickety stairs. Mere minutes before I’d climbed them alone in anticipation. He paused before the door, pulling me roughly to him in the red glow of the exit sign. Then, he kissed me hard, his teeth grazing my tongue. His mouth tasted like cinnamon gum. He pushed the door open and we stepped into the windy alley. A man approached, walking briskly carrying a coffee and paper bag from the deli around the corner. He smiled.

“Perfect timing! All finished?” His eyes glinted and he elbowed my companion.

“Yeah. Thanks again, Jim. We owe you, this was a lot of fun.”

“No one saw you?”

“Not a soul. You’ve got about seven minutes left on the second film.”

“Awesome. Glad to help. Are we still on for dinner at your place in Sunday?”

“Sure thing. See you then.”

We waved and walked off, his arm draped over my shoulders. My hand in his back pocket.

“So,” I ventured, “How was that for mixing it up?”
He squeezed me closer and laughed, kissing my temple.

“All these years and you never cease to amaze me with that imagination. Definitely our best anniversary yet.”


Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.