Free Erotica: On the Fly
Heat Level: Mild
Sex: Straight, Up in the air
High above the stage, the catwalk is an amazing place in the theater. Among the flylines and heavy lights, security guard Rick and stagehand Cass are free to play and explore each other. Once Rick gets his fear of heights under control, he’s more than a match for the horny woman who likes her sex extreme.
He straddled the catwalk, one booted foot on either side, hanging off into space. "I’ll be on top." His eyes glittered appreciatively. I mounted him, feeling his hot flesh press against mine, the length of his cock firm against my pussy. Instinctively, he thrust his hips against me, seeking my wet depths. His hands left the rail – finally! – to take almost painful hold of my thighs. I locked my legs around his waist.
On the Fly"Cass, are you insane?”
“Of course,” I said. “But what has that got to do with anything?”
“We're going to get caught,” he said. Rick wasn't familiar with the stage, and he stumbled in the near darkness. Only a few of the emergency lights were on. I had been working the stage crew for most of the summer, and nine tenths of my job took place in total darkness, or with the aid of a tiny penlight. I carried it in my pocket all the time, along with my wrench. My job, among other things, included being a Wrench Wench; my tools were tied onto my belt loop with a six foot length of heavy-duty cord. There was nothing more annoying than getting pegged with tools that dropped from the heavens.
“So what?” I said. Wasn't that part of the excitement? The possibility always existed of getting caught. “Isn't it thrilling?”
“You are insane.” It was no longer a question.
“Old news, my dear,” I said. With one hand, I flicked on half a dozen stage lights. “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”
“So you say, Cass,” Rick said. “I still think you're a master of disguise. I thought you were a normal girl.”
“Bah… what do you want with normal? Normal girls don’t have sex in the back row of a movie theater.”
“That was a really boring movie.”
“It was good sex.”
Rick squinted at the stage. He hadn't been here since I gave him the grand tour near the end of May; in the last six weeks, the stage-crafting crew and I had been busy. Then, there was little in place except for some scaffolding and a blank flat or two to give the actors some idea of their blocking. Now the entire set was in place and most of the scenery was dressed for the final act of Midsummer Night's Dream. The group wedding scenes were predominately white, with only faint reminders of the fairy gardens. Giant crepe and cloth flowers bedecked the multi-tiered platforms. A smattering of Christmas lights appeared as tiny tinker bell type fairies among the blossoms. I turned these on; they were my idea based on something I’d seen in a behind-the-scenes for a blockbuster movie.
A few of the flats were down, breaking the stage into the midnight garden, but my best work, Oberon’s court, was still up in the lines. That was too bad, I rather liked that painting. Maybe we'd be able to see it better from where we were headed.
“Come on,” I grabbed hold of the ladder and started climbing. I wasn't wearing underwear under my skirt and Rick knew it. I felt the heat of his gaze on me as he watched me climb the entire forty feet up into the flylines. My high-heeled Mary Janes were unexpectedly helpful as I was clambering up the rungs; the indent between heel and toe of the shoe allowed me to place my feet with great precision.
I hadn’t worn a bra, either. That was part of our deal for the evening—no underthings—expressed in various texts as he patrolled his route at the bank and I hauled the last of the scrap lumber away to the dump. As always, these salacious texts were part of the foreplay, so by the time we’d met up, after all the actors, directors, gophers, and scenic designers were gone, I was decidedly aroused.
“I am so going to regret this,” Rick muttered. I probably wasn't meant to overhear him; one of the first things you learn working the stage is that acoustics means that you hear everything, each whisper and shuffle on the stage, each restless cough from the audience, and each murmured order to the gophers. You never say something about an actor behind his back, or curse under your breath at the lighting director. They will hear you. On the other hand, that's part of why actors and crew are so weird and outspoken. There are no secrets on a stage.
The flylines – a series of ropes and pulleys that hold the flats above the stage until they're needed – were my favorite place on the set. While I was a whiz at construction, could nail together a flat in about ten minutes, and was a dab hand with a brush, the flylines and catwalks were my home. I'd never experienced anything like it; I was fearless in the lines, even when experienced professionals turned grey.
Rick was not an experienced professional. He was, in fact, a security guard. We'd met one night about three months ago at Maddie's. Maddie's was not the favored bar of the stage crew and cast of the Shakespearean Festival – that was Algie's Cafe. It was a bit too pretentious for my taste. Everyone there was so emo that their lawns cut themselves. Besides, Maddie's had New Castle Brown on tap. I was tired of actors preening over themselves and trying to butter up the leads. I got enough of that at work. Also, I couldn't stomach another can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Rick had sat next to me while I was nursing my third beer of the evening and reconsidering my recent resolution to quit smoking. I had looked him over with a critical eye; it wasn't that I was adverse to a one-night stand, but some of the pickup lines around here were pretty old. He was dark-haired, with espresso eyes and just enough five o’clock shadow that I expected he was more familiar with a trimmer than a razor. That had been fine with me. I always liked the scratchy rub of beard during a particularly hot make-out session.
“I'm Rick,” he had said, clinking his beer mug against mine, “that's Rick, with a P.”
I had spat my mouthful of beer out into a bar napkin. Waste of good beer, that was. “I always did like a good prick.”
We had not gotten any further than the front seat of his Rav 4, the gear stick jamming into my thigh as he thrust into me. Still, there had been something sticky, sweaty, and exciting about getting it on like a couple of teenagers parked up by the river. When he'd asked for my cell number, I had actually given it to him.
“You’re serious?” He’d finally made the catwalk behind me. Rick had a death grip on the rail. “Up here?”
His knuckles were white and his eyes were just a little wider than normal. I swept my gaze around, taking in the catwalk – a steel mesh walkway, little more than 18 inches across, with thin metal pipes as handrails about hip-high. The rails wouldn’t stop you from taking a tumble, if you stretched yourself out too far to adjust the gels or replace a bulb. I’d never known a stage monkey to fall, but I suppose it happened. And Rick was no stage monkey.
“Come on,” I said. “You’re a security guard at the First and National. You could be shot at your job, and you’re telling me you’re worried about a little height?”
“It’s practically three stories! Do you know what sort of damage you’d– “ Rick spluttered.
“So you don’t fall,” I suggested.
“No help at all, Cass.”
“Wasn't trying to be. Here, give me your hand.”
I pulled him out, mid-stage. As I’d hoped, Oberon’s court was right there, tucked away for act two. “Look, isn’t it lovely?” I was justifiably proud of my work; soft and mysterious and fae, the painting was – pardon the pun – the perfect backdrop.
Rick got over his stage fright enough to admire the flat. “I think I’d recognize your brush strokes anywhere.”
“You certainly enjoyed getting painted,” I said.
“So I have a bit of personal experience with your artistic talents.”
I stepped into his arms, running my fingers through his dark hair. I knew he liked the feel of my nails along the close-cropped hair at the base of his neck. Rick bent down, just enough to softly nip at my bottom lip. His tongue flicked out and brushed against the corner of my mouth, sending delicious shivers through my spine. He knew how I liked to be kissed, not some rough, sloppy tongue-thrusts, not at first. He seduced me with his mouth, tasting me thoroughly, a slick dance of tongue and lip.
“Here, lemme see your jacket,” I helped him out of it, the process made a bit more challenging as he wouldn’t relinquish his death grip on the rails. I slid the leather off slowly, running my fingers over the hard curves of his muscles. I pressed my nose into the collar, breathing in the sweet, masculine scent. I knelt before him, spreading the jacket down on the mesh catwalk. He inhaled instinctively, looking down. My scoop-necked blouse provided an expansive view of my cleavage.
I slithered halfway up, snakelike, curling around him, hands exploring the chiseled muscles of his legs through his jeans, cupping his buttocks. I rubbed my cheek against one thigh, then used my teeth to drag the hem of his button-down shirt out over his belt. I nuzzled the sensitive flesh just near his navel with my tongue.
It wasn’t but a moment’s work to unbuckle his belt and tug the zipper down. I licked at each inch of flesh as I exposed it, kissing and nibbling around his flat belly.
“You’re gonna make my knees go out,” he half-complained as I reached inside his boxers to find his cock. As usual, it wasn’t lost. I gave his already hard prick a gentle squeeze, then pulled his pants down around his knees.
“Sit, then. I’ll help you.” I guided him down, getting his jacket underneath his backside. The gridding of the catwalk wasn’t exactly comfortable on naked flesh. I’d certainly knelt on it often enough to regret it. The last thing anyone wanted was hatch-mark bruises on their ass.
“There we go… safe and sound,” I crooned. He straddled the catwalk, one booted foot on either side, hanging off into space. “I’ll be on top.” His eyes glittered appreciatively. I mounted him, feeling his hot flesh press against mine, the length of his cock firm against my pussy. Instinctively, he thrust his hips against me, seeking my wet depths. His hands left the rail – finally! – to take almost painful hold of my thighs. I locked my legs around his waist.
I started to peel my blouse off, and had barely cleared my chin when Rick caught hold of my shirt, twisting it and pinning my arms, elbows bent, behind my back. My nipples puckered in excitement and an odd, stomach-trembling fear. Trapped in my own shirt, I couldn’t see and didn’t dare struggle, even in play. I wasn’t afraid of heights; falling, however, would be a buzz kill.
Caught, exposed, I shivered, waiting. Rick shifted under me, and his warm breath fanned across my neck. Slowly, he traced one finger up my side. I squirmed – he knew I was ticklish – but I couldn’t get away.
“Shhh,” he whispered, “I got you.”
“Not exactly what I was concerned abou-“ My sarcasm was cut off as his tongue unexpectedly tweaked the very tip of my nipple. I gasped, straining towards his teasing mouth, but he backed off in equal measure, keeping me moaning and wanting. I squirmed against him, grinding my hips against his and drawing from him an answering groan.
He relented, drawing my nipple into his mouth and suckling, white bolts of sensation through my nerves. Not being able to see, I quivered in anticipation of each touch, each lick. His rough breathing, the creak of his leather jacket under his legs, the wet, hot sound of his mouth on my breast, each noise and sound clear, magnified by the acoustics and visual deprivation.
My feet dangled off either side of the catwalk, my thighs pulled roughly against Rick’s waist. From time to time, he would sway, or move us from side to side and I would tighten my legs again, forced to wonder if he was, actually, being careful. My stomach did a roller-coaster flip. My breathing sped until I was panting. Sweat beaded the back of my neck, the prickle of fear along my scalp made each sensation more powerful, more intense.
Finally Rick whipped my shirt the rest of the way off. I gasped as the cool stage air kissed my sweat-damp hair. I snagged it away from him long enough to hang it over the rails – I didn’t fancy the idea climbing down the ladder half-naked to fetch it. “There we go,” I said. I grabbed the rails. I'm not bulked up, but switching drops – even with the assistance of pulleys and rope – isn’t easy. You have to ease them down, slowly, gracefully. My biceps and triceps are firm; my grip is strong; I have more upper body strength than most women.
I lifted myself up, twisting with my hips, grinding down on Rick’s cock. He jerked, instinctively seeking my enclosing heat; the tip of his prick slid into my pussy and I sighed. “Got you now,” I triumphed.
“Think again,” Rick said. He slid his hand between our bodies, using the inch or so I’d given him. He tickled along my pussy, seeking, then finding my clit. He rubbed gently, flicking the tiny nub back and forth. “Now, you stay here,” he ordered. “If you drop onto my hand, I’ll stop.”
I stared at him. I’m strong, but my arms were already trembling.
“You heard me. You’re going to torture me by dragging me up here, expect me to pay it back in spades.”
I tightened my hands on the rails; damn, my palms were already sweaty. Good thing I used to ride horseback. I squeezed my thighs, holding my body as steady as I could. Rick’s hand never ceased to move, working my clit, teasing the inside of my pussy, back to the clit. My heart pounded and within moments, I was tense and shaking. Sweat dripped down my spine.
“I can’t, I can’t, I…” I was choking the words out, nearly incoherent in lust, wanting, fear.
“You can,” he said. “Easy…” Rick slid his hand up my damp back, blew cold air along my chest, his other hand between my legs never ceasing. My skin tingled, sheathed me in gooseflesh. My nipples, already hard, prickled. I thrust my chest forward and he took one nipple into his mouth, licking and biting.
I twisted my hips violently, so close, so close. My voice came in short, hard moans, gasping cries that echoed around us.
“You can,” Rick said, again, his words muffled against my chest, the scrape of his beard against the soft flesh of my breasts. “It’s all right. You know you can.”
I lost my grip. I came so hard I bit the inside of my cheek, tasted blood. I felt the world tip under me. I was falling, falling. Vertigo took over and I shrieked, relishing the adrenaline rush. Fear and culmination blended into one unutterable sensation. One perfect moment of bliss. My muscles froze, ice and glass, then shattered. I went limp; relief that I hadn't fallen adding a piquant spice.
As always, the drop back into my body was an agony of sensation; I twisted away from Rick’s teasing fingers, desperate to regain a little bit of my self. He soothed me, nuzzling at my belly. His beard tickled along my skin; his hand stroked me, once, twice, stopped.
“That was just fine,” he said.
We rested there a while, my legs twined around his hips. I hooked one arm around the railing’s post and stared up at the ceiling. Crossed ropes and brackets lined the area another fifteen feet above. The highest lights were tucked away in the corners.
“Why thank you.”
“Aim to please,” he quipped, “shoot to kill.”
“Well, you killed me. But I see you’re still breathing.” I flexed my thighs, bringing myself closer to him. His cock jerked against my skin, twitching.
“Stand up,” Rick said.
“You think I can?”
“Get up, woman.” I stuck my tongue out at this forcefulness, then giggled. I couldn't help it; Rick was never more amusing when he tried to be bossy.
It took some effort to get untangled from him and regain my feet. Damn him, he stood smoothly with more grace than I was currently capable.
Rick kissed me, once, hard. His tongue thrust into my mouth forcefully and I inhaled, molding into his embrace.
“Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, facing away from him into the banks of stage lights. “There you go. Bend over. Brace yourself.”
I twined my arms over the rails, bracketed my hands around the metal. I stared down at the stage, thirty feet below. The cross-hatch of the catwalk never appeared so narrow before; a mere net of string between me and the hard wood floor. My inner ear complained.
Rick flipped up my skirt, baring my ass. “Beautiful,” he said. He traced the lines of my tattoo, a colorful, tribal-style jellyfish. I peeked coyly over my shoulder.
“Usually people say, ‘don’t look down’ in these situations,” Rick said.
I looked down. Down at the floor, down through endless space. My inner ear jolted and I fought the urge to stand upright. Rick wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me roughly back to him. I looked down. The slippery head of his prick thrust into my wet folds and I arched my back, straining to pull him into me. I looked down.
He thrust, hard against my softness. Heat and fire, molten against liquid smoothness. I groaned. Stretched, pulled, prodded, I gave over to sensation. I kept my eyes opened. The stage decorations were below me. Floating. Free-fall.
Cock in my pussy, snug and tight. Hard and hot. Thrusts and strokes. I was driven forward, braced myself hard against the rails and pushed back, pushed into him, pushed him into me. Liquid smooth, like warm honey, I cried out as he pumped, rocking me back and forth. His balls swung, spanking against my pussy. Rick reached around my waist, found my clit with his fingers and pressed, matching his fierce rhythm. Free-fall. Floating.
He was in his pleasure; he always was. The easy, quick pants of his breath the only sounds that reached me over my cries.
Finally, he stiffened, caught his breath. Warm cum rushed into me, the throbbing of his cock matched by a jerk of fingers. I came again, white knuckled and screaming against the rails.
Exit,” I said, “downstage left. Tumultuous applause.”
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