Page 22 of The Bet
I tellmyself I won’t do anything. That I’ll sit here and watch the whole dumb movie, and afterwards I’ll go home and shower until I can’t feel anything. That I’ll never look at Thomas again. But fifteen minutes later, I see him stand, stretch, and walk up the aisle.
He’s moving slow, like he’s waiting to see if anyone’s watching. The woman with him doesn’t even glance up, glued to the flickering screen like it’s the only source of light in the world. I track Thomas’s silhouette as he slips through the side door, a brief flash of him in the white glow of the lobby before the darkness swallows him.
I sit perfectly still. I stare straight ahead, even though my mind is running laps around itself. Maybe he’s going to the bathroom. Maybe he’s leaving. Maybe he’s trying to get my attention, ormaybe he’s never thought of me for more than five seconds in his whole life.
A minute ticks by. My leg bounces so fast I’m shaking the entire row.
Then, as if controlled by a hand I can’t see, I get up and follow.
The theater corridor is a time capsule—carpet that smells like decades of butter and sweat, blue neon strips running the length of the floor, EXIT signs like alien runes burning at the far end. Every footstep is amplified by the hush of the movie, the distant rumble of explosions barely masking the sound of my own heart.
I pass the bathrooms, but Thomas isn’t there. He isn’t in the candy alcove or by the lobby concessions, either.
I start to panic. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I’m the world’s biggest idiot. Maybe Jake’s right and the whole universe is a simulation designed to make me feel like shit.
I return to the theater, defeated, stepping back into the darkness when a hand snakes out from the shadows, grabs my wrist, and yanks me sideways into the back row—row X, the emergency exit row, where nobody ever sits.
Before I can yelp, Thomas clamps his hand over my mouth, then lowers it as soon as he’s sure I won’t scream.
His face is inches from mine, lit only by the spectral glow of the screen and the low, devil-red aisle lights. He’s not smiling, but there’s a determination in his eyes.
“Don’t make a sound,” he rasps, and I nod, heart flipping over itself like a salmon on a dock.
He sits, pulling me down into his lap so that I’m facing the screen, but his arms are around my waist, his breath hot on my neck. I’m suddenly aware of every detail: the texture of his shirt, the heat of his hands, the way my own body is trembling in response.
We sit like that, silent, for ten seconds. The only sound is the movie—cars crashing, guns barking, the endless, violent ballet of the Marvel universe.
Then his right hand slides under my shirt. His fingers are colder than I expect, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. He finds my breast, cups it, pinches the nipple until I gasp, and then pulls the shirt up and off, leaving me in my bra and jeans. He licks his thumb, slides it under the wire, and strokes the bare skin underneath. It’s obscene, and it’s perfect.
I’m not passive—I’m just lost. I run my own hands over his thighs, the hard muscle under the fabric, and then, emboldened, reach between his legs. He’s already hard, so big that I moan throatily, trying to caress it with my tiny hand.
He leans forward, and his teeth catch my ear. “You’re going to be quiet for me, right?” he murmurs.
I nod, and he rewards me by biting the lobe, just sharp enough to hurt.
“That’s my good girl.”
He’s in control, but I’m not afraid. Not even a little. I want this—I want it more than I want to breathe.
His left hand slips down the waistband of my jeans. He fumbles the button, finds the zipper, and slides it down. I shiver as he works the fabric off my hips, tugging it just far enough to exposemy ass. My panties are embarrassingly cute—white with tiny blue hearts, the kind of thing you’d buy for a sleepover, not a hard fuck with a handsome man. I feel a flare of embarrassment, but it’s swallowed by the heat of his palm against my skin.
Thomas pulls my panties to the side, exposing my asshole and the slick heat of my pussy beneath. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate—just spits into his hand and rubs the saliva into the tight ring of my anus, then presses his thumb inside.
“Oooh!” I moan quietly. “Unnh.”
On the one hand, his finger in my asshole feels so good and I love it. But on the other, I have to be careful because is this really happening again? Are we really having anal sex, this time in a movie theater with his date only a few rows up?
He leans forward, so close I can smell the scotch on his breath. “Yes, it’s happening because you’re my good girl,” he rasps. “You missed Daddy’s cock, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The moaning sigh I release is answer enough, and he chuckles deep in his chest.
He lifts me slightly, positions himself, and slides the head of his cock up and down the crack of my ass. Oh god, it feels so good! I love having his huge monster there, and brace my hands on the armrests, expecting him to push up and into my asshole. But this time, Thomas wants to do it differently.
“Impale yourself on my cock, baby girl,” he rasps from behind. “I want to see you ass fuck yourself on my cock.”
Oh my god, is he serious? It’s so wrong! But before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m pushing myself downwards on that massiveshaft. There’s no movement at first, but then my anal ring gives way and he slides a delicious inch into my rectum.
“Oooh!” I moan.
