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From: "Harry Tasker" <harry-tasker@harry-tasker.demon.co.uk>
Subject: Theatre of the Flesh - Part Two
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*******       PLEASE NOTE       *******

This story remains the *******sole******* property of the author. It is
acceptable for any person in the public domain to re-distribute it on 
any medium, provided it is done so in an UNALTERED state, and the 
author's identity is neither altered nor deleted. This material is not for 
distribution on any commercial or profit-making site.

This srory contains scenes that graphically depict sexual acts. If it is
illegal for you to view such material, whether by age or geographical 
location, please make the informed decision to delete this file now.

Rather than swamp ASSM with one masive file, I have taken the liberty of
breaking the story down into (what I hope are) logical, bite-sized pieces.
Subsequent parts will be distributed very shortly, as the story is already 
complete.

As yet there is no corresponding web-site for this author's work. However,
sensible comments on its validity and appeal are very welcome by e-mail.  



THEATRE OF THE FLESH 

(c) Harry Tasker 1998


Part Two

The theatre did not meet Louise's expectations.

The first surprise she experienced, as she followed the Frenchman and his 
wife towards their seats, was the smell. Not the sour stench of aged lust 
her senses had anticipated, but a subtle evocation of the tropics: cinnamon, 
jasmine and musk, sensuously intertwined. Louise inhaled deeply, nostrils 
flaring unconsciously with satisfaction.

Her second surprise was the building itself. Concealed spotlights bathed
the theatre's dimensions in warm hues of scarlet and jade, giving it the
appearance of an opulent cocoon, and yet, at once, somehow deceiving the
eye into believing it existed on a far grander scale. 

The auditorium comprised about a hundred seats, arranged in a half-circle
around an elevated stage. Dimmed footlights studded the platform's edge,
their meagre glow barely touching upon its varnished surface. Behind the
stage, an expanse of swooping satins, layer upon layer, formed an
impenetrable backdrop to the arena.

Louise pushed down the base of her sprung seat, identical to those in a
formal theatre. The cushions were deep and comfortable, the luxurious
velour covering easily discernible through the black silk stockings that 
sheathed her legs.

She glanced down at herself, and snorted silently. Chris had begged her to
'dress sexily'. She still did not know why. She tugged awkwardly at the hem
of her red dress, affording her legs a few millimetres extra coverage. Even
so, most of her thighs were exposed to anyone caring to look. She knew
instinctively that the Frenchman's eyes were pouring over her from the next 
seat. He smiled warmly at her, unconcerned by her discovery of his 
voyeurism.

Louise twisted in her seat to regard other members of the audience. As she
had expected, there were some solitary men, others in groups of two and 
three. But her third surprise was that couples and groups of women made 
up the majority of the audience. 

It was difficult to comprehend the number of females present. Initially, their 
presence made Louise feel more relaxed, but as she examined their
serene expressions, she began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. These
women seemed neither nervous nor repulsed. They chatted happily with their
friends, with their partners. Their looks of anticipation were obvious.

Louise glanced to her right. The Frenchman's wife, a leggy, voluptuous blonde
resplendent in a tight, black velvet dress as short as her own, appeared to 
share her husband's enthusiasm for the coming entertainment.

Louise stared blankly at the satin backdrop. Was she the only female present 
feeling unnerved by the prospect of the night ahead? What was she afraid of? 

Faint movement in her periphery caught her attention. Louise's eyes
dropped, and watched the Frenchman's large hand casually stroking the top
of his wife's leg. The blonde pressed her hand over her husband's, and slipped
it between her slightly parted thighs. The Frenchman drew the hem of her
dress slightly upwards, until  Louise could see his fingers drawing lazy
trails along the creamy flesh just above her knees. 

The blonde turned to say something to her husband, and immediately noticed
their observer. She held Louise with an unwavering gaze. The tip of her tongue 
emerged from between her ruby lips, and traced a pattern that glistened 
in the half-light. 

Then with a lascivious wink, she leant towards her husband's ear and
whispered something. 

Louise's eyes darted back to the stage. She felt guilty and perplexed. Was
she unearthing a hidden taste for voyeurism? Such things had never
interested her before, yet twice tonight she had found herself enthralled
in other people's sexuality. 

And there was no point in denying her enthralment. She had felt herself
becoming moist at the sight of  the Frenchman's strong fingers probing the
blonde's thigh. For a fleeting moment, her mind had conjured the image of
those fingers against her own thigh. Firm, unrelenting fingers, exploring
ever higher…….

Chris leaned towards her. "Should be starting soon," he whispered.

"How do you know?" There was a disconcerting tremor in her voice, one she 
hoped the chatter amongst the audience would mask.

Chris did not notice. "The theatre's full now. So unless they're planning on
letting people sit on the floor…"

Before Louise could reply, the lights dimmed and extinguished, plunging 
them into darkness.

A low voice, speaking correct but slightly accented English, surrounded the
audience, projected from speakers all around the theatre. 

"Ladies and gentlemen." 
A tense pause. 
"Welcome to The Theatre of the Flesh."

The small footlights edging the stage flared into brilliance, picking out the 
wooden surface in a dazzling blaze. At the centre of the platform stood 
an exactly sculpted effigy of an erect human phallus, upholstered in matt 
black leather. Mounted on a low, square base, the phallus stretched out
towards the audience at an angle just short of vertical. Its tip towered
seven feet above the stage. By squinting, Louise could make out the heavy
stitching that bound it together.

Calypso drums began to beat across the theatre, in a deep, pulse-like
rhythm. Louise turned to speak to Chris, but he did not answer, already
rapt in the scene before him. To her right, the French couple seemed as
absorbed as Chris. Louise wondered what was to come.

The backdrop to the stage shimmered, and a glistening, shadowy figure
slipped through some hidden gap in the draped satin. With a strutting jerk
of belly and limbs, a tall, sultry girl, her raven hair laced into a
ponytail that reached to her buttocks, entered into the light. Her body,
completely naked, but for a gold chain wrapped once about her waist, and
shining with oil, contrasted starkly against the black phallus.

She began to circle the phallus, her body twisting and writhing to the beat
to the drums. As she moved, she caressed the outstretched member with her
hands and arms.  Very quickly, the matt leather began to shine with the oil
from her body.

To Louise's right came the tiniest moan, barely audible above the calypso
beat. Her eyes were drawn automatically, hypnotically by the sound.

The Frenchman's hand had disappeared beneath the hem of his wife's dress. 
The blonde's gaze was wide, almost vacant, immersed in the floorshow, 
but her body was alive to her husband's ministrations. She ground her hips
back to meet his hand, also in time with the drums. Small sighs and groans 
escaped her pursed lips. As Louise watched, the blonde's hand crept into her 
husband's lap, squeezing and stroking him through his trousers.

The girl on stage, her back to the audience, reached high over her head,
her hands caressing the tip of the monstrous phallus. She paused, seeming
to hang from its end. Then she swooned towards the organ, her hands
sweeping along its sides. She stroked the phallus up and down using the
insides of her arms, in a bizarre parody of masturbation. 

Suddenly spinning around, the girl high kicked one leg towards the front of
the stage, fleetingly exposing her sex to the breathless spectators. She
entwined one café crème-coloured thigh around the front of the phallus, and
began to raise and lower herself, sliding her sex against the slick
leather.

The drum beat began to rise towards crescendo. Louise looked down at
Chris' lap. The bulge in his groin was unmistakable. She felt a nearly
overwhelming urge to seize him in her hand, to feel him hardening against
her palm. 

Another faint, but unmistakable noise drew her attention back to the French
couple. The blonde finished unzipping her husband's fly, and Louise watched
her slender hand snake inside his trousers. The Frenchman groaned deeply,
and muttered something Louise did not understand. 

The girl on stage was riding the phallus in abandoned fashion, arms and
thighs wrapped about its thickness, her frenzied loins sweeping back and
forth across the leather. Her gasps of pleasure were becoming loud enough
for the audience to discern.

Louise felt surprised, disjointed, by the credibility of the performer's
abandon, and by the effect it was having on her. Her sex felt hot and
itchy, desperate to escape from behind its cloying prison. The soft cotton
of her panties chafed her swelling labia, making her want to rub herself
for relief. She could feel the moisture within her sex; the crotch of her
panties already felt damp with her juices.

The girl collapsed back onto the stage, dragging the phallus down with her.
Louise, together with many of the audience, gasped, in certain fear that
the girl would be crushed. But the phallus was light enough for the girl to
control. She snaked along its length, until she had the tip poised before the 
entrance of her sex. The girl entwined her thighs about the oversized head, 
and in a final ecstasy of undulating flesh, climaxed against the leather. Her 
scream of orgasm was as convincing as her performance.

The drums ceased abruptly, and the theatre plunged into darkness once 
more. For a moment, silence reigned; then, from somewhere behind Louise, 
someone began to clap. Quickly joined by a second person, then a third, the
auditorium was soon alive with applause.

Chris turned to her. Beads of sweat dotted his brow, and he wiped at them
carelessly with a handkerchief. "Something else," he said, shaking his
head. It was difficult to hear him above the crowd's excited clamour.

Louise nodded dumbly. The opening spectacle had been beyond everything she
had visualised outside. She could never have predicted how dramatically it
would affect her.





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