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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Private Box © 2009 Barrie Abalard
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Private Box
By Barrie Abalard
Chapter 1
Elizabeth Lawrence vowed that, even if she couldn’t have the career she longed for, she would at least have the sex life she wanted, and the family name be damned.
The family name—she’d always thought of it in letters fifty feet high, its font something understated yet classic, like Garamond or Goudy Old Style. The family name, the thing she’d sold her soul—or at least, her calling—to tend.
Well, no more.
She looked down from her private box at Boston’s Symphony Hall to the audience below. Money traveled in small, select circles, so she recognized a number of people in the orchestra seats. Some of them were clients of her family’s investment firm, the firm that had yanked her out of the world of art, and dumped her into the world of numbers and formulas and currencies.
Choosing a man she’d never seen before, she studied him. Perhaps he was new in town, or using a regular’s ticket. His thick brown hair, streaked with grey, was expensively-styled, and his shoulders seemed to span the width of the aisles. Best of all, she saw no female companion.
She had to have him.
She was alone in the box, as she always was. The rest of her family found classical music boring. She attended the Symphony because she loved music, but she pretended she took it upon herself as her duty to represent the Lawrences there. When the Symphony had named the entire mezzanine level after your ancestors, someone had better damned well show up for the occasional concert.
No one in the family knew that her rebellion, her personal sexual revolution, had begun in the box. With no one above her and only the top third of her body visible to those below, she had found it easy to finger herself at her leisure. She’d used dildos and quiet vibrators to good effect, managing to time her orgasms to coincide with the orchestra’s wildest efforts. But tonight, the idea of solitary sex bored her. She needed to take her sex life to the next level.
The symphony would end their performance with Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony,” whose fourth movement would begin with a soaring climax. It was sex in a series of notes, and she wanted to have sex during that series of notes. She wanted to match her orgasm with the symphonic one while fucking a stranger. So, when she spotted the thick broad-shouldered man, she decided she would enact her most secret fantasy, one of perfect, heart-stopping public sex.
As she watched the man, he gazed at the various private boxes above him, almost as if he were studying them. Once he saw her, their glances caught, and they held eye contact for a long moment.
She smiled. He smiled.
When the conductor strode on stage, she broke the contact. She could barely contain her impatience during the first half of the night’s performance, and touched herself to calm down.
Ten minutes before intermission, Elizabeth positioned herself by the wine bar. The fact that the man might have been gay, or simply not interested, never entered her mind. Instead, she focused on the fifteen minutes or so she would have to convince him to join her in her box for pulse-pounding sex.
Her assumptions were correct—the man drank wine, and liked sex with women. She approached him after he received his glass of red, not sure what she would say. She thought it a good sign that he checked out her cleavage. She smiled with teeth, and he returned the favor.
“And what’s your name?” he asked.
“Aphrodite,” she said. “And yours?”
“Dick.” He reached out to slip his finger under her dress’s only strap, his digit slipping to the swell of her breast. “I’m an ER doctor. Lovely dress, very artsy, brings out the silver in your eyes. What do you do?”
She allowed herself a moment of personal pride. Her asymmetrical, shimmering-gray dress highlighted her figure, yet she wore it because it was, as he said, artsy. Stepping close enough to brush her body against his, she said, “Investment banker. Care to join me in my private box?”
His hard length pressed against her belly. When the lights flickered, signaling that the audience should return to their seats, he said, “I’d be delighted.”
Once they were alone in the stairwell that provided entrance to the boxes, one of his hands clasped her bottom as she climbed the stairs. He pinched—hard—and the twinge jittered her heart.
He looks like an older version of—
She coughed to cover her nerves. Tonight, she would act out a favorite fantasy and flip off the family name simultaneously. She would not allow any other reasons—or any emotion whatsoever—to cloud her mind.
When they reached her box, she locked the door behind them before they sat. Leaning toward him, she murmured, “Here’s how it’s going to happen. We’ll sit and watch the orchestra perform Beethoven’s Fifth. You are free to touch me below the waist, as I am with you. No one will be able to see anything as long as touching is limited to our lower halves. Remove my clothing, if you can do so without attracting attention.