Carmen

By William D’Arc 2022

An evening with Sandra, my sub-in-training at the time, at the San Francisco opera

---

Sandra had two very good seats for the opera Carmen, lower section just right of center, at the well-appointed San Francisco Opera House.

Though I am not usually an opera fan, I agreed to accompany her on the condition that lifestyle training would continue even in that formal, fancy setting. Over the years I have learned that a test of real willingness — especially in someone new to power exchange — is to bring the lifestyle to vanilla world with the same dedication normally reserved for in-private adventures. There are many high-energy ways to discover whether someone truly wants to commit to this way of life. Not just occasionally, but 24/7. I wanted to give Sandra that opportunity. I wanted to see how she would do.

You may already know how I feel about sharing my property, my submissive. There is a quiet pride that arises when a beautiful sensual woman attends her Sir and is, by her manner and dress, clearly present for others to enjoy too. It was my plan to advance her training in exactly this way.

Sandra and I were coming from different parts of town so agreed to meet at the downtown plaza. As I walked up the theater steps I saw her there waiting for me. She was wearing the classic ‘little black dress’, a slip dress really, mid-thigh length, low in front showing a nice landscape of bare skin supported by thin straps. She was holding a silver colored sequined bag and looked nervous as I approached.

Standing alone between marble columns at the top of the marble steps, the dress clung to her figure like a second silky skin. There was nothing underneath it — that much was immediately obvious. Exactly my preference, as she knew after several weeks of sweet, nose-to-nose training. Let there be nothing but single thin layers between a woman’s bare skin and the rest of the world. Let her be naked-in-black on this formal occasion. I expressed my satisfaction by kissing her hello, running my hands along her spine and backside. No bra, no panties, no thong. Perfect. She smiled at me. We walked into the building arm in arm and found our seats.

The first two acts seemed to go by quickly. I found myself caught up in the story, the performances, the rowdy music. But when intermission came I was happy to get up and stretch. Sandra and I walked out from the auditorium to the lobby together. I left her standing beside one of the interior columns and went hunting for champagne. I thought it would be interesting to put her on display, alone, glowing-beautiful, for the few minutes I would be away. Just to see what might happen.

When I returned, two glasses in hand, Sandra was talking with three men who had gathered around, all wearing tuxedos, standing tall and looking sharp. Sandra was smiling and chatty, easily engaged with all three at once. I excused myself for interrupting, said hello to the group and handed her a glass. She gave me another twinkly smile in return. She was having fun.

The men stood back at my arrival, whereas before they had been as close as possible to Sandra no doubt enjoying the little black dress and trying to connect with her on several levels. I encouraged them to continue the conversation. It was my pleasure to sip champagne and tickle Sandra’s shoulder blade with the tips of my left hand fingers. For me she was the perfect center of attention. I had no obligation to entertain any of those men and could just relax, smile and nod. And watch Sandra shine.

The highlight of those few minutes together occurred when she laughed at something one of the men had said, juggling the sequined purse and a half-full glass, causing one of the tiny straps to slip from her left shoulder. An areola came into partial view for a moment or two. Silk fabric caught on the tip of the nipple and simply… hung there… emphasizing her beauty in a delightful way, teasing us with all manner of possibilities. She grinned sheepishly, immediately fixed the strap then stood straight as a board. I smiled back and with my Free hand slipped the strap off the shoulder again, the three men watching, so we could linger there with the play of exposed skin against the black fabric in that bright corridor light. This time, without a word or a glance, Sandra let the strap simply lie in the crook of her arm. Half a breast was exposed but she didn’t protest. There were no complaints from her suitors. Certainly none from me. Perhaps these men were wondering at the kind of relationship we enjoyed. My hand thanked her for accepting the strap-play by stroking the bare shoulder skin and running fingernails up and down her bare back. One could feel the electricity in the air. I watched goose bumps rise on her arm. The barely covered nipples tighten hard while tiny papillae made an appearance on the surface of the exposed areola.

Marvelous.

A few minutes more and the ceiling lights flicked on and off announcing the start of the final act. I adjusted Sandra’s dress. We finished our champagne and said our goodbyes. Two of the men handed me business cards. One of them seemed to understand the opportunity he might have to help ‘develop her’ in his own way sometime in the future. Send the man an email, I thought, pocketing his card.

Sandra and I returned to our seats. She sat to my right and as the lights dimmed low as I pushed the hem of the little black dress all the way up her thigh with my closest hand. I ran a finger across the exposed valley between her thigh and pubis. She gasped and reflexively parted her knees. Bare labia came into view just as darkness swept the room. I whispered that she was soo beautiful, that she had teased those men soo nicely, that I was soo happy to have her as my companion. I meant every word. Then, in that second or two of total darkness before the stage lights lit, while eyes were adjusting, I stretched my right arm across the back of her chair, pulled her towards me, and slipped my hand inside the front of the little black dress. She gasped again. Was it the surprise of a palm against her breast or was my hand cold? No matter. But to warm the space I gently palmed the breast, positioning its nipple between the knuckles of my first two fingers. As the stage lights rose and music came up, people focused their attention on the stage, on the raucous players. I began to oh-so-slowly roll the nipple between my knuckles, pinching and pulling the nub, feeling it swell in my hand, gently massaging the full breast with my palm, constantly pressuring the nipple between the fingers of my right hand…

Glancing around our seats, the couple sitting next to her was locked on the stage. People behind us had their attention there too. No one seemed interested in my tuxedoed arm holding Sandra close, or my hand disappeared down the front of her dress. This has been my most frequent experience with public play — ‘the public’ is typically oblivious as to what might be going on just inches away.

And so, a minute or two later, Sandra began to cum. Right there, in her seat, at the San Francisco opera.

It was all involuntary. The Orgasm was lit as much by the risky, risqué situation I had placed her in as by my constant nipple play. She gave a series of small, quick jerking motions between short, snorting breaths. Her exposed thighs pressed together hard. She gently rocked her hips in the padded opera seat. Another, stronger Orgasm followed. Her knees parted and I watched her hands grasp the padded arms of our seats. Followed by a kind of quiet shock wave that rolled up her torso from thighs to hips to shoulders.

What a good-good girl.

Thru closed eyes Sandra gave another gasp and sort of ‘imploded’ again, holding the Orgasm close and tight across her body.

Impressive discipline, I thought. Delightful.

Time for phase two of our own little opera play.

I continued with the nipple by alternating the pressure and pulling outwards, stretching the nubby skin and holding her tight like that until… yes, she came a fourth time, so hard that her entire body shook in the semi-darkness of the opera’s third and final act.

Four orgasms. Held so close and tight that no one nearby seemed to be aware.

She grasped the hem of the dress and crushed the material into fists. The hem lifted higher. She came again, a convulsion that this time pushed her hips outward and up offering a momentary view of bare inner thighs and vulva fully revealed at the edge of theater shadows.

Her breathing was fast, body trembling now. Her head dropped onto my shoulder. I slowly released my hold on her, gradually slipped my hand up and onto the back of the seat. Giving her a minute or two to consider what had just happened, I reached across with my left arm and slipped the left strap of her dress down her shoulder. The slippery material tumbled away as it had in the lobby, this time fully revealing the breast closest to me in the flickering stage lit shadows of that great hall. Apart from an occasional downward glance I paid no attention to her exposure. I just let it be. Her bared breast surrounded by thousands of strangers in one of San Francisco’s premier venues.

Sandra didn’t move. Her breathing continued to be short and shallow. This went on till the finale, to rousing applause, while the theater lights came up full and I returned the spaghetti strap to its shoulder.

Had anyone seen my hand inside her dress? Had anyone noticed the series of fantastic orgasms given up in public? Did anyone else enjoy all that bare skin set Free for nearly the entire third act? I never knew. There were no looks cast our way, no words spoken. No one approached us afterwards.

But, really, it didn’t matter if anyone had seen. It only mattered that Sandra had served her Sir well, first by teasing the tuxedoed men in the lobby, then surrendering to my attentions in the theater, Cumming in the semi-darkness as I hoped she would, sitting exposed to the players on stage. It was the opera, after all. It was the theater. A place for lively entertainment of the highest order. Surely this woman’s beauty and her ‘forced’ pleasure fit the standard. Surely this was all just an important part of proper power exchange training. She was safe, serene, owned and adored. Slippery too, I was sure.

As we walked to my car her thoughts may have wandered to the two business cards inside my tuxedo pocket. Did she ask herself, what’s next?

We drove to our weekend retreat — a room at the Mark Hopkins hotel — where I slowly undressed her in front of the uncovered fourth floor window overlooking California Street.

Before making a few phone calls.