I am the one who chooses Katrin's outfit, despite her protests and Rebel Girllious spark in her eyes. It is a familiar part of our ritual, and I know that beneath her displeasure lies a flicker of curiosity. Her eyes, usually bold and confident, now betray a restrained interest, though she tries hard to conceal it.
She wears a simple beige dress that accentuates her graceful figure, yet remains modest and elegant. It isn't her usual style, which is precisely why I insist on it. I want to show her that her beauty is multifaceted, not confined to the image she is accustomed to. The only things I allow her to keep are her black pumps and a matching belt—a small rebellion, her way of saying, I'm still the same Katrin.
I forbid her from wearing makeup, permitting only red lipstick and a hint of pink eyeshadow. She resists for a long time, grumbling that she looks "too plain," but when she sees herself in the mirror, her protests fade. She stands there, tilting her head slightly, and I notice her gaze soften. Her silence speaks volumes.
Katrin looks enchanting. The look is perfect. It doesn't emphasize her usual sensuality, as she might prefer, but the softness suits her just as well. Her eyes, typically full of fire and defiance, now glow with something new—calmer, yet just as mysterious. I love both sides of her: the "dark" side—bold, confident, and a little dangerous—and the "light" side—gentle, vulnerable, and open. I don't want to let go of either. The dark and light rebel—in every form, she is magnificent.
As we approach the theater, I feel her hand gently squeeze mine, a small gesture that conveys more than words ever could. She is nervous—though she tries to hide it, as always—but I know that beneath her tough exterior lies something deeper.
We step through the grand doors of the theater, and Katrin can't help but notice the majesty and solemnity of the place. High ceilings, opulent chandeliers, and the floor made of polished marble create an atmosphere of something profoundly important and celebratory. The girl glances around, and I see her eyes widen in awe. The place seems to envelop her—she tries to maintain her composure, but her eyes sparkle with wonder. This is the moment I realize: she is intrigued, even if she won't admit it. This theater isn't just a venue for her; it is a glimpse into a new world we are sharing.
As for me, I have reverted to my old style, though I have bought a new suit that fits me perfectly. It is dark blue, with a subtle pinstripe, and it makes me look a little more mature and serious. I keep my hair styled the way my girl had done it for me before our first evening out at the club. Since then, I have grown accustomed to doing it myself, and I still do it now. It is my way of staying connected to that night, to the moment when everything had just begun.
When we take our seats and the darkness of the auditorium envelops us, I can feel her energy, her presence beside me, filling me with warmth. But her face doesn't show what I expect—her expression remains inscrutable, and a faint smirk speaks more of her inner defiance than of admiration. Katrin is undoubtedly experiencing every moment, even if she doesn't show it. We have read the program beforehand and know the plot and the characters' actions on stage, but that doesn't make the performance any less captivating. I feel her shoulder lightly brush against mine, and that small touch fills me with warmth.
Forty minutes later, the intermission arrives, and we step out onto the balcony. I drape my jacket over her shoulders, and the gesture feels special. My care for her is a simple act, but to me, it means so much more. I understand that everything I do for her isn't about changing her but about showing her how much she means to me in every form she takes. Her hands clutch the jacket, and she looks at me with a faint smile. Gratitude shines in her eyes, though she doesn't say a word. We stand side by side, and I feel our silence speak louder than any words. I know she feels it too. And perhaps, in that moment, we both realize that this evening, this experience, like all the moments we share, is becoming something more than just a fleeting event in our lives. It is a step toward something significant—not just for us, but for the journey we are continuing to walk together.
"Thank you," she says, smiling at me.
I still can't figure out how she truly feels about the evening. Is she genuinely pleased, or is she just trying not to disappoint me? Her emotions have always been a mystery to me, and that both fascinates and unnerves me.
"How did you like it?" I ask, trying to gauge her mood.
Rebel Girl has been watching the stage with an air of indifference, but every now and then, a spark of interest flickers in her eyes.
It seems to me that she is deliberately hiding her true feelings. Maybe she doesn't want to show that she is actually enjoying herself?
"I thought it would be worse," she remarks after a pause. There is a hint of surprise in her voice. "But I think I know how to make it more interesting."
Her sly smile makes me wary. What is Katrin planning? What is she about to do? Her smile, so carefree yet cunning, makes me nervous.
"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling my anxiety rise.
My girlfriend only smirks mysteriously.
"You'll find out later."
Her smile widens, and that familiar glint appears in her eyes—the one I know so well. That glint always means she is up to something. It is her way of adding a little chaos to even the calmest evening. Her tone is too confident for me to simply brush it off. I know her well enough—if she has something in mind, it definitely won't be boring. What if she decides to make a scene? Or maybe she has something even more unexpected planned?
"Don't you dare ruin the performance," I warn her, but Katrin only smiles meaningfully.
"You'll never forget it," she promises with confidence.
I know her too well to dismiss her words. Rebel Girl is always capable of the unexpected, and now I can feel that she is plotting something. But what exactly?
I am about to respond to her outrageous statement when the bell rings, signaling the end of the intermission and calling the audience back to the hall. I look at Katrin, but her face is unreadable. She simply smiles that sly smile of hers and heads toward the door leading back to the hall. Her steps are light and confident, as if she already knows what is going to happen next. I sigh, realizing I have no choice—all I can do is wait.
We return to our seats. I try to focus on the play, but my attention is entirely on her. She sits beside me, calm, but her fingers tap faintly on the fabric of her dress. It betrays her inner excitement.
The performance resumes, but I can no longer concentrate on what is happening on stage. My thoughts are completely occupied by her. What is she planning? What is she going to do? I glance at her, but she is watching the stage with the same impassive expression, as if nothing has happened. Yet I know this is only the beginning. And I am ready for anything that might come. After all, with her, it is never boring.
Katrin always knows how to surprise me, and perhaps that is what makes her so special to me. She is like a storm—unpredictable, powerful, yet incredibly beautiful. Whatever she has in mind, this evening will indeed be unforgettable.
My rebel. She is always unpredictable, and tonight is no exception.
Suddenly, I feel the light touch of her hand on my leg. At first, it is gentle, almost accidental, but then her fingers begin to slowly glide across my skin. My heart races, and a thought flashes through my mind: Is she really planning to tease me right here? I know her nature—she loves these games, but at the same time, I fear her antics might escalate into something more. The last thing I want is for her to cause a scene in the theater and interrupt the performance. That is what I fear most when she hints that she has something in mind. But I'm not entirely opposed to her mischief. Deep down, I even enjoy how Katrin can ignite a fire within me.
Her hand grows bolder. It slowly moves higher, and every touch stirs a whirlwind of emotions in me—from mild excitement to growing desire. I do my best to maintain my composure, staring straight ahead, but inside, I am barely holding back the tension. When her fingers reach a dangerous point, I quietly inhale. This is too much.
I certainly enjoy her flirtation, but she clearly doesn't realize how close to the edge I have been lately. Our living together, her constant hints and games have brought me to a state where even my erotic dreams have become obsessive. Katrin is the star of those dreams, and if she doesn't stop now, this evening might end very differently than she has planned.
I place my hand over hers, gently but firmly stopping her movements. Leaning closer to her ear, I whisper:
"You're playing with fire. I want you, and you know it. But if you don't stop, I'll take you in the theater restroom without any tenderness, instead of making love to you at home when you're ready to give yourself to me. Is that what you want?"
My words come out sharp, even harsh, but I can't help it. I am on edge, and her game is squeezing the last drops of self-control out of me. Rebel Girl silently removes her hand and sits in her seat for the rest of the performance without uttering a word. She doesn't even turn her head in my direction, as if trying to avoid my gaze.
Yes, I have been harsh, but I couldn't have acted differently. I truly am ready for anything—my dreams have been growing more vivid, and the erections I try to shake off in the shower are taking longer and longer to subside. I am wound up like a spring, yet I also understand that I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to take her by force, even if my body is screaming otherwise. Of course, I know she is just trying to have fun, as she often does. Rebel Girl is always like this—bold, daring, playful. A week ago, I might have reacted more calmly, but now I am like a loaded cannon, ready to fire at any moment. Her actions are stoking a fire in me that I can barely contain. And though I know she means no harm, I also understand that if she doesn't stop, I might lose control.
For the rest of the evening, I feel the tension between us. She sits in silence, and I try to focus on the stage, but my thoughts keep returning to her. I catch myself staring at her profile, her lips, her hands—the same hands that have just stirred a storm of emotions in me. When the performance ends, we leave the hall, and a heavy silence hangs between us. I want to say something, to apologize, to explain, but the words stick in my throat. She walks beside me, yet she feels so distant, as if an invisible wall has risen between us. I know that tonight has left a mark on our relationship, and I will have to deal with it. But at the same time, I know I can't afford to lose her. Rebel Girl isn't just a girl to me—she is something more, and I don't want to let her go.