Thank you all for your votes and comments - very much appreciated.
It is the interval at the Jazz Club and Yaz has asked me to do her a service.
How can I refuse?
Enjoy!
****
Bemused, fascinated, yet compliant, naturally.
How could I refuse my personal whore?
But where?
Obvious places occupied, the interval, twenty minutes.
Gazing around, seeking inspiration, desperate.
The black and white livery, attending tables.
Raising a hand, coming over.
"This lady, needing some fresh air."
-- -- -- --
Following slender server.
The vocalist, erotic contrast.
In every way.
Arousal flooding stocking-tops, inner-thighs, no panties.
Black dress chafing, nipples unfettered.
Entering corridor, light at the end, fire-door.
Server opening, cool night air, exiting.
A side alley, shadows from the building, dark.
Advising, must be closed, afterwards.
A wink of a lovely eye, she knows, retiring.
So aroused, could have stayed, watched.
Pushing you to the wall, turning, stepping back.
Hands on dress, lifting up and apart, gasping.
"Take your personal whore!"
-- -- -- --
Unbuckling, unzipping, pushing down, hard as iron.
Hoisting, legs around waist, arms around neck.
Hands cupping, positioning, entering.
Sensation, beyond words.
Lifting, lowering, repeating, thrusting.
Your head, shaking, eyes crushed closed, grinding, groaning.
Sweat beads on temples, aching arms.
Hearing moans, thrusting harder, desperate.
Nearly there, trying to contain, not yet, not yet ...
Mutual gasping.
"Yes! ... Yes! ... YES! ...YESSSSSSSSSS!!"
-- -- -- --
Seeping, cum-covered inner thighs, stocking-tops.
Queuing, freshening-up.
Wardrobe rectification.
Shuddering.
The vocalist, curvaceous, dominant, the fantasy.
Washing hands, reflections, musing.
"Who is she, can I be her pet?"
-- -- -- --
Resettling in chair, inhaling deeply, exhaling.
A smile of thanks, the black and white livery, returning.
More Moët, why not?
You're worth it, every penny.
Band re-assembling, Steinway announcing its presence.
Glancing around, anxious, where are you?
At last, still a million dollars, resuming seat.
Hand on my thigh, a squeeze, head turning, mouthing.
"Thank you."
-- -- -- --
Trying to relax, the music, sensing mood, changing.
Smoother, more sensuous, dreamy.
Post-climactic.
Time passing, pure enjoyment, satisfying.
Recognising: 'My Favourite Things', Coltrane.
Head on your shoulder, hand on your thigh, content.
For now.
-- -- -- --
Sipping, looking around.
Mellowing crowd, getting late.
Applause ringing out, upstanding, calling for more.
Spotlight returning, cheering, heels crossing the floor.
Braids moving with her hips, nice.
Her disciples, utterly in her power, resistance impossible.
The big tall guy, head back, arms aloft, prayers answered.
Settling once more, a glance, her accompaniment, a nod.
The intro, turning head to you, whispering.
"'Stairway to the Stars', Ella, back in '39"
-- -- -- --
Encores, devotees calling out suggestions.
Eyes on her, unblinking, focused.
Her skin, her braids, her eyes, her curves.
So alluring, so irresistible.
Moving, gazing around, pitch perfect.
The big tall guy, blue eyes closed, lost in heaven.
The Steinway, knowing it is time, fading away.
Room rising as one, a smile, a bow.
Acclaim, seemingly endless, adoration.
Departing stage, disciples offering hands, touching fingers.
Approaching.
Extending hand, eyes locking, her fingertips, a caress.
