Tropical Interlude

You present yourself to me for our night out. You look divine in your short black and white cocktail dress, skirt flared, flirtatious neckline with most pleasing sightlines to your cleavage, and a hint of rosy nipple if you are not careful. High heeled white pumps, white stocking ending where?, your hair as gorgeous as always, your perfume intoxicating. Pearls embrace the soft skin of your neck, matching earrings that dangle a bit, just to tease.

I spin you around pirouette style, enjoying the skirt's reaction to the centrifugal force, as well as your hair, but most of all your delight in showing yourself off this way. You are a real head-turner tonight, my luv.

And to prove it, the attention to the lady on my arm as we enter the patio dining room is readily apparent. Both men and women pause to gaze. And it ain't me they're looking at. Wide eyed gentlemen, smiling ladies, tacitly acknowledge that aura of beauty and sensuality that you exude for all to admire.

We sit at our reserved table. To your right, my left, the view is fabulous. The second tier of the timing area is below us, allowing us a pleasant view of the diners as they enjoy their libations and late supper offerings. Beyond this patio, stretches the beach, bedecked with tall swaying palms, rustling with the evening breezes wafting in from the Caribbean blue sea. The gentle rush of the surf keeps a stead soft rhythm to our dining conversation. We are sitting in paradise.

Our waiter, a young black man with an incredible smile and very correct manners, suggests a cocktail from the array of local favourites. I go for my craving for the local rendition of a mai tai, while you succumb to his luscious description of a yellow bird whistle. Our drinks are produces forthwith. We enjoy them while chatting idly about today's events, tomorrows planned adventures, the idyllic atmosphere,

We order our meal from an eclectic menu of tropical fare. The scallops seem just right as your choice, while I select some hardier fare . . . the chef's swordfish specialty. Both entrees served with orange/pineapple flavoured tossed salad, delectable mini-croissants, asparagus spears.

On occasion, our hands touch as we chat about whatever. The energy between us as our fingers grace each others skin is electric. I enjoy watching you sample your delicacies, the tidbits sliding unto your sweet mouth, your tongue capturing all of the succulent tastes from your honey lips. From time to time you notice my admiration and prolong the effect. The excitement of being with you builds.

The wine with our meal is a dry pinot noir, subtle and fresh, with a hint of grapefruit and rose petal in its finish and bouquet. A second sampling is de rigueur.

Our enjoyment of fine food and wine has allowed us to gradually morph into a mellow but engaged mood, very much in tune with each other, relishing the opportunity to flirt across the table in sometimes innocent, sometimes suggestive ways. The connection of sensual energy is most positive, the anticipation of what the night will hold palpable.

Dessert is offered and accepted . . . they feature table-side flaming creations of cherries jubilee or crepes suzettes . . . it seems somehow appropriate to indulge in the former, which we do. Our waiter is well trained in the arts of flambe cooking, and before long we are enjoying the fruits (pun intended) of his labour. The succulent cherries seem oh-so-right as we savour the view of each other biting down on each purple orb, squirting the sweet brandy-laced juice into our mouths.

Our view has been enhanced during the course of the evening by a spectacular panorama of colour-changing sky. As the sun sets over the expanse of ocean, both sea and firmament take on a variety of hues of pastel pinks, oranges and golds. The setting sun, a fiery ball before disappearing into the deep, leaves an afterglow of fading pastels on the horizon. The evening dusk is welcomed by a gradual display of tiny lights, both within our dining area, and along the coast line, up and down the beach as far as the eye can see. The warm evening zephyrs compliment the mood we are in . . . content with life for the moment, enraptured with each other's company, and with a growing need for release of the sexual energy now pervasive across the table. The look of love, and lust, in our eyes, is hardly deniable.

Our table is cleared, coffee and liqueurs are offered and enjoyed. We move our chairs around so that we are now side-by-side, facing the evening sky as the last remnants of day slide down the horizon. Our hands entwine, feeling the heat. We cannot be still, fingers stroking, caressing forearm smooth skin, enjoying the light touch tips exploring. Hands move to caress in secret areas, your palms moving along my thighs, feeling the reaction to your exploration as you massage along the front of my slacks. I, in turn, cannot resist sliding my hand up under your skirt, finding with delight the contrast between silk stocking and bare thigh, and delighting even more at the dampness of your thighs, the heat of your sex encased in the shear covering of your panties . . . which are outrageously soaking in your juices of desire, in spite of yourself. I chuckle and whisper in your ear that I think you have been having a good time so far.

We notice a small group of musicians gathering in an alcove of the terrrace below, setting up for a night of background entertainment for diners and dancers. A group of young black men, with a lady black singer, steps up on a platform of two risers to be more visible . . . two percussionists, piano, base, saxaphone, plust the vocalist. The men are dressed in a variety of colourful "Mandela" shirts, the lady is a soft white summer dress, semi-shear, gathered just under her bust to accentuate her fabulous figure. Her hair is braided/beaded a la African women, her voice soft and sultry, her eyes smoking and sensual.

Shall we dance?

The band starts into its repertoire of rhythm and blues, samba and salsa, a variety of song styles and themes. We watch at first, as one, then several couples cave to the need to move to the pulse of the bongos and base. Our resistance, if we ever had any, is gone as well, and the intoxicating music soon has us on the floor below, strutting our stuff. We are captured by each song, in endless ways, jive or tango or rhumba or quick step . . . we are up to the task, surprising each other at how natural we seem together, how we flow to the different rhythms, and know just what to do. We dance, we improvise, we spin, we cruise across the floor.

The night grows darker and deeper, but our energy on the floor is not abated, and the southern breezes lighten and refresh as we continue to be captured by the need to move our bodies under the band's magic spell.

The population of couples starts to thin, until, at last, we are the only pair remaining. And yet, we have almost been oblivious to others from the very start, wallowing in only the sensations from the music, and the look and feel of each other as we dip and swing and whirl and grind.

Now alone, we barely perceive the gradual slower pace of the selections. Each new tune, softly voiced by her magnificent phrasing of each melody, combines the song and the rhythm to render us into an almost trance-like state. Now, I we hold each other, the senses seem to be magnified . . . the touch of your skin, the heat of your body next to mind, the aroma of your warm flesh, the sound of your voice in my ear, the sensations on the back of my neck as your hands play there . . . this is heaven, but heaven not yet realized to its fullest extent.

The band is now playing just for us. Each song now offers us opportunities to connect even more closely. We dance tightly together, moving as one, your breasts pressing into my chest, your sex feeling the swelling in my slacks, my hands sliding down to the tops of your cheeks and marvelling at the motion of your muscles as you glide with me. Our eyes meet, our lips touch, just briefly, my mouth moves to your ear, the nape of your neck, back to your face, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips. Gentle caresses of love and rapture. I am enjoying the rising of your breasts as your breathing grows heavy. I am enjoying the reaction of your hips as I press my swollen shaft against your sex. I am enjoying the moans that are now audible from your ruby lips as I move against you, as my hands caress your shoulders, back, and down to your beautiful ass, pulling you in to me even closer.

I need more of you. Need to feel more of your flesh. Need to feel you move against me in urgency. Need to meet your growing passion with a deserving response.

We dance one more song this way, our hands circling and pressing, sliding and probing . . . our lips teasing, our eyes reflect the raw power of the lust that is now overtaking us.

I take control, and turn your body around, so that you are now facing away from me. I draw you close, feel your cheeks grind into my loins. My hands enjoy the swaying of your hips, before moving up to your breasts, pressing them upward with my palms, cradling them, massaging them, aware of the pointed extensions erect against the material of your bodice.

Our mini-orchestra is enjoying the spectacle of two lovers totally into their music, and each other. Nods of approval, smiles of understanding, like a green light to play out a fantasy with their musical accompaniment. My hands move to your neckline, and slowly slide inside to fondle the bareness of your full breasts, glistening with sweat. Your moan of approval as I slide the top of your dress open, exposing you the the night air and the onlooking band, is audible. Now massaging your breasts openly as our accompaniment looks on, I circle each nipple, enjoying the spasm each touch creates, appreciating the motion of abandonment to the pleasure that you convey by rolling your head back. I kiss your neck, whisper in your ear, tell you how much I love what you do to me, and how I intend to show you my appreciation in carnal terms. Your arousal at being made love to and exposed right there on the dance floor is incredibly exciting. We both know how much your juices are flowing imagining the sight that we have created for all to see.

We now are dancing in an almost trance-like state. My hands move across your breasts, teasing your engorged tips, brushing them gently, the loving them more intensely, enjoying the reaction that my handiwork brings. As I hold you this way, I feel your buttocks pushing back against me, your hips moving back and forth, your cheeks trying to capture between them the now fully erect cock straining against the fabric of my pants. We move this way, oblivious to everything except our own bodies, our motions to the rhythm, and the music which compels us to continue our blissful journey. The band, aware of our musical love-making motions, encourages us with smiles, nods of approval, and a continuation of the pulsing beats that drive us on. They are, no doubt, enjoying the occasional glimpse of your milky tits, now fully visible when my hands are not protecting them from view.

Our urgency increases. The warm and intoxicating persperation from your body makes your skin gloriously slick to the touch. I slide one hand down your arm, down to your waste, then down under the hem of your dress. To my delight, your ass checks are lewdly bare, allowing me to enjoy the bare texture of your hot flesh. Your thong, soaking wet and tight up into your cheeks, provides you with little protection from my probing fingers. Slippery from your thighs drenched in sweat and pre-cum, first one and then two digits slide easily into the prize that I am after, your heavenly and incredibly swoolen cunt, gaping open as if demanding erotic violation. Your pussy lips seem to greedily suck my fingers up into you. Indeed, your hips move in a new motion of arousal, sweeping down and up in an attempt to full capture the extend of my fingers probing you, fucking you, violating you, right there on the floor. As I pump you, my thumb moves to molest your little button, outrageously prominent and distended from its little hood. You shudder as finger you there, and have no choice but to give in to the feelings of lust sweeping over you. You cum for me, right there, on the dance floor, soaking my fingers with your issue as you spasm with joy and lust. Your thighs press hard against my hand as your full orgasm envelopes you. Your moan is joyfully apprecaited by your musical audience. And yet, your continue to sway, never losing the pulse of bongo drums softly applauding your display.

But now my own needs are running out of control. As you continue to move to the music, you feel the bare flesh of my shaft replacing my fingers. I slide my cock up between your puffy lips, bending slightly to gain access to your honeypot, slick with your ejaculate. My hands move to your hips, leaving your delightful breasts fully exposed, as I pull you back against my throbbing prick. I proceed to fuck you, right there on the dance floor, pumping my flesh into your, feeling the heat of your pussy greeting me as you move to be completely impaled. I can't hold back. I desperately need to fuck you, to cum inside you. You envelope me with your sex as my heavy balls release their milk, exploding into spurt after spurt of sticky spunk deep up into your cunt, drowning you, filling you, completing you. You lean hard against me as I tremble and ejaculate my flow, claiming your sex for my own pleasure. My moans give testament to the pent up lust being released inside you.

I slide out of your warm nest, allowing our spunk to mingle and ooze down onto your thighs, dripping down to the floor, a gathering pool of lust, covering my cock and balls as well as your wet pussy. I turn you to face me, kissing your lips softly yet fully, in gratitude at how amazing you are, how sensual you are in expressing your need so completely and openly. The music comes to an end as the band applauds our particular style of dancing. It is time to depart to our bungalow, where my tongue will be active in making sure that your body is completely washed and refreshed before we drift off into deep and contented sleep.