Just One Last Dance

Just One Last Dance

Every Affair has an Ending

© 2021 Chloe Tzang. All rights reserved. The author asserts her right to be identified as the author of this story. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review. If you see this story on any website other than Literotica, it's been ripped off without the author's permission.

And here's that little note from Chloe:

"Just One Last Dance" was written for Randi's March 2021 "The End of the Affair" writing event, the theme of which is of course taken from the title of Graham Greene's 1951 novel, "The End of the Affair."

What happens when an affair ends? How does it end? The Affair has been the basis for a number of famous novels. Greene's "The End of the Affair," of course, but also Flaubert's "Madame Bovary," Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina," James M Cain's "The Postman Always Rings Twice," Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," Philip Roth's "Deception," D H Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover," and many more. Those of course, are some of the classics of the genre, while at the other extreme, we on Literotica have our very own "Loving Wives" category, where the infidelity of wives is on the one hand extolled, and on the other hand, trolled. In between, of course, there are many more such stories, ranging from your anguished chick-lit, women's romance "second chance" novels (bleeech), to utter trash, to classics of the porno-novel genre like Orrie Hitt's "Unfaithful Wives."

Those are "affairs." But how does an affair end? In many of these novels, the end of the affair is a dramatic climax. Death. Destruction. Reconciliation! Take your pick. In others, it's an anti-climax, and there's so many ways an affair can attend. Fading away, tragedy, heartbreak, unrequited love, reconciliation (and then what happens to the one left out?), burn-the-bitch. Stories like this are as old as we are, and we can go back in time 3,200 years, to "The Illiad," and Helen's infidelity to her husband, Menelaus, with Paris, son of King Priam of Troy. The resulting war is perhaps the ultimate "Burn the Bitch," End-of-the-Affair, story, although of course, in the end, Menelaus turned out to be just another cuck, who took Helen back.

And now, here's my humble contribution to the genre, and to "The End of the Affair" story event. It's not a Loving Wives story, and although there is a Wife, she's a bit player in this story. Anyhow, hope you enjoy all the other stories in the event that this is part of, as well as my own little contribution...

Chloe

* * * * * *

Just One Last Dance

We meet in the night in the Spanish café

I look in your eyes just don't know what to say

It feels like I'm drowning in salty water

A few hours left 'til the sun's gonna rise

tomorrow will come an it's time to realize

our love has finished forever

Just One Last Dance, version sung by Yao Si Ting (Diana Yao>

* * * * * *

Does a story have a beginning and no end?

I used to think our story did. I used to think our story had a beginning, on that wet winter's night when we first met. The first meeting, that first time we made love, that first night I slept in your arms, sure that I'd found love, with you. For me, that was the beginning of our story. The story of you and me, and I used to think our story would never end. That you loved me. That I loved you. That we'd be together, always. I used to think all of that, and that our story would never end.

Now?

I know I was wrong.

Now I know your story had a different beginning to my story. Your beginning, and my beginning, they're completely different stories. Different plots. Different characters, even. I know how I saw you, and I know myself, but how do you see yourself? How do you see me? I thought I knew. Those weren't even questions in my mind, because I was so sure, so certain, but now I know the reality is so different from those certainties that weren't certain at all.

Everything I knew about you, everything I was certain about, it was a façade, an act, and I don't know what to think anymore. But there is one certainty in my life. I know the story that I thought would never end is ending. That our story wasn't a story at all, but only a chapter in each of our stories. That this chapter where we're both characters is coming to an end. That we're on the last page of that chapter. Our stories will continue, but they'll continue in different books.

Perhaps they were always different books.

I know now that they were always different stories.

I can't bear that thought, that knowledge, and I hate her. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, but I love you. I love you, I love you. I should hate you, but I don't, and I can't bring myself to walk away from us, from you and I, but I must. I know I must, because when this started, I didn't know about her.

It was just you and me.

You lied to me, and I believed you.

I thought there was you and me. Only you and me. I didn't know about her, or I would never have let this happen. You didn't tell me. You lied to me, from the very start, from that very first day, from our very beginning, and I know that now. Only now. I only found out about her last week. You don't know I've found out about her. Not yet. You don't know that we've talked today, she and I.

Your wife.

She didn't believe me to start with. She was in denial, just like I was. She didn't want to believe, just like I didn't want to believe. Now, like me, she knows. She believes. We talked, and I know she's pregnant. The baby's due in another two months. Your baby. Yours and hers, and you're leaving. Moving. Not just houses.

You're going to a new job, in another city. In another country.

I already knew that, before I talked to your wife. I read the letter you'd written out for me. I read it on your google drive, and I know it's for me. It has my name on it. It's so formal, as if I'm an employee you're terminating. As if I'm someone you barely know. I took a copy. I printed it out. I showed her, and she cried. She cried with me, she told me she was so sorry. She told me she loved you, and my heart was broken, for her, as well as for me.

I'm only nineteen, and you're my first love. My only love. The only man I've ever loved.

I'm in my first year at University. I've seen friends who've been dumped by their boyfriends. Boyfriends that they loved. They cried, just like I've cried. Their hearts were broken, just like my heart is broken, but their hearts recovered. They found a new boyfriend, they found new love, and now they're happy again, and they don't know why they were so sad, so heartbroken.

"He was nothing special," they say, smiling.

I hope I'll be able to say that in six months' time. I hope I'll be able to smile like that, in six months' time. That's in six months though. Not now. Now? I cry, and she cries with me, and she's not me. She's twenty eight. She's been married to you for five years. She's having your baby, and I tell her I didn't know. I didn't know you were married. I didn't know about her at all, and if I'd known, I'd never have let what happened, happen. She believes me. She asks me what I'm going to do, and I can see the pain and the fear written across her face.

Fear, that I'll take you from her.

Pain, because she loves you.

She loves you, like I do.

I told her. I already knew what I was going to do. You lied to me, and if I'd known, this would never have happened. You'd have been just someone I met one evening, a chance encounter, a smile, a few words of thanks, and goodbye. I wish now that's all it'd been, but it wasn't, and now I'm sitting in that Spanish Café, waiting for you to arrive, knowing this is the last time we'll meet.

Knowing that when we leave, I'll be leaving by myself, without you, unlike that evening we met.

I told her what I was going to tell you. I told her that I was so sorry about what'd happened, and I cried on her shoulder. She held me, and she told me she loved you. She'd give you that chance. That second chance, and I hope you'll take it, because she loves you so much. She loves you the way I would have loved you. She's having your baby, and I'd dreamed of having our baby, but now I never will.

I told her I hoped it would work out, for her, and for you.

I don't know if it will, but it's for her sake that I hope that now, not yours.

I sit there in that Spanish Café, waiting for you to arrive, sipping on my coffee, and my thoughts are as bleak and grey as the winter's rain, outside. Inside, it's warm, warm and comfortable, the way it was in here, the night we met.

That first night, almost a year ago now.

For me, love. For you, an affair.

I didn't know that, then.

I know that, now.

* * *

We first met late one afternoon, in this same Spanish café, and I remember as I sip my coffee, waiting for you to arrive. I was sitting at this same table, in the back corner, waiting for a friend, when...

"Hi, is that seat taken? Do you mind if I..."

I look up, my eyes meet yours, and it's as if my breath has been taken from me. Your eyes widen, and I'm sure mine widen too. My body is jolted by an electric shock of... I don't know, but it's as if you're someone I've always been waiting for, and I haven't said a word. I'm not sure if I can speak. My heartbeat races. My breath catches, and you're looking at me. Into my eyes, as if I'm everything to you, and you stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

I don't giggle. I don't anything, not for a long moment, my eyes mesmerized by yours. By that perfect sky-blue, as blue as a summer sky, and I could gaze into those eyes forever.

"Please," I manage to say.

You sit down, place your coffee on the table, opposite mine, and still your eyes look into mine, and they seem to read my soul. I can't believe I'm this attracted to someone I don't know. A chance encounter, a stranger in the Spanish Café just down the street from the apartment building I live in, and we haven't talked. I don't know your name. You don't know mine. Thirty seconds, and I know.

You're someone I could fall in love with. Seriously. You are.

My friend never shows. You and I, we talk, and the more we talk, the more attracted to you I am. You draw me out, you coax my words from me, and I glow in your interest. You draw me out, and I find myself telling you about me, more than I've ever told anyone, ever. That I'm eighteen, studying here, at the university, away from home, and I tell you about my family, what I'm interested in, about myself. The realme, not the person everyone sees, but what's inside me, in my head.

My hopes, my dreams, the things that interest and enthral me, and you, you tell me about you, you're in sales, you travel for work, you're thirty five, but it's your interest in me that holds me. A cup of coffee with my friend, that's the only reason I was here, but I stay because of you, and you tell me you're in no hurry. You have nothing else to do, and that you enjoy talking to me.

I remember everything from that evening we met. Every second, every word, every gesture, every touch, as we talked, and we talked for hours. We even danced, because that Spanish Café had a small dance floor, and you picked the music. You picked, and we danced. A slow dance, holding me in your arms, and to be held in your arms was a blissful happiness that I'd never imagined.

That happiness, that interest you had in me, and I in you, led us to stay, longer than either of us had ever intended, on and on, and we talked, we drank coffee, we ate a little, and we danced again.

Four hours after we meet, we leave that Spanish Café together, and I find myself inviting you to my little apartment for coffee, not wanting to part from you. Wanting to draw the evening out, and my apartment's only ten minutes' walk. It's not far at all, and you accept. I asked you in all innocence, wanting only to keep talking with you, flattered by our interest. Intrigued by you, the older man, ruggedly handsome, completely unlike any of the guys my own age whom I know.

Mesmerizing.

I was mesmerized by you, by your attention, so unlike the interest guys I'd met at University, guys my own age or near, had in me. Those guys, they were so gauche, blatantly interested in me for what they could get, and I knew what they saw. A slender Chinese girl, smooth-skinned, silky-haired, a smiling innocent sensuality that then, I had been unaware of.

You weren't. You were very aware of that, and then, I'd been aware of your interest, but you weren't gauche. You weren't blatant. Your interest didn't scare me or threaten me, because it was me you were interested in. Not my looks, not my body. Me, and I responded to that interest. I asked you to come to my apartment for coffee, and I was so happy when you said yes.

Almost ecstatic, almost skipping down the road, down that tree-lined boulevard that led to my apartment building, turning to talk to you, and it seemed only natural that your hand found mine. It was as if my hand was already yours to hold, and you were still holding my hand when I opened my apartment door, and led you inside, took your coat and hung it beside mine, made us both coffee, sat on the couch, beside you.

My apartment's small. The entrance, a galley kitchen to the right, a small den to the left with my desk, and my bookcases. A single room with a small table near the kitchen, and a single couch against one wall, and my bed. It's that couch that we sat on, together, and as I sat, you drew me close to you, your arm around me, and you nuzzled the back of my neck lightly.

I remember that I giggled, and I shook my head, but I didn't move away. I moved closer, into your arms, half-knowing what you intended, half-anticipating, half-turning towards you, and then, out of nowhere, we were kissing. Your lips on mine, gentle, but demanding, and I gave up all control in the eternity of that first, wide-eyed parting of my lips, that heart-stopping surrender of my mouth to yours as you turned further, taking me into your arms.

By then, by the time your tongue had slipped so delicately into my mouth, I wanted you to take me in your arms, and I turned towards you, moved with you as you guided me around, and back, until I was lying on my couch and you were lying beside me, close to me. So close, looking down at me, one arm under my neck, your hand on my shoulder, your other hand on my hip, your lips sealed to mine, and by then, your tongue was exploring my mouth, teasing my tongue, dancing with my tongue as I tentatively explored, my tongue following yours, and I could hear myself.

Soft, excited little noises as you kissed me.

There was no sudden attempt to take what you were doing any further. Only your mouth on mine, eyes half closed as you tasted me, sipped at me, explored with your tongue, a delicate dance where your tongue slid into my mouth, danced with my tongue, tasted me, teased me, drew my tongue into your mouth, and I'd kissed before. I'd been kissed, but never like this. Never with such exquisite skill, never so gently, and my excitement, my arousal, my desire, grew slowly as you continued to caress my lips with yours, on and on and on.

Without thought, my body responded as a woman's body responds, and that response was new to me. It crept up on me, through me, silently, unknowingly, and I didn't realize what was happening to me. Only that your kisses weren't enough, that I needed more. More of you, and my eyes looked into yours as you kissed me, my fingers brushed your face as yours brushed mine. Brushed mine, brushed my hair away, and when at least you broke that kiss, my lips blindly sought yours.

"You're beautiful, Estelle," you breathed, and then your lips met mine once more, and that brief absence left me craving more. Those three words from you, they were sunlight on a flower, and my heart opened to you, as the petals of a flower open to the sun, welcoming

Back then, on that first evening, those first kisses, I'd had no idea of the pleasure my own body could give me. I truly was innocent, wrinkly my nose at those girls I knew who had crushes, who talked about their boyfriends with such excitement. Such desire. I'd had no idea that I, too, could experience such desire, and even then, there was no real awareness. Only urging of my body, an urging that I succumbed to without resistance, wanting only your renewed kisses.

Your body against mine, and your body was close to mine as we lay together on my couch, you pressed against me as you held me in your arms, not crushing me, but holding me close, and never before had I wanted to be held like this, a man pressing yourself against me so closely, so tightly. In the growing passion of that kiss, I turned a little more towards you, wanting that closeness, wanting you to hold me tight, wanting my breasts crushed against your chest as you held me, wanting your hands on me, so strong and assured.

I was aware of every nuance of your body against mine, of mine against yours. How soft I was, how giving, how I revelled in being held so tightly, how I welcomed that crushing of my body against yours, my breasts now crushed against your chest, and I'd never been so aware of my breasts before. How good it felt, how swollen and engorged my nipples were. How they ached, and that aching only grew as my arms vined around your neck, as your mouth sipped at mine, as a bee sips at the nectar of a flower it has taken for its own.

Half-turned towards you, my skirt rode up as in that desire to be closer to you, one of my legs lifted, to rest on yours, and yours slide between mine, the soft linen of your trousers rough against the skin of my thighs. Your hand, the hand that wasn't beneath me, rain over my waist, my hips, my arm, sliding upwards to brush my hair back from my face as we kissed, on and on and on, and whenever your lips lifted from mine, mine sought yours again, blindly following as a flower follows the sun.

"Estelle," you murmured, and your hand eased my away a little, a distancing that I half-resisted until you hand gently cupped one breast through the thin material of my top, and my camisole, resting there, sending a sudden rush of unexpected sensations surging through me. I hadn't worn a bra that day. I didn't really need a bra, and today was one of those days where I'd enjoyed not wearing one.

Now, I found another reason to enjoy not wearing one.

Your hand on my breast, cupping me, gentle and firm, all at one and the same time. A masculine possession of me that was as welcome on my body as his lips were on mine, and your hand on me left me limp, limp and wanting more. Your lips lifted from mine, and now I watched you. Watching you looking at my breasts, and I was breathing hard, wanting more, but not knowing what it was I wanted, because I'd never felt like this before.

My swollen nipples suddenly and unbelievably seemed to swell even more, almost in an instant becoming painfully large and rubbery hard, the mere cupping of your hand on me no longer enough. Your hand began, very gently, to explore my breast, your fingers running over me, tracing the contours, sending ripples and shivers of pleasure and renewed excitement surging through me. I could feel my nipples swelling even more, so swollen and rubbery hard the aching sensation was actually painful.

It was a weirdly exciting sensation, to feel my body reacting like that, out of my control, responding to you. I could hear myself involuntarily making quiet little breathy noises as your fingers continued to stroke me there, very gently, very slowly. Nobody except me had ever touched my breasts, and I lay there focusing on the sensations created by your fingers running across and around my breast and over my nipple, and I had no strength, nor the willpower to stop you, even if I'd wanted to.