Dance Me To The End Of Love Ch 05

Underneath It All

The personals ad, titled

New to These Parts,

read "Girl-next-door type (blonde, wholesome-looking), mid-30s, seeking new acquaintances in a new town—for

friendship and fun

."

Thus, we open communications with a string of finely-crafted emails; the first one casually friendly in tone, then a sequence designed to welcome, encourage, coax, and, ultimately, seduce. We write these notes together—you set the tone, I do a first draft, then we edit collaboratively (this is the point at which you add your magic touch).

Girl-Next-Door-or, G-N-D, as we've dubbed her-responds to you positively, almost enthusiastically, so you move forward, and after several phone conversations, a plan is put in place.

We arrive at the unbearably cool, downtown hotel fifteen or twenty minutes before the agreed meeting time, and enter the lobby bar—unlike those guests who need to call attention to themselves—from the side, not the center steps. Surveying the layout, we choose a corner booth, just outside the bartender's line of sight.

G-N-D is already sitting at the bar when we arrive, looking a little uncomfortable, anxious, trying to blend in. Her blond (as advertised) hair is styled in a crisp, blunt-cut bob, with obviously high-end highlights She has a youthful, WASP-y face that won't betray her age for another ten years—today, she could be anywhere from 28 to 45. Even perched on a barstool, it's clear that her posture is good—helpful when one is only 5'2" or 5'3," as I'm guessing she is. Her short, black sleeveless dress hugs her trim figure, and shows off her shapely legs and toned arms. She has the body of a frequent gym-goer—she could be a lady of leisure, or an upscale, not-so-wholesome, hot, soccer mom.

(OK, I have a dirty mind. But you know you love it.)

The bartender—a smug, 28-ish, good-looking, white hipster (you know the type)—makes small talk, throwing in a few literary references to impress her. He's seen more than his fair share of bar patrons who look like her; right now, he's wondering if she might be the next one whose hotel room he discreetly slips into, after his shift ends. (He always slips out, an hour or two later, in time to make last call at his local pub, where he regales his friends with tales of conquest.)

It's time.

At the bar, you order us two glasses of wine, and casually sidle up to G-N-D to initiate contact. After chatting for a couple minutes—during which you and she look the bartender up and down, smirking conspiratorially—you invite her to our booth.

<< I notice (as I'm sure you do) that the bartender looks

you

up and down, wondering if you're staying in the hotel, too. One day, in the not-so-distant future, you will invite him upstairs, where he will discover a few very unexpected things about himself. But that's a story for another time. >>

Making your typically astute introductions, you sprinkle in a few compliments to G-N-D about her hair and dress, and then ask how she "got such sexy arms." She seems more at ease than I would have expected. (Still, I sense a tension within her, something like restraint.) Then you pause, and your voice, though still warm and inviting, becomes more serious—it's a tone that conveys absolute honesty.

"Veronica, we just want

you

to be completely sure you're comfortable here, meeting up with us, like this?"

"Oh my, yes. I already feel like I've known you forever!"

"Thank you, and that's very sweet of you to say."

As you steer us back into a "normal" conversation, we learn that:

a)

she was a twenty-four-year-old virgin when she met her husband (a former athlete),

b)

she has only ever been with him, since they married 13 years ago,

c)

she used to work in broadcast—where she and her husband met—but left to devote more time to him [primary duty: arm candy at business functions and events], along with doing some charitable work, and

d)

she'd also hoped—though that hope was now dwindling—to "be a mom." (Her husband was less enthusiastic about this idea, as he already had two kids, now college-age, from his first marriage, and was "not sure he had the energy to keep up with a baby." She was pretty sure that really meant—though he'd never say it out loud—that he didn't want to have to compete for her attention with a baby.)

Half an hour later, we've also found out that she

thought

he might have cheated on her earlier in their relationship, but now she's quite certain of it. Waking up one day, suddenly feeling the pull of age, she knew she wanted to "have some new experiences," before falling into a well of regret and emptiness. (OK, I may have embellished that a bit...) You divert the talk, in your customarily brilliant style, back to an article you read about "what romance actually looks like," and "expectations we place on our long-term partners," then ask,

"Do you mind if I ask what kind of a relationship you have with your husband?"

"It's fine, I suppose, normal, like you said, for a couple who's been together awhile."

"I mean, in the intimate sense, in the sense of—"

"You mean, like, sex? Like do we

do it

a lot?"

"Well, not exactly. Are you still attracted to one another? Do you still spend,

shall we say,

intimate

time together?"

"When we were first married—I was practically a kid—I

think

we did it a lot. I think it made him feel like he was in college again, like he was a senior and I was, like, his freshman girlfriend."

"Mmm, yes... Things

do

change over time."

"I mean, how much is

a lot

? When it comes to, you know, like, sex?"

I excuse myself to the restroom. It's a little bit of a walk from the booth, but it's a straight shot. I know your eyes are following my progress, with just a hint of lust, subliminally guiding her to do the same.

In the stall, I drop my pants and immediately begin stroking myself, recalling the sight of her tanned, shapely, bare legs, and visualizing other parts of her, which are currently hidden under her short dress. Sufficiently erect, I stuff the rigid organ back into my pants, rearrange things to create a subtle, but unmistakable, silhouette, then quickly head back to the table.

We've positioned Veronica to face in the direction of the restroom, and I see her glance up as I approach. She blinks a couple of times, making it clear that she's spotted my hard-on; her eyes linger for a second or two, then her focus is back on you. As I get within earshot, I hear you quietly drilling down.

"...and can I be very blunt with you?"

"OK."

"Do you still think about

fucking

him?"

She glances at me again, looking a little uncertain (or maybe embarrassed at your matter-of-fact use of the word "fucking"), and says, in a hushed tone,

"Um, I—. Once in a while, I guess. But it's usually when he's not around; quote-unquote away on business, or something like that."

"Mmm hmm."

"Funny, I hadn't thought about that before."

"Equally—maybe more—importantly, does

he

still think about fucking

you

?"

"Um, if he does," she hesitates, "he doesn't, like, show it very much. Sometimes after he's been out having beers with his friends, maybe he gets, like, a little more touchy-feely, or-? I don't know."

You stand up to let me back into the booth; we change places, so that I end up between the two of you, and for a split-second,

1)

the bulge in my pants is almost at her eye level, and,

2)

she stares directly at it, open-mouthed, then looks down at her glass, blushing slightly.

"Wow," I interject, sliding onto the seat, "he must be dumber than I thought."

"Wait...what?"

"I guess, that's supposed to be a compliment." Looking at her, you follow up, with a pronounced eye roll, "In other words, I think he means that you deserve to be noticed."

I find myself smirking at this.

"Honestly," you add, reaching across me, and touching her arm lightly, "I'd have to say I agree with him. For

once

..."

You give a little laugh, and she smiles, thanks you for the compliment, and touches your hand (which is now resting on my leg, barely an inch from my still-obvious hard-on) in return.

"More than noticed," I pipe up again, "You deserve to be pampered like a princess."

"

Wowww

, I'd say my husband thinks you're cute."

With the word "husband," you give me a playful, hard, shove. The hand I stick out to stop myself from falling lands on Veronica's upper thigh. As I make apologies, pulling my hand back, I let my fingers trace the hem of her short dress, and trail over the exposed knee of her other leg. She's startled, but doesn't push my hand away, just straightens her skirt, and adjusts her posture.

"I hope you won't be offended by this," she responds, looking around me, "but I- I think

he's

quite good-looking, too."

"Pl-lease! No offense taken—just don't feed his ego too much!"

We all laugh lightly this time (though probably for different reasons).

"He

does

look good in these jeans. Of course, I picked them out," you continue, patting my leg, this time just millimeters from my slowly diminishing erection, "so the fit is rather, um,

flattering

, if I may say so myself."

Veronica's eyes follow your hand as you say this; she sneaks another look, uncrosses and re-crosses her legs, then straightens her skirt again.

The innocuous banter continues, but I can feel you circling closer to the question that will initiate the deeper reason we are all here. Then, leaning in and looking her directly in the eyes, you suggest,

"Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere a little more, say,

private

?"

"Somewhere more-?"

"Private."

"Oh. Yes. I have a room upstairs. The view is stunning."

"You

do

have class—love that! But, you're still comfortable with getting to know us better? Perhaps I should clarify—I mean, getting to know us much more intimately?"

"You mean?"

"I mean, intimately—

very

intimately."

"Physically?"

"Yes, but not just physically. On an

emotional

level, as well."

"I'm-," she hesitates, biting her lip at the word "emotional."

"You may learn some things."

"About you?" she says, seemingly marshaling her courage, while trying to follow you.

"About us, but more importantly, about

yourself

."

Suddenly, she straightens up, and issues a declarative, "Yes!"

Almost immediately (perhaps before she loses her nerve?), she slides out of the booth and stands up, rummages in her purse for a moment, and extracts a credit card, lipstick, a small mirror, and a hotel keycard. Quickly fixing her lipstick, checking her hair, and smoothing her dress, she slides the keycard across the table to you, saying,

"I'll settle up here—it's on me," then whispers to you, "See you upstairs in a few minutes?"

"Yes, we'll see you soon. And," you add, with a warm smile, "thank you!"

*****

Burning Down the House

When we reach her room, you knock; you

always

knock, even though you have the key in your hand, and we know why we're here. It's one of those things I love that about you. (It also reminds me of growing up in a semi-rural town. When we would drive up to someone's house, my uncle would always turn off the car, and we would wait a few minutes—even if we were expected—before getting out and knocking on the door. It's the proper thing to do.)

A soft voice calls out, "Come on in."

Upon entering, we see Veronica, standing by the door to the terrace, wearing a lace wrap considerably shorter than the dress she had worn ten minutes ago. She was NOT kidding about the view.

Veronica makes a move as if to kick off her fur-trimmed black slippers, then asks you,

"Should I take off my—?"

"Slow down, baby girl. I wanted to ask you something else. Have you ever kissed a woman?"

"Once." She hesitates. "In college, me and a girl from my drama class, at this party, we, um..."

"Wow," you prompt her, encouragingly, "honey, that's—."

But she cuts you off, in a rush, "All these boys were, like, shouting, and saying, like, really filthy stuff."

"Hmmm, really? And did you—?"

"We just made out for, like, a minute or two," she says, looking a little troubled, "that's all we did."

"Did you like it?"

"I don't know. We were a little drunk, which I didn't do very much. Kind of, maybe? She was, like, only the third person I ever kissed. After that, I heard she had, kind of, a bad reputation. So I didn't really hang out with her. Not like that anyway. But I used to think about it sometimes, and her, and what we did."

"Really?"

"I kinda tried not to. You see, I came from a very strict religious family. I was still a virgin when I got married."

"Yes, you—"

"Oh yeah, I told you that already."

Taking both of her hands in yours, you ask, gently, "Would you like to try it again?"

"With y—?"

"Yes, me."

"I think I'd like that, yes."

She doesn't move, but closes her eyes, as you take her face in your hands, lean down, and kiss her lightly. Her arms slowly rise to wrap around you, then your lips meet again, in a long, deep kiss, and her body begins to curve to meet yours.

When you let go of each other, Veronica stands there frozen, as if in a dream. Her eyes are still closed, her face still raised toward yours. Only her rapid deep breaths disturb the silence, until she whispers,

"I've never been kissed like that."

Something seems to break inside of her, and a tiny tear etches a crooked little trail through her immaculate makeup as she whispers, even more softly,

"It feels like I've never kissed

anyone

before,

ever

."

A deep calm begins to permeate the room, and out of this long moment of silence, you ask gently, for the last time,

"Veronica, are you sure you're comfortable with taking this wherever it leads?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember the safe word we agreed on?"

"Yes...I am. Yes. I do."

"Then what do you say we get a better look at him?"

"Him? Um, OK?"

"Let's you and I undress him, shall we?"

"OK."

I'm wearing layers and accessories—jacket, tie, belt, t-shirt, watch, even a somewhat tacky gold chain—by design. You encourage her to do most of the work, until I'm clothed only in those briefs you always have me wear. Then you lay my clothes out neatly on one of the chairs, and say,

"Babe, why don't you give us a little spin?"

I turn slowly, as gracefully as I can (which is to say, a little awkwardly), and hear you say, throatily,

"Mmm, I

never

get tired of that!" I know this to be a cue that you're about to spank me; she giggles, a little nervously, when you smack my butt. Hard. (Suddenly, I'm getting hard again, too.)

Stepping out of your shoes (slides make this so much easier), you take both of Veronica's hands, and assert,

"Well, he can't have all the fun, right?" then add, "Babe, would you unzip me?"

I comply, and you slowly lower your little black cocktail dress (

that

one), revealing the black lingerie you usually choose for occasions such as this—sheer, but neither overly revealing, nor over-the-top sexy. You call it "elegantly simple." You strike a couple of humorously exaggerated, model-esque poses, then ask,

"Veronica, may I kiss you again?"

Her hands wrap around you, more confidently this time, touching your warm, exposed skin (I'm reminded of the first time we kissed like this), and as you break apart again, you ask,

"Would you like to show us the rest of

you

, Veronica?"

She nods quickly, then, almost gingerly, unties the soft bow, and lets the black wrap fall silently to the floor. Her lingerie has a distinctly European sexiness about it—

very

pretty, and

very

expensive-looking. She makes a tiny, almost involuntary movement, as if she wants to cover herself, but then glances at both of us, spots my growing erection, and lets her arms drop to her sides.

"Veronica, do

you

want to kiss

my husband

?"

She nods nervously, and starts to take a step forward, then suddenly, guiltily, looks back at you. You smile and give her a quick nod; emboldened, she moves closer. We kiss briefly, then pause, and I look into her eyes with as much intensity (and outright lust) as I can. When we kiss again, it's a fiery, passionate embrace. As our tongues meet in their own soft caress, my hands freely explore her curves. and grip the luscious twin orbs of Veronica's treadmill-sculpted butt. My surging hard-on presses into her, causing her to inhale suddenly, with a little, "Ohhh!".

Then, in a single languid movement, I let go of her, sink to one knee, and gently peel down her alluringly sheer, black bikinis. She's completely shaved (waxed or sugared, more likely), but for a tiny patch of dark brown hair. And despite the fact that I revel in the discovery of a beautiful, full bush (really!), the luxuriously smooth skin of Veronica's nether-region is unexpectedly, delightfully, intriguing.

"The way my hubby likes it," she explains, as she steps out of the little pile of lace, "or at least, the way he used to like it. Or so I

thought

..."

Her soft, pale labia are already dewy, visible evidence of the fire that we've kindled by casting her as the star in our seductive play. My fingers wander, feather-light, over her entire bare mound, followed by warm, soft kisses that trail down her inner thighs. She closes her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply, and I can tell that she's trying—in vain—to control her arousal. But when I run my tongue down her silken "landing strip," and offer a delicate, preliminary greeting to the little pink nub below, she gasps, and the fleeting, tingling, rush causes her to squirm involuntarily.

Close behind her now, kissing her neck, whispering something I can't hear, your long, delicate fingers unclasp her gorgeous bra, and slip the straps from her shoulders. She takes your hands in hers, and guides them to girlish, barely-A-cup-sized breasts. Inclining her head toward you, she says, softly,

"I thought about getting them made bigger. For

him

..."

"But?"

Looking down at me, she asks, pointedly, "Well...do

you

think they're too small?"

"I think they're perfect, but it doesn't matter what I think—"

"Anyway, I decided not to," she continues, looking back at you, "because I like them the way they are. Period."

"And," nodding in assent, you offer, "so do I."

Your hands continue their attention to her boobs, caressing and squeezing them more vigorously now, teasing the firm, puffy pink nipples, then roving over her flat stomach, hips, and thighs. Occasionally, our hands meet, as mine wander up from below.

I rise, my hands snaking their way around her to grab her butt again, and pull her tightly against my body. When we kiss again, and my hard dick, still restrained by my underwear, once more presses into her, she briefly rubs herself against it without thinking, resulting in a shiver and a little sigh.

"Does that feel good, Veronica? Do you like to be touched like that?"

"Mmmm."

Gradually, our hands never leaving her body, you and I switch places. I can feel, in the sudden, changing, flow of her breath, that your long pointed tongue has found Veronica's musky-sweet center of pleasure. Her hands are now alternating between seizing your head, like she's trying to pull you inside her, and reaching back, wildly grabbing at my underwear, now and then wiggling her hips, as my rigid member presses into the cleft of her toned ass.

As you redouble your focus on her clit, and you subtly add a finger, then another, and another, to your indulgence, she loses control, almost screaming,

"Oh God, Oh- Oh- Oh- Oh God!"

I hold her up as an orgasm jolts through her body like a massive electric shock.

As her paroxysms of ecstasy subside, I help Veronica to the bed, where she collapses, flushed and panting, her body glistening with sweat. Looking at you in apparent disbelief, she murmurs,