Dancing has been inspirational to me in crafting new stories with new characters and with new sensual adventures. The story which follows is both a prequel to the first two stories in my dancing erotica genre ("On the Car Ride Home" and "From Swing Dancing to Love Dancing) and a sequel to the third story ("The Best--and Worst--Day of My Life). I hadn't originally intended for these to be a series but after I wrote the third one I realized that that was their destiny. So this fourth story had to be told, with a fifth one to follow, hopefully completing the series.
This particular story is erotic but in a Tantric sexuality way. It is based on an experience I have had only twice in my life when my partner and I stopped short of an orgasm, and achieved a long-lasting euphoric state which Margot Anand described in her book "The Art of Sexual Ecstasy: The Path of Sacred Sexuality for Western Lovers." Such a state is definitely worth experiencing again--and again!
So thanks for giving this story a read. MM
It was a day in the 80s--hot and humid outside. But inside, the dance theater was beginning to cool off with the cold air blowing from the four splits surrounding us. My swing-dance partner had arrived before me, dressed in a short sleeve blouse and pair of capris. I wore a thin, white, long-sleeve crew neck unbuttoned to my mid chest.
We exchanged hugs, then changed into our dance shoes.
Two fluorescent lights provided adequate illumination to the large space. The only other light came from slivers of daylight admitted at the edges of three windows covered in thick black fabric, and from three exit signs glowing red above their respective doors.
I suggested that instead of swing, we dance Argentine tango this afternoon to traditional tango music. My dance partner agreed to tango, but wanted us to dance to Ed Sheeran and Andrea Bocelli's duet of "Perfect." So we did. And then we tangoed to what followed on the playlist on my laptop: "Time to Say Goodbye," and "Fall on Me," also sung by Andrea Bocelli.
After dancing with my favorite partner in the world so passionately to those three songs, i had tears of joy. I hugged her for several breaths, and I told her so. She hugged me back. And affirmed the same.
Given what I sensed her mood to be, I modified my original desire to now include alternative tango, and I changed to the mixed playlist identified with her name. To start with, we danced to "Drunkard's Prayer," followed by three traditional Tango songs. We practiced new figures and inserted those among the more familiar ones, dancing with conviction in the cool of the room, yet still finding ourselves perspiring.
Our sensual tempo changed with the next song, "Devil Like You." It was one of her original requests to include in a playlist, back several months ago when we were just getting to know each other and learning to dance together. In my naivety, I hadn't gotten the message she was communicating, but it was clearly a song whose lyrics were intended to convey her growing interest in me. So when it came up unexpectedly for her this afternoon, our open embrace suddenly changed to one of arms wrapping tightly around each other, and hands sliding up and down each other's back and onto each other's buttocks, accompanied by deep kissing.
I found one or the other of my thighs frequently in between hers, and in the rock steps which I was doing, I made sure there was a firm connection between my quads and her vulva. With her tightening grip, I could tell that this was the kind of connection she wanted to maintain for the entirety of the song.
We found ourselves caressing all the body parts that we could reach with our hands, pressing our chests, breasts, and abdomens into each other, all the while moving rhythmically to the music. Sweat began to soak through our thin shirts.
"Raindrops Tango" and "Tango Apocalypto" followed. I had just inserted them this morning to add some variety to the playlist and she exclaimed that she had wanted to hear those exact songs today. I was amazed. Almost incredulous. But whether or not she had thought that exact thought, it didn't matter, as it seemed that we were on the same plane for dancing right then. We resumed tango open embrace and danced wonderfully to those two somewhat unusual pieces.
We took a water break and sat and talked. Impetuously, I asked if she would be willing to remove her bra so that we could dance in just our thin shirts and pants. She readily agreed, and when she returned from changing out of it, I offered another prompt--that we turn off the fluorescent lights and just allow the three exit signs and the slits of light from the three covered windows to illuminate the dance space. She loved the suggestion.
Initially, our eyes had a little trouble, but over the minutes of tango which followed, they became accustomed to the dimly illuminated obstacles which we would need to navigate around the room in our line of dance.
What the relative darkness did do was to provide a sultry, sexy atmosphere to explore the Tango in a way we had never done before. We were not able to use our eyes as readily, so we had to rely on our connection--our touch--more acutely.
The next song was an instrumental that, again, she was pleased to hear, followed by Sidney Bechet's "Summertime." The bluesy mood of that song turned her from a Tanguera to a Tantra-wo-maniac.
We started in an open embrace which freed up the frontal aspect of our torsos, and she immediately began to pinch my nipples, the secret to enhancing my virility of which she was well aware from multiple conversations. I gasped, "Yes, yes, yes," into her ear. She hushed me. People were in the building downstairs, she reminded me, and we did not want to invite an audience.
I reciprocated. My hands gripped, through her shirt, her now freer breasts. Our movements were still within the bounds of dancing to the music, and we went from open breast-clenching embrace to tango close embrace, but rubbing each other's back and buttocks. Once more, my thigh found her vulva, and with rhythmic pressure in the rock steps, I was able to excite her even more. She rewarded me by snaking her hands between our chests and again, squeezing my nipples.
That song ended with both of us highly aroused, she whispering that she was close to having an orgasm. I was plenty hard now, too, and reached into my underwear to free my constrained erection, resting it up against my abdomen, though still concealed inside my pants.
I pressed it tightly against her in close embrace for the next songs, "Nothing Else Matters" and "Tango Para Mi Padre."
We were able to dance to these without additional sensual embellishments, letting our arousal plateau, until the song "Je Te Le Donne" began. It was another song that she had requested be put in her playlist, and she erupted with a sexual intensity so great that she began biting my nipple through my shirt. I raised it to give her ample access, in my heightening delirium, oblivious to the fact that others were in the building. I gasped again, but more softly this time, into her ear "Yes, yes, yes." I twisted her nipples between my fingers underneath her shirt and we rhythmically rocked each other to the point of near orgasm.
We slowed our passionate embrace, kissing and touching, but when the Anibal Troilo tanda came on with its passionate interludes and pauses, we were back again with intense dancing, pressing against each other. Then pulling back, she rubbing her hand against my erection through my pants and I pressing gently into her vulva with my hand, alternating that touch with pulling her butt cheeks apart, which she whispered to me that she loved.
She added, "my panties are soaked, and not with sweat."
I felt an intense rush going to my head, nolonger that I was about to come, but rather from an intensity of love, an energy of attachment, of connection. The three songs ended and we had to stop, but I was soaring on an air of euphoria, and so, I learned, was she. We sat entranced for minutes upon minutes before moving to take off our shoes and begin the process of departure. She, to resume care of her ailing husband, and me, to accomplish multiple errands before attending a meeting on Zoom.
It didn't occur to me until afterward how much love I felt for this woman. How much connection, how much attachment, how much desire: to be with her, to hold her, to love her, to take care of her, to be her constant companion.
As I was sitting alone in my kitchen, today, I recalled that afternoon with surprising clarity. It was the intensity of that feeling that led us to the notion of a "love-dance." It wasn't long afterward that we consummated our love with another love-dance one evening on the way back from a swing outing, at the end of a dead end road, pretending to be watching the moonrise. Other love-dances followed when she could get coverage caring for her husband and when my wife was away for part of the work week.
And then, what I dubbed the best and worst day of my life, we had had a very intimate love-dance. I had felt this very similar intense sense of connection, of wanting to be with her forever, and so wanting a marriage of sorts. I knew she and I were married, and in our conversations in the car going to and from dance, that neither of us had an intention of divorcing our current partners. And I intellectually realized--she was very clear--that she did not want to get married again, her experience caring for a slowly declining spouse was something she did not want to repeat. I knew all that, yet in the ecstatic orgasms of our exquisitely intimate love-dance, I blurted out that I wanted to get married. She panicked and abruptly walked out of our gallery guest room. And it felt like she had continued to walk out of my life, moving farther and farther away.
We had kept attending dances, but she preferred to drive there by herself, or carpool with another woman friend. We danced, but the glitter of our dance didn't hold the same sparkle. I wasn't sure if others noticed. I certainly did. And it hurt.
I became angry with her. I initially told myself that she needed time. And space. But it had been almost a month and we had not communicated. I had been leaving it up to her to initiate. She had walked out on me, afterall.
But it didn't happen. And I began to feel the loss, more acutely every day. I began to wonder if I should maybe be more assertive. Try to tell her what I was feeling that day when she left. Try to explain the kind of marriage I had conceived of. Something I had read about with Muslim communities where polygamy was practiced abroad, but wouldn't be sanctioned in the United States.
For instance, a Muslim man may take another woman in marriage for a variety of logical reasons: when a young husband was dying and wanted another married man he trusted to provide for his young wife; when a married woman went overseas to study and was expected to be gone for months at a time and knew her husband would want his "needs" satisfied responsibly. And so on. Because in the US it could not be legally viewed as a marriage, as the man was also married, the Muslim community called such an arrangement a "Spiritual Marriage." And that's what I had in mind.
But my dance partner didn't give me the opportunity to explain this concept to her. And now we weren't connecting at all.
So how was I to reach out?
She and I had formed a writing group, ostensibly of four members, to justify to our spouses our intentions of getting together. In reality, the "four of us" consisted only of the two of us, the other two were our pen-names. We had indeed written, but we had done much, much more. However, we had not met since that worst day of my life, and I hoped she was missing that kind of interaction again. So I emailed her a humorous poem, hoping that the warmth of my mirthfulness might melt the ice of our estrangement:
