A Very Dominant Man

Leila was a belly dancer, not of the first water, but a woman who had taken up this particular form of exercise because of boredom. She had grown tired of aerobics, jazz dance, yoga, so why not? It was just another exercise trend to try and ultimately discard when it became too hard.

Belly Dance was supposed to fill up those mornings when there was no more housework to do and she was tired of reading. Married for years to a man who could be the poster boy for "Work-Alcoholics Monthly", she decided this time would be different.

The belly dance clothes helped. Shiny fabrics, spangled bras and performance makeup allowed a different persona to emerge. Leila looked a little exotic with green eyes and dark hair but the extreme makeup and the glitter stick pushed the limits. Her lunch friends thought Leila would quickly discard this kick and were surprised to see how long it lasted. Three years and it looked like Leila was a serious convert.

She danced in different restaurants and sometimes when she applied herself, with a new troupe. A couple of routines like 'Mizmar', 'the veil dance' and 'Jasmine' were breezed through and she found her place within the troupe. With Turkish drops, petal layovers, shimmies, hip drops and lifts, breast rotations and stomach flutters, Leila had found her metier. She also developed a new attitude and it was not kind. She became proud and vain, contemptuous of the men whose eyes followed her hips and her breasts as she undulated to the strange and compelling music.

When men held out money and attempted to tuck it into her girdle, she laughed to herself. It was only a passing interest. She made sure they had a hard time by quickly shimmying backward, her hip just out of touch of their fingers and if they could reach, could barely tuck the cash with all her vibration. That was what pleased Leila the most, having these men fumble and having to work hard to give her their money. She laughed at these men. They proved inadequate at such a simple task. Of course Leila would proffer a seductive smile and clasp her hands together in the age-old thank-you gesture, but behind the smile grew contempt. It became a frequent sentiment with Leila.

Men she thought were gullible fools, squandering their money on something they could not touch, molest, kiss or screw. They seemed all the same and after a few years, she didn't expect anything to change.

She found her satisfaction in dancing for herself, eyes closed, her release deep in the music, the wail of the ney flute, the pounding of the drums and the complex, strange rhythms. Leila's dancing was good enough for these audiences. She did a graceful layback, shaking her large breasts in controlled undulations, shoulders rotating in sweet reply to those breasts, arms snake-like and fluid, head falling backwards, exposing her delicate throat, the trills of her zils creating a lovely counter rhythm. She presented an enticing invitation for seduction.

One night something happened, a change in the routine that shook Leila to her core. There were two Arabic-looking men sitting at a table by themselves, no women in sight. That was strange, for they were both handsome men. They sat with laptops and cell phones going all night. She was curious about them and glanced frequently at their table.

After a couple of years Leila thought she was able to tell the difference between cultures: Moroccans were smaller men, the Algerians not much different, the Arabs quiet and didn't dance, the Lebanese were big and boisterous men. Just by their size, they might be Lebanese, thought Leila.

She had danced her half set, shared with Sela, a Somalian dancer. Now the fun began, for Nicola, the owner of the restaurant, got everyone up from their seats and people danced whether they wanted to or not. Nicola would put a wine bottle or glass on the top of his head and do a Lebanese folk dance. He never spilled a drop and his act always pleased the crowd.

Leila was to dance just to encourage others to rise and join in. Not many did, for the hour was getting late, and who could dance after Nicola's falafel balls? They stuck like concrete in the middle of the gut and no amount of wine would displace them. The dancers had learned early not to eat them.

She was thinking about sitting down when one of the big Lebanese men appeared before her. He was dancing this strange, stomping dance, almost like a bull would if bulls could, seemingly with his eyes closed. Startled, she thought he looked like the legendary Minotaur she had seen in a painting: shaggy, curly dark hair on a big head, a large shouldered beast with dark and gleaming eyes. This man looked like the beast in the painting, his hands clenching and unclenching in time to the fierce rhythm. She didn't know the music, it wasn't the usual Egyptian and Turkish pop songs she heard without much thought. This music was brutal, primal, rough and disconcerting in its complex rhythms. It was like the pulse of blood booming through arteries and the screeching of violin banshees. There was no following in polite proportions, but a rhythm that grabbed her by swaying hips, her head thrown back like an invisible hand yanking her long hair backwards.

The man approached within five feet and danced in front of her. She shimmied a bit in invitation, feet unable to imitate the complex steps of the man before her. A rough flamenco with a coy pick up of her skirt in one hand was suddenly all she could manage. Leila closed her eyes and let the strange rhythm infuse her. When she opened them, he was right before her. Suddenly he put his hand out and she placed her own in his huge paw.

This was strange behavior in this culture. Leila had never witnessed an unknown man offer his hand to an unknown woman on the dance floor. The division between sexes was so complete that women did not sit at the same tables with men unless they were related in a blood way. His hand closed over hers and a current of something ran up her arm and down into her torso. Leila gasped with the sensation and looked up into dark eyes. The Minotaur alive before her!

What a different dance this man did when he claimed her by hand! Pulling her to him, Leila flowed like water around his steel. She dare not refuse his movement as he circled her under his arm and around his back, throwing her with an assurance that he would catch, regardless where she landed. He was in control of her, and not only of her body. Her mind raced with what was happening, but more, why was this man so self-assured? He was too big to be a professional dancer, but he danced with confidence, grace and total command.

The place was hot, the season too warm even though the night should have cooled by this hour. Leila felt the sweat between her breasts and legs. He would pass her behind him and pull her back into his body, placing his hand in the small of her back, pressing her to him. She could feel his arousal when he did this, sticking her in the belly, and her eyes would shoot open and see the smallest of smiles on his lips. He knew what he was doing, he knew the effect on her. Her nipples were as hard as dark cherry pits under her bra and the flush from her neck down gave more than a hint of her arousal.

Leila shook her head to clear it and begged off after ten minutes of dancing with the Minotaur, for this is what she decided he was. The paintingcome to life, a dangerous and treacherous beast. She walked back to her table her eyes cast down, panting with exhaustion and now arousal. She tried to concentrate on a letter she was writing, but would look up and see him with his hand over his mouth, grinning at her. Once she waved her hand to the rhythm of the music and found the Minotaur mimicking her hand across the room. Sipping her coffee, she kept her eyes down to her letter, hoping to regain her senses. He had rattled her, just with his touch and movement. She didn't want him to know how much.

Looking up, he was gone. Leila glanced around the dim room and saw Nicola in the middle of a group of patrons, a glass of wine on his head. The Minotaur was gone and with it the excitement of the evening. She finished her coffee and decided some fresh air would help her nerves. Stepping outside she looked for him, thinking of being spread out on the warm hood of a car, her skirts upturned over her face, him pounding into her with what must be a large, dark and vigorous cock. She could feel his hard hands on her flesh, pulling her ass down to meet that cock, his eyes clenched shut, spreading her legs wider and wider with each thrust. She could feel her own hands squeezing her breasts through her bra making an electrical current flash down to her wide open sex. Her thoughts made her stomach clench, and more moisture, this time arousal, coursed down her legs. She couldn't remember being so turned on. She stood there in the parking lot, slightly swaying with her passion rising, aching deep within, the smell of her own lust about her. Her breasts felt like two hard pieces of fruit straining out of her bra, her mouth partly open, breathing in her rapture, eyes now closed not daring to look for him any more. If she continued to think of the Minotaur she would dissolve into a puddle.

Shaking herself to dispel such thoughts, she saw the flick of a lighter to her left, and then heard a man expel a long breath. He walked out of the darkness and threw the cigarette down, standing there before her. His eyes glittered slightly in the dark and Leila raised her head, stripped of all further thought, allowing his presence to wash over her and his power to take her.

Without design Leila closed her eyes, breathing in his scent, her head fully back as he placed one arm around the small of her spine pulling her to him, a hand around her throat, his lips brushing hers. She moaned as he pressed harder, parting her lips with his.

Leila opened her eyes as he put his hand along her cheek, his eyes searching her face in the dim light. Taking her hand he silently led her down a stone staircase to Nicola's grotto beneath the restaurant.

Nicola, here for many years, missed his roses and his garden. This grotto was small with only a few benches along the walls but he had trained up roses along trellises and even though they weren't the fragrant damask species he remembered from Lebanon, they were roses nonetheless. Deep velvet reds that filled the nose with one whiff, fragile whites and buttery yellow populated the garden and ran up the trellises attached to the stone walls. It was almost winter and the roses had dropped their petals so Nicola had potted mums, without scent but colorful. The fountain tinkled as a crescent moon appeared over the blackened trees. Somewhere a nightingale sang in zil-trills.

"You are Leila," he whispered in a heavy accent. No questions, just her name and the breath of an unknown man in her ear. He turned her towards the slender moon and standing behind her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"It is said, though I was not there, that the Prophet Mohammed's birth caused the moon to split in two. Then there are those who claim the Moon-God Allah shows us his presence up there in the crescent moon, his fingernail in the nighttime sky, Leila."

He turned Leila to face him, a small smile on his lips. "You can choose many things in life to believe and make happen, Leila. You have a choice."

Leila thought of her choices and what she had made of them. Lifting her kohl-lined eyes to him, she made another choice.

The Minotaur proved a very commanding and dominant man that night, a bit more the beast than the man, but in spite of his violent mythological nature, there was tenderness in his lovemaking. Leila welcomed her choice and melted into his embrace.

The strange rhythms were still heard inside the walls. Finally Leila could follow them with all the passion they were meant to provoke.