Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 5

That had the effect of spreading her legs wide and exposing her full bottom to him. She felt herself open and the rush of cool air on her secret places, and it made her feel hot and powerful to know his eyes were glued to her. She maintained the pose until she knew she was pushing the envelope of credibility, and when she turned holding the "found" earring up triumphantly, the poor man's face was so red and perspiration soaked that she immediately went and fetched him a beer without his asking. Oh, yes, she had tested him and she knew her subject well. He wants to see me; he wants to look so bad it makes him sweat, even if that's tough for him to admit.

Yes, she thought, her confidence coming to full flower, oh yes, in deed, this man wants me to dance for him like this; he needs to see me dance for him naked. All he needs is a little help from me to accept it. And, she remembered smugly how, just moments earlier, when she was checking her costume in the mirror and trying to decide whether to put on the panties she was holding, she had realized with absolute certainty that he really wouldn't want her to wear them. Now, feeling his opposition fade, she felt the surge of elation that always follows the confirmation of a well-made choice, and she glowed with the assurance of her seductive power.

Her grip on his shoulders relaxed, and she released him. She reached into the cooler, without speaking and extracted another beer. First, taking a sip, she handed the bottle to her father and moved to switch on the stereo. A faint hiss emanated from the speakers as blank tape advanced, and she took her position in the center of the deck. She assumed a classic ballet pose, standing on toe points even though barefooted, with her arms extended above her head, palms pressed together as she waited for the music to begin.

He watched transfixed and gulped beer. My Gawd, raising her arms like that lifts the hem of her gown above her navel he marveled. He struggled without success to restrict his observations to her face. Her eyes were closed in anticipation of the music, perhaps running through the routine a last time before the performance. His eyes roamed the length and breadth of her, reveling in her spectacular beauty. Her calve muscles were sharply cut by the extension of her ankles and toes; her thigh muscles rippled with effort. He stared eagerly at the wide flare of her hips, the flat plane of her belly and the sweet tangle of pubic hairs sprouting between her powerful legs. The rigors of the gigantic mental struggle he had just endured were a swiftly fading memory.

The music began, and she moved easily with it, slowly at first, then gathering in intensity. She danced with leaps and spins, turns and bows, with toes sharply pointed, bending at the waist, her arms extended above her head. Plies and pirouettes, port de bras and countless other leaps, turns and movements, the names of which had long since left him, and she flowed through them all flawlessly.

Her grace was impeccable. She moved across and around the close space, utilizing every inch to maximum advantage. At times she was near, so close her legs brushed his, at others less close, but never far. The negligee, a wisp of nothingness, floated like the very air about her as she danced, and she reveled in the sublime beauty of her nudity. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her body, and she glistened as though iridescent in the pale light. The air was infused with the scents of perfume and milled soap, which mingled intoxicatingly with her sweat and the musky scent of her essence.

She danced and danced as the music filled the close air of cove with magical sound. At length, she twirled near to him, her negligee flaring about her shoulders like a cape. She placed her hands on the deck at his feet and kicking her feet into the air, moved into a brief handstand, before lowering her legs in opposite directions until they were parallel to the floor. Her gown fell away, covering nothing but her face. He gaped, gasping. Scarcely inches from his face, her leveled legs exposed her mons and the firm spheres of her buttocks.

He leaned forward, not even pretending to attempt resistance of the urge to look. The lips of her vagina, engorged, wet and slightly parted, shimmered in the light under his eyes. His hand moved to his own lips, fingers stroking as if to replicate in his mind the sensation of touching her there. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, dancing away, leaving him with the salty taste of his fingertips on his lips and sweat pouring from his forehead.

The effect of her dance upon him was not in the least extraordinary. She had anticipated it perfectly, if, in deed, she had not intentionally orchestrated it. On his side of the deck, he feared it, even shrank from it, but in the end he quickly and eagerly yielded to it, succumbing to the one voice he could not still.

He watched totally absorbed in her motion. He had loved her dancing always and treasured the memories, but this was astounding, transcending anything he had experienced. Her supple grace combined with her dazzling nudity was riveting. He could not take his eyes off of her. There was not a move or gesture, no matter how subtle, which his eye failed to detect and the effect was overwhelming. She translated the delicate, refined movements of the ballet into an undulating, nearly wanton blur of hips, thighs and breasts. She whirled near only to back away swiftly, trailing arms with fingers waggling in invitation, and he found himself half rising to follow.

She pirouetted with head held stationary, eyes fixed on him, watching his tongue flap wetly against his lips each time her breasts swung into his view. He gulped his beer, turning his head so as not to obstruct his view of her with the bottle and relished the feeling of the cold liquid flowing into his belly and the warming rebound rising through his body. His mind raced, but the voices were quelled, stilled by the beer and the passion he felt taking hold of him.

That's it, brother, he thought derisively, if you want to get rid of the voices, booze and lust will do it every time. He squirmed in his seat and tugged at his shorts to accommodate the growing presence there. Sure, let the beer and lust take over; good ole lust, doesn't talk you to death or jerk you around, it just grabs you by the dick and yanks you along, all you have to do is follow your dick and it'll do all the thinking for you.

He took another pull on the bottle distracted by her bounding nipples, and he tongued the opening subconsciously. He lowered the bottle to his lap, pressing the cold glass to his shorts, hoping the cold would diminish his unsettling heat. Sweat ran off the bottle, and a dark splotch of wetness encircled his crotch. He ignored it, watching the girl dance and licked his lips with subconscious hunger. He shielded himself with the bottle, hiding his response behind amber glass. And, the dance went on.

After an eternity, or so the eight and a half minutes seemed, the music faded into silence, and Laura ended the dance by sliding into a perfect arabesque at his feet. She held the position briefly, breathing heavily from the exertion, before standing. He lunged forward to stand, thinking the performance at an end and prepared to leap straightaway into the cool water, but, anticipating him, she restrained him with a hand laid decisively on his shoulder.

"Hold on, Dad, I've got another one coming up in about thirty seconds."

While the tape hissed, she retrieved another beer and handed it to him. He took it, and she reached toward his lap to collect his empty bottle. He relinquished his grip reluctantly, and she lifted the bottle. Her eyes fell on the wet bulge in his crotch, and widened in recognition. Again, that smile of acknowledgment flashed across her lips, and she stepped back, pirouetting once more for his benefit.

"You liked it, didn't you, daddy?" she asked seductively, letting her eyes measure the tension in his loins while he tried to respond.

He suppressed a groan and nodded in affirmative response.

Pirouetting again, she asked, "Am I as pretty as Mom?"

He proved unable to suppress the groan at that. Miriam? He thought, as the image of his wife barged into his thoughts. Sure, she is pretty enough and takes good care of herself; works out all the time and still has a great body to show for it, but she can't hold a candle to this girl in any department.

He opened his mouth to answer as the music resumed. She laughed, intuitively certain of his unspoken answer, and spun away to dance.

It was a modern dance, set to a heavy African beat. He recognized it immediately, and recalled the troupe's performance of it. Laura and three others were center stage dressed in grass skirts and halter tops with their hands bound behind their backs. Natives with shields and spears danced around them poking and prodding with the spears, herding the "captives" around the stage. He remembered wondering at the time if the rest of the audience appreciated the phallic symbolism of the poking spears and how much that performance had aroused him.

The memory faded to black, replaced by the reality of Laura, who, with hands held behind her as though tied, began thrust her naked hips to the sensual beat in feigned response to an imaginary spear. She twisted and turned, writhing in fictitious pain as the beat strengthened. At last, she freed herself from her imaginary bonds and leapt across the stage to freedom. Oh, yes, he recalled how the dancers held their spears low and level to the stage, suggestive of fence rails, as the escaping captives danced under. Laura placed herself right in front of him and, replicating the scene, began to Limbo.

Her feet were spread wide, her knees flexed, and she leaned backward till her back was parallel to the deck. Her arms were outstretched to maintain her balance. Sweat dripped from him. He clenched the neck of the bottle in his hand, his grip tightening fiercely, as the girl, legs spread wantonly, advanced closer and closer. The beat thickened, and she dropped toward the floor. Muscles and sinew in her thighs knotted and bulged with the exertion of sustaining her position. She stopped within arms length and rolled her hips with the beat. Beads of sweat gathered on her heaving belly. Her pubic hair was damp, matted, and through it, her cleft, separated now by the tension of her thighs, opened to reveal her shimmering depths. His eyes bulged as he consumed her nudity. She moved closer. Her knees touched his. His eyes feasted; his heart raced uncontrollably.

Her hand slipped across the expanse of her belly only to stop, teasingly, as her fingertips encountered the tangle of damp hair. The bottle dropped from his limp fingers, and his hands flew to his groin to restrain his leaping member. She lifted her head to look at him between her heaving breasts. He failed to notice. Her fingers slid further into the tangle, obscenely dipping into the wet furrow. Her finger plunged into the wet, the red nail disappearing as her thickly swollen lips closed hungrily around it. She fingered herself lewdly in time with the music, and his hands balled into fists as he fought the nearly overpowering urge to touch her.

The finger reemerged, shining with her slippery essence. He moaned aloud, and his hand closed tightly over the throbbing head of his cock, trying to forestall an eruption. His breath stopped. He could not move lest he lose control of himself. Paralyzed with fear and need, he hung motionless from a thread, panting, squeezing, praying the pain of his grip would draw him back from the precipice. Sweat poured into his eyes blurring his vision. He blinked, and then, she was gone, the music silenced. He inhaled sharply; shook his head in disbelief. A trick of the mind, he thought. Too much beer. She didn't do what I saw her do.

She was standing across the deck, drying her hands on a towel, and watching him intently. The negligee was soaked with perspiration and clung to her like second skin. The tape hissed, ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. She stood across the deck from him, motionless, waiting, catching her breath, watching his hand clutching his cock. She waited patiently, letting his breath and his control slowly return. He struggled to retreat, to quell his urgency. She bent over and turned off the stereo. The hissing stopped.

The thunder of his heart beat reverberated in the silence. She sat down on the bench across the deck, crossing her legs, and with her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin on her cupped hand and scrutinized him carefully. With a shock, he realized that she was giving him time to recover, to gather himself, before continuing. His brain fumbled with the implications of that realization. He pulled himself together, straightened his back. His hands, shaking, dabbed ineffectually at the perspiration dripping from his forehead. At his crotch, a spreading stain of precum was replacing the circle of condensation. His cock, still rock hard, twitched, but less stridently.

Wordlessly, she stood and walked to him bringing her towel. He lifted his face, and tenderly, she wiped the sweat from his face. From his brow, across the temples, his cheeks, the hollows under his eyes and all around his neck, she gently mopped his perspiration. Up from his throat, over the point of his chin to his lips, she stroked him with the nubby cloth. He inhaled deeply, a sigh of relief at the subsidence of the immediacy of his need, and suddenly, her lingering scent lingering on the towel gripped him. He inhaled again and the velvety smooth softness of her essence laid siege upon his returning control. His mouth watered for a taste of her sweet nectar, and he pressed his face hungrily against the cloth. His lust quickened anew.

Realizing what was happening, she quickly completed drying his face and tossed the towel over her shoulder. She pulled another beer from the cooler and, wordlessly handed it to him. She stood beside him, fingers lightly touching his shoulder to measure the labor of his breathing, as he lifted the bottle and drank. He raised the bottle again, and she stepped away, concerned lest her closeness precipitate another premature crisis. Crossing the deck, she retrieved the towel, which, after she sat and crossed her legs, she demurely placed across her lap.

Minutes passed. They sat silently watching each other across the open space of the deck, one in complete control, the other totally out of control. She bided her time, confident in her ability to determine the outcome; he fidgeted, consumed by his patent lack of mastery over the situation or himself. She gave him space, a respite from the intense emotions she ignited within him. But not too much time, oh no, not enough to regain any control; not enough to extinguish the flame. Just enough so he doesn't lose control completely, too soon.

He took another gulp of beer, and another and set the empty bottle on the deck with the others. He shifted in his seat and, again, reached to adjust his shorts. She responded as though to a secret signal and bent to switch on the stereo once more. He watched as passively as his anticipation allowed as she languidly rose from the bench. The silence, yet unbroken, was complete. She advanced slowly, deliberately, sensuously toward him. The tape hissed, and, like Pavlov's dog, he began to salivate.

She approached and reached for his hands. He looked at her quizzically, but reached out without protest and let her take his hands in hers. Her fingers closed on his, and, gently, as the first notes of the song emerged, she pulled him to a standing position.