Gala Ball

The gala ball at the Adam's Mark Hotel for the cancer society was a huge black-tie affair. I hadn't wanted to go in the first place, the idea of spending the evening with a bunch of folks who where there to be seen just grated on me. I didn't mind the tuxedo, I had always enjoyed the dressing up part, I just couldn't stand the type of people generally forced upon me at these affairs. The news that I was going alone due to a sick elder Aunt was the frosting on the cake. I was then reminded how important this was and that we already had the tickets and that with her out of town I had no plans for dinner anyways, and they always did have the lobster bisque. Blah, blah, blah. So there I was, going stag to the Ball. Ho hum. Boring!

Dinner was, I admit, a great deal better than I had hoped for. The seating placed me with a lithe and lovely young lady who also ended up there alone. I was old enough to be her father, almost, and we settled into easy conversation and I actually found myself enjoying the company and the conversation. She was ravishing in her shimmering black, sleek and slinky cocktail dress. A black diaphanous affair with one strap over the shoulder, leaving the other bare and a slit up one leg that showed a wonderful line of leg and a damn ed fine thigh. A simple strand of pearls and gold dangling earrings. Her glasses gave her a coquettish librarian look. The fantasy teacher every twelve year old boy prays for throughout puberty.

Through cheesecake and coffee we listened to the orchestra start up; Big Band and Swing Jazz. We laughed that we had both dreaded the thought of being here alone and that we were happy that providence had somehow fated us to sit at the same table at the hotel.

I asked her to dance, as a number with a moaning saxophone and brushes on the drums was just getting going. A slow dance in a darkened room, the glittering ball casting a thousand shimmering lights as it twirled ever so slowly overhead. It was as if time had regressed and we were dancing in the 1940's. My right hand holding her left, at shoulder height, my left upon her waist, her upon my arm, our feet shuffling on the floor as we continued to chat while we danced.

As a measure of compliment I commented on her wonderful muscle tone, my hand upon the small of her back. She told me she rode her bicycle often and enjoyed the work out she got riding trails. I asked where she rode and she told me she had a preferred trail she rode down in Orange Park at the Westside Park, near the air station. I suddenly felt dizzy and she looked concerned as I stumbled a bit, my equilibrium suddenly lost in the time and space of the ballroom. The song ended and I recovered my grace and asked her to stay out on the dance floor with me for yet another slow dance song.

I looked her in the eye, through my glasses and hers and I asked her in a hushed tone if she was very "Literate." She smiled a funny smile and wrinkled her nose a bit and asked what I meant by that. I didn't want to just ASK if she was the one who had shared herself with all her friends on Lit, but I had to know and didn't want to wreck the moment if I was wrong, so I asked her if she preferred the beach in Ponte Vedra and St. Augustine and if she had ever enjoyed the voting booth display at the MOSH... I read every post she had written on Lit, waited anxiously for the photos she sent, all the time wishing she wouldn't mask her face. This wicked little vixen had kept me aroused well into the night on so many occasions.

She shyly glanced up and answered "Yes...Sir, it is I." And she giggled the most melodious and gloriously wicked little giggle. I had read every post she had written on Lit, waited anxiously for the photos she sent, all the time wishing she wouldn't mask her face. This wicked little vixen had kept me aroused well into the night on so many occasions.

My heart now racing, her arms encircling my neck, and mine finding the wonderfully rounded contours of her hips as we continue to glide the soft strains of muted jazz. I can't help myself, I struggle against it but I feel my arousal growing in my pants. By the licentious wiggle she uses against me, I can tell she knows of my dilemma as well. The moment seemingly ends with the music, but she remains flirty and bright.

Grabbing my hand, she leads me outside, on to the patio overlooking the St. Johns river and across is the Landing, all aglow with it's neon lights. We walk and chat like the old friends we sort of are. And that is, of course, an amusingly thread of this live conversation. I ask about her posting and her live in friend that moved on, I ask about the relationship she has with her husband and all the photos she has taken and posted. She asks me about my wife and my life, and before we know it we find ourselves off the edge of the patio, the night air caressed by the scent of jasmine and the crepe myrtles in bloom.

There is a bench there, a park bench of sorts, with no back. I sit there, her standing before me, and she tells me that I must know that she would never cheat on her husband. I tell her I couldn't cheat on my wife either, and after all the talk of sex and fantasy that I would be afraid of not living up to the expectation anyway. She hikes up the hem of her dress and sits astride my lap, her arms encircling my neck. Her hand takes mine and places it over her breast, the one with the nipple ring in it. My hardness is obvious to both of us and she whispers to me, and the night around us, "Just one kiss..." and I lean in and our mouths meet.

This kiss, this intimacy so much greater than I had expected, so tender and yet so filled with unexplored passion, this kiss so charged with raw sexuality. In my mind's eye it will last an eternity, but in our reality it was over in under a minute. She wiggles in my lap, grinding my manhood with her pelvis., and she looks me in the eye and asks just who will I be thinking of tonight when I pull out my cock and stroke it? I laughed then, and I laugh now, recalling it.

Some fantasies come in dreams, other play out in the waking mind. I dream of that which I know I cannot have, and perhaps would not even take if it were offered like a ripened fruit, wet with dew.

But then again, given that chance again, I just might.