Little Red Skirt

"Place is really jumping tonight!" Luke grinned at the crowd around us on the dance floor and gave me a spin in our jitterbug.

The gleaming wood floor swirled under me. Tables surrounding the dance floor hid in dusky shadows. I spun back to Luke's arms. He was a good dancer. I liked the feel of his directions through my body. Don't get me wrong. There are times when the interplay of words stokes increasing temperatures. But there are times when direct communication, unfiltered by translation, steams best.

The swing music came to a close and moved on to a hit from 1964. Luke's hand slid on the sheen of perspiration on my back. The backless sheath left a ski slope of flesh for his descent. When his hand reached the tightly encased rise at the bottom, he gave me a pat and pointed to our table.

I sat and caught my breath. Luke is ten years older than I am. But such differences are a smaller and smaller percentage of life as the double digits continue to multiply. He easily kept up with me. We were resting because he's attentive to my comfort, not because he was tired.

I took a deep breath. "Amazing that a club this popular has no smoke," I said. "Is anyone smoking at all?"

"Just a couple upstairs."

I peered into the darkness of the balcony. Only one glowing ember showed. I turned back to my playmate for the evening. "Well, if you're planning activities in which heavy breathing plays a big part, it's great to have clear air."

"I like your heavy breathing." Luke gave a significant look to the clingy top I wore. "Lillian said this was a great place. I swear her eyes got misty just talking about this club."

I leaned close to Luke's ear. I caught his glance down my cleavage. "But you know what I like best?" I whispered.

"I could guess -," Luke started.

"I can whisper in your ear, and you can HEAR me," I interrupted.

"Oh, well, yeah. The music's not too loud. That, too."

I laughed at Luke's attempt to cover the obvious track of his thoughts - and his eyes. But he had good reason for those thoughts. Such thoughts thrived here. No youthful desperation rushed the proceedings. These older couples were confident of the evening's end. The game was in how to get there.

I settled back in the crook of Luke's arm and we sipped our drinks. The dancing was fun to watch.

In the midst of the throng, one flicker of light caught my attention. I leaned to the left and searched for its source.

There it was. A short red skirt, shiny enough to reflect light. Must be patent leather. It made the woman her own strobe light.

The skirt fit tightly, accentuating the curves of her hips. At about thirty years old, she might be the youngest person in the club that night. And she was a youngster who could make that skirt wiggle.

"Quite the show," Luke commented. He had followed my gaze and now we both watched.

She swiveled that skirt close to her partner and then away. She passed behind another couple. Luke and I missed our strobe. But she soon swayed back to him again.

He took no chances this time. He took her hands in his, pulling those hips close.

At our table, Luke caressed my knee. "Mmmmmmm, you smell good tonight," he said. I laid my head on his shoulder and smiled.

Suddenly, his hand gripped my knee. "My gosh!" Luke rasped.

Quickly, I followed his stare. On the dance floor, Mr. Red had spun his partner around and pulled her back towards him. He held her arms behind her. The white top that had folded loosely pulled tight across her breasts.

I glanced between the scene on the dance floor and my date. Luke stared at the couple. His hand massaged my leg, higher than my knee now.

Little Skirt squirmed within her date's grasp.

Her partner leaned forward and said something in her ear. She tried to twist back to look at him. When she couldn't make it, she just shook her head, "No."

Mr. Red yanked her arms tight behind her. The scoop neck pulled wide. Her nipples made tents out of the thin, white cloth.

Luke's eyes were glued to the scene, and his hand began to stroke my thigh. From my knee to the lace at the top of my thigh high stockings, his hand went up and down and back up.

Mr. Red pulled the skirt close. He jammed his crotch against that shiny red lure. He ground his hips right into her.

Luke's hand passed the lace on my stockings.

On the dance floor, Mr. Red twirled Skirt around. He pulled her close. He put his hands on either side of her hips. With each beat of the music, his hands worked the skirt up her legs. Well, it was already shorter than her legs. But that skirt was going up higher.

So was Luke's hand on my leg. Or past my leg.

I think Luke already suspected I had no panties on under my dress. No doubt now. He liked to run his fingers through the short hair. To gently pull it. To drive me nuts.

The dance floor had cleared a space around the red skirt and her partner. People watched that skirt inch its way up. She tried wiggling her hips to bring it back down, but he held too tightly. We could see the round rise of flesh cast its shadow on her leg.

Luke ran his fingers over the crease of my thigh. My loins began their ache to be touched directly.

Little Skirt shook her head, "No, no, no." But Mr. Red eased the skirt over the width of her hips. Now we knew. She had nothing on underneath, either.

Luke pressed his hand between my legs. He barely moved it, just the tiniest bit up and down. I started to pant.

The little red skirt was nothing but a belt now, crumpled up around her waist. Mr. Red reached around and grasped one cheek in each hand. He squeezed both succulent mounds as the DJ bumped from rock to disco.

"Glad we're not trying to dance to that," Luke teased.

I was beyond critiquing music styles. I slid lower on the seat. I pressed against Luke's hand. My breath came in shorter and shorter gasps.

"Ohhhhhhh!" Liquid gushed between my thighs.

Luke grinned. His hand relaxed and gave me a moment's respite.

Mr. Red fussed with something on the skirt's waistband. Why would he give up his hold on those glorious globes?

Suddenly, he pushed her away. What he held onto was her belt. He spun her like a top. The belt slid loose. At the far end, a fringe fluttered.

Snap!

I sat straight up. He had flicked that belt like a whip! The fringe lay on the dance floor now, but Ms. Skirt danced at a distance.

Mr. Red stepped with the beat, his hips keeping rhythm. Closer, he came to her.

Snap - snap.

Almost leisurely, he had flicked the tip of the belt against her arms, one flick on each side. She didn't flinch. Had he even touched her?

He danced right up to her, took her arms in his hands, and soothed the upper arm he had "whipped". She leaned towards him, warm in his tenderness.

He smoothed his way up her arm, over her shoulder, across her chest, and under her blouse. Deftly, he pulled it aside.

One breast hung naked.

"Mmmmmmm," Luke groaned. His eyes followed the bouncing tit. The nipple stood out, a knot of arousal.

Ms. Skirt struggled. But Mr. had planned ahead. His other arm encircled her waist.

Luke's fingers, between my legs, began a search.

Much of the dance floor had cleared. All around, patrons watched. The remainder of Skirt's clothes acted as a frame to her exposure. Legs rose to meet the dark triangle. Breasts, covered and uncovered, jostled and swayed. Bare hips gleamed under hot lights for all to view.

Luke's fingers probed. They found. They entered.

I moaned and slid back down on the seat.

Mr. Red fondled the exposed breast. He fluttered teasing touches on her nipple. She might well be moaning as well.

Luke's single finger set up a slow pulse. In, out, in, out. My eyes lost focus.

Snap - snap.

Somehow, Skirt had gotten away from Mr. Belt. And he had used the belt on her thighs. Red welts showed on the sides above her knees.

Luke plunged two fingers. I gasped.

Skirt raised her hands, as if to ask, "What? What is it you want?" Mr. stepped

closer, the belt ready. Skirt danced backwards.

Snap - snap.

Red lines midway up her thighs.

Luke ground in deep and held. My moan gasped.

Skirt stepped back farther, saw the belt coming closer, and turned to look where Mr. was driving her.

A solitary man, dressed in a well-cut navy suit, sat at a ringside table. He wore a designer tie and gold glittered on his cuffs and finger.

Luke slowly, oh so slowly, pulled his fingers out. My gasp moaned.

Skirt whirled and faced her partner. She shook her head, "No."

Snap - snap.

Where her skirt used to cover, red skin flamed.

Snap - snap.

Luke thrust three fingers into me. Thumping bass, snapping belt, plunging thrusts. Again. Again. Again.

My head lolled.

Somewhere out there, music faded into crooning. A love song. A longing, pleading, yearning song.

I pulled my eyes open enough to see Skirt bent over the man's table. Snap- snap, Mr. struck each of her inner thighs. She spread her legs.

Luke pushed my leg, opening me wider.

Mr. Suit stood up. He unzipped his trousers.

Four fingers. I gasped with every entry.

Suit stepped up to Skirt's spread thighs. He thrust into her.

Thrust matched thrust. Suit fucking Skirt, Luke fucking me.

Deep breaths overtook my body. Luke was unrelenting. Thrust, plunge, thrust.

I screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeamed.

Then collapsed.

Luke grinned. He patted me on the shoulder. "You rest. I'm going to get us one of those rooms upstairs."