Stranger on the Shore

"Suze, I have something important to say to you."

"We can talk over dinner."

"This can't wait, Susan."

Susan twisted and untwisted her cotton underwear in her white knuckled grip. He never used her full name. The last time he had called her Susan, he had told her that their youngest son had died in a traffic accident. Things had never been the same since Trent's death.

"We can't keep going on like this. Greg is all grown, and Trent is gone. There's no reason for us to continue. Like we are, I mean."

"What do you mean,'Continue like we are.' Things are fine."

"No Susan, things aren't fine. We live together, but we no longer live. It's not like before. It can't be only me that sees that things aren't good between us."

"What are you saying?"

"Just what you think I am. I'm leaving. Tonight."

"Dinner's ready, John. Let's talk later."

"There is no later. I'm leaving right now."

"Just like that? Right out of the blue? What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"All of a sudden? Christ, things have been lousy here for years." John cleared his throat. "Years. But now, I've finally found somewhere to go. Got offered a job in Hibernia, managing a rig. I'm heading off to Newfoundland. Alone.

"What about me?"

"You get everything. I don't want our stuff. I just want my freedom."

"I don't want things, John. Just you."

"Take the things, 'cause you can't have me. I fly out Saturday. I'll be staying in a hotel room until then."

"Aren't you even going to take anything?"

"There's nothing here that can't be replaced when I get there." His disdainful look told her that John included her in his list of useless things he could leave behind.

"But I've made roast beef and scalloped potatoes, just the way you like them," she said.

"I prefer mashed. Bye, Suze." John walked out of the bedroom, and down the stairs. Susan heard the front door open, then close. Then nothing. He had gone. Forever.

Susan stood still. John's cooling semen trickled out of her, and ran down her leg. It ran out of her, just like her man had run out on her. What would she do with a whole roast by herself, anyway?

Mr. Bilk and his orchestra continued to play. And so did Susan. She felt like a hyacinth fluttering in the strong breeze of desire. She spread her legs wide open, splaying her petals. The flushed lips of her sex blended in nicely with her purple lingerie. Her fingers frigged her clit mercilessly as she plumbed the depths of her snatch. She splashed a little port from her hastily grabbed goblet onto her cunny, then rubbed it in. It burned pleasantly. Her fingers returned to her mouth, where her flicking tongue welcomed them. She tasted herself. She couldn't decide which tasted sweeter, the Ferreira or her own natural liquor.

Her nipples stuck out proudly from her creamy breasts. She reached behind and undid the clasp of her bra, then tossed it away. She yanked on her centimeter-long nipples fiercely, giving them the attention her ex-husband had always neglected to give. They shone red in the firelight, as bright as glowing coals in a hearth. She could please herself much better than John ever could, almost as well as Andrew used to. High praise, indeed.

Susan felt crushed by the arms of Andrew, the premier dance instructor at Desenfrenada Lujuria. He seemed a contradiction, a walking wall of solid muscle possessing agility and speed. He had dark eyes, dark hair, and a dusky complexion. He looked as if he'd been born in Spain, or Brazil. Only his name, Andrew Davies, hinted at a more pedestrian background. So what. His dance techniques came directly from the scorching streets of Central America, Puerto Rico and Cuba. And when he laid his hands upon her, something burst out of her.

Desire.

Susan dressed in a dark two-piece business suit. The crisp, woolen blazer and skirt were ideal for the office, but not for a dance floor. Her white cotton blouse with mother of pearl buttons looked exquisite with the delicate three strand gold chain. Black silk stockings, and matte-black, patent leather pumps completed her ensemble. Her white-blonde hair remained pinned up in a severe looking bun. The dusky red, almost ochre makeup on her face screamed business. Nothing she wore could be construed as provocative.

So why did she feel like a strumpet in the square?

Everything about this man evoked lust. The sweetness of his breath made Susan's flesh tingle. The air from his lungs entered her mouth, slipping past her tongue and down her welcoming throat. She could barely move her feet. When he placed a hand on her hip to guide her, she felt wetness seep from between her legs. The crotch of her black, lacy panties squished uncomfortably. She prayed that juice wouldn't start dripping down her leg. It didn't matter. Her rigid nipples betrayed her. Even being in the confines of her blouse and jacket didn't prevent him from detecting them. The hard pebbles couldn't be easily ignored. He pretended not the notice, but the back of his hand would often brush across one of them. The sensation almost hurt, like pins being driven into their cores. Electric shocks shot through them. A single glance from him would send similar sparks directly from his eyes to her clitoris. Her rapid breathing couldn't be justified by the mild exercise.

"Are we dancing too quickly? I apologize," Andrew said. "We'll slow down. Let's work more on the hip movements and form, and less on the actual dance steps for now, OK?" His tanned face was all white teeth.

They stopped strolling across the dance floor. They worked on individual steps, and on the motions of hips, arms and legs. She caught herself rubbing against him more than once, to her embarrassment and his apparent delight. Here she was, a mature woman of 58, committing frottage with him like a virgin at a high school dance. She half expected a chaperone to come over and break them up. Guiltily, she looked into his eyes. What she saw there warmed her. He didn't look upset. His eyes sparkled gamely, and with lust. He had John's eyes, and looked at her the way her ex-husband had in the earliest days of their courtship.

The heat of his brown-eyed gaze melted away any reserve that she had. Her shame vanished. Embarrassment is very much like that inadvertently swallowed chunk of ice from a cocktail. It chokes you at first and threatens to kill you. But soon, it melts away as if it had never been. That heated look of Andrew's melted her icy reserve in a second. With this man, she felt good.

"OK Susan, we're going to try some more complicated steps." Andrew moved around her to stand at her rear. He placed both of his hands on her waist. "OK, watch me carefully. This is what we're going to do." Susan glanced to her side and downwards. He kept his liquid hips flowing rapidly, undulating like the waves in a tempest. His feet moved in slow, rhythmic patterns. The dichotomy of the movements intrigued her. "Dance with me, Susan." She moved her hips in similar fashion, trying her best to emulate him. Her feet quickly found the perfect rhythm. He pulled her closer. The jiggly, rotund globes of her ass pushed into his groin. She could feel the entire length of him. As they danced, he ground her against his member. She felt him swell from a mighty branch to the entire tree itself.

Susan shook her head in a vain effort to clear it. The music, the motion, the man. Everything about this afternoon put her in a highly aroused state. She almost couldn't focus on the dancing. "What was that?" she heard herself say. She hadn't even realized that Andrew had been speaking to her.

Andrew laughed, a warm sound that reverberated from deep within his chest. Susan could feel the vibrations against her back and shoulder blades. The two of them stood tightly mated to one another, as if spooning in bed after having sex. "I said that dancing puts one in touch with their innermost desires," Andrew repeated. "I always wonder why it is that more people aren't good dancers, since the movements and the feelings involved are very much like making love. Wouldn't you agree? Everyone knows how to have sex, so why can't everyone dance well? I don't understand. For example, look at you."

Anyone can make love. Not everyone can make love well, she amended silently. "What about me?"

"You claim that you've never danced to Latin music before, but I find that hard to believe. Your movements mark you as a natural. I can tell these things." His right hand snaked around her hips, and caressed her stomach through the jacket. She fluttered underneath his sensuous touch. With the other hand, he took her left hand and laced her fingers through his own. "Don't think so much about the hip motions. Let your feet find the music, and the hips will take care of themselves. They have no choice." Andrew guided Susan through a few more steps, using the hand on her belly to keep her tightly pressed against him. The pressure of his penis against her large ass, coupled with the feel of his hand on her stomach overwhelmed her.

"Unfair, young man. You're taking advantage of my condition."

"Young man? I'm 35." Instead of arguing, he pulled her ass even tighter against his groin.

Her senses left her, her mind devoid of everything except for the music. She had no thoughts left, only emotions.

"Yes. You found it within you," Andrew whispered in her ear.

Indeed she had. What 'it' was, she'd be hard pressed to say, but she reveled in it. For the first time in years, she felt happy. She didn't care what anyone around her thought. She didn't care about anything. She felt alive. She felt beautiful. She felt the dancing sweep her problems away, leaving joy in its place. As the music's tempo changed, Susan changed. She didn't wait for Andrew to advise her. She adapted her swaying to what she heard. Andrew raced to follow her lead. She could predict the music. She couldn't tell whether she followed the music, or the music followed her. It seemed as if the music changed itself to accommodate her motions. She swam in the purest waves of melody.

The feelings started in her stomach, underneath his stroking palm. Desire flowed from this one point of contact and radiated outwards, until it suffused every fiber in her being. They heat radiating from within herself mixed with the warmth coming from outside of her body. The hot Latin Beat infused her, the scalding waves only adding to the flames that raged within her. Her inner fires cooked her from the inside, while the music basted her from the outside. Her juices flowed copiously. She felt more tender, more succulent than any roast she'd ever prepared in her life. Additional gravy unnecessary. Susan became aware of Andrew's fingers, which brushed against the superheated skin of her stomach. His hand had undone the two golden buttons on her navy blazer, and had slipped inside of her blouse. He couldn't get his entire hand between the mother of pearl buttons of her top. Only his fingers managed to gain entry. He ran them along the ridge of her belly button, sliding one inside and wiggling it gently as he pressed against her ass with more insistence. She felt herself stimulated from the front and from the back. Susan pushed her ass against his cock with more insistence and vigour.

"I think that's enough for today, wouldn't you say?" Andrew said. He turned her around gently, and tucked a hand under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. He had beautiful fawn eyes, warm and inviting. She felt quite lost in them. "You are a wild thing, an elemental of the dance. You move like a child does, for the joy of experiencing the motion, totally unrestrained by any rules or formalities. You are great. With practice, you could be magnificent." He stepped back from her, giving her some room to breathe. Her flesh suddenly felt cold from the loss of his touch. She wanted him to back off so she could compose herself, yet, she wanted him back where he had been, holding tightly onto her. How could she be so fickle!

"Introductory lessons are wasted on one such as you. I recommend advanced studies. Twice a week. Let's say, Wednesdays and Saturdays. What do you think?"

Would she agree? She wasn't sure. This could just be the way he got his business. Hit on the older looking, insecure women, romance them up on the dance floor, then sucker them in for a whole bunch of unneeded dance lessons at exorbitant prices.

"What was that dance we were practicing? Merengue? Seis?"

"Actually, that wasn't a dance at all." Andrew's smile lit up the room. "That was us getting to know one another. I had to determine your present dancing ability, did I not?"

Ability, eh? More like fanning the flames in her furnace, then jacking up the price of firewood. Well, she had the cash to spend, but she never enjoyed someone trying to play her for a fool. This young buck could take a hike.

"I'll be here," she said.

Frissons of joy raced through her body, seeming to congregate in the hardened crimson buds of her nipples, her engorged clitoris, her puckered asshole. She sipped delicately from her glass of port, savoring the taste on her tongue as it flowed like sperm down her throat, warm, sweet and sticky. She forced her hands away from her breasts and vulva. Instead, she gently stroked the supersensitive skin of her inner thighs, then ran her hands down her silk-clad legs. She drew her fingers languorously over her inflamed skin. Slowly. Not always gently, but always slowly. She had all night. She had many nights, truth be told. She never enjoyed rushed sex. She liked to take her time.

She felt the oncoming orgasm subside reluctantly, and briefly entertained the idea of getting herself off quickly and be done with it all. Instead, she let the raging insistence die down to a dull ache buried deep in the recesses of her woman's place. The itch did not dissipate, it merely lay in wait. That glowing ember could reignite into a raging fire in short order, and without much stimulation.

She laughed at herself as she stroked the insides of her thighs. Who knew why women often made their own lives difficult? That first dance with Andrew had gone extremely well, and without Reggie's insistence, she never would've pursued the matter further. Regina. She must thank her sometime. Sure, she could be an annoying little busybody who delighted in hopping in and out of anyone's bed. Male, or female. But her shrewd business mind and her honesty made her Susan's best friend. Regina's sharp business sense had made Susan wealthy. Regina knew when to stay in business, and more importantly, when to get the hell out of it. The DotCom Crash hadn't paupered them, as they had liquidated the company weeks beforehand. They had retired from the tech scene with their knickers intact, unsoiled, and still belonging to them. The same couldn't be said for many of their former colleagues.

Things with Andrew had escalated, thanks to a lot of cajoling on Andrew's part. She'd eventually succumbed to his charm. It almost didn't happen. With her beating around the bush, he had come close to losing interest in her. She'd learned from that mistake. Instead of looking at all of the reasons not to do something, like feeling old and worthless, she now looked at the reasons why she should proceed. Particularly if proceeding gave her pleasure. Love may be hard to come by, but satisfaction quite easy. One could obtain it at almost any time, and from anybody. Even from no one but yourself in a pinch. She pinched her nipples roughly as if in affirmation of the thought, and laughed aloud.

Greg had been calling his mother for days. Eventually, Susan had relented and had gone over to visit. She hated going over to her son's home. She didn't hate her son. She loved him to pieces. How could she hate the only baby she had left?

Janice, his bitch wife, she couldn't stand for more than two minutes at a time.

All day she'd put up with Janice flirting with her child. Being married didn't excuse such poor behaviour. Common decency shouldn't be discarded after the ink on a wedding license dried! He couldn't even pass her in the hallway without the slattern running her fingers across his groin, or fondly patting his behind. Once, while breast-feeding Tyler, Janice had squeezed the breast around her nipple while Greg had been walking by. A stream of milk hit him in the face. He laughed this off, but not before popping a finger into his mouth, rolling his eyes in mock appreciation of the unexpected beverage. Both had looked at her surreptitiously to see if she'd seen. Susan had feigned interest in the floor tiles of the kitchen during the disgusting interlude.

Who could like an uncouth slut like this? Susan would never understand what Greg saw in someone like her. They could at least save that kind of behavior until she left. What kind of woman acted that way in public?

What kind of woman dry-humped her instructor during her dance lessons?

That large chunk of shame threatened to coalesce in her throat once again. She swallowed hard, ignoring it. She'd every right to seek happiness, didn't she? She didn't need to feel guilty about anything. After all, she hadn't actually had sex with Andrew. Though she wanted to. And he wanted to as well. Those dancing lessons had gone on for almost six months. She lived for her Advanced Study sessions with him. She hadn't realized that his Wednesday and Saturday sessions would be exclusive, one-on-one classes. Just her, and him. Her dress for her classes had grown more provocative. The businesswoman chic had vanished months ago. She now preferred to wear metallic purple, skin tight capri pants with matching amethyst, latigo leather sandals, and often little more than a violet bandeau top or a lavender baby-T. Her fantastically toned body deserved to be flaunted a bit. Besides, Andrew liked to her to dress up in younger fashions. Especially the strappy, foot revealing high heels she preferred to wear while dancing. Perhaps that allowed him to forget how many years she had on him. About 20 years separated them in age. But when she dressed up in her skin tight pants and do-me heels, he forgot about all that. For those four hours, two times a week, she became his fantasy woman. And that suited her just fine.

Baby Tyler's insistent tugging on her skirt hem brought her back to the present. She bent down and hefted her grandson. Funny how things turned out. She never really liked children. Not to say that she hadn't loved her own children to death. But Motherhood hadn't been a club she wanted to join. It seemed that people were either mothers or women, but not both. Perhaps that is what made her hate Janice. Instead of being the devoted, conservative housewife as she herself had been to John, Janice exuded sensuality. Even with a crying baby in one arm and a wooden mixing spoon in the other hand, Janice could manage to look fresh and attractive, ready to go out cruising at the local bar at any moment.

She didn't hate Janice. She envied her. Being jealous of her son's wife disturbed her. It made no sense to waste that kind of strong emotion on a silly 30-year-old. Susan had been younger than her when she'd had Greg and Trent. Susan had been all of 19 when Greg arrived. She'd been forced to grow up quickly. A twenty-year gap between mother and child wasn't particularly great. After all, Andrew was about 20 years younger than she.

That chunk of ice grew in her windpipe. She couldn't breathe. She'd become a cradle robber. A pedophile. She wanted to screw a man young enough to be her own son. God in heaven, Greg was four years older than Andrew! How could she face him? Or Greg, for that matter? She had to leave this place immediately.