Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 01-03

It's all in fun, he repeated to himself, nothing serious; no harm done.

It was with some surprise, however, that he found himself standing by the self-serve bar – a folding table with a roll-paper cover, holding some pitchers of juice and pop, a couple of bottles of wine, and an ice-chest dotted with beer cans – chatting easily with the siren's sister. She had a pretty face and a pleasant voice. She was young, but comfortable with herself. Her hair hung, rather more limply than her sister's, to her shoulders. Her massive breasts strained within their large imprisoning bra, causing the neckline of her simple printed chemise to gape slightly. A sheen of sweat glistened in her cleavage, warm waves of some unidentifiable but not unpleasant perfume wafted off her chest.

Beer? Matt offered as he picked two cans out of the ice.

She looked about furtively before smiling, Sure – I guess. I've only had one.

Checking for Mom, eh? Matt opened the cans and gave her one. Glass?

Yes, thanks. Carefully emptying the can into the plastic glass, while Matt took that first incredibly satisfying swig, she added, Oh, Mom doesn't really mind – as long as I don't have many. I'll be nineteen in a couple of months anyway – well, less than a year.

Ahh, Matt intoned, understandingly, watching her over his can as she sipped her beer tentatively. Well, I'm Matt. I belong to Jenn over there, he gestured toward the seating area with his can. She's known Patsy for a few years I guess.

Hi. I'm Patsy's cousin Caroline. That's C-A-R-O-L long-I N-E. Not Carolyn. She shrugged, to signify that she didn't know why she had shared that particular tidbit with him.

So are you an O'Connor as well?

No, Michaels, she said without elaborating. She had just finished high school and worked as a clerk at a Seven-Eleven. She had no steady boyfriend and admitted that she was currently a little rudderless, not yet knowing what she wanted from life. They talked a bit about families and weddings. She surprised Matt, and most probably herself as well, by wistfully telling him that she dated very little and was often lonely. Matt thought that he must seem to her a safe, virtually anonymous confidante, being so old and married.

Suddenly the conversation turned to her sister – the sapphire siren. Matt had deliberately avoided bringing up the topic of her sister, so he was delighted when it spontaneously arose.

I suppose, she remarked, rather resignedly, the next family wedding will be Daralyn – Dara, though she's not too keen on marriage yet.

That's your sister?

The sexy one, she sighed, her voice slightly bitter, Yeah.

Well, she's still young to be worrying about that, eh?

Yeah, I guess. Caroline rolled her eyes. Not that she worries about much anyway – a new boyfriend every week...

What could he say to that? Oh?

Yeah. Caroline sounded a little – what? disgusted, maybe? envious? excited?

A brief silence grew between them but before she could excuse herself, Matt, seized by some indefinable impulse, felt a compelling need to touch her. With a thinly veiled urgency tingeing his voice, he asked, May I have this dance?

Before assenting, she gave him a momentarily puzzled look, as if the request were something very peculiar. They took to the floor and joined the swirling parade, dancing to some country crooning by Garth Brooks. It was a slow waltz-ish number and they danced to it in the unsure fashion of near-perfect strangers – hand to hand on his left, his right hand lightly at her waist while her left hand rested on his shoulder at the end of a stiff straight arm. Their pose relaxed only slightly during the course of the tune, but even in that chaste hold, he felt the heat rising from her chest, smelt the pleasant feminine scent. Occasionally her impressive bosom lightly brushed his chest. He loved the feel of mammaries; even through such a delicate touch as that, he could detect their delicious sponginess, the tender depth of their succulence. They smiled at one another curiously but said nothing but thank you once the song was through.

Matt felt a bit stunned as he left the floor. He could still feel where Caroline's boobs had grazed his chest, leaving him with a tingling sensation. He felt the seed of an oppressive guilt germinating in his gut – guilt over his urge to touch her; over his thrill at the feel of her breasts; over his shameless exploitation of her to find out about her sister, and towards Jenn for any of it having occurred. He gave his head a figurative shake, I must be nuts. Then he caught sight of Caroline's sister again – the sapphire siren, Daralyn, Dara. Jesus...

Jenn had just come off the dance floor herself as he arrived at their table, so they went back out and danced together while she told him some juice about a bridesmaid. He nodded and smiled but was only half listening. Maybe he could actually dance with Dara, touch her, hold her. But, he reasoned to himself, to what end? He leaned forward to brush Jenn's forehead with a kiss, as he muttered silently to himself, Damned if I know; damned if I know. We shall see, I s'pose; we shall see what we shall see.

The evening progressed as one might expect. No one presented him with an engraved invitation to dance with – or screw – Dara, and a suitable opportunity for neither arose. While he sat covertly observing, when he wasn't chatting with Jenn, or dancing, he ran vignettes through his mind's eye.

Hi! I'm Matt and I fuck. How do you like me so far? Despite the age of the line, Matt ran it through his head several times, imagining the different responses.

I'm Dara. So do I. Let's split, or Let's do it, now! right there on the floor, or Fuck off, creep! or, more likely just, Smack!! So it goes. He smiled sheepishly. It was, after all, just a little game – a small diversion that would surely come to naught.

Matt danced a lot with Jenn. They enjoyed dancing and, after thirteen some-odd years of practice, they managed pretty well together. The do-your-own-thing style of the seventies was finally surrendering its hold. More often than not couples tried to remain in touch even during fast dances. Matt and Jenn attempted to jive, or quasi-jive whenever the music was really way too fast to clutch dance, but they slow-danced as much as possible. With very slow songs, the ones in which everyone waltzed, they engaged in an almost adolescent suffocation-waltz in which Matt tried to imprint Jenn's nipples onto his chest, caressing and squeezing her buttocks, crotch to thigh. What would begin as a dance would generally slow to a gently rocking embrace.

But it was at the upper range of slow-dances where Jenn was so expert. Matt knew that she could fire him up like a Roman candle, light him up like a flare during a fast clutch. And she did it several times that evening – teasing his sex with her active thigh; coming in to brush his throat with her lips; massaging his neck roughly; in and out; together and apart; grazing his chest with her breasts, her high-beam prominent; transient fingers on his nipples; a quick peck on the lips; a tip of her tongue, then spinning away to dip under his arm, only to fly back, hard against his chest. At the ends of some of the pieces, he had to sit down to rearrange his uncomfortably restricted stiffness. At many a break he only waited for her to give the word and they would have been gone, but Jenn was enjoying herself and wasn't yet ready to leave, so they stayed on.

As exhaustion came upon them, they sat out a number or two. Matt's attention, as soon as it was unoccupied, flitted back to that exotic enchantress – magnetically drawn back to Dara, a girl – a young woman – he had not even met. He watched her lead her beau across the floor; he watched her perform intimate steps for him, the lunk; he watched her clandestine provocation, her artistic stimulation, and, although it was probably not apparent to any but those who, like Matt, watched intently, her shameless arousal of her guileless partner.

The bride and groom commanded everyone's attention for a while. Changed into their traveling clothes, they threw the garter and bouquet. Dara made no attempt to catch the bouquet, looking as if she had plans that didn't include marriage. Her partner tried for the garter but was beaten out by a youngster who beamed and laughed and showed his prize around. It would probably spend the next few years tacked to his bedroom wall. Then the newlyweds were gone, waving good-bye as their car rattled out of the parking lot and into the night, the clattering cans and flapping streamers fading in the dark distance.

But the party went on. The dancing resumed. And when, the thought nagged in the back of Matt's mind, would that lucky young twerp – a new boyfriend every week, huh – when would he get to taste the siren's nectar, dip his staff into her wellspring? As it went, neither Matt nor the boyfriend had long to wait, for Matt soon saw them say their good-byes to various aunts and cousins, and take their leave. He just knew that that kid, that undeserving little prick was about to get screwed silly. Irrationally, it made Matt furiously jealous, that it was the boyfriend and not – well – him that would get laid by Dara very shortly. Well, she had certainly been a pleasure to watch.

During the next dance, Matt's imagination drifted to scenes of Dara and her spellbound escort engaged in all manner of lovemaking. Where would they do it? In the car? An apartment? The clichéd motel? At home, next to the parents' bedroom, while the siblings watched TV downstairs? Maybe in Mom's bed while she lingered at the wedding? Or out in the backyard, beneath the roses, shooing away a snuffling dog who'd been attracted by the primal scent of love? Wherever, it would be raw and frenzied with variation and persistence. How many times would they climax?

The tempo picked up for the last song and Jenn, with an almost sinister glint in her eye, turned it on with both barrels. By the time the song was over all thoughts of Dara had been vanquished and he could hardly move he was so horny. With the appropriate farewells, Matt and Jenn made their way across the parking lot, Jenn snuggled against her hubby, Matt more or less toddling uncomfortably due to his persistent erection. Once they reached the car – Matt's deep yellow Nissan 300ZX Turbo – Jenn announced, I'd better drive, eh? and snaked her hand into his pocket for the keys, pausing to stroke his steely erection. Hah! she said, giving him a knowing look.

They wasted no time.