Time Dancer Ch. 01

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Accidental meeting in Waikiki leads to an unusual place.
8.5k words
4.73
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Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 01/06/2011
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An accidental meeting lead to a sexual encounter under most unusual circumstances.

It was about 6:15 in the evening as I walked to Starbucks, just down the block from my hotel opposite the zoo. It was unusual for me to be alone, normally my wife would accompany me on any excuse to visit Oahu. The reasons for my solitude were forgotten as I appreciated the magic of the evening light, the last rays of the setting sun brushing everything with liquid gold. Waikiki was in the midst of its shift change as tourists and surfboards gave way to the party crowd, the diners and other denizens of the evening.

Starbucks was busy, the line practically to the door. I was in no hurry, no where to go, and I would much rather enjoy the rapidly changing light in those last moments of dusk. There is a word to describe that time of day. I had needed it recently to complete an NYT crossword. I search the recesses of memory, ah yes "gloaming" I believe. I took a seat among my fellow caffeine addicts outside and relaxed, waiting for the line to dwindle, my mind drifting with the music on my iPod.

Suddenly Waikiki receded, the sounds of the busy city muted, and, as if watching a movie play before my eyes, I saw . .a darkened alley . . .

I lead her by the hand down the alley, stop suddenly and spin her back to the wall, my fingers reaching for the hem of her skirt. There is no resistance other than a feeble "Security . . . what about . . ." She gasps as I drop to my knee in front of her, lifting her skirt to her waist and burying my face between her thighs inhaling deeply. An involuntary little cry escapes her lips as my tongue laps at the wetness soaking through the black lace panties she is wearing. My hands slide between her thighs to cup her ass, spreading her open against my mouth as I suck the juice from her hot, wet core, my lips and teeth teasing her clit through the lace . . . ."

A siren wailed in the distance breaking the spell. As the image faded, a wistful thought crossed my mind that all my daydreams should be that vivid and so entertaining. I glanced into the store, noting that the line had shortened considerably

"A vente Mocha with whipped cream, make it a triple shot please." I'll indulge myself, I thought, although in the back of my mind I was appalled by how many calories were in the damn thing. Still I needed the caffeine shot, it had been a long day, awake long before dawn to catch the first flight to Oahu.

I tried to reconstruct the fleeting erotic image, but it was no use. "Mocha for Andrew" called the barista. A taste . . . perfect, and I headed for the door.

Carlos Libedinsky started playing on my iPod, from the album Narcotango. One of my favorite tracks, it took me by surprise as I had forgotten it was on this playlist. At the door I stumbled, trying to juggle my coffee, purse, adjust the iPod volume, open the door and keep the newspaper from sliding out from underneath my arm. I could have recovered were it not for a sudden shudder, an earthquake? No, it was too short, almost instantaneous, no-else appeared to have noticed anything.

Unfortunately she was trying to enter at the same time. In a hurry; no, not in a hurry but obviously distracted. It seemed like she was in a different time zone. I tried to do the gentlemanly thing and hold the door for her, but disaster struck. I lost my grip on the coffee and half my Mocha spilt on her white blouse! She was definitely back in this time zone now. I was mortified, wishing the ground would split open and swallow me whole. As I began to stammer out an apology she appeared on the edge of tears. A dizzying rush of different naked emotions flitted across her face in rapid succession before she collected herself. For a moment I was stunned at what I just witnessed. What was that?

"God, I'm so sorry" I stammered, offering a handkerchief in a feeble attempt to undo the damage. "OK, it was an accident" she said avoiding my eyes.

How could she be so gracious? I would probably be on the edge of a meltdown. She appeared more embarrassed than I was. "I wasn't looking where I was going" she added. She's trying to put ME at ease? Huh?

I took a closer look at the blouse, and surveyed the mess. It was worse than I thought, exquisite lace, almost certainly antique and irreplaceable, likely to be permanently stained if the damn coffee and chocolate were allowed to dry out.

The same thought occurred to her at the same time, and the tears began to well up in her eyes. "It was my grandmother's," she whispered, as much to herself as to me.

"Look, you don't know me from Adam, but you have to trust me" I blurted the words out. "If that's not rinsed and washed immediately, it's going to be ruined. My hotel is just down the block, I know they have a laundry facility. Let's take care of it immediately."

Her eyes dropped to the ground.

"That is, if you're not in rush to get somewhere" I went on uncertainly. She was drifting again, her eyes on Diamond Head, but her mind obviously somewhere else.

"The evening's already a disaster" she murmured. "Bastard"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing – what did you say. Oh yes." She looked directly into my eyes for the first time. Her examination was piercing, searching, analytical, I felt that nothing was hidden from her, as if she was looking into my very soul. The eye contact was held a beat too long for comfort when a decision was made and she visibly relaxed. "Where are you staying?"

"Queen Kapiolani, it's just down . ."

"I know where it is." She turned abruptly and started walking briskly down Kapahulu. Perhaps she was anxious to get moving before she changed her mind? I had to jog a couple of steps to catch up with her.

I stole sideways glances at her as we covered the few yards to the hotel steps, but she studiously avoided eye contact. "We'll go to my room first, I'll lend you one of my shirts while we're washing your blouse." She nodded. "The elevators are over there" I point out. "They're always slow." The elevator doors opened immediately to prove me a liar. Sunburned tourists crowded in with us, sparing us the awkwardness of elevator conversation in an otherwise empty car.

The elevator doors opened at my floor to an empty corridor. She hesitated, suddenly vulnerable and uncertain. "You're not a weirdo?" She tried to make a joke out of it, but she was clearly apprehensive.

I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, put my hand over my heart "a perfect gentleman I swear."

I ushered her in to my room. "The bathroom is over there, I suggest you rinse out as much as you can before we wash it. There's some Dr. Brenner's in there, you can use that for washing anything." I found a shirt for her to wear, and she disappeared with it into the bathroom.

Behind the half closed door I heard the sound of running water, and what I was sure was muffled sobbing. I slipped the iPod into its cradle and frantically scanning for appropriate music for the occasion. Nothing came to mind, so I settled on Michael Franks. Jazzy, mellow . . . that'll have to do.

"I'll have to wash these slacks too" she called, "do you have some pants I can wear."

"Just some sweats. I'm traveling light." I was just here for a couple of days of business, and not prepared for dressing damsels in distress.

"That'll do." She accepted the proffered garment.

When she came out of the bathroom and I had to suppress a giggle. The shirt looked kinda sexy on her, but the sweats were comical. "I'm sorry, there's no way I can let you appear in public looking like that. Let me take your clothes down and put them in the washing machine. You just relax here, I'll be back in a few minutes. Anything I can get you while I'm downstairs."

"No thanks, let's just get these clothes clean." She was drifting off again. Where did she go?

I pondered the enigma of this woman as I made my way to the laundry. Her perfume hung provocatively on her clothing and I could not resist lifting the blouse to my nose and inhaling deeply. It was intoxicating; literally intoxicating, as if some highly potent designer pheromone had suddenly scrambled multiple neurotransmitters in my brain. I felt high and every sense was immediately more acute. I examined the slacks more carefully, now aware of a tactile quality of the fabric unlike anything I had previously encountered. The label was unfamiliar, as was the language. The workmanship of the garment was curious, with supple rolled seams, as if welded rather than sewn. My mind rejected the oddities as I started the load and returned to the room, now more intrigued by mystery waiting there. She obviously had a lot on her mind, and "tonight was already a disaster", what did that mean?

I hesitated at the door, for a moment apprehensive, before slipping the card into the lock and opening the door. Walking into the room I was struck with a palpable feeling of dislocation, like a tremor in the fabric of space-time itself. She was sitting at the table examining the iPod but something strange was happening. Then I realized. It was not playing Michael Franks anymore! Instead "Esta Noche", Carlos Libedinsky, this was so freaking weird, it just couldn't be. But it was, the same track that was playing when our worlds collided.

As I stepped into the room it felt as if an invisible force field momentarily resisted my movement. I pushed and felt it give way, but the room began to spin slowly. Suddenly I experienced a sensation of the floor giving way – as if the entire room were an elevator car in a bottomless elevator suddenly dropping in free fall. The room dimmed and was silent. All I could hear was my heart pounding and the blood rushing in my ears. A jolt brought me back to reality. What the hell?

I looked at her again and she seemed somehow different, taller and softer. Until this moment I hadn't the opportunity to really SEE her, so distracted was I by my embarrassment and the urgent need to rescue the garment. I would have sworn she was shorter, the hair a different shade and longer, the face more angular. That doesn't make sense, I told myself, you're imagining things.

"What was that, did you feel it?"

"What do you mean?" I lied, unable to make sense of or even articulate what had just happened.

"There's a disturbance in the force, Luke" she said in a poor imitation of Alec Guinness. She shivered. "Just my imagination" favoring me with a winsome smile before turning back to the iPod.

"I hope you don't mind I changed the playlist. I was curious to see what you had in here. It's one of my many quirks. You can tell a lot about people from their books and music collections. You dance Argentine tango" a statement not a question. She was still peering intently at the iPod.

I was still stunned by the coincidence of the music and a quickly fading feeling of unreality, and could barely get the words out. "Yes, but still a novice. Please don't think for one moment that the extent my collection of tango music on that thing in any way correlates with my abilities." She laughed pleasantly and turned towards me. The cabeceo was unmistakable, the tilt, the eyes, the nod. A non-verbal "shall we."

I stepped toward her, stopping an appropriate step or so away from her. "Go on" her eyes encouraged and I offered my hand. She rose and stepped into me, her left arm slipping smoothly around my neck into a close embrace. A moment of panic but I completed the hold.

"I know that purists would say it ain't Argentine if it ain't close embrace, but I'm still not real comfortable dancing in close embrace. In classes, we're starting with a more open hold." We haven't taken a step and I already knew that she was a far better dancer than I.

"That's OK, just relax and let's see what happens." At least she opened a little, but it was still much closer than I was used to.

Shifting weight, side to side, feeling the music and establishing the connection, I took comfort in the familiarity. Her right arm was toned, the frame firm, she would be easy to lead. I changed the cadence of the weight shifts and she stayed right with me. A step, tentative at first, then another and another. The room was not spacious, but I tried to imagine us in a crowded milonga and the space expanded. I led her into a cruzada and her movements were smooth and precise. A backward ocho, a backward ocho into a molinete, she made it so easy. I was aware that I had never danced this well. An ocho cortado, a barrida, a boleo and enganche and I was in awe of the magic of the moment and the sensuality of the dance.

I realized suddenly that she was back into a very close embrace, and I also became aware of a serious distraction. I now had a throbbing erection! Had she noticed? The magical connection was lost, the last quarter of the dance more ragged. I was more intent on keeping my boner from brushing against her than the dance, but we finished competently enough. I ended with a theatrical bow.

"Thank you. You're fantastic". She accepted the complement graciously.

"Keep at it, you've got talent" she replied and returned to the chair.

I bustled anxiously around the room tidying my piles of odds and ends, as much as to allow my erection to subside as anything else. "Where are my manners . . . can I offer you a glass of wine. I have a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge." With the arch accent of a wine-snob I added: "not a sophisticated wine, I afraid, but the light fruitiness is rather a delight on the palate when there's nothing better to drink." She laughed.

I joined her at the table with the wine. Her mood was suddenly somber and I felt her drifting again.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"I think you have a lot on your mind right now, and today has been an especially bad day." I paused and she looked at me expectantly.

"Earlier when you said that the evening was already a disaster, what did you mean?"

"I said that?" I nodded.

"You don't want to hear about my drama."

"I'm a good listener. Whatever it is, it's eating at you. It might do you some good to vent."

She looked away. I don't think she wanted me to see that her eyes were beginning to brim with tears. Silence. I waited.

The voice was small and distant "this was supposed to be our night out, the first in ages. The kids with my mother. Then he calls and says he has to work late. Does he think I'm so stupid that I don't see through that tired old excuse? I guess I have been stupid for expecting him to change. Like that's ever going to happen." She slipped into an accusatory third person. "Why are you such a masochist? You call him back at work, of course he's not freaking there. You freaking knew he was not going to be there before you even made the damn call. Why torture yourself? You know he's with her."

She turned to me, the voice more determined and slipped back into the first person.

"I'm ending it. I knew this was going to happen this evening, hell I think I wanted it to happen. This is the last goddamn time he's going to disappoint me. God, what a dismal stereotype . . . marriage fails because of the other woman. End of story."

She looked pointedly at my wedding ring. "You're married."

"Yes."

"Happily?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to stay happily married?"

"I think so" I said lightly, not appreciating the seriousness in her tone of voice.

"I think so. I THINK SO. What the HELL kind of answer is 'I think so'." Her sudden venom took me aback. "Either you're committed or you're not. Are you committed or not." Before I could answer, all the steam went out of her and she buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, that's my shit. You don't have to answer."

"No, that's OK. The question deserves a definitive answer. Yes, I am totally committed to being married until death do us part, as the vows say."

"You left out the word happily." Damn, she's sharp, I thought. I went on to stammer out the facts of our marriage, our history, commitment, trials and tribulations. She listened intently, the piercing eye contact back, vigilant for any evidence of insincerity or deception, a veritable human lie detector. As I ran out of words, an unspoken "but" hung in the air.

"But?" She articulated the pregnant word.

"She's anorgasmic."

"What? Oh, I see. Oh dear." She looked at me sadly, her eyes consoling and gentle.

The story came out in a rush. The back problems, the surgeries, complications, and tragic consequences. The sense of guilt and responsibility, all the 'could haves, would have, should haves' that accumulate as the psychic detritus of years of adjusting to a cataclysmic life changing event. And the cruelest consequence of all.

"Never?"

"It's been over 20 years since she climaxed. Don't get me wrong. We have good sex, but it's all about my satisfaction not hers. I know she enjoys our physical intimacy, but it has to be frustrating for her to dance on the edge of orgasm and never get there."

I had to turn away from the eyes that were still burning into me, from which nothing could be hidden. "Sometimes I think I miss it more than she does, that she's come to terms with it better than I have." My throat was tight and I could barely get the words out. "I haven't experienced the exhilaration of bringing a woman to climax in more years than I care to remember."

A long silence. I couldn't face her.

"I guess it's too much to expect that a happily married man would be carrying condoms?"

I turned to look at her in amazement. She was serious. "Well, as a matter of fact . . ." Remarkably, previous occupants of this room had left a half full box of contraceptives along with a bottle of perfumed body lotion in the drawer of the bedside table and they had escaped the scrutiny of the maid. " . . . yes I do." .

She slowly rose from the chair, her face expressionless, her eyes still burning into me. Slowly she unbuttoned the shirt, let it drop to the floor, revealing breasts cupped by a lacy black bra. She slipped easily out of the sweats. The matching panties were tight over the lips of her pussy. She paused. My heart was pounding, my mouth dry. Her eyes softened, and a gentle smile played at the corners of her mouth. Reaching behind her back, she struggled for a moment with the snap of the bra, and then it was gone. Another pause and she quickly slipped her panties to the floor and took a step toward me.

Time stood still. I could barely breathe as I gazed at her naked form. Thick, short brown hair; seductive brown eyes; beautifully formed breasts; average build, soft and appealing; and best of all, a completely hairless pubic area. I was instantly aroused as I imagined burying my face between her thighs and licking and sucking at that inviting pussy.

She tilted her head, her eyes beckoned, and then the imperceptible nod. Again, the cabeceo, the invitation, but not to dance.

Moments passed in a blur, and we were both naked on the bed. She reached for the condoms I had found and began to tear at the packaging before I stopped her.

"Not yet." She showed a moment of anxiety. "We'll use them. Just not yet. Relax." I pushed her gently back into the pillows and knelt beside her. "Close your eyes and don't move. Just feel."

I slowly traced a line with my fingertips from her lips to her pussy barely touching the skin, and taking full measure of the beauty before me. Soft and inviting. I leant forward and gave a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. The ear-ring was distracting, so I took it off and placed it on the bed-side table before gently nibbling on her ear lobe. She heard my heavy breathing and our breaths began to synchronize. My lips and tongue explored her jaw, moving slowly down her neck to her torso. I stopped for a moment to admire the areolae and nipples. I buried my face between her breasts before sliding to one side and taking much of her right breast into my mouth. I let the breast retreat and concentrated attention on the nipple and areola now engorged with passion. I sucked hard on the nipple, at the same time attacking it hungrily with my tongue. She groaned, stiffened for a moment before settling back, wiggly slightly to find a more relaxed position. "Yes", she murmured almost inaudibly. My tongue traced circles around the edge of the areola then returned to tease the nipple. Circle, tease, suck hard, caress softly. The order and rhythm were unpredictable, teasing. I shifted attention to the other breast, now given the same attention. My lips or tongue had not left her body for one second. I broke contact and enjoyed the expression on her face. Her eyes opened and look at me questioning. "It's OK, shut your eyes."