Dance Me to the End of Love Ch. 01

(Rev. Feb '21)

{A modern love story, by turns mysterious, romantic, comedic, and very dirty.}

(Author's Note: This revision corrects a couple of copy-editing mistakes, and a continuity error, I missed the first time. Additional chapters in the saga coming soon.)

Prologue -- Just the Two of Us

The cocktail dress you've chosen for this evening is probably your favorite; it's definitely mine. It's elegantly simple, comfortable, but not boring (subjective: your words). It's flattering to your curves, short but not outrageous, tastefully low-cut, but offers better than a hint of cleavage (subjective: my words). Accessorize it with a tiny dab of Halston, and you're irresistible, unstoppable (objective).

It's the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, and we're hosting a little afternoon/evening "summer kickoff." It's going well, as our (read: your) parties always do. That's one of the things I love about you.

Tonight, it's a modest-sized group of guests—just a few of our friends, neighbors, and work colleagues. And their partners. They all know each other, work together, or have at least met at one of our parties. In other words, it's a bunch of semi-boring grownups. (There, I said it. Happy?)

New Toy

One of the few exceptions is the guy who's just arrived. A bit (say, 20 years) younger than the rest of us, he doesn't seem to know anyone here, and he's alone. New to the area, he recently joined my company, where he's already shown himself to be very capable, though a little shy or socially awkward. You and I mused about this, as I've told you he's smart, articulate, and interesting. And now you discover that he's also a little taller than you (so he's at least a head taller than I am), well dressed, and quite good-looking. That person about whom we jokingly say "Well, they're rah-ther attractive, aren't they?"

You welcome him in, introducing yourselves in the process; I rush over, apologizing for not making a more formal introduction [me: lame grin emoji - you: eye roll emoji], greet him, and shake hands. And you're immediately in your element—you fix him a drink, start casually introducing him to other guests, proffer interesting topics of conversation, and within minutes, he seems completely at home. The charm, grace, and warmth you convey puts people instantly at their ease (and I'd be remiss not to say that it's helped our careers, as well). This is another thing I love about you.

Shortly, as he and I—after swearing that we wouldn't—proceed to talk about work, then a movie we've both seen recently, you're in constant motion, chatting, laughing, ensuring that everyone's enjoying the party, and occasionally looking our way. Besides admiring your skill as a host, I confess that I'm admiring your figure, as you glide about the room in that little black dress.

A few feet away, you bend to retrieve a couple of empty glasses, and for a split-second, I see your hips do a little shimmy. It's barely perceptible, but I notice. While I doubt that anybody else does, a quick sideways glance makes me realize that I'm not the only one who saw that tiny, subtle, sexy movement. He blinks a few times, regains his composure, and I understand that it was definitely not for my benefit.

You rejoin us within a few minutes, and I split off to catch up with an old friend who is, like me, an unrepentant old music (OK, prog-rock) nerd. Often somewhat blunt, he questions how you and I don't ever seem to age, and then flat-out states that you look hotter every time he sees you. (He and I have known each other a very long time, and, though the latter comment is a bit sexist, I know it's his form of a compliment. I silently, completely, agree with him.)

I'm quite sure our new guest overheard this, and he briefly looks my way, nonplussed for the second time in ten minutes. But you sweep him up in a conversation about a book you've just discovered, "...a translation of 19th Century Balinese religious texts—it's essentially erotic poetry, rather explicit—who knew that was even a thing?" If his interest wasn't already piqued, that (perhaps aided by a couple of glasses of wine) clearly does the trick; you, however, just blithely proceed to point out other books on our shelves that you think he'd like.

We continue working the party, now and then saving him from less-interesting guests (what can I say, they're not all stellar conversationalists...). You start talking with him about some improvements we're planning to make around the house, asking his opinion, and asking him more about himself: Is he in a relationship? ("No"); Where's he from? ("Chicago"); Where does he live now? ("Downtown"); How does he feel the job is going, because it sounds like he's doing really well? ("It's pretty exciting"). All this time (really, from the moment he walked in), you're warm and encouraging, occasionally brushing his arm or shoulder lightly, and flashing that charming smile.

I'm watching a master craftsperson, like a sculptor or a glassblower, at work. Exquisite. Did I forget to mention this is another thing I love about you?

You ask, "Can I show you the rest of the house?" He obliges, and the two of you amble away, discussing architecture, cities, art—highbrow, grownup stuff. As "the tour" continues out of my sight, I know you're showing him the artsy (description: pretentious, but you still like them), abstract nude photographs I took when I was much younger, and a couple of pieces by well-known artists, that you were lucky (read: savvy) enough to acquire before they were well-known artists.

Returning to the kitchen, where I've been doing dishes, you ask him "I must sound like your typical boring old suburbanite, huh?" Smiling, and quickly shaking his head, he replies, "Nah. No way!" After refreshing your drinks, you take his arm, saying "OK, I promise I'm just gonna show you one more room, that I think you'll get a kick out of," and leave the kitchen, laughing. The joy you get from bringing people into our home and our life is just another thing I love about you. I smile, and continue rinsing out glasses. Then, curious, I decide to follow.

You've headed toward the back of the house, already making your way down the stairs to the basement. [Destination: The old TV room.] On the way, I can just hear you describing how this room was once used "to watch, and re-watch (and re-watch), Harry Potter movies." And that by the time the kids reached high school, and through their college years, the room, with its huge sectional couch, "...evolved into a quote-unquote legendary hangout—and occasional crash pad—for them, their friends, friends of friends, and so on."

As I approach, I see the door is wide open. But, hearing you casually add, "We're quite sure it's seen more than its fair share of weed smoking, underage drinking, and teenage sex, y'know?" I stop before crossing the threshold. Retreating several feet, I back into the dark laundry closet. From this vantage point, I can pretty much see the entire room.

The early evening sunlight is still streaming through the small window in the corner, but you switch on a few lava lamps for the full effect. He turns slowly, amazed at the hundreds of declarations of "[Name] was here, [Year]," graffiti tags, drawings, "deep" song lyrics and quotes, and iconic popular, cultural, and political images adorning every square inch of the walls (and even some of the ceiling).

Some Like It Hot

Joining him in the center of the room, rotating slowly, dreamily, edging closer to him, you ask, in barely more than a whisper, "Do you love it or what?" And when your eyes meet the next time, he gently pulls you into his arms and you kiss, fervently, hungrily, deeply. Your lips and tongues taste new sensations, and your hands explore each other, gently, then more urgently. You allow him the brief pleasure of caressing and squeezing your gorgeous breasts, but, sensing his hand descending to reach between your legs, you break away from him, laugh lightly, toss your hair back, and, grabbing both of his hands, pull him backward with you.

Perching on the edge of the couch, you plant him, still standing, right in front of you. Before he even realizes what's happening, you've undone his belt, button and zipper in one fluid movement, causing his [very nice] jeans to fall to the floor. He's wearing athletic-looking briefs that accentuate his tight [obviously in good shape] butt; he just stands there stammering, "W-Wait, I mean, y-y-you're..." To which you reply, your voice a husky purr, "Honey, just relax and enjoy yourself—isn't that what parties are for? We're all adults here. Anyway, like I said, no one comes down here except to do laundry." I can't quite see what you're doing, but I see your hands moving and I see him shudder.
I can almost catch the scent of your perfume, and feel a tingling between my own legs as I suddenly become very aroused.

You shift slightly to your left, moving him with you, and this affords me a clear view of the scene, and I could swear I see you wink. Inserting a couple of fingers in the waistband of his [cool, sexy] underwear, you yank them down, and his member pops out as if it's spring-loaded. I hear you both gasp a little.

His penis is already unmistakably, fully erect—and I'd be willing to bet that it has been for at least the last hour that you've had him in tow. I see your eyes widen—it's not porn star-Boogie Nights-comically large, but it's definitely bigger than anything you expected. You begin stroking it very lightly with one hand, and then add your other hand, alternating between gently cupping and tugging on his balls, and lightly tracing your fingertips around the tip. Gradually, you switch to massaging it with both hands, like you're wringing out a washcloth. He's standing stock-still, eyes closed now, his breath growing louder and faster.

Then you bring your face close to him, adding your warm breath to the caress of your hands, and when you gently take him in your mouth; he gasps again, much louder. I watch your lips glide up and down his shaft, pausing now and then to run your tongue over the head, and flick it over his balls. You're working his manhood vigorously with your hands, and straining to take the whole thing into your mouth, but the last inch or so eludes you. I see you furrow your brow as you continue to suck him in; you're determined to figure this out. You never give up. This is something I especially love about you.

I watch, transfixed, and without even realizing it, start massaging my own rock-hard organ, as it strains against the light fabric of my linen pants.

Suddenly, you stop, withdraw your mouth, and, swinging your legs around onto the sectional, flip onto your back. In the second it takes to do this, and adjust your position, his eyes open in surprise. He does an almost comical double take as he sees you sprawled upside-down, your head hanging over the edge of the couch. But before he can say anything, you pull him back, literally growling, "C'mon---fuck my mouth. Now!" It works.

I see his hips pump instinctively, rhythmically, but your filthy talk and the wildly lurid scene are too much. Within seconds, he's panting and repeating "Oh my god...oh my GOD" in a hoarse whisper. Starting to climax, his body jerks involuntarily, forcing his cock further into your mouth than you even thought possible. Momentarily surprised, you pull it out just as his orgasm erupts, and two big spurts of cum paint a jagged white stripe down the middle of your dress. Fearing an even bigger mess, you stuff him back into your mouth, swallowing reflexively, but the big rod pulses just one more time, producing a few drops.

He stands there dazed, his erection deflating rapidly, mumbling "Oh my god, what did we do? That was insane!" when you suddenly say, "Sssh! What the f—? I think there's someone in the bathroom down here. Move it!"

As he scrambles to pull his pants back on and run for the stairs, I can see a little smirk on your face. I quickly duck back into the dark as he passes. Then I wait and listen as you make your way to the bathroom. The door closes, the light goes on, the toilet flushes, the sink runs for a bit; I step out of the dark as I hear you start to emerge.

Epilog - The Sweetest Taboo

"Oh, hey babe!" you say, flashing me a glowing smile. "I accidentally spilled something down the front of my dress—y'know me, multitasking, trying to make our guests happy... Thank god it's black, so it won't show. Other bathroom was full, so I came down. You?" I mumble that I came down to look for something. "And?" you tease me, drawing the word out to what feels like four syllables. "And what?" I tease you back. "And, did you find what you were looking for?" Now smirking myself, I say "Oh yeah."

Looking down, you see the bulge in my pants and, chirp "Hey fella!" as if you're talking to a puppy. Squeezing past me, you reprise that little twerk that set this whole evening in motion, only this time you actually grind a couple of times against my still-throbbing member. This is way more than I can stand, and as you head for the stairs laughing, I dash into the bathroom, knowing it's already too late—I'm helpless to stop the flood spreading over the front of my pants. I clean up as quickly as I can, change into a pair of jeans I find in the laundry, and head back upstairs.

By the time I rejoin you, the new guy is gone, but you tell me that he very graciously (and formally) said thank you for a lovely evening, that he enjoyed seeing our beautiful home, that he felt very welcomed and, of course, that he'd see me at work next week.

When the last of the guests are gone, you kick off your shoes and flop down on a couch in the living room declaring "OK, now I'm officially tired..." As is our custom, I bring you a nightcap, and massage your feet. Then, your beautiful face wearing a mischievous smile, you say "Well, that was a pretty successful evening, huh, babe?"

Smiling too, I merely answer "Yup."

"Wanna do a 4th of July barbecue, or some such?"

"I guess. Maybe."

"You don't sound so enthusiastic."

"Mmmnh."

"Well... How would you feel about it if I let you plan the entertainment?"

"Now that sounds like a plan I could get behind." Then I add, "Know what I love about you?"

Bemused, you say, "Hmm, not sure I should answer that one. OK, what do you love about me?"

"Everything!"