Dancing in Tuscany

Tuscany is everything you hoped it would be. Rolling Mediterranean hills lined with cypress trees, acres and acres of vineyards, delightful architecture and arts, marketplaces that are a feast for the senses, cuisine to die for, and sunny, cool weather that is as yummy to your skin as the food is to your tongue. You remind yourself again that Charles, your boyfriend of two years, is bankrolling this entire vacation. That kind of financial freedom is important, right? Yesterday at the crafts museum you saw an antique vase that you fell in love with, and Charles didn't blink at the cost. He said, "It's beautiful! You've got great taste." And out came his Euros and the vase got wrapped for shipping home. Money does matter—a lot—and it's going to matter more as you get older. Right?

This evening, you and Charles are dining under a lovely wooden pavilion with little colored lights decorating the eaves and rafters. On the small stage a stringed orchestra is playing tango music and though it's not a part of tonight's scheduled dance performance, some of the locals are very good. Tango dancing is so sexy! The whole setting is romantic as hell and—no surprise—in fact, exactly as you expected, Charles has gone down on one knee to propose marriage to you.

The crowd has hushed. Even some of the dancers have stopped to watch. No pressure on you.

You're gazing down at his hopeful face. Charles Beaumont. Corporate tax lawyer. Harvard-educated. Brilliant intellectual. Knows a Monet from a Manet. A steadfast and good-hearted man. But sometimes you worry that he's a bit too steadfast. As in, rather predictable, as in, even a bit boring. Will marriage to him mean decades of a relationship that offers no real surprises? Everything exactly as expected?

But if you're concerned that Charles is not as exciting as you'd like a lover to be, why are you, one of the last of the true bohemians, a globe-trotting vagabond, a ceramics artist and teacher, lover of wonders and surprises—why are you saying "Yes"? And don't blame it on the crowd, although they do clap and cheer when Charles stands and embraces you, lifting you off your feet.

Why? Because you're in your mid-thirties and the wealth and dependability of Charles Beaumont, esquire, seems safe and secure.

The restaurant owner comes to the table to personally congratulate the happy couple. He gives you a free bottle of some cheap wine, and Charles good-heartedly accepts it, then orders bottles of a much better vintage for everyone at the dozen tables of the outdoor restaurant. More cheers.

You're smiling and trying to keep up with the conversation at the table, but some compartment of your brain is musing about how you've chosen safety and security over thrills. You're not sure you've done the right thing, and you're already wondering if there's a graceful way to back out of the commitment of marriage you've just made.

A man on stage announces in Italian and then in English that tonight's flamenco performance is about to begin. It's a moonless night and beyond the festive lights of the pavilion, the dark is like a black velvet curtain. The dancers, a woman and man, and two guitarists, seem to step into the light from out of nowhere. As soon as their fancy boots hit the wooden dance floor, the staccato heel clicks of flamenco begin. The guitarists are handed down chairs from the stage and they begin a furious strumming and picking to accompany the dancers at floor level.

You know from having already read the program notes that the male dancer, from Madrid, is 21. His name is Viro, a name so macho it made you chuckle, until you laid eyes on him. Wow! He's stunningly good-looking, with shoulder-length coal-black hair and dark green eyes. You're not sure if he's wearing mascara or he really does have eyelashes that gorgeous. He's wearing a deep purple silk blouse with ruffles down the chest and puffy sleeves, over black leather pants with hammered silver studs up the sides, and a crotch so tight you can clearly make out the big head of his cock. The woman dancing with him is more handsome than pretty, with thick hair pulled to one side that falls to her round hips like black ink. She's wearing a floor-length crimson dress that resembles a giant rose that tightly embraced her body before its petals exploded into bloom. The back of the dress is cut almost to her waist and muscles ripple under her brown skin as she moves.

But you catch her only in glimpses because Viro has you transfixed. He's gazing right into your eyes. Right into you. You're thinking, "Why me? There are younger, prettier women here. It can't be because he knows I'm a tourist, half the crowd are tourists." His dark green eyes never veer away. Your panties feel damp. "God, does he know he's making me wet?" And when he flashes a brilliant smile you know he knows. The connection feels electric, and the charge is coursing vertically from your crotch to your crown.

Charles squeezes your hand under the table. Then he slides his hand up your dress and touches your panties. Now that was surprising! And now he knows, too.

You turn to him, but he's looking straight ahead at the dancers. He just gives a little nod and takes his hand away. Is he feeling jealous? He just proposed marriage to you and now your pussy is getting all slippery for a beautiful young Spaniard. Now you can smell yourself. Ah, the Mediterranean Sea! The fragrance blends nicely with the bowl of mussels on the table.

You reach for your wine glass and gulp it down in one long swig. Charles doesn't seem to be upset. Not outwardly, anyway. You're not sure what's going on. Can Charles smell your pussy, too?

You're so distracted by the oddness of the moment that you don't notice the performance is over until the crowd applauds and shouts, "Bravo! Bravissimo!"

And in the next instant Viro is at your table. He seats himself without invitation, like he is the master of this world, this moonless night in Tuscany. Charles shakes his hand and congratulates him in flawless Castilian. Viro's smell is not subtle: a mix of male sweat and leather and cigarette smoke and something sweet—not perfume—that it takes you another minute to identify. Cloves. He smokes the clove cigarettes you saw at the market; the ones with the flamenco dancer on the package. Ha. Perfect.

The strings on stage begin a foxtrot and couples get up from their seats to dance.

"May I to dance with you?" Viro says, eyes boring into you, not asking your fiancé's permission. You look to Charles, feeling embarrassed for him. You are his bride-to-be, you remind yourself. You don't want this young machismo stud to snub him. No, you're not going to dance with him. You want no part of this.

"Sure. Go for it, honey." Charles says with an easy smile. "Have fun."

You give him a look like, "Are you crazy?" And then he practically pulls your chair out from under you.

"Dance your heart out," he says, and gently shoves you toward Viro.

On the dance floor, Viro wraps a strong arm around you, his hand planted broadly on your low back, and then glides you around like you've practiced the foxtrot together for months. He's so good on his feet, following his lead is just a matter of relaxing your body into his and letting him move you wherever he chooses. Up close, the sweet smell of clove cigarette smoke and musky man-in-heated-leather combines with the wine that's gone to your head; it's almost enough to make you swoon.

When the dance is through, you start back toward the table where Charles is watching, pantomiming applause. Viro grabs your hand and spins you back toward him; he's not going to let you get away. As if you're his woman, his property. You're considering how much of a scene it's going to make if you say, "How dare you!" or even give him a hard slap, when a slow-tempo melody begins, and a woman steps up to the mike to sing in Italian. You don't understand the lyrics, but the mood is unmistakably lovelorn; she's crying to the music.

Viro wraps both arms around you and leans in for a slow, intimate dance. He says in your ear. "I can smell you, love. You know? I can smell your... your flower, so pretty."

"I can smell you, too, buddy," you say, trying to stop the fact that you're feeling wickedly turned-on. Viro's hands cup your ass and he draws you in closer. You instantly tug his hands away, but not before you feel his semi-hard cock mash against your low belly. You shoot a glance toward Charles at the table, but he's not there. You see him waving to someone at another table, walking to join them. He's left you to fend for yourself on the dance floor with Viro. Perhaps seeing his opportunity, Viro again cups your ass and draws you in tightly. You really are going to slap this macho dude, so sure of his power to seduce you. But then again, his cock is now fully hard as it presses your low belly—and it's no small instrument of pleasure.

Now Viro takes your hand and leads you off the dance floor. At first you think he's heading toward the table where the female flamenco dancer and the two guitarists and the restaurant owner are drinking sangria from a stoneware pitcher, and laughing together over something. You think he's going to introduce you to his fellow performers, but he leads you right out of the pavilion into the dark night.

"Wait," you say. "Where are we going?"

"Where we can dance," he says.

You know what's going to happen. A strong, bright part of you says loudly in your head to turn around and hurry back to the light and music and people and conversation. Back to Charles, your future husband. But an even stronger, dark part of you wants to follow this mounting thrill all the way to its lair. You know what Viro wants: Exactly what you want.

He leads you to a copse of elm trees. The night seems to swell around you into huge silence, even though you can easily hear the music back at the pavilion, and see the strings of colored light bulbs twinkling in a holiday mood.

Viro backs you up against an elm. You feel the rough bark through your dress. Then he turns your body around to face away from him with a strength that was only hinted at on the dance floor. He takes your hands and places them against the tree trunk. You know what position he wants you in. You bend forward, supporting your weight with your hands on the trunk, jutting your ass up toward him. He grabs your dress by its hem and throws it over your low back. Then he takes hold of your panties and rips them apart, leaving just rags and a waistband riding your hips. Christ, this is just like a movie, you think. The cool breeze on your bare ass makes you feel so exposed, so slutty, which makes you even hornier, which you didn't know was possible.

You hear his tight leather britches come down. And instantly, you smell his hot cock, and Goddamn! if you don't feel hornier still. You're so wet your pussy lube is drooling down your inner thighs. No foreplay. None needed. His first thrust slides his big cock all the way home and you gasp as it impales you, stretching you open and filling you deep. Then he begins a slow pumping rhythm—all the way home, all the way home—and your pussy makes squishy sounds with each deep thrust. Your whole body is waking up to feeling more and more madly in love with this hard cock, this unhurried pace—all the way home, all the way home.

You look toward the pavilion to make sure your sins cannot be seen through the darkness. Surely by now, Charles has noticed that you and Viro have left together. Through a gap between the giant elms, you imagine that you can see Charles, engaged in witty conversation. If he were to look up right now, he'd see you—just your face. He wouldn't see the muscular dancer fucking you strong and deep from behind, pumping faster now, ramming your sweet ass. Thud! Thud! Thud! But he'd spy your face contorted with pleasure. "O my god!" you think. "What am I doing? This is so wrong!"

You begin to moan as you feel yourself building toward a giant orgasm. It'll take another minute to get there, but there's no doubt about this climax, it's as sure as a cloudburst in summer in Tuscany.

Strong hands grab your ass to yank you onto him rougher with each thrust. The ass-pounding keeps on and on like a metronome of bliss. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! O Jesus, it feels so good! You are so close to what is going to be the most intense orgasm of your life. You're about to come so hard it'll rattle the wineglasses on the distant tables. And you guiltily imagine that just now Charles looks up and can watch you through the gap in the trees. You picture his eyes locking on your contorted face and you try to hide the tsunami of pleasure swelling inside you—but it's too late, your climax has now got you in its grip and there's no hiding it from him. Thud! Thud! Thud! He's fucking you fast and hard and deep, like a goddamn jackhammer, each thud a jolt of ecstasy. O God! You're helplessly coming! You at least try to hold back from crying out, but it only works for two seconds, then you're a goner and you hear yourself scream as the orgasm owns you. That hefty cock just keeps ramming your cervix and now you're mewling loudly like a cat in heat, but you can't hide from your fiancé's gaze—and who couldn't hear that scream? You can't stop the waves of orgasm after orgasm because this young bull keeps ramming it all the way home, and your pussy is twitching and jerking, clutching his cock.

"Viro!" you cry out. What you don't yell is "Hurry up and come because I feel another scream building in me." Then he bellows behind you, and his cock jerks and bucks as he shoots jets of cum inside your pussy. But, too late, another scream escapes, louder than before. So much for secret liaisons.

Your knees go weak and you sag to the ground, and the young man follows you down, keeping his cock shoved as deep inside you as it can go, as if he wants to penetrate your womb. You lie in a heap of hot bodies on the cool grass, still drunk on the orgasm, and the seashore smells of sex blend with the fragrance of the earth. But you're already worrying about the confrontation with your fiancé. Will he make a scene at the pavilion, or will he wait until you're alone in your hotel room? You feel mortified by your lust for lust. You're such a slut! Plus, you're an idiot. Your hunger for thrills has cost you the security of marriage to a good man.

Viro sighs as he withdraws his softening cock. "You so woman!" he says, and he stands up, then pulls you to your feet as if you weighed nothing. His smile is bold and dazzling: pride of the conqueror. You tug down the hem of your dress and smooth it around your thighs as he repackages his cock in his leather slacks and tucks in his Flamenco blouse. Then he reaches over and plucks a twig from your hair. "I happy for free!" he says. You're still wondering what that means when next he shoves a wad of cash into your hand.

"What?" you say, too confused to feel offended. "I'm not a whore! What made you—"

"—No, no, senora, of course not! The gentleman, he give me money to have sex with you. But you so good, I don't want no money." He fastens his Moroccan belt with the silver Arabesque buckle. "I happy," he says. "I lucky for free!"

You don't need to ask, "What gentlemen?" because you already know.

Your cunt feels well-fucked, swollen and slightly bruised—a not-at-all unpleasant sensation. Cum is starting to leak out—a lot of cum—feels like a half-cup of warm jizz oozing from between your thighs. You find your ripped panties on the ground and mop up some of the young Spaniard's seed. You'll have to stop in the bathroom to clean up further before you rejoin your fiancé at the dinner party.

Your fiancé, who is not lacking in surprises after all.