If It Rains

"You didn't ask me," she says, splashing the rich amber liquid over the ice.

"Ask you what?" I reply, my relaxed intoxicated hum leaving me unusually open.

"What kind of dancer," she says, running her finger around the rim of her glass.

I'd just assumed. For a moment my buzz fades but her fingers reach across the table and flick the edge of my glass, letting the ring vibrate around as she smiles at me.

"Oh, er, what, er, what kind-?" I stutter, letting the alcohol excuse my awkwardness.

"Exotic," she replies, her hand back on her own glass, her eyes seemingly daring me to comment.

I'm still not sure how I'm meant to respond to this: pity? She's obviously doing all right to be living here. Admiration? Maybe she hates it and wants out. For all I know 'exotic' just means she holds a snake while she dances.

"You enjoy it?" I ask.

She cocks an eyebrow at me and doesn't answer, taking a sip instead.

"Any good?" I ask, lifting my own glass.

She smirks at me, swallowing and reaching her drink across the table to tap her glass to mine.

"Now you're talking," she grins, "that's a proper question, maybe you've got some balls."

She pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, her movements at once smooth and feline. There isn't a straight edge on her. She rounds the table, takes my glass from my hand and places it back amongst the plates. Without a word she stretches a leg over my lap and takes a seat. But it's awkward, her grace falters for a moment as she frowns, turns on me and pushes the table backwards a foot, her chair opposite leaning on two legs and threatening to fall. Satisfied with the extra space she's created she turns back to face me, one hand on my shoulder, the other rising up and running through my hair as she sighs and looks down at me, setting her expression to happy contentment.

"You let me know if I'm any good," she says softly.

Her skirt has risen so high it seems impossible but the apex of her thighs is still hidden from view below the slightest curve of black cloth. My hands are instinctively hanging at my sides, vaguely aware of a general 'no touching' rule in such situations. I see her eyes dropping and taking note of my hands, she doesn't comment, just smiles to herself and shuffles her body tighter against mine until my chin finds the warmth of her chest.

I'm gazing up at her, looking for some sign that this is anything other than the most magnificent dream. I swallow, aware that my mouth may be hanging open a fraction and my breath coming hot over her exposed skin. She idly runs her fingertips over her cleavage and lets her hand keep moving to sweep back up in to my hair, gently pulling my head to one side and lowering her mouth to my ear, wetting her lips as if about to speak but just holding there, breathing, steady and slow, letting me know of her control.

She's barely moved and I'm already feeling myself swell rapidly in my shorts. I assume she's aware too, there's not much between our bodies down there.

She hums in to my ear, flicking her tongue out against the lobe as an almost silent syllable begins.

"There it is," she hisses.

And with that she begins, holding the back of the chair behind my shoulders as she lets her snake hips slither, feet finding the floor to lift her and deliver, a sudden press back as she re-seats herself, catching me between my thigh and hers. She lowers her mouth back to my ear, kissing below it, pressing her breasts back hard against my chest as she whispers again.

"I love this bit," she confides, humming a few bars of the music and grinding her hips in time. "This bit," she clarifies as the music drops and immediately begins its slow rise again.

I'm pretty sure I recognise the piece, I have no idea what it's called though. She softens her movements. The music isn't what you'd expect to accompany a lap dance but she knows it perfectly, her gyrations slow and sensuous, passionate and anything but crude.

As the pace quickens so does her body, and without me realising she's caught my wrists and brought my hands up to her thighs. Her skin is warm and flawlessly smooth, my fingers press lightly, my thumbs dipping down towards my own legs. I look up at her and see her gazing over the top of my head, her eyes evidently fixed on something behind me. I turn my head to look but her hand on my chin turns me back to face her and she grinds harder.

I realise that with the huge picture windows, the darkness outside and the warm light in here, the inhabitants of the opposite building are also able to enjoy the show. Although not as much as me as I throb, caught between our thighs.

"They can see us," I mutter.

"They don't care what we're doing," she replies softly. Her mouth is back by my ear but I know she's looking outside over my shoulder.

I sigh as her pace accelerates again, massaging my swollen length, I begin to speak but her hand in my hair tips my head back to press her mouth to mine. Her tongue is quick and withdraws to permit her teeth to close on my bottom lip.

"I don't care," she says, practically snarling as my lip retreats from her mouth.

Then her mouth is gone from mine, curled tongue tracing long cat lick up my neck to my ear, biting the lobe, her hips elliptic, dragging the tight press of her body back and forth, side to side over me. I let my hands run higher up her thighs, fingers disappearing beneath her skirt but edging backwards as they touch the edge of her underwear taut across her skin. I reach behind her, following the lace line until I cup a cheek in each hand.

The music is building, rising impossibly, her body below her waist is keeping pace while everything above moves with a seductive grace, hands in my hair, breasts pressed to my face. She reaches down, removing my hands from her behind and at once I feel an all too familiar pang of guilt, the sudden terror that she'll ask just what the hell I think I'm doing. But she doesn't speak, just guides my grip to her hips and leaves my hands there, trying to keep up with her.

The crescendo comes, she is back at my ear, breath quick but steady as she utters two words:

"Hold tight," she says.

And as the music peaks, and with a movement that I hardly register let alone understand, she's spun on me, leaving me looking over her shoulder as she tips her head back beside mine and continues to writhe on my lap. Her body slows as the climax fades, allowing her movements to grow more deliberate and focused. She leans forward and I feel her dancing her hot core directly over mine.

Ordering my rational brain not to interfere my animal mind slides my hands up her flanks, fingers splaying out as they reach her breasts, slipping forward to cup her fully through her tank top, her nipples hard through the thin fabric.

With a satisfied hum she leans back against my chest, pushing hers out as she invites me to explore its divine contours. Meanwhile she dives a hand down between our legs and grasps my balls through my shorts.

"I thought so," she smirks, releasing me and stroking her fingers along my sheathed length, letting her touch linger over my head, her fingertips slick in my arousal seeping through the cloth.

Slower now, lifting one leg then the other, she turns back to face me, her hand reaching back down between us, and mine on her hips once more, but holding her now rather than just resting there.

"So?" she asks, turning away to reach back towards the table and fetching my glass, "am I good?"

I nod and go to take the glass as she tips it back against her mouth, but she holds it aside and lowers her mouth to mine, sharing the cool liquid and warm flavour as our tongues slip slowly side by side.

She pulls the loose knot that holds her robe closed across my stomach and pushes the whole thing down off my shoulders, taking another sip and using it to lubricate the deep bitten kiss she delivers to my collar bone. The scotch trickles down my chest and she follows it with her mouth, licking and sucking as low as she can before tracing the trail back up and locking her mouth on mine once again.

Next she fishes an ice cube from the glass, holding it up between her index and middle fingers before running its melting surface over my skin, running her lips in its wake. Guiding my arms from the sleeves of the robe, lifting my hand as the ice glides up my forearm, resting my fingers back on her breast and chasing the wet line as close to her own body as she can, letting the sliver of ice disappear in to her cleavage.

She presses the following cube to my lips, traces of scotch warm on my tongue as she brings me forwards and runs a slow thick line down her throat, stifling a gasp as I bite and suck its trail, its lazy zigzag over her chest and on to her voluptuous breasts. She allows me to nuzzle there for a few moments, long after the last cool traces of ice have gone, before pushing me back firmly in the chair.

With a lingering look over my should once again, she pulls her tank top off and drops it to the floor from her extended arm. I move to return my mouth to her body, eager to pull the slight lace cups aside and lock my lips around her protruding nipples, but her hand on my shoulder holds me back still. She rises to her feet, lifting one to the chair, placing it between my thighs and briefly caressing me with her toes, then pushes her body up to sit on the edge of the table in front of me. Feet pushing under my thighs to rest there.

We share a short but smouldering gaze, my hands already on her knees as she parts them with a questioning cocked eyebrow. Her expression melts in to a grin as she chases another ice cube around one of the glasses on the table, eventually capturing it and lifting it out. Her right foot rises to rest on my shoulder and she leans forward, running the ice from her ankle to her knee in an agonizingly slow movement. As per the rules, I tail the cold trail, my eyes on hers the whole way, her calf slipping past my head as I go, until my kisses alight on the inside of her knee.

Another ice cube, dripping scotch as she lifts it. She reaches forward towards her knee but draws the ice back at the last moment, leaving me bowed and looking up. She places the cube on her tongue, sucking it slowly before removing it back in to her fingers. My heart is thumping as I await her move to continue the trail.

I discovered in my youth that when I have imbibed the right amount I find my senses honed, as if I have reached a higher plane where external stimuli fall to the wayside. I feel that I am there now, exquisitely aware of the smooth warmth of her skin taut on her knee under my fingers, the difference in the rhythm of our bodies: mine seemingly erratic, the paroxysm in my animal mind, hers calm and calculating, her animal focused, stalking and ready to pounce. Despite this difference in our rhythms, our pulses find a common beat, aligning on their courses, my seconds to her minutes.

I wait, agonised as she withdraws the ice from her lips, leaving them wet with cool water, a trickle from the corner of her mouth, wiped clear with her thumb. Her hand turns, touching the ice back to her skin and running it glacial slow down her throat, over one of those perfect collar bones and following the strap of her bra down, edging along the lace trim until she finds the centre, that warm squeeze. There she leaves the remnants of the ice cube, a drop of water breaking away and beginning the descent over her skin.

Impatient I kiss her knee, then an inch above it, my eyes dragging away from hers to map meticulously the firm skin under my lips. By the time I cast my eyes back towards hers she has tipped her head back, those eyes closed, grounding vision that touch may soar. The ice at her breasts has all but vanished, leaving a thick wet sheen over her stomach, which my fingers now glide up, one digit hooking the join between those cups. Enough is enough and she looks down, slow-eyed and sloe-eyed, deciding how to respond, lips turning up as both her hands hold mine to her breast and let her weight hang on my arm as she reclines to lay on the table. There's a scrape and clatter of cutlery on crockery, the rattle of ice tumbling from glass muted by the slosh of scotch accompanying it across the table.

She releases my hand and I drag it reluctantly back down her body as I close in, head between her thighs, still kissing, still licking, both hands on the hem of her skirt and flipping it up. My mouth high on her thigh, that supple skin so close to succulent sin, the press of the opposite thigh to my cheek until she spreads it wider, lifting her foot to kick a resting place on the corner of the table, unknown objects falling and breaking upon the floor.

Her underwear matches her bra, skimpy, black, tight and leaving just enough to my frantic imagination. My nose bumps against the concealed swell of her labia as I turn my head to tease the tip of my tongue under the taut edge. Feeling the wet heat I withdraw my probing oral digit and apply it instead to the yielding centre of that temptress veil. I push back, aware of legs parting wider to my left and right while the grind of metal and porcelain signals her body easing forward to meet me.

I lick long and slow across that sodden cloth, tasting everything she's given so far, rising a fraction from my seat to drag my tongue up on to her mons pubis, fingertips teasing the hem of her underwear, promising to lower it, folding it down a turn, then I smile wicked to myself as I abandon the grip. Thumbs slip, under the lower hem, where it curves over the tops of her thighs, running down beside my mouth, pulling that veil away from her lips and in to a tight bundle that fits awkward back, leaving exterior exposed and interior hidden.

Each labium is perfectly smooth, glistening with the smeared nectar wrung from her underwear. Each is licked in turn, then pulled away by my tender sucking mouth. Two fingers press that tight twist of soaked cloth firm between her lips as I toy, teasing, tormenting, tasting her joy. Finally I hook a fingertip behind the intruding scrap and pull it free, dragging it aside to reveal her to me.

That vibrant core, its folds engorged, flooded by her throbbing heart, wetted by her racing mind. I let my breath make the first touch linger longer than she wants, stroking with each exhalation, her heel suddenly on the nape of my neck, urging me on. I grin, my hand coasting up her thigh, extending one finger and easing it in, feeling her open before me until my folded knuckles meet the hot press of her lips, at which I twist my wrist, turning inside her, curling my finger to beckon within.

Lana wriggles and Lana writhes, hips loose as her hand reaches beneath her body to sweep the table clear without concern as near everything breaks upon the floor.

As I caress that rough hub of her pleasure I lower my mouth and tongue the other, that burgeoning bud, as it emerges to bloom. My lips close to encompass wide around that locale, sucking firm to elicit whimpered groan, feeling the focus of my desire angled down as her body rises on arched back, grinding that bud, that nub fit to burst, her plump clitoris, grinding it down so hard on my tongue as I drag back across her to tease tongue tip around it. I am pawn capturing queen.

Castling tongue and finger I delve deep within, mouth and nose pressed to her succulent skin, feasting on her with juice-smeared grin. Ravenous I make a meal of her, encouraged by her ragged breath and her urgent cries, her head rise, arms outstretched, fingers in my hair, pulling me in tight there, taking my breath as sacrifice, low oxygen as she reaches her peak.

Her heels scrabble for purchase on my back, to kick me in, one hand reaching down to mine, a finger nudging mine aside to please herself as only she knows how. Bucking against our joined efforts, pushing me back until my tongue lashes against her lips as I watch her delicate digit dance, her pitch rising, blunt, pulsing pants and grunts until with a wail she shudders and drags me back down, to grind on my mouth as she convulses, spasms, twists and comes.

Her body collapses back on the table, limbs limp, sweat-soaked. And I lick. Long, slow licks. Drunk dog laps. Coaxing aftershocks that tremble through her until she giggles and pushes me away, covering herself with her hands.

Eventually, having composed herself as much as possible, Lana rises from the table, fixing me with a smirk as if the whole thing were somehow my fault. I grab her hips and pull her back down on to my lap, her arms instinctively around my neck as our mouths meet.

"So, am I a good dancer?" she repeats, humming happily over my shoulder.

"The best I've had," I laugh.

"Something tells me that's because it's the only dance you've had," she replies.

She's got me, I have never had a lap dance before, I wouldn't even know where to go to get one. I shrug, then realise a little more is expected.

"Still, I'm pretty sure it'd still be the best even if I were a lap dance connoisseur," I grin, hopeful that such flattery won't be deemed too much.

She reaches back and collects the bottle of scotch from the table, the only object that didn't get swept to the floor.

"You'll have to come to the club, try out a few of my colleagues, give me an honest opinion," she says before tipping the bottle back against her lips.

My still-throbbing length feels fit to burst at the suggestion, no, the insistence, that I let a procession of women straddle me and grind themselves on my body. She offers the bottle and watches me take a drink.

"I doubt many of them would let me do what I just did to you though, yeah?" I point out, ever the realist, handing the bottle back.

"True," she nods pragmatically. "At least not at the club," she adds, breaking in to a wicked grin.

My hands shoot up her ribs, tickling her, unmerciful to her shrieks. Her body wriggles, her head flung back, as she once more convulses and grinds herself over my impatient need.

"OK, OK, please stop," she manages to cry, and I relent.

Climbing backwards off me she steadies herself against the table, breathing out long and slow as she pushes her hair back from her face and takes stock of the state of her kitchen floor.

The air is sweet-sticky and heavy with our combined scent, both our bodies coated with drying sweat amongst various other fluids. She adjusts her underwear with as much grace as possible and smooths her skirt back down.

"It's hot in here," she says, fanning her face.

"You've got to be at least ninety percent to blame for that," I laugh, looking her up and down.

She tuts at the cheap compliment and looks away, she almost says something but stops herself, puckering her lips around the words as they form behind her teeth, but keeping them in. Her eyes creep back to look at me and for a moment she's obviously weighing up some options in her mind.

"Fresh air," she says at last and takes my hand to pull me to my feet.

Before I'm really sure what she's doing she's pulled her robe from my arms and draped it over herself. Even without my usual modesty I'd have to concede that it looks a lot better on her than on me. I'm left standing in my underwear, sporting an erection that's not going anywhere any time soon. Also, now more than before, I'm very aware of the huge windows and numerous lights that are making a spectacle of everything we do, should any of our neighbours in the opposite building choose to glance in this general direction.

Lana turns, pulling her loose hair out from the collar of her robe, and I can't help but laugh.

"What is it?" she asks, turning back to face me and looking down as she follows my eyes.

"You've er," I begin, pointing, "you've got some food, on you," I say.

Now her arms have dropped the robe has fallen to cover her behind once more and I reach forward to lift the silk, realising that she still won't be able to see it.