Over the Table

I had her over the table. Bent over, that is, her naked torso stretched out on the thick cherry table top. Her legs were apart, and my cock, buried deep inside her pussy. I was pounding her good and hearing those, "Uhs" which meant that every stroke was hitting its mark.

I paused with my ample rigidity still deeply inside. My oily hands rubbed with reduced friction over her oiled back. I dug my fingernails into her skin on an upward stroke along either side of her backbone, and then down again with my finger pads, giving her a plethora of sensations before I started ramming my manhood into her again.

I liked this position. It was the way most every male animal mates with the female of his species. I could put the force of my whole body behind every stroke. And, I could let her know who was ultimately in control of her orgasm.

I relished that feeling today of power over this woman, now stooping to my baser needs. Submitting to my higher authority. Giving herself over to my every wish. And soon to be succumbing to the whims of my twisted psyche.

The dining room table was shaped like a huge oval. It was thick and formidable. It could take her weight and mine without bending or breaking. It sat in one half of a large open kitchen within which she had just prepared a rather delectable luncheon for the two of us: roasted chicken diced with red peppers and walnuts in a savory dressing rolled up in a leaf of romaine.

It was a good meal, just like this woman was good. Good through and through. Too good. Too unbelievably good. Too unattainably good for me. I could never match her manner of turning any misfortune into a blessing, a benefit, or a bonus. She was never cloudy or even partly cloudy. Always sunny and even on her "bad days," all I ever saw were wispy mare's tails.

Things that I thought were flaws in me, she turned into gifts. She thought the chaos of my mind was a sign of my brilliance. She thought my maverick artistic works, ground-breaking. She loved the quirky characters I created in my short stories. She found my gray hair and rosacea-dappled face handsome. She adored my asymmetrically curved body. With any of those qualities, I could only mount self-conscious criticisms. But in them all, she saw a beauty.

So in my twisted mind I wanted to show her how deeply wrong she was. That there was a darkness in me that could not be so easily shown the light. Today, I was going to make my case in a more convincing way.

We had begun our mad fucking with a Tango. But this wasn't an ordinary tango practice-session for us. We had revealed in our conversations a while ago that we wanted to dance tango naked, in close embrace. That meant our upper bodies would be connected, and our movements directed by just moving our torsos. My pecs and abdomen, where they met her breasts and stomach, would be directing our movements. Of course, my left hand was in her right, and my right arm wrapped around her back as her left was wrapped around mine, so we were connected in other ways as well, but mainly moving through our cores.

But we added another variable: olive oil. So, with only dance shoes on, and the dining room table moved to the side, we each had dipped fingers into the white, ceramic bowl of olive oil--extra-virgin--and began applying it to each other's neck and chest and breasts, then to our back and arms, and finally, to our groins, buttocks, and asses. We wanted to use plenty for the dance because we wanted no friction, but we obviously had other intentions for what might follow.

We began dancing to the trio of songs in a tango grouping, called a tanda, those of Anibal Troilo, one of my favorites. As we usually do, using the music's melody as a guide, we improvised a dance. We took steps to the side, forward, and back, all in close embrace. That was pleasing, but our torsos stayed together. When we introduced pivots with ochos, molinetes, and crusadas, however, our torsos turned against each other and rolled along each other, so that we felt not only the warmth, but the stimulation of our gliding bodies.

I wanted to continue dancing to the music, but I could tell she was becoming distracted by the sensuality of our embrace. In fact, at one point, her arm drifted down my back into my buttocks crease, and she began fingering my anal ring. I found that titillating, but I was annoyed. I wanted to dance. But dancing tango had dropped down on her priority list. It was obvious. She made plenty of missteps. She wasn't maintaining our embrace. She was off axis.

Her new lead was misleading me. This was no longer going to be a tango dance. It was going to be a tango love dance. So somewhat miffed, I decided to play along, my mind not fully accepting this change in direction, though.

I let my left hand drift down as well, my palm sliding down the length of her right arm, to her armpit, then across her breast. I rotated it along her flank, so that my fingers pointed down, then turned it over so the back of my hand could slide into her groin. I pulled her close again with my right arm around her back, and moved my wrist up and down to massage her wetting slit.

She responded with her need by pressing hard into my wrist. After a couple more ochos, I slid the back of my hand across her thigh then moved my fingers around to her buttocks. I slid two oily fingers into her butt crease and circled her anal bud. Coincidentally, the sun streaming through our dining room windows must have just been covered by clouds, because the room grew darker. And so did my thoughts.

This was a fantasied dance experience which we had each concocted when we talked together, and dreamt about separately when we fell asleep at night. We both wanted to dance naked Tango with oil, something which we had never done, not even with another lover. We didn't know how it would end and usually, when we love-danced, we didn't really plan on an ending, just how things would begin. But this time, just now, I did.

In the distant past, we had talked about "everything butt," in that getting-to-know-each-other phase of our relationship: what we liked, didn't like, and were unsure of. And in our successive love-dances, we had found an opportunity to try out some of those stimulating touches which we had expressed a liking for. We had rimmed each other. She had fingered my bud as I had hers. I had even allowed her to put a glass dildo up my ass when I was tied and restrained. And some day, I had intimated, I might even allow her to peg me.

But from the start, she had been cautious about wanting to have anal intercourse, as the only time she had, with her husband years ago, it was painful. So she had decided then and there, never to have it again. And even though she trusted me, and my sensitivity to her, she continued to be resistant. So we hadn't explored it further.

But as we were dancing today and leaving the realm of tango for the realm of pure sexual indulgence, my mind schemed. I had something to prove. So no longer leaving things to serendipity, I now knew how I wanted this to finish.

We somehow managed to struggle through three more songs. It was pretty obvious that we weren't going to be dancing another tanda. She wanted more than tango.

So I led a series of steps which moved us to the dining room table, doing back ochos, crosses, and forward steps. I perfectly executed a half-spin so that she was facing away from me, and facing the table. I forced her down onto a towel that we had placed there for wiping up oil spills.

I wedged my foot in between hers to separate them. She knew what was about to happen and complied, willingly moving her legs apart. Excitedly, she reached her hand underneath one thigh, and guided my rigidity into her dripping pussy.

I began that in and out movement that she was so obsessed about during our two Tango tandas. As I thrusted into her, I listened to the increasingly higher pitched grunts. She was getting filled with everything she wanted and was growing ever closer to brimming over.

I paused. I reached beneath her right thigh with my right hand and nestled it in her vulva so that I could massage her clit as I was fucking her. It was what she needed to put her through her first big O.

We have had a half dozen or so love dances, what we call two dancers making love. She frequently has two or three orgasms during a love dance, which are characterized by muscle jerks, followed by shivers, both accompanied by a throaty-voiced sigh.

I love being able to bring these on for her, a passionate woman who had been without a lover-induced orgasm for over a decade. So it's a privilege, I should add, an honor. And I am deeply moved by her response.

Usually. But today there were a mixture of feelings that were not rooted in generosity.

Her second O came after I helped her up onto the table and assisted her to turn over on her back. With her legs bent up, thighs relaxed, and dance shoes on the towel, I began ravenously eating her mound, licking her nether lips, sucking on her now swollen and taut clit, tonguing it, tickling it, nudging it left and right, then up and down. Every so often, I deprived her of direct clitoral stimulation by licking around and around her labia before going back to her nub. I heard her breathing get faster. I heard her demands. I roughly shoved two fingers inside her vault as I continued to suck, and heard her scream in delight. She spasmed. She shook. She mewed hoarsely. Then cycled through those responses a second and a third time.

That was enough--for now--so with both hands, she gently moved my fingers out and laid there breathing deeply.

But I hadn't had enough. And she, being perfectly-good, was fully aware of that. So after allowing her a brief repose, I helped her off, and promptly bent her over the table top, face down on the towel again. She guided my more painfully rigid cock into her, and I commenced to slowly piston in and out of her well-used vagina.

I was getting closer, I was grunting in a way she well-knew would lead me to my typical screaming orgasm. But I intended something different. Something mean. Something malevolent. And at this moment, I didn't care how she felt about it.

I pulled out. She gasped in surprise and turned back to look at me. I also looked, but my look was not regarding her face.

I pulled her butt cheeks apart revealing the object of my desire: her puffy asshole where I wanted to finish.

I had enough lube on my cock from her pussy juices and from the lubing I had given her with the olive oil before we began dancing. But the bowl was within reach, and I dipped my fingers into it and coated my cock so we'd be friction-free.

I pushed the head of my cock against her anal ring, letting her know what was about to happen. And letting her know that I didn't give a damn about what she felt. The dark, mean, aggressive asshole of a man was going to finish in the asshole of his beautiful woman, and he wasn't going to ask permission.

I didn't hesitate. She didn't reflexly tighten. With the anesthesia of multiple orgasms I had given her, maybe she wasn't in a resistant mood. So I plunged deep. I heard her howl. A sound she had never uttered. I searched my memory for what it reminded me of. A coyote in the canyons around my house? A bitch in heat? I pulled back part way, and drove my cock in again, leading to another scream. Whether of pain or pleasure, I was not going to stop. This felt too good.

She was tight, tighter than her vagina which had birthed five babies. My cock rejoiced. I took myself halfway out, but quickly plunged into her again, and again. With my fingernails, I gripped into her shoulders so she wouldn't move and I pumped relentlessly. I could tell from the way the table was creaking, not that it was going to break, but that it was enjoying this, too.

And so, it seemed, was she. Louder grunts, animalistic cries, that howling. It lead to another O for her, more vocal than she had ever been, and with more quivers and quakes. Seeing that, feeling that, hearing that, I came micro-moments later. I screamed so loudly that my dog came to see what the fuck was going on. When she did, she curled up next to the table to enjoy it vicariously, I guess, because she had been spayed before her first heat.

I collapsed atop my love dancer, with my head turned to the side, my cheek on her oily and sweaty back, breathing deeply and rapidly. When I could move again, I rubbed my oiled palms on her shoulders, down her arms, back up, and then repeated the motion. It was a tactile thank you, thank you, thank you.

I pulled out when my cock deflated. I helped my beautiful tanguera up off the table. We spread the towel on the hardwood floor and laid down together on it.

We spoke in short phrases, then longer ones, continuing by sharing one beautiful sentence after another. We wrapped our arms around each other in a beautiful touching connection.

But I couldn't help feeling it had been a failure in some ways. My effort to prove she wasn't perfect, that she had a line and I had crossed it. That she would recoil from my darker side this time, with my violation of her private place. But it didn't happen. Instead, to my utter amazement, she inquired very sincerely, when our next naked and oiled tango would be!

Fuck. My sinning acts were not taking the saintliness out of her. Rather, her responses to them were making her more likely to be canonized a saint someday. Fuck. I didn't deserve such a woman. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

Maybe it was her next kiss, or the next phrase she uttered about how much she loved me, but something finally shut off my mind and let me just absorb our mutual affection.

And let me tell you: that was a fuckingly awesome feeling.