Sensual Bachata NYC

Gaston followed Lionel's long glance with displeasure like Gaston didn't want Lionel to stare at people in the subway because it was rude. But when Gaston saw the bracelet on the hand held overhead, Gaston's face lit up, and he immediately stood up to walk to her. Gaston raised his left wrist to show her. To Lionel's surprise, there was exactly the same kind of bracelet. Lionel had never paid enough attention.

"So you are also a member of Nosotros Somos," Gaston told the girl matter of fact with a smirk in the corner of his lips.

"Si, bebe," she replied.

"I'm calling it. Are you dropping it," he asked.

"Siempre con todo mi corazón," she replied and faced him with her knees bent, arms held out, and a mad smile of pride on her face.

"Until the next stop. I'm on my way to class at Hunter," she added.

Gaston tapped his phone before sliding it back into his pocket. A trance song with heavy, slow beat and the bachata rhythm laid over it poured into the subway car. Deep happiness spreading over Gaston's face, Gaston slipped forward into her embrace. His knees were bent. He slipped his right knee between hers. It was like she was sitting on his right leg and grabbing onto it. He moved his knee left and right. Her whole body followed the movement like seagrass sways in the ocean with the current softly. He pulsed her hips backwards with two fat bass drops. While moving her hips, her wrapped her torso onto him. She embraced his neck with her arms to let her chest and cheeks rest onto him. Completely resting her body on his, he held her around the bra straps on both sides of her torso with his hands. He guided her torso in a big circle to go away from her body, while the rest of her body was still attached to him. The combination of knee, arm control, and the girating movements of his own body made her body move seductively like a love demon in a million different ways. And always her movements were so sultry and appeared like she was deeply in love with him, completely surrendered to the smallest fiber of her muscles.

The train rode into the next station, Union Square. The darkness of the tunnel gave way to light and people standing on the platform. The Dominican abruptly stepped away from Gaston and called out, "my classmates!" Outside on the platform, there appeared to be thirty or forty older college students. They were grouped into two or three people fighting each other. Mostly, they were wrestling, pulling on each other's clothing, one punched and ran, yet another was kneeling on top of someone else. There was a melee on the platform. The Dominican girl rushed out the door when it barely opened. Three steps onto the platform, she jumped onto the back of the first person she saw. Her legs clasped around the guys body. Her left arm wrapped around his chest. She hugged him tight like a beetle. The right fist tried to his the guys face. Her facial expression was fierce. There is something damn sexy about the animalistic energy of a woman fighting in a street fight. Lionel's eyes darted around taking in the various fighting scenes of the entire platform having erupted into a brawl.

"Let's take the next stop," said Gaston, still having the love joy in his face.

"Who was that girl?" asked Lionel.

"I have no clue. I've never met her before," replied Gaston. After a pause and seeing the question on Lionel's face, Gaston added, "We are both part of an underground membership. The bracelets are our insignia. We take a vow that obligates us to dance with any member, anywhere, at any time - absolutely no condition is valid to refuse a dance from another member. If you pay attention, you'll usually see one or two of us each day. We are called Nosotros Somos."

They had to walk the long way instead of switching trains at Union Square, but they still made it to the marketing agency at 8 am. The high design style of the building still amazed Lionel and put him in awe. When they opened the door, the receptionist was tied to a cross behind the see-through glass desk floating in the air. The wooden cross was suspended from the ceiling. Her arms were spread out onto the cross. She had loops of rope running over her wrist, elbow, and near her shoulder to extend her arms straight out with the palms facing forward. She was wearing a tight black pencil dress and a sharp, white blouse (unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint of baby blue bra) with big red, shiny high heels. Her left knee was slightly bent as if to create a bit of modesty even though she was fully on display. Big loops of rope ran across her chest under the armpits, under her rib cage, and under her hips to support her weight in the air. Her face was perfectly manicured with foundation and painted features. She smiled charmingly and proper for a receptionist. Yet there was some undercurrent to her demeanor today that spoke of her desperation to put up with about anything and smile about it in order to get the paycheck. Evidently, someone had thought making her an art piece would elevate the impression the firm made on visiting clients.

"Oh, it's you guys. I'll call Dom right away," said the receptionist.

She squinted both her eyes hard. She was wearing those big framed Apple glasses. Then her eyes darted left and right. She seemed to be doing something on the virtual screen that was projected on her retina. "Alexa, send a message to Dom. His visitors are here."

A minute later, the messy-dressed guy from the day before opened the door, holding a plastic back. He looked at the receptionist's ass while he lingered for a moment next to her. Then he waved the two guys to follow him into the office. He led them into the working area. Small desks were crammed with stuff, toys, design prototypes, and posters. It was a mess. It looked casual. It was anything but the sleek, simple appearance of the entrance and conference room. It was like Dom wanted to show Gaston and Lionel that he no longer tried to charm him. He walked them out through a door in the back, which led to a small backyard. It appeared like every building had a tiny backyard, separated by a six-foot-high wooden fence. There was a nice basketball hoop for employees to play.

Dom sat down on the stairs under the door. He took an inhale from the vaporizer and blew white smoke out. Gaston and Lionel sat down next to him.

"Hit me with one sentence. Skip the bullshit," ordered Dom.

"It was a complete fuck-up," admitted Gaston.

Dom waved his hand in a circle to keep Gaston going.

"I can't give you your money back. It's already spent," confessed Gaston.

Dom pointed his finger with glory and unexpected happiness. "There it is! I start to like you. You follow direction. So you owe me."

"Yes, we owe you," affirmed Gaston solemnly.

"Exquisite, exactly as we expected," sung Dom like he was celebrating. Dom reached into the bag and handed Gaston a book easily three hundred pages thick. "Signal Processing For Dummies" was the title. Gaston's first reaction was to smile like he had been longing for that book for a long time. "Take this as a token in the faith of our ongoing relationship."

"As you owe me, you have to make one of my problems go away," explained Dom. "I took on a client for a guerrilla marketing campaign. Unfortunately, I've spent the entire budget without meaningful results." Dom reached into the bag and handed Gaston and Lionel a stack of stickers with a pair of Michael Jackson pants and yellow type that looked like electricity: "Snazzy Pants!"

"Our reputation doesn't allow us to take that hit. That's where you come in. You'll take this bag of stickers, go to every boutique downtown, and stick them into the clothing. Put one in the back of a pair of jeans, slip it into the pocket of a zipper hoodie, stick it into a box of underwear, and anything else you can think of. If you get caught and arrested, we'll sue the fuck out of you for trying to damage our reputation by trying to frame us with unethical advertising methods," Dom explained their situation with the vicegrip of a judge spelling out the terms. "Any questions?"

"How many stickers do we have to distribute?" asked Gaston.

"Ah, see this beauty?" asked Dom and flipped the sticker over to show a QR code. "That has a little code embedded that lets us know it's one of your stickers. Our client pays us $5 for each sold pant. A thousand divided by five is two hundred. Once you've sold two hundred pairs of snazzy pants, I'll send you a text message that you are done.

The deal was so clear that Gaston got up and shook Dom's hand. Lionel followed the example. Then Dom walked them out and waved them goodbye in the lobby. The receptionist turned to Dom with the gentle voice of a doe, "Would you please help me down, Dom. I need to use the restroom." There was such grace in having to beg a coworker for relief of a basic bodily function. She seemed to have deep experience in striking such an attitude and knew her place in the world. Seeing such a submissive display shook Lionel to the core and his perspective of what life in NYC looked like shifted fundamentally. Dom smiled with a mix of pleasure and a fake gentleman display.

When the two were out of earshot of the office, Gaston hissed, "They knew yesterday already that we wouldn't deliver. Getting us to pass out the stickers was their aim from the beginning. I was a fool to think that I could make a play with my app. Maybe, Sara is right. I'm dragging you down as well. I'm a fucking loser, but I'm still alive."

"If the stickers have a CPA conversion rate of 1%, then we have to pass out 20,000 stickers. If we can leave 50 in a boutique, we have to hit up 4,000 boutiques. We can maybe do 4 or 5 an hour. It'll take us at least 50 days. We are so fucked!" calculated Gaston.

"We should start and see where it goes," suggested Lionel.

"I wish I had your naive optimism, but we must at least pretend to start to buy us more time," agreed Gaston.

They took the 6 train downtown and got out at Astor Place to start their tour of boutiques. They split up the stickers and were going to circle lower Manhattan in opposite directions. Lionel started at Urban Outfitter. The store was rather large for NYC stores. National stores tended to not compromise their usual store formats for the cramped NYC real estate sizes. Lionel went to the back and found a rack of hanging pants. He felt that he was camouflaged from the entrance by a shoulder-high rack of dresses. Then he started stuffing one sticker into the back pocket of each pant. He went through the whole rack. A salesperson came smiling to offer her help. He panicked and slipped out of the store. That was already thirty stickers. He smiled to encourage himself.

The laidback East Village presented him with a vintage store with a predator alien statue outside. The shotgun layout of the sales room made it hard to find privacy. There was only one sales lady behind the register. So it would be easy to keep track of her. In the back, he found a table with dresses that all looked like farm overalls. Because it was a vintage place, each dress was a different kind and had a different size, but they all had a big pocket in the chest. He lifted up one dress at a time and slipped in a sticker. He moved his fingers fast because he felt needles of discomfort on his skin.

"I know you," said a female voice.

The needles that he had felt in his skin suddenly injected bee poison. His whole skin was on fiery pain. The store clerk had walked around him and was coming up to him from the other side. His hand was stuck in one dress pocket with the other hand holding a stack of stickers ready to grip with his lead hand. He was so caught.

"You were at the bachata class a couple days ago! I recognize you," called the store clerk out.

She seemed happy and came closer. Lionel was frozen, unable to think of what to do. Admit, deny, or run?

"Oh, you are one of those guys that sticks ads into our clothes. The owner told me to call the cops if I caught one of you guys," said the young woman with innocence speaking out her thoughts like she had nothing to hide and lived in a world of complete trust and good intentions of others. She was white with blond hair. She was in her mid twenties. She didn't seem to work out. She seemed to simply live her life.

"Relax! I won't call the cops on someone I know," she assured him.

"Well, stop putting any more stickers in the clothes. Hang with me a bit. It's a boring morning," she wished of him.

"Where are you from?" she asked. And they did a bit of chitchat about the usual stats. She was originally from upstate and had a degree in fashion design, but she hadn't found anyone to hire her as a designer. She liked snorting when she laughed. She asked him plenty of interested questions about his siblings and life in Buenos Aires. In a side sentence, she hinted that she had a thing for Latin Lovers. It was easy to chat with her because she brought so much enthusiasm and interested questions. They spent an hour chatting.

"Let me see your sticker," she demanded. Before he could hand her one, she recognized them. "Those snazzy pants are damn shit. Everybody knows it. They are probably bought from Alibaba for $3. They are defective. They charge $80 for it. If I were you, I'd watch out. There are quite a few people who have been scammed by snazzy pants, and they wish nothing more than punch the person responsible for them in the face. There is no way, you are going to work down your debt. Nobody is buying them anymore."

"Take a look outside," she nodded across the street. The entire sidewalk was full of people standing tightly together. "Bob is doing a merch drop in the closed out ice cream shop. It's not even going to start until noon and people are lined up the whole block to get the chance of buying one. People know the good stuff and will go to great lengths to get it here." A van stopped in the street and unleashed a load of Chinese tourists to add to the long line.

"See that?" she asked him. "Good stuff sells on its own. When people pay lots of money for marketing, they only have shit that nobody wants. There is a reason why people spend money. They spend money on things that won't happen on their own. Maybe, find something that your boss really wants and can't get."

"Have you heard about Hacienda? It's this place in Hamilton Heights at the top of a very long stairway leading up a hill. The building has a colonial look with a big veranda and thick walls. The best bachata parties happen there. It's members only. Each member gets three tickets a month to hand to people at socials all over the city. One day, I hope that someone gives me a ticket, but I'm a complete beginner. No member is going to give me a ticket. Haha, a girl can dream, right!" said the girl named Doris.

"Hey, it's my lunch break. Will you come up to my place? I forgot my phone charger," with such ease she invited him up to her place.

He followed her into the sun and back under the shade of the big trees lining the street. The red brick facades of the historic tenement buildings - about six floors high - were pretty. She was literally on the other side of the block. She opened the entrance door. He hadn't anticipated that past the mailboxes was another door and let the first door shut behind him. The place was so cramped that when she tried to pull the second door open, she had to push her body into him. He was already in the corner and couldn't get any more out of her way, but she dauntlessly pressed herself onto his body. Before she pulled away into the hallway, she looked up at him and gave him a submissive puppy look. The look touched his emotions instantly. "She wants to fuck me," was Lionel's first thought. The faint possibility that he could be her lunchtime snack crossed his mind. Why else would she invite him up to her apartment?

The staircase was so narrow that no two persons could have passed. Each step was so steep that her butt was almost in front of his face. There was a stench of human bodies in the staircase. She didn't seem to be disturbed. Her jeans butt wiggled ahead of him up to the sixth floor. She put her keys into the door right next to the stairs and pushed into the apartment.

He followed her eager to see what her place looked like to see the intimacy of her abode, to study her innards of her by inspecting how she lived. The apartment was a small studio. A folded-out couch took up most of the living space. Two blankets were neatly fluffed and arranged. Another cot of a sleeping pad and blanket lay in front of the couch and another in front of the window. The space was pretty much filled with the footprint of four people sleeping. In contrast to his place, this place was neatly arranged. There was a healthy plant in the corner. Pastel-colored posters were on the wall. There was a sweet, rosy smell in the air. Healthy apples and bananas rested on the kitchen corner. A book with cursive writing and a girl was on the corner of the kitchen surface: "How to live courageously and be yourself."

A girl with long black hair was looking away from them in the kitchen area while folding a sandwich.

"Oh, you are here! I only came up to grab my phone charger," Doris was awkwardly hesitant like she didn't expect her roommate to be home and wasn't sure what to do next. Lionel got the distinct impression that he had been very close to getting his bones jumped. Yet the black-haired girl languidly folded lettuce leaves like she had no intentions of rushing or leaving. Lioniel soaked in the feminine energy of the room assuming that he'd have to leave any time. His eyes caressed over the neatly folded piles of skirts, tops, socks, and a long row of shoes lined along the wall, almost all of them well worn.

While the two women chatted, he thought he made out a faint hint that the black-haired girl was purposely squatting slowly because she didn't like her roommates having sex in their apartment. There was a courteous dance between them to figure out how long the black-haired one would stay and Doris to justify why she was there and who Lionel was. It was like they both knew about Doris' intention of sex, but neither was going to say it explicitly. Gaston hadn't experienced that before. He quietly listened to the suggestion of sex possibility rising and lowering. He pictured Doris naked in one of the sleeping places underneath him.

Doris suddenly addressed Gaston, "Let me show you the rooftop." She waved him to come forward. Evidently, Doris had lost as the black-haired roommate had made clear her intentions to stay as long as was necessary for Doris having to go back to her store and prevent anything from happening. The black-haired roommate was a bitch, smiling sweetly but making her bitter intentions clear at the same time. It seemed like they hated each other but acted nicely.

Doris made her way past the couch and in between the sleeping cot in front of it. The way how she flipped the sheet a bit more perfect on the cot on the floor suggested a comfort like it was her own. So Doris slept on the floor. The black-haired roommate that never bothered to introduce herself was probably on the couch and expected Doris to have sex on the couch in her absence and found the thought of it repulsive. Doris stepped over the cot in front of the window and pushed the window up.

Helping Lionel bow low enough to get through the window, he followed her out into the bright midday sunlight. The ground was the rooftop of the neighboring building. The asphalt coating was worn and not meant for people to walk around on it. There was no railing at the edge of the roof. They were literally on a roof that was only meant to be a roof and not a place to hang out. He could see over the edge, which scared him with its lack of obstruction, down to the people in the street.

Her phone started playing an Aventura song. Without announcement, she wrapped her arms around him and straddled his right leg. While in school, there had been the feel of proper respect between the dancers, her embrace felt like she was literally hugging him to feel his body. There was no reserve of pulling the groin away or having a strong posture. She cuddled onto his body. He instantly got a boner. The boner was wedged between them and poking her hip bone. She didn't seem to mind. They were doing the basic steps side to side and then turning together. He didn't know much else to do in close embrace. Her feeling impatience, she started back leading him. She put his arms on her torso and started moving herself like a snake in his arms - just as he had seen Gaston leading the Dominican on the subway. Initially following her movement with his hands and body, he gained familiarity with the movement and started pushing her in those directions, slowly taking back the lead from her back leading. She let her face slide down his chest until she was squatting way below him. He got an image of a girl giving a blowjob in an internet porn. She slowly came up with her hands gliding up his chest ahead of her. When her hands passed his chest, they continued onto his face. Her hands tusslesd his cheeks and hair. He felt surrendered to her.