Strict Time

Once more, I was mesmerized.

This couldn't keep happening. I was a professional with a reputation to uphold, a dance studio to maintain, and a sacred vow of marriage to think about. Not that Michael would have minded one bit, I knew -- we had long since come to an unspoken agreement to look the other way when it came to the little peccadilloes that dot every marriage, so even if he did by some fluke take it into his head to mind, I had a laundry list of names that he had stepped out with ready to go.

But it wasn't Michael or his various flings that were occupying my mind at the moment. What was making my eyes lose focus and my tempo-setting movements turn mechanical and my wellspring of crisply spoken, sharply phrased criticisms and (less occasionally) praise dry up in my mouth was the beautifully rounded posterior of a teenage girl.

Not just any teenage girl: Nicole had been a ray of light since the moment she stepped into my studio, laughing apologies for being so old (she was eighteen) and out of shape (she was nearly three hundred pounds, although she carried it well on a six-foot frame; all thigh and breast meat, as Michael would have said with a vulgar laugh). I had pointed out in my most excruciatingly polite manner that Madame De Guilles' studio catered to a rather different clientele, namely younger women who were seriously pursuing dance as a vocation, and hinted that a Zumba or even a Pilates class was what she wanted. But she had just smiled that huge disarming smile that made her eyes almost disappear into twinkling little slits and nodded, her light brown-frosted curls bouncing along, and said,

"No, that's perfect. I'm going to be on Broadway."

Not with that figure you're not, were the words that sprang automatically to mind, though I refrained from saying them out loud. But despite myself I had agreed to take her money; she happily paid in advance, and agreed to sit in on the beginner's class to start with, until I judged that she was capable of tackling the more advanced levels.

Perhaps I should have been firmer; after all, nothing good ever comes of encouraging delusion, even if it can turn a pretty profit while it lasts. But I didn't have the heart to turn that winning smile away; and when she showed up for practice the following week, towering over the tiny eight-, ten- and twelve-year-olds who stared at her with awed, mystified eyes, I found another reason to want to keep her in the studio.

I had always had a weakness for large, shapely women -- in the years before the agreement, Michael and I had even shared a few, before he started hunting his own game -- and compressed into her leotard Nicole was perhaps the shapeliest I'd ever seen. Her buttocks were massive and perfectly round; not in the obtrusive way that declares a Brazilian surgeon's work, but in that natural taut teenage way, when gravity hasn't yet done its years of dirty work. Her thighs were deliciously meaty -- either one of them was thicker than the torso of just about every other girl in the class -- but her waist, wrists, and ankles were still trim. Her breasts were far too large for the ideal dancer's figure, but not so large that they were in proportion to her magnificent ass; but anyway, she wore an athletic bra under the leotard and kept them in check, unlike her gloriously jiggly gluteus.

And she could move. Not, indeed, that she had anything like professional training, but she had a natural grace that belied her weight, and a talent for picking up the faintest hint of motion and copying it almost exactly. She came from a dancing family, she explained -- "Mamma and Daddy were on Soul Train back in the day" -- and had been a cheerleader before being discovered by the theater program at her high school.

There was no denying that she was a magnetic performer -- that smile alone! -- and I found myself more than once envying the high school students who were getting to watch her run riot in rehearsals for the school play, as I learned from her after-class chatter. I wondered if any of the teachers sat in the back rows of the auditorium watching her and wanting to touch themselves, like I did.

"Lucienne De Guille," I told myself severely, once everyone had been picked up and carted off and the studio was empty and only needed locking up, "You are an old fool. Mooning over that child a third of your age----" this wasn't quite true, I was only forty-eight, and as taut and slender as I had ever been, thanks to a lifetime of discipline through dance---- "when you have a perfectly good husband waiting for you at home." Even that was too much for my self-critical mood, however: by no stretch of the imagination could Michael be considered to be waiting around for me, although of course he would be very happy to see me.

In fact our lovemaking that night must have had a stronger spark than usual, because in the afterglow he said,

"Getting frisky out there, are you? Anyone I know?"

"Oh, shut up, Michael," I said, and put on my sleep mask. "You seem to think I'm as randy as you are."

"Not usually," he admitted. "But tonight...." he trailed off, and then leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. His mustache bristled on my newly moisturized skin. "I wish you good hunting, Luci," he murmured in my ear.

And now here I was, some weeks later. I certainly could not have been said to be hunting Nicole, as I never initiated conversation outside of classroom instruction, but my eyes followed her every movement and the mothers of some of the younger girls had begun to hint that I wasn't paying them enough attention. So I had moved Nicole up to an intermediate contemporary class, trusting that her quick study and natural charm would brave her through not knowing the drills that the thirteen- and fourteen-year old girls knew by heart. And she had proved my trust correct: although the first class was the first time I ever saw her smile slip as she studied the movements of her classmates furiously, she had picked up the majority of the routine by the end of class, and performed it almost flawlessly the following week.

Almost flawlessly: because there was one issue with Nicole's performance, one that I had been dreading having to bring up with her ever since she had mentioned her parents being on Soul Train. Her timing was off.

You mustn't imagine that this was about race. As it happens, my New Orleans Creole ancestors had left me with a darker complexion than Nicole, whose tawny skin glistened so delectably when she worked up a sweat in class. Nor was it about respectability politics: vernacular dance had been one of the great joys of my youth, when Michael and I were regulars at house-music clubs, and I understood why Nicole dragged slightly behind the beat or rushed it: she was just adding a funky accent to the dance. But professional dancers were expected to keep strict time.

I suppose I could have gone about it in a better way. The truth is that I was so disturbed by how much I felt myself craving her -- I would lose whole seconds to fantasizing about licking up the sweat as it trickled down her thighs, and I was devoutly thankful that my invariable uniform of black was least likely to give away how drenched my nethers became after an hour of watching her -- that I felt I had to make an example of her, if only to myself.

"Nicole," I snapped, "you're off rhythm." I snapped my fingers in perfect time with the music as it played. Her buttocks jiggled to a stop as she turned to look at me in astonishment, "Try again," I directed, and restarted the track.

She went into the movements again, but I cut her off again. The other girls started to frown, aware that they had made mistakes too, and wondering why I wasn't calling them out.

I walked up to Nicole, still snapping the rhythm with my fingers. "You -- need -- to -- dance -- in -- strict -- time," I said, measuring each word to the rhythm. "You're not another instrumentalist playing off the others, you're a vehicle for the choreography to express itself. And the choreography is timed -- to -- the -- rhythm."

I smacked my hand against my thigh to pound out the rhythm. I was next to her now, looking at her as she attempted to keep time to my metronomic beat, but I cut her off every time she missed.

"Again," I said, and,

"Again."

The smile disappeared entirely in a frown of concentration. She tensed, flung her body at the rhythm, and held it for only a few moments before slipping back into a funky counterpoint.

"Again," I said, but she reached out and grabbed my hand before I could smack my thigh.

"Hit me instead," she said.

I was startled, and found myself realizing that the other girls in the room were standing around us and watching curiously.

"What?" I said, trying and failing to throw hauteur into it.

"To keep time," she said. "The physical reminder will help. Not on your thigh. On my butt."

I stared at her, and licked my lips. She gave me that winning smile, her eyes glittering through crescent slits, and shrugged.

"Or my shoulder, whatever," she said.

And for the next ten minutes I swatted my hand rhythmically against her warm, soft upper arm as she practiced the routine again and again. She was improving: apparently the physical contact really was helping.

But after those ten minutes I decided I had spent too much time on one student, and shooed the others back to their positions, and made up for my neglect by criticizing them harshly enough that several of them went home blinking back tears.

Nicole was the last one left in the class, scrolling idly on her phone, as I finished putting away all of the towels and water bottles and turned off half of the lights as a warning.

She looked up, and saw me looking at her, and smiled.

She moved toward me. I was on the way to the door, but she wasn't looking at the door. I felt my mouth suddenly dry.

"I wanted to thank you, Ms. De Guilles," she said, with that rapturous smile again. "I know it was a weird thing to ask, but I always learn so much better through touch, and it was nice of you to put your hand on me."

She paused, as though expecting me to say something. My eyes were full of her breasts -- she was so much taller than me that they were on a level with my head, and I noticed with a sharp twinge in my groin that the rounded bumps of her nipples could be made out through the bra and leotard, both of which had been soaked through with sweat.

"I'm glad it seems to be working," was all I said, shortly, and turned toward my office. I had to get away from her, or I would do something unconscionable.

But when I turned around to close the office door behind me, I was startled to find that she was there, leaning on the door frame, regarding me thoughtfully.

"Do you need something, Nicole?" I asked, more impatiently than I felt.

She pursed her lips slightly, and let her eyes travel up and down my slender body, from my perfectly pointed feet all the way up to my deep brown head, unlined but taut, with its big black eyes and the wisps of gray beginning to curl into my short black hair. Her lips curled into a smile, but not the big bright smile: something more tantalizing, with her tongue running behind her lower lip.

"I need more help," she said, "keeping time."

She pushed her way through into my office now, and started to do a tight, circumscribed version of the routine in the tiny bit of space that she was able to occupy, between the file cabinet and the chairs in front of the desk. I had already backed up to the desk, but she was close enough that I could reach out and touch her. She turned around, in that moment, and backed her rear up toward me.

"Come on," she said, looking at me over her shoulder, "keep time on my ass, Ms. Guilles." As I hesitated, my fingers twitching at the thought of touching her again but not daring to reach out, she added, "I know you want to."

I looked at her sharply.

"I am a married woman," I started to say, but she only laughed.

"You're a married woman whose pussy leaks whenever she looks at my ass," she said, and popped her ass back with each work, twerking until she was right up on me. She began to slowly grind her ass in a lazy circle just inches from my crotch, effectively pinning me against the desk -- I wouldn't be able to move without touching her.

"Come on," she said, and reached one hand back to slap her ass. I watched it jiggle, mesmerized.

"Now you," she said, and heaven help me, I did.

"In strict time," she said, resuming as much of the routine as she could without stepping away or moving her ass from directly in front of me. I smacked her ass again, and then again, in time; after a few moments, she adjusted her movements to meet my rhythm, and then time seemed to suspend, as she danced and I kept time on her ass, and we were both perfectly in sync.

I felt my breath coming more and more shallowly, and at last it was my hand that faltered before she did, losing the rhythm as I stared, hypnotized, at her bouncing, thinly-clad flesh. She whirled around, and grabbed the hand, and kissed it on the palm.

"Thank you," she said again, looking into my eyes, and nuzzling her cheek into my hand. "I've been desperate to get you to touch me for weeks."

"Oh my God," was the only thing I had enough wit to say. She smiled brightly, and leaned in to whisper into my ear.

"I'm really good at keeping other kinds of rhythm," she said. "Want to see?"

"Yes," I moaned. My brain was too dazed, too overwhelmed by her nearness, to have the slightest idea what she could mean, but I would say anything that meant more prolonged contact with this divine creature.

She dropped to her knees in front of me, and catching my hands in hers, widened her brilliant smile and planted that gorgeous shining mouth directly onto the soaking crotch of my leotard. I quivered, and tried to pull away automatically, but she had my hands, and her mouth pinned me against the desk; I could have kicked her, I suppose, but I was neither that desperate nor that unwilling.

Because the pleasure that swam up in me the moment her lips touched me through the fabric could not be denied. A long, shuddering "ohhh" escaped my lips, and she sucked happily, sluicing the juices that had flooded my crotch into her mouth before applying her tongue flat against the crevice that she pressed my leotard into and licking slowly up and down.

When the tip of her tongue curled up at the end of the lick and just barely grazed my clit, I jumped and gave a little squeak; her eyes glittered wickedly, and she began to tap rhythmically on the little nubbin with the tip of her tongue, sending electric shocks shooting through me that made my vision white out at the edges as I stared in helpless amazement at the big beautiful girl between my legs, her ass framing her curls as it poked out behind her.

"Don't----" I gasped. "Stop----" I meant Don't! Stop!, meaning that if she continued like this I would soon climax, but she took it as encouragement, and before long the choice was taken away from me, as a delicious wave of caramel-scented pleasure swept up through my body, and I squirmed helplessly beneath her tongue.

She finally pulled away, grinning happily.

"You're so hot when you come, Ms. Guilles," she said.

"Call me Luci," I gasped, shakily removing my hands from her grasp, and making come-here motions as I leaned back on the desk, careless of the papers strewn over it. "I need you on my tongue. Please."

"Oh fuck yeah," she said, and had wriggled one shoulder out of the leotard before I had finished speaking. She stripped unceremoniously, dropping both leotard and bra onto the floor of my office, and hoisted herself up onto my desk, looking down at where I lay, panting.

"I should tell you," she said. "I'm a squirter. These papers are going to get soaked."

"Fuck the papers," I said hoarsely. "Give me your pussy."

She smiled brilliantly again, and moved up, her thick knees on either side of my slim body, until her beautiful brown labia hovered over my waiting tongue.

"Can I tell you something, Ms. -- Luci?" she said softly, looking down at me with shining eyes between her brown-nippled breasts. I longed to suck on those nipples, but first things first.

"Tell me," I said, and reached out with my tongue to try to steal a taste of the pearlescent liquid I could see clinging to the lips just above me.

"I signed up for these classes hoping to get into your pants," she said happily. "Your Sally Bowles was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen."

"You saw that?" I was startled. That production had been a decade ago, in a tiny theater in a gentrifying neighborhood. Its failure had been the primary impetus for my giving up on the stage and opening the studio to help train the next generation.

"I'll never forget it," she said. "You were so precise in your movements, so----" at last, she lowered herself onto me---- "rhythmic."

I had always loved having my face ridden by a big girl, and Nicole's was the sweetest, most delectable peach I had ever sucked the juice from. I was in heaven while I explored her crevice with lips, tongue, and even teeth, nipping gently at her labia and noting the responses, both external (shivering, moaning, whispers of "oh God yes," a gentle motion back and forth) and internal (more divinely slippery wetness coating my face). Once I had satisfied myself as to the dimensions and layout of the pussy before me, I began my assault.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," I heard Nicole say as she arched her back in response to my coordinated attack. My arms were pinned between my body and her legs, so I was a little handicapped in what I could do, but I worked out a pattern that seemed to suffice, nodding my head back and forth so that first my nose then my upper lip then my tongue then my lower lip stroked her clit in quick succession as my chin buried itself in her pussy, then back down again so they all swiped it again. On the upstrokes I added a deep lick of the vaginal canal, on the downstrokes I bared my upper teeth and let them scrape gently against the labial folds.

She was clutching both breasts in her hands now, as if they were the only stable thing she had to hold onto as she thrashed above me, her hips gyrating but her lower half locked in place. And then gradually she began to respond to my rhythm with one of her own, pushing forward so that the pressure on her clit was even more forceful, dragging back so that her juices smeared heavily across my face. I yearned to lick them up, to not miss a drop, but I had a mission to do and I stuck to my rhythm, getting my hands underneath her ass and pitching her ever so slightly forward so that she could no longer escape me on the downstrokes.

"Shit," she whispered, the soft folds of her belly quaking just over my head as she bent forward, propping her weight up on one hand and gently humping forward into my face. "Shit, Luci, it's coming. It's going to be a big one. Don't drown."

"Give it all to me, girl," I said into her pussy. (That was what I meant, anyway. It was probably more like "Guhh uhh lllh uh muh ghuh" if it ever reached her ears.)

And true to her prediction, the stomach suddenly tightened, and she reared back once more, clutching her hands to her head like a silent-movie heroine as what felt like a firehose poured out of her, overwhelming my open mouth and squirting so hard against the angles of my jaw and cheek that hours later I noticed a line of spray on the window of my office, some five feet away from the desk.

I lay in a pool of her juices, licking lazily at the lips I could still reach before she collapsed backwards onto my legs, sending papers that had gotten stuck to her knees flying helter-skelter around the room.

"Jesus," she said, when she had finally got her breath back. "If I knew you were that good I'd have jumped your bones day one."