The Dance

"IF YOU THOUGHT I'd sleep on this... Boy, you're wrong 'cause all I dream about is our first kiss... And you're the first one to make me feel like this... And this is one opportunity that I can't resist, no no..."

Groove Theory played. But those two, they moved to their own groove, their own tempo - in their own world.

The bar was sparse. Deejay. Bartender. A couple sitting near the back. Two 20-something guys on the side concocting a plan to hook up with three 30-something women sitting at the bar.

The night's misty rain and more than slight chill curiously kept many Portlanders home. Plus, it was on the naughty side of twilight. Those wanting rowdier action had long ago searched for their affairs in some strip club elsewhere or were stopping by Voodoo for a late-night pastry -- then finding a strip club. But these two, they were content to eat a late dinner. Then find a place to stretch out the night a little longer.

They faced each other, swaying side to side. Her head lay on his chest. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands clasped behind his neck. The sides of her arms squeezed his shoulders. Her hands pulled his neck closer. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

His clutch was equally tight, an embrace that touched on carnal massage. His hands searched her body. First, fingers spread wide hugging the sides of her torso as both thumbs nibbled at the bottom of each breast. His hands slipped inside the sheer, knee-length Cardigan and in the opening in the back of her top.

Skin to skin.

He moved her hair from her neck, and pulled her tighter. Beads of sweat collected near her collar and on her upper back. He pursed his lips and blew on the moisture.

Goosebumps.

Hardened nipples.

She let out a slight gasp. He smiled.

He didn't need to blow. It was a supererogatory sentiment -- but not superfluous. The blow was gentle, but enough to push an already sensational situation higher. She eased their grip, enough they could look at each other's bodies. But their eyes kept in contact. Words not needed.

His hands moved to her curve, that spot on the torso where the waist flares to the hips. He squeezed and let his imagination go. He'd hold her there. She'd inhale as she felt his lips suckling her labia. He'd hold her tighter while each flicker of his tongue across her vaguely covered clitoris caused a surge of emotion that stiffened her legs and arched her back and sent her hands to his head pushing him away, but not too far, from the crux of the overwhelming sensations. But he's schooled in this brand of salacious Pilates. He knew what was coming next and would push further, his tongue taking her to higher, near transcendent, levels of hedonism.

Her breathing brought him back to reality. He knew they were too far gone. Their bodies knew it. Their emotions knew it. Spiritual lines had been crossed. Once emotional barriers that seemed indomitable, impossible to get over or through, were now ostensibly holding them captive.

"MY MIND IS tellin' me no! But my body, my body's tellin' me yes... Baby, I don't want to hurt nobody... But there is something that I must confess (to you)... I don't see nothin' wrong with a little bump 'n grind..."

Deejay was doing this on purpose, keeping everybody happy. He said, "last song" four songs ago. But, they kept moving to their mutual seduction. Deejay kept playing.

Nine sets of eyes were engrossed in their every gyrate. The 20-somethings gave a fist bump, knowing the guy was going to score that night. The 30-somethings chuckled and high-fived each other, knowing she was going to get satisfied that night. Bartender had finished cleaning and was sitting on the bar's edge talking on the phone and describing the scene. The couple watched between bouts of increasingly impassioned kisses.

They knew they were being watched.

Yet, he didn't care about this public display of total-body and soul covetousness. Neither did she.

Maintaining eye contact, she grabbed his hands, eased them from her back. She put her hands on top of his, and wove her fingers between his. She put their hands inside her sweater, behind her back, and slid them down and under the top of her pants. She released his fingers and grabbed his wrists urging him farther down until he was kneading her ass, down until he was further into a vat of emotional elation from which he would not want to return.

This was skin to skin done sinfully

He clenched her ass, pulling her pelvis closer and closer to his growing hardness. Her hands went to the back of his neck and pull his head down to hers. Their eyes stayed locked, until they couldn't. Their foreheads touched. She pulled harder on him, squeezing the back of his neck trying to massage out pent-up emotion and a steadily-building frustration from a needed release.

They swayed slowly. Grinding. He pulled away his pelvis, enough to adjust his hardness so it would reach from between top of her mound down to grazing her pubis. She laid her head back on his chest, her face nuzzled up into his neck. She pushed her pelvis into his as he pulled her closer, too.

How did it get to that point? Two old friends were brought together again by the serendipity of work travel. She was single, just ending a long relationship. He was married. They were both in relationships when they met years earlier - when this unique coupling began. His relationship with his wife was strained at best. But, he was still married. Yet, there they were knowing that their only need was primal. It was a need to explore the thing that was happening right then -- the extrasensory connection, the energy that flowed from her skin to his skin, from his hands to her ass, from the feel of her ass to the feel of his hardness pressing into her.

The human body is simultaneously resilient and delicate. It stands stout in the face of gale-force winds. Yet, it gets goosebumps from a gentle breeze or an even gentler touch. The glutes are strong enough to lift a small car, but soft enough that exploring hands effortlessly squeeze their form.

He respected her boldness, her power. Yet, he simultaneously wanted to master the essence from whence they came.

As individuals, their power was resolute. Both understood and appreciated the value of smart determination. There was an efficiency in each of their life struggles that garnered respect from the other.

Game recognizes game.

But this dance, this swaying to the music, this suspended moment of happiness, simultaneously strengthened and weakened both. They needed to feed off each other's vigor and oomph, off each other's vitality and élan... off each other's neurophysiological dynamism.

But, he was a kept man, and both were well aware of the emotional line they had crossed long ago. They were well aware how physical it could get, too.

"We're just dancing," he'd tell himself over and over. "Just dancing."

"How can something so natural be wrong," she'd think between deep breaths.

Still, they didn't relax their holds on each other.

"IF YOU'RE HORNY, let's do it... Ride it, my pony... My saddle's... waiting... Come and... jump on it."

That damned deejay.

She slid back this time, eased over and straddled her thighs around his right leg. He smiled because he knew this tango was about to ratchet up the satyriasis meter. He had an uncanny ability to move his legs or arms or pelvis in such a rapid motion that he'd become a 6-foot tall, 223-pounds of all muscle-filled living, breathing and no-battery needed vibrator.

Years ago, he showed her this "thing" he does.

______________________________

But his back was to her then. He had grabbed her hands and pulled them, so she was forced to be close to his whole body, her breasts against his back, her pelvis against his butt. He started with his lower legs and moved to the thighs and the glutes. The vibration was slow at first but increased rapidly. His lower right leg started moving as if a hundred ants had just crawled onto his foot, and he was trying to shake off the whole lot of them. Then he switched legs. And switch back again. The rapid movements traveled up his legs to his thighs and ass. She froze, not knowing what to expect but never imagining this. He took away his hands. Her curiosity held hers over his pecs. Club goers surrounding them took note.

The males stared in wonderment; the women, in wanton.

"Seriously?" she said to him way back then. "How are you doing that?"

"What? This?" he laughed. "This is nothing."

He pulled her tighter and intensified the shakes. She couldn't believe what she was feeling and where she was feeling it. The vibrations hit a nerve, a main line that connected from every pleasure spot on her body directly to her pussy. It was already wet from the lasciviousness of their earlier dancing. This took her moisture to a dripping level.

Her arms, wrapped around his torso, squeezed tighter. He moved faster and faster. She lay her head on his shoulder, burrowing her face into his neck, all while maintaining the grip. He could feel her breathing get rapid, but deep. He could feel her pressing her pelvis, trying to get her pussy closer to his vibrating ass. Her lips began moving against his neck.

Kissing him? Trying to say something? Nibbling on his neck? Then he heard a strained, almost surprisingly desperate, "ohmygod, this can't be happeni..." Emotion can do that, stop you in mid-sentence, and force you to simply feel.

She was on the dance floor, sweat-steamed bodies writhing all around. Music blasting. Her arms wrapped around this muscled frame. His arms had reached behind him grabbing her hips and ass, pulling her tighter against him -- and sending her higher.

Small waves of intensity started from her clitoris and spread. Her pussy contracted. Nipples hardened. Toes stretched, then curled, grabbing and clutching at each tingle.

He continued his vibrating assault on her neurophysiology. She was cumming and didn't know why. She was on a dance floor with 200 other people. This was not her. Yet, it excited her. She was always in control. Her life was about control. But not now.

Do they know? Can they see the spasms? Can they hear the whimpers? They can see her finger grasping his chest, can't they?

Part of her cared, that part her mom raised to be focused and clean, uncorrupted by the hedonisms of the flesh. Still, no matter the upbringing, nature outmaneuvers nurture when a carnal essential needs satiation. Visceral sensations ruled her body at that moment. It was as though Bacchus had descended from Olympus and saturated her figure with an animalistic-filled passion dipped in exuberance.

He slowed the vibrations as he felt her body tense for what seemed like the last minute of the song. Her muscles relaxed. Then she slumped into him. He turned quickly, wrapping his arms around her, nearly picking her up, and walked her off the dance floor.

An orgasm on the floor, in front of 200 unsuspecting people.

______________________________

She'd often thought about that dance. The pulsing thigh between her legs brought her back to reality. He flexed and relaxed his quadriceps muscles. The palpitating thigh, however, didn't do as much as the anticipation of what the thigh could bring.

"AND I'M GONNA... Kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, feel you deep inside me ohh... I just wanna kiss you, suck you, taste you, ride you, feel you, make you come, too..."

The song couldn't have been more perfect. She was an admirer of Ms. Jackson -- if you're nasty. She knew all the words. More importantly, all the movements. She backed off from him. Disengaging from his thigh, she sauntered to the dance floor's edge, and grabbed a chair, bringing it back and putting it in the middle of the floor.

The three women looked at each other in disbelief. The guys lost all shame and pulled their chairs closer to the dance floor. The couple sitting in the back stood to get a better view, and more access to each other. Nobody really noticed them in the back. They could play a little more with him standing behind her, his fingers caressing her breast through her shirt. Her hands were behind her rubbing his hardness. Their eyes hypnotized by what was on the floor. Every other eye was, too.

Back on the dance floor, she looked at the chair. Looked at him and back to chair again. He smiled and did the same motions. She shook her head, pointed at him and said, "M, It's your turn." He knew exactly what she meant and what she intended to do.

So, he sat.

She started in front of him and began with slow Egyptian hip gyrations as she circled the chair. She'd touch his head occasionally and let a hand or finger linger on his face. Her hips never stopped moving: up and down, side to side. Her pelvis rocked back and forth. He wanted more eyes and a photographic memory. He wanted to see it all and remember every bit. He licked his lips, reached down and pull the crotch of his pants, anticipating the need for more room.

Finishing her circle directly in front of him, she slowly squatted, and the bare flesh of her quads came into view as her flowy split-leg pants draped on the outsides of her thighs. She put her hands between her legs and outlined her crotch from her mons to the engorged lips of her sex. He looked there then traveled up her body to where her breasts, framed by her upper arms, jutted out like they were sitting on a presentation platter. Her nipples, hard as pencil erasers poked against the thin fabrics of her silk shirt and the wispy Cardigan. He was an ass man, but her nipples were persuasive, possibly charmed. They spoke to him, seemingly catechizing him. Did he believe in their power? They were a gateway to her erogenous core. Her body would go into spasms with the right touch or the right lick. And there they were waiting for him to take them between his thumb and middle finger and pinch, just hard enough for her to feel the sting.

With his eyes fixated on her nipples, his hands absentmindedly reached out for them. She playfully slapped them away, stopping his mini trance. Then she sat down, quickly laid to her back, spread her legs wide, nippily rolled on to her stomach and finished the move on her knees with her butt looking at him and her head on the ground turned sideways, eyes catching his gaze.

Face down. Ass up.

A throaty, "Oh shit." came from one of the 20-somethings.

"Guurl, look at that," one of the 30-somethings said. "Look at his bulge."

"Yeah, but look at her ass," one of the other two said. "Oh my goodness. It's incredible."

Yes, it was an incredible ass. He knew it. She did, too. It was muscular, yet round and full. Years of track and field sprinting progressed to a Division 1 volleyball career. She stayed active through law school, working out four days a week. The workouts were more for keeping her sanity than keeping her body healthy. But the side effects were, well, as the second woman said, incredible.

The loose-fitting silk pants had inched into the crack of her ass, snug like a thong. The fit showcased each half globe of her ass and outlined the fatness of her swollen pussy. She undulated her hips. They moved more figure eight than windshield wiper.

Without hesitation, he slid from the chair, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her up to his lap and fell back into the chair. The move surprised her, briefly. But she went with the flow, landing her ass flat on his hardness and her back on his chest. His hands left her hips as he crimped his fingers and moved them down her exposed thighs toward her knees. He flattened his hands and slid them back up to her crotch.

The first move brought her tingles and a temporary lapse into pleasure. The second brought her back to reality. She quickly caught his hands in hers. She intertwined their fingers and held them just above her crotch. They both could feel the rising heat.

His dick twitched.

She adjusted her ass, so her cheeks straddled his lurching member. And she continued undulating, adding cyclone-like circles, arching her back, pushing her ass down harder. Forcing more of his dick to lodge between her cheeks. Their hands were still locked together when she took them and folded their arms across her breasts. His palms were on bottom. He felt the brunt of her soft flesh and erect nipples. But he couldn't close his fingers. Couldn't take the nipples between his fingers like he wanted to. Next best thing had to do. He moved his palms off her breasts far enough to that the nipples were the only parts of the breast touching him. He started circling his palms.

She froze. Oh shits flooded her thoughts. Sensitive nipples were open and available to his touch. Her pussy got wetter. She was losing control of her carnality. She tried to press her hands down on his, tried to mash his palms back into her breasts, trying to regain control. He was too strong.

"It's always your turn," he said, leaning to her ear. "Always."

"HERE WE ARE in this big old empty room, staring each other down. You want me just as much as I want you. Let's stop fooling around... Take me baby, kiss me all over, play with my love. Bring out what's been in me for far too long. Baby, you know that's all I've been dreaming of... Do me baby, like you never done before. Ho, ooh give it to me till I just can't take no more. C'mon, do me baby, like you never done before. Hoooh, I want you now, I just can't wait no more, can't wait, oh."

Prince.

Wow.

The deejay didn't know what Prince did to this man. In his eyes, there was no peer to His Royal Purpleness. Merely hearing a cut as provocative and incendiary and dripping with as much carnal supplication as this one could only be appreciated by responding with an appropriate amount of lasciviousness.

Complying was mandatory. So, he did.

Sitting up, he leaned her forward and supported her upper body with his arms, yet he still had the strength to only allow her nipples to graze his palms. In this position, her pelvis was tilted downward, allowing the bulge in his pants access to a pussy and clitoris shielded only by a thin layer of silk.

"A," he told her. Then moved his palms in the shape of the letter A. "B."

This was Prince's Alphabet St. She knew it! Except his tongue wasn't dancing on her clit. It was his hands on her nipples, and his fabric-restrained cock against her clit.

She reciprocated. Her pussy traced over his bulge with each new letter. Over and over until he said the next letter. She tried to concentrate on him. This was supposed to be his turn. His pleasure.

Too late.

Sweat had beaded up and dripped from her chin. Her eyes closed. Her focus was on her nipples and her enthusiastically sensitive clitoris. Her juices coated her crotch and stained his pants.

"H."

"I."

"J."

She was motionless now. Her body moved because his did. And he moved his hands and crotch in unison. Palms forward. Bulge forward mashing her clit. Palms back. Bulge eased. She couldn't make too many more letters. Her breathing had become rapid but deep. Her fingers squeezed his harder. He knew what was coming.

The couple in back had moved next to the dance floor. She was sitting on her hands and on him. Her hands openly stroking him under her butt. A 30-something had inched closer to the floor trying hear what he was saying. The deejay slowly turned the music louder, waiting for Prince's crescendo -- and theirs.

"K."

"L."

"Oh my god. M! Ohmygod!" she said, almost yelling his initial.

That was enough. He snatched his fingers from hers. She quickly covered his hands, but not before he got her nipples between his fingers. He started his blitz.

He pinched.

Goosebumps.

He thrust his bulge forward.

Shutter.

Pinched again.

Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

Bulge thrust with simultaneous pinch.

Deep breath. She froze first. Eyes rolled. Slight shivers. Full body jerks. Her hands crushed his. He squeezed her tightly. Holding her through each convulsion and each jerk.