Private Dancer - Part 3

At the end of the class, Ariane stayed behind a little to talk to the instructor, her eyes casually wandering to where Darren had been standing earlier. He wasn’t there. She started to breathe a sigh of relief until she saw Darren striding purposefully towards her and the instructor. Catching her breath, she turned to say something smart to him when he kissed the instructor gently on the cheek. Turning back to her, he said, “You made it out. Great”. The instructor laughed. “You know her too, Darren? Who don’t you know?” Darren chuckled. “This is my new Wii buddy from earlier. Ariane, right?” Ariane nodded, puzzled. As she opened her mouth to say something else, Darren said, “Ariane, this is Daria, my twin sister, and owner of this dance school”. Ariane’s mouth dropped open. Thanking Daria for the class and wishing Darren well, she bid them both so long and ran out before she could catch herself saying anything else.

Weeks went by and Ariane would see Darren off and on, occasionally in Target, sometimes when she was out and about, but mostly hanging around at the dance school, which had become somewhat of a release for her once a week after work. One particular night, she stayed after class, after all her fellow classmates were gone, to work out a little by herself and think. In the adjacent dance room, she heard R. Kelly’s reggae infused R&B song playing, the slow dancehall inspired rhythm tickling the adjoining walls. Curious, she walked over slowly, wondering what new moves Daria was cooking up on the other side.

What she saw surprised her.

Darren, in loose navy blue sweats, Timberlands, and a white wife beater, was sliding across the floor, combining street dancing with a smooth Caribbean whine, his pelvis thrusting the floor and then up again into this sort of spin, she might call it…either way, she was amazed. Darren’s fluid movements spoke of a seasoned dancer with years of experience. Ariane watched in awe at every created movement, every sensual piece of choreography perfectly staged. It was…so…sexy. She couldn’t stop watching. Her body moved in tune to the music almost involuntarily. Before she knew it, she had found her way inside the steamy dance studio, her hips moving independently of her body, her steps matching Darren’s as if in a trance. Darren looked up and saw Ariane there, her pecan sandie skin glistening in the studio lights, her purple leggings a second skin, her matching sports bra barely covering her mounds.

They assessed each other’s movements silently. Never had sweat seemed so erotic.

Darren opened his mouth to speak first. Ariane shook her head. Emboldened, she walked up to him, her hips swaying in time to the music. Standing face to face with him, she wet her lips, and, as if in slow motion, leaned in and licked Darren’s collarbone gently, so gently that had it not been for Darren’s narrowing eyes, one might not have realized what happened. Reaching the base of his neck, she lightly bit him and then kissed him there before stepping back, tenderly pulling on the skin there, . Darren grabbed the waistband of her pants and, pulling her back towards him, touched the base of her lips with his and held it there, his eyes glancing down her face, her eyes closed. Pulling away, he backed up a little, leaving Ariane confused. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Your turn”.

Their movements became their own lambada, each matched dance step its own version of foreplay. Darren's steps were a sensual tease for Ariane, who followed closely. During the moments their bodies would connect, their eyes locked and held. Their hands betrayed their minds - as Ariane trailed behind Darren, she allowed her hands to trail across Darren's broad, muscular back. "Damn", she muttered to herself. He was hiding a lot underneath those suits. Darren paused and turned quickly, his chest to hers, their chocolate and caramel sweat mingling. The two stood there, assessing each other, as Jodeci sang about what they wanted to do.The decision became apparent in Darren's eyes as he backed up slowly, his eyes still locked on hers. Ariane felt more naked and exposed from his stare than she ever had on anyone's pole. Darren lifted his now soaked wifebeater off and tossed it to the ground as Ariane watched, her eyes widening slightly. The tattoo of a breakdancing music scale peered back at her from his left bicep. She found herself drawn to it - to him...

To be continued...

Speechless, Pt. 1

The taste of his back called me.

It called me in the office. On the phone. In that insipid meeting with my boss, I dreamt of chocolate flavored sweat stirring my coffee, relieving the need for cream or sugar, and I just wanted to take a sick day to become one with him and collect it all. I almost came when my boss said "yes" and I realized that I was reliving the night before...to the point that I almost moaned aloud.

Wow.

Collecting my thoughts, I dropped everything on my desk, grabbed my twenty four pack of packaged death, and hightailed it for the parking lot. Leaning on someone's car, I lit, puffed, and inhaled. Sigh. My mind drifted back to his lips on my...

"You know you have to quit smoking, right?" I looked up. Why was everyone trying to ruin my fantasy? Nick, the resident fix it-all-do-it-all guy at my job, was leaned again the side of his company van, puffing on a cigar. I looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Um...aren't we a hypocrite?” I quipped. Nick chuckled, the smoke from his Oliva pluming a thin greyish stream from the side of his mouth. "Listen, sweetheart, I always tell you, leave the ugly stuff to the ugly men". Nick coughed. It was the deep phlegmy of a seasoned smoker. I retorted, "And I always tell you, stop calling yourself ugly. You know ugly people make me itch". Nick laughed again, and this time I offered him a true smile. I enjoyed talking to Nick. He was one of the few people in the office who I enjoyed talking to on a regular basis. Unlike others in our office, it didn't matter to me that he cleaned our toilets and our floors. I liked Nick. Nick was real. And consistent. A quality that I wished many other people that I knew possessed.

The tropical infused cancer stick did nothing to abate my hunger. If anything, it increased it. I knew it was only a matter of time when the temporary high would go away and I would be reliving it all again. Nick spoke, and I heard moans, soft utterances of pleasure like tiny pulses running through me. He wiped his forehead, and I tasted salty sweet sex. It wasn't Nick. I was trapped in a yesterday.

There was a pop. I jumped. Nick chuckled. "You're someplace else, miele. Perhaps I talk to you later, no?" I grimaced slightly. "Sorry, Nick. I am someplace else. I'll talk to you later". "No prob, doll face, whenever you wanna talk". And Nick was off. Nick reminded me so much of Santa Claus sometimes, if Santa had no beard, told dirty jokes and, well, cleaned toilets. I stepped on my cigarette and went back inside the office. The message light blinked incessantly on my phone. Checking my voicemail, I realized I had four messages. Was I gone that long? I wondered. The phone was on speaker, so I sat back in my chair to listen.



It was as if pure passion had wafted through the vents and took a seat on my desk.



I sat up and took the phone off speaker. I must have looked like the RCA dog who meets that pit from the projects, because as my assistant knocked and peeked in, she took two steps back and asked if I was ok. I shook my head yes. "Oh ok. I just wanted to make sure. A Mr. Johnson is here to see you". I furrowed my eyebrows. I didn't know who a Mr. Johnson was, but my assistant looked like the cat that swallowed both canaries, so I told her to tell him to come.

He didn't say a word as he walked in. All he did was point to the phone, and I felt his voice, smooth as chocolate, ooze out his caramel finger and land on my breast. "What are you doing here?..." He put his finger to my lips. The sweat I had been craving all day was literally at my fingertips and I was busy making small talk. I sat up, silent but eyes sending constant inquiries. He walked back to the door and closed it. Locked it. He pointed to the phone again. I caught the hint this time and replayed the message. Ginuwine floated through the air again as he walked over and kneeled down in front of me, sliding off one red pump.

Then, the other.

His hand caressed my foot and licked it. Gently. Softly. His tongue rubbed my toes and trailed a path, well past the point of no return, where it met a pleasurable entrance that by this point was dripping. I wore a no frills g-string, which he moved to the side. He explored my delta, wrote his name in sexy curlicued script that left no room for displeasure. It was a wonder that I remained silent. I wanted to scream. I settled for soft, breathy moans. I didn't do the saying names thing, but I was seconds away from making an exception. And then, someone knocked on the door. He looked up at me, only for a second before moving to kneel under the desk and wheeling the chair and me closer. I said, "Come in". I could only hope that the person would be quick and that he wouldn't be found out under the desk. Or me. Especially since he didn't stop...

To be continued...