The Nutcracker Sweet

"C'mon, hon, we're going to be late," he called.

"Just a minute longer, love.....there! Okay, I'm ready." She emerged from the bathroom, posing artfully before his admiring gaze.

She'd been worth the wait. Stunning and statuesque in that emerald green dress, diamond necklace glittering on her low cleavage like a spray of snowfall, raven hair piled high, pinned up with tendrils trailing artfully down her shoulders. She looked like a Greek goddess. His mouth watered so hard it hurt.

He growled and reached for her, almost involuntarily, and she stopped him with one finger. "Ah-ah! Late, remember. Come on, I don't want to miss the performance."

He swallowed hard and followed her out the door, carefully adjusting himself to avoid embarrassment in public.

**********************

Near darkness and silence, but for the small coughs and shifting in seats that accompanies any live performance. He sat calmly, pulse pounding, not only in anticipation of the curtain's rising but also in appreciation of her electric presence, bare inches away. Twenty years together and she still affected him like a schoolboy.

Her fingers trailed lightly across the cuff of his tuxedo, brushing against the hairs on his wrist. He felt them rise in response. He couldn't see her face for the darkness, but knew she was smiling.

And then: the orchestra began. Lightly, quickly, flitting through the opening notes of the "Overture". The curtain rose, revealing the stage: the Silberhaus home, brilliantly lit by candles in preparation for the family's Christmas party. The maid entered, with a tray of drinks, twirling gently to the music. He breathed in, breathed deep, felt his heart expand. How he loved this performance. He glanced at her, face now visible in reflected stagelight, and saw her lips parting in wonder and pleasure at the unfolding scene.

How he loved her!

Onstage, the festivities continued, urged onward by the orchestra. As ever, he beat time silently against his thigh with the "Children's Gallop and Dance of the Parents", grinned at the dramatic arrival of Drosselmeyer, and felt a lump in his throat as the Christmas tree burst into brilliance, candles twinkling, heralding the arrival of the holiday.

And then he felt her hand on his thigh. That was new.

He glanced at her in surprise and she speared him with a look, nodding towards the stage. "Keep your eyes where they belong," that look said. He obeyed, but now his attention was less on the intricate choreography and Tchaikovsky's musical strains than on the warmth of her touch as she caressed him, her fingers raising his temperature by twenty degrees instantly.

And raising other things, too. Of course her hand was working its way upward, and of course it eventually encountered the inevitable: a ridge in his slacks. He heard her murmur softly, "Naughty, naughty!" and then he twitched violently as she squeezed it quite firmly. He looked around furtively but their box seats meant privacy; no one else's attention was on anything but the stage.

He couldn't say the same himself. He gulped as her fingers squeezed him again, gently this time, molding themselves along the length of his hardness, pressing slowly, releasing, massaging him insistently, stoking the flames higher. He couldn't help stealing a glance at her again, and this time she met his gaze with a gleeful grin of her own. Mischief sparkled in those eyes, and he was reminded yet again that she was always capable of absolutely anything.

Her hand now stole higher and found his zipper. The orchestra's strains rose higher as the Rat King's armies did battle with those of the Nutcracker Prince; they covered the slight purring sound the zipper made (or was it she that made that purr?) as she drew it down. Slowly, so slowly, her fingers slipped inside. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her hand further and further into the widening gap. Slowly, so slowly, she wrapped her fingers around his length, squeezing firmly, keeping him good and hard.

She seemed to reach another decision then, and pulled her hand free, but not completely -- as she drew it out, she pulled his cock along with it, leaving him sitting there with his shaft sticking out of his slacks for anyone to see. He gave thanks yet again for the privacy of their box seats and for the darkened theater, and then was startled anew when she took his hand and guided it to her own thigh.

Well, now. Time for a little payback. He slid his hand experimentally higher, delighting -- as always -- in the velvety feel of her skin, the little shivers she made as he touched her, the soft "ahh" she emitted. Slid it higher still, wrestling a bit with the dress as it bunched up, but refusing to be deterred by a bit of cloth.

Meanwhile, she had gone back to work on him, her hand impatiently pulling his cock out even further. Now she encircled him with thumb and forefinger and began a maddeningly slow rhythm, squeezing him tightly as she reached the base, then milking him upward, forcing more and more blood into his already painfully hard cock. Soon he was throbbing so hard that his cock twitched with every thump of his heart.

She kept up her slow rhythm. By now she'd abandoned all pretense of interest in the ballet, and was concentrating solely on driving him mad, or so it seemed. She leaned over a bit, as if reaching for something she'd dropped on the floor, but shifted in her seat to give him freer access below her dress. In that instant his exploring fingers encountered heat and wetness far beyond what he'd been expecting. She was bare under that dress. Incredulously, he pushed a bit further, and his index finger sank into her with no effort at all; in a trice his entire palm was soaked. She moaned softly and shifted again, her pussy clamping down tightly on his digit, and leaned downward a bit more. Apparently retaliating, she opened her mouth and without fuss or fanfare slid his cock all the way down her throat until her lips were actually inside the slit of his zipper.

He grunted as she hummed quietly to herself along with the music. Onstage, the Nutcracker Prince danced for Clara, leaping and spinning. Here, it was his brain that was spinning, as she began to bob her head slowly up and down, drooling saliva all over his slacks, ramping the friction on his tortured cock up and up and up. Her throat clutched at him, milked him; her lips and tongue shaped his trembling. He stroked his fingers deeper into her, found her clit, tweaked it viciously, slid his palm all over her slick cleft. She gurgled a moan of delight and slid her hips forward to meet his invasion; he bucked his own hips upward involuntarily as she sucked particularly hard on his shaft. He tingled, his blood boiled, his balls churned. She trembled, spasmed, shivered in pleasure.

The music built and built. The Waltz of the Snowflakes spun out its tableau onstage. He gasped as he pulled her upward and off his shaft. "No," he breathed raggedly. "Damned if I'm going to blast off down your throat." She nodded, hair coming loose from its pinnings, stray wisps straggling across her face, and panted, "Yeah, yeah, c'mon baby, do me" as she wriggled into his lap, rucking her dress up even further. He heard it rip as she spread her legs and had time to mourn yet another dress's demise before she was fumbling between the two of them, yanking him around and pointing him the right direction for her. He threw back his head, forgetting about propriety now, no longer caring who saw, his hands sliding up her chest, grabbing double handfuls of her tits and squeezing through the dress. She swore under her breath and wriggled some more, raising up, then sank down hard, gushing out onto his slacks as he speared up and into her.

They paused for a heartstopping instant, then began moving together, his hands on her hips, lifting her, dropping her. He bent his head forward and licked at her throat, tasting the sweat trickling down her neck, smelling her jasmine perfume mixed with the now very evident scent they were both creating. They clutched at each other, gasping harder now, bucking deeper into the throes of ecstasy. The orchestra built towards crescendo as Act I neared its conclusion, and as one they increased their efforts, spiraling higher, straining and moaning, hoping to finish before the house lights came up for intermission, but in reality not caring a whit for what might happen if they didn't. 


A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. I intend to return in the new year with more regular entries, and thanks to everyone who's written me urging me to come back.

 -- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 10-21-11: "Aural Sex"

(Source image: unknown title by Beau Monde; website link broken)

“Just listen,” he said. “I think it's the best I've done yet.”

She put the headphones on, and...

...was lost, utterly, swept away and undone. Bass throbbed in her bones. Panoramic strings of notes curled around, holding her close. Point-counterpoint bore her along, synth waves buoying her up, steadying. Images flared in her brain, slow-sweet moans, lisping sounds of bodies locked together, slippery with sweat, fumbling towards ecstasy, cramped with desire, rigid in pained delight.

“Well?” he asked.

She couldn't speak. She just nodded.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 38-98 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...pained delight..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:

No, I don't have any idea where the key words for this week's challenge came from. They just jumped into my head unbidden and refused to leave till I put them down as part of the challenge. I hope they weren't too much of a burden for the rest of you.

I've been musing over the idea of music as a sexual experience. There have been times when the song I was listening to was so transcendent, the notes so just right, the environment so enveloping, the power and wonder of it all so extreme that it was almost a religious thing. Quite a trick, for an atheist. And it occurred to me that with very little alteration, what is religion to some could be sexual for others. Music gets a lot of people horny, but what would music sound like if it was the very representation of the sexual experience? I tried to capture some of that in this very short piece, and think I succeeded. Opinions may differ.

If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 3-25-11: "Café Confidential"

(Source image: "Casablanca" by TC Reiner)

She was everything I'd come to love about Casablanca: full of grace and spirit, a glint in her eye and spring in her step, white teeth agleam in face kissed by the sun, body taut but full of promise. For weeks my waitress at this dusty little streetside café, she danced right along the edge of flirtation but never overstepped it.

Till the day I brought my guitar. From the first chord I struck there was something in her eyes, dark and flickering. I wrapped cadenzas around her, held her fast with fingers dancing on the strings, her gaze locked with mine, the spark jumping.

After, she settled onto my lap with a swirl of skirts. “So beautiful,” she sighed with a lilting French accent. “Why did you not tell me you played?”

“Better to show you,” I grinned.

“Ah! yes, it is better to show,” she agreed. “Like....this?” Her eyes danced, flicking downward, to where she had pulled up her skirt. She was bare beneath it.

“Very much like that,” I agreed, and slid my hand up her thigh.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 119-187 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...kissed by the sun..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track: 

Originally I'd planned to call this one "Moroccan Fire" and play up the sensation of heat I got from looking at the photo. I pictured long, humid glances of passion between the players in the tale, sultry heat in a café, sweat rolling down bodies, torrid romance building slowly. And then my research on Morocco and Casablanca informed me that it has mostly a very pleasant and mild climate with neither extreme highs nor extreme lows. That threw that approach out the window.

So I seized on the guitar instead. Music is always flowing through my head, and so it was almost effortless to fit a fiery Moorish rhythm into the story I had in mind next. I tried to suggest this was a glimpse into the Casablanca of yesteryear, before its jeweled luster dimmed, by giving her a French accent. Maybe the waitress wouldn't give him the time of day, but she went all to pieces when he played for her. Stranger things have happened. It makes me wish I had more musical talent than I do, but I'll settle for wordsmithing any day of the week. I hope you enjoyed this little fanciful tone poem.

Please note that I am no longer collecting the participants list. If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 9-3-10: "The Flame Within"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Tell me.......

Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me anything that flashes across the dendrites of that brilliant brain. Tell me this weird idea you had. Tell me about the celebrity you met once. Tell me about your dog. Tell me what you do for a living. Tell me about the trip you went on as a kid. Tell me why you love your favorite movie.

Tell me your hopes. Tell me your wishes. Tell me your urges. Tell me your dirty fantasies, the things you daren't mention to anyone else, your deepest darkest desires that dance delightfully in the depths of your dreams. Tell me why you haven't made those fantasies a reality. Tell me how you're going to fulfill them and when. Tell me that I feature in some of them. Tell me that I'm flattering myself.

Tell me who and what you are -- whither from, where bound, what drives you. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need. Tell me what you must have but fear asking for. Tell me why you fear it. Tell me what else you fear. Tell me what makes you strong and proud and hale. Tell me what makes you weak and whimpering and willowy. Tell me what tears you apart. Tell me what reconstructs you, what makes you soar, what sets your spirit bouncing like a ball in a tight spiraling rebound.

Tell me you love me. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you revile me, want me, can't stand to be me without me, don't ever want to see me again. Tell me you long for my touch, tell me you came five times last night fantasizing about that touch, tell me you came five more times after your dreams of the following night.

Tell me you're mine, now and forevermore. And I'll tell you the same.

-- PB

"Capriccio" now up at Erotic Flash Fiction

Good morning. I've another contribution up at Spanky and Tiggs's Erotic Flash Fiction; this one a short piece prompted by a random word and entitled "Capriccio". Go check it out, what what?

The site seems to be getting some more attention lately, with more people linking back to it from here, there, and everywhere. That can't be anything but good, but more readers are always welcome. Tell your friends!

-- PB

Music for Sexings

Marty Friedman, ex-Megadeth, released an album a few years back called "Music For Speeding". Listening to it today, I wondered: what kind of music do you like for SEXING?

Do you prefer the intricate strains of classical music? Perhaps some Mozart or Beethoven caressing your ears while the two (or more) of you caress each other?

Maybe you like to get down and dirty with each other with some heavy industrial playing. Fucking in a dark room with candles lit and Nine Inch Nails in the background is a hell of an experience.

Or maybe you want to go at it hard and heavy, with some pure thrash. Metallica, Rammstein, Slayer, whatever. Warning: this can cause friction burns if you don't moderate the tempo.

Perhaps you like the pure soul of Barry White or Marvin Gaye, silky smooth voices pouring like melted honey over your bodies.

And drifting amidst clouds, borne up on a tide of new age from Enya or B-Tribe, is a lovely thing. Ethereal and inchoate, you and your partner the only "real" things in the room.

Some like more musical experimentation; why not put on some classic jazz? Mahavishnu Orchestra, Branford Marsalis, Miles Davis and John Coltrane are great ways to explore music while exploring each other. 

Of course, there's nothing quite like the raw emotion of the classic bluesmen like Robert Johnson, Johnny Winter, or Stevie Ray Vaughan. You might find yourself crying, or you might find you and your partner rutting like animals in heat. It depends.

If you're up for a really athletic and extended session, just cue up a couple of extended trance / electro mixes and you're set for hours. Paul van Dyk, DJ Tiesto, Orbital, the Crystal Method and Paul Oakenfold will keep you pumping till dawn -- and onward.

Maybe you just want something relentlessly cheerful. The 80s were a great time for that, so put on some Culture Club or Duran Duran and bang each other with just your leg warmers and Swatch watches on.

Or maybe you want something radio-popular. There's such a huge range here -- from Sting to Shakira, Maroon 5 and Nickelback, Peter Gabriel and Jackson Browne and more. Something for all tastes.

I like different music for different moods....or sometimes no soundtrack whatsoever. After all, the best soundtrack of all is the soundtrack you're making with your partner. Where's the fun in quiet sex? Make some noise! Cry it out! Moan and gasp and thrash and scream. Get off with that aural fixation.

-- PB

[fiction] Dance the Night Away, Part 2

[Part 1 can be found here.]


Without warning she pulled me to my feet. "I love to dance," she purred. "I love to move, love to twist and twine my body around. Love the way the music shoots through me. But you know, even more than that, I love to be watched. And you've been watching me all night, haven't you?"

Why lie? I nodded and grinned, still wiping bits of her wetness off my lips and chin.

"Thought so," she said. "Let's see what we can do about that......"

I reached for her but she shook her finger at me. "Ah-ah!" she tutted. "You can just watch for a bit."

And so I stood back and watched as she began to run her hands up and down her body. In a few seconds more she was slowly moving to the music again, the music which we could still hear pulsing through the door. Her lips parted and she ran her tonguetip along her lower lip, still twisting and swaying slowly while caressing herself. She sighed softly as one hand cupped and lifted a breast, pinching gently at the nipples, which I could see were hard as tiny pebbles. Her other hand was now between her legs, pressed hard against the same spot I'd been sucking and licking so industriously not so long ago.

She moaned louder and threw her head back, suddenly stopping her dance. She lurched for a second and I almost reached out to steady her but remembered her "hands off" admonition and stayed put. She rocked back and leaned against the counter, using it to support her as her hands kept busily working away. Breathing hard, she fumbled at the snap on her jeans and slid them down. My eyes went wide as I discovered why those jeans had been so wet: no underwear met my gaze, only smooth skin and a tiny landing strip above a pussy that was slick and shining with her nectar.

Her fingers slid lower and plunged in. "Ohhhhhhh," she moaned, and her mouth went tight as she began to fuck herself. Decorum was far out the window now; she was too far gone to worry about niceties such as buttons as she ripped hard at the V-neck of her shirt. The buttons flew off, plinking on the tile floor, and she yanked the shirt wide, her breasts spilling free. Her hands were now moving all over herself, from sopping pussy to her tits and back again, mauling and squeezing her bright red nipples and then darting back to her slit to finger herself furiously. Her eyes flashed open and she speared me with a lusty grin, her gaze sliding down my body to the ridge in my jeans. She licked her lips and nodded in its direction.

My mouth was watering and my cock was aching. I had my own jeans and underwear pulled down in seconds, my cock standing out like an exclamation point to emphasize the amazing show she was putting on. Soon I was stroking myself in time with her own strokes, both of us now gasping with lust and shivering with desire. I was moving slowly towards her but somehow stayed separate still, even though my cock was now just inches away from her soaked slit.

Still she fucked herself, and still I flogged myself. Something had to give soon, and it was her. A mewling cry burst from her lips, a primal squeal of ecstasy as she buried her fingers deep in her pussy. I heard her juices splattering on the floor in a perfect torrent. Her hips bucked hard against her hand and seconds later she came again, jerking backwards and forwards like a marionette with its strings cut. She fell to her knees; I let go of my cock to help her up, but thoughts of chivalry vanished when she grabbed my ass and devoured my cock in a single gulp. Suction like I'd never felt sent my brain into a whirl. Her lips and tongue seemed to be everywhere at once, and I roared my own primal roar as I blasted off down her throat. A slight gurgle from her was her only reaction as she kept milking me, her throat clenching hard around my still-spurting cock, her saliva drooling out and around the base of my shaft.

Finally she pulled back, her hair wild and her ruby red lips red no longer -- all her lipstick was painted all over my softening cock. She stood up in one smooth motion, breathing hard, and leaned back against the counter. "Mmmmmm," she moaned, grinning at me, and went right back to fingering herself! Again I reached for her, and again she stopped me, this time with a hand on my chest, her other hand still working busily in circles on her clit. "No," she panted, looking up at me, "just....I....oh, oh, ohh, ohhhhh, YESSSSSSS......" Her entire body tensed up and her eyes went wide as she went rigid all over for what seemed like an eon, then slowly, slowly relaxed.

Still panting, she bent over and pulled her jeans up, swifly knotting her shirt together below the curve of her tits. Her gaze swept over my body and a smile swept over her face, a very self-satisfied look, like a cat that's been into the cream. And without another word, she turned on her heel and strode for the door.

"Wait!" My voice, a ground-glass croak. It did stop her, but only for a moment. She tossed another grin at me over her shoulder, unbolted the door, and slipped through it like smoke, gone. By the time I yanked my own clothing into a semblance of order, got out of the bathroom, and had convinced Security not to throw me out on my ass, she was nowhere to be found.

I resolved to come back here the next time this band was playing.

********************

Hope you enjoyed this one!
-- PB

[fiction] Dance the Night Away, Part 1

Rock concerts are really a crap place to meet people. Fortunate for me, then, that I don't go to meet people, but rather go to listen to the music. Last night, though, I met someone at a rock show, in about the most direct way you can meet them.

It was a show from one of my favorite blues guitarists. He and his band aren't much for small talk or patter in between songs -- they let the music do the talking. Their shows are always packed with people watching him and the boys pouring emotion and soul into their instruments, and women writhing like sirens on the dancefloor. I don't know what it is about this group that makes the ladies want to get up and act out their erotic dance fantasies, but as a lover of female beauty in all its forms, I always have trouble keeping my eyes on the band at these shows when there's such a wanton display of lust on the dancefloor.

Tonight was pretty much the same as usual for this group: dark, smoky club, people packed in around tables and chairs and bar, and the dancefloor full of men and women grinding against each other. I'd been watching one particular brunette all night, but she seemed off in her own world, eyes closed and weaving to the music, completely unselfconscious and completely unconscious of the effect she was having on all the males within fifty yards. I just shook my head in admiration, and turned my attention back to the band again.

A good, long set by a really good band doesn't just tire and dehydrate the band -- if they're doing their jobs, the watchers get tired and thirsty too. This would be why they play at bars, of course, and the owners love it when they're getting a nice influx from thirsty fans. Right now, I was one of those thirsty fans. Fighting my way through the mob to the bar, I managed to get a Scotch on the rocks and turned to head back to my spot near the edge of the club. Slithering sideways around a table, I backed to avoid somebody tipping back in his chair and felt a huge THUD as I ran squarely into someone else. The Scotch tumbler flew from my hand, arcing downward to splash directly into the jeans-clad crotch of the brunette I'd been watching all evening -- now off the dancefloor and standing right in front of me.

I was stunned for a moment, but she wasn't. Her mouth drew down into a line as she looked down at herself, and then shook her head, a half-grin now playing about her features. "You realize, of course, that you're going to have to make this right," she half-shouted, her voice cutting cleanly through the Delta blues rumble of the band.

"I'm so sorry," I shouted in return. "The guy over there" -- I half-motioned to the fellow who'd caused the mess, now leaning forward (of course) and talking animatedly to his friends -- "leaned back so fast I jumped to avoid him."

Her brows drew together. "What?" She motioned to her ear. "Can't hear a thing you're saying!"

I leaned forward, precisely at the wrong instant as she leaned forward as well. Our foreheads met with a white-hot CRACK and she staggered on her feet. Oh, this was going just wonderfully. Shaking my own head to clear it, I grabbed her by the shoulder to steady her and leaned in a bit closer into a very tantalizing aroma of womanly sweat and some indefinable perfume. "I was TRYING to say I was sorry," I yelled, "but it doesn't seem to be working very well, does it?"

She raised her head. Incredibly, she was still grinning. Stunning ice-blue eyes blinked up at me. "No," she allowed, "doesn't seem to be. You'd better come with me for a bit. Can't even hear ourselves talk here."

With that, she grabbed me by the wrist and began pulling me, quite sharply, towards the back of the club. Somehow she was able to eel her way through the mob with no problems at all, sliding through spots that closed seconds later, all of them bumping into me and giving me irritated looks. I tried to figure out where she was headed but...no, surely not. What possible reason could she have for...?

I barely had a chance to stammer out "Um, is this really a good....?" before she had pulled me into the women's bathroom behind her. Two blondes looked up from the sinks, startled. "Out," she said curtly, pointing at the door. One of the two opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it swiftly as the brunette's eyes flashed imperiously. The two of them beat a hasty retreat and the brunette locked the door behind them seconds later.

"What...?" I managed, before her hands went round my neck and she pulled me to my knees in front of her. "Suck," she said. "That looked like good Scotch and it'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

Well, who was I to argue with that? So I opened my mouth and got to work, sucking spilled Scotch out of the crotch of a pair of jeans molded around a woman I'd only met a few seconds ago.

I could only taste a bit of the Scotch, truthfully. Within only a few seconds, though, I didn't care in the least about that, because it was very obvious that not all of the heat and wetness on these jeans was Scotch, or sweat. This woman was so turned on that she had soaked through her underwear AND her jeans as well. The Scotch was just the overlay. Even through the jeans, though, she tasted amazing: dusky, spicy, and oh so very womanly.

I sucked and licked at her crotch for several minutes, her hands moving restlessly through my hair. The seconds ticked past and she began to moan as I began to press my tongue harder against her crotch. "Mm, yes, that's good," she sighed as I put my arms round her thighs and began to massage her firm ass, still licking and biting at her crotch (which, it must be said, was getting rather wetter, not drier from my attentions).

Without warning she pulled me to my feet. "I love to dance," she purred. "I love to move, love to twist and twine my body around. Love the way the music shoots through me. But you know, even more than that, I love to be watched. And you've been watching me all night, haven't you?"

Why lie? I nodded and grinned, still wiping bits of her wetness off my lips and chin.

"Thought so," she said. "Let's see what we can do about that......"

****************

[Part Two can be found here.]

-- PB