Lilli and I: There Will Be Dancing

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


I take the iced tea from the mini-fridge, get a glass down from the cupboard, pour a nice healthy serving for myself, and remove a lemon from a small wicker basket on the countertop. I take a knife from the drawer and slice off the ends of the lemon, then cut myself a nice thick segment and hook it around the tip of the glass. I think a little sugar would go down nicely today, so I scoop some out of a tiny blue bowl on the kitchen table and drop it in, stirring it briskly before I drop the spoon into the sink.

The spoon and the remains of the lemon will be dealt with later. For now, I think a dose of sunshine would hit the spot. I grip the glass of iced tea in my right hand, the condensation cooling my palm, and walk over to the ladder leading upwards onto the deck of the sailboat.

I climb the ladder carefully and hop up barefoot onto the smooth white deck, a single drop of tea swirling over the rim of my glass. The sun overhead shines artfully in the flawless blue sky, unfettered by anything even remotely resembling a cloud. A constant breeze ruffles my T-shirt. We’re in for at least several hours more of great weather, and I doubt the thermometer will even break the eighty degree mark. I look out over the restless water, seeing a red speedboat roaring by in the far distance, its engine sounds tiny and insignificant. The coastline is still in sight, just barely, retreating gently with every quarter mile that vanishes behind us.

“Where on earth did you disappear to this time?” I hear your voice say behind me. I turn and take a sip of my iced tea.

“I believe my slave doesn’t need to be asking such personal questions,” I reply, and step across the deck over to the mast of the sailboat. The small sail fastened to it rustles and beats against the wind, keeping the boat steady and slow. What’s tied to the mast itself is of far more interest to me, and has been for about an hour. My slave’s hands and feet are bound with expensive green silk, forcing her to stand fairly straight, her back pressed against the tall steel column.

“If you’re very, very good, you get a drink,” I tell you, stepping close. You sense me through your red blindfold–nothing more than the sash from your bathrobe–and purse your lips around your tongue thirstily.

“It better be iced tea,” you say. “I think you promised to make me some before I lost this stupid bet.”

“Oh, it’s not stupid at all,” I say, free to let my eyes roam over your body, which sports a sexy white bikini bought special for our trip to nowhere in particular. “There’s no other way to learn that you can never beat me at Scrabble than to pay a steep price for your hubris.”

You laugh. “You only know how to spell ‘hubris’ because I got a double word score with it, loser,” you scold me. “Now stop ogling me and let me have a sip.”

“The slave knows me too well,” I say, and I bring the glass up to your lips and tilt it slightly. You drink up cheerfully.

“Too much sugar,” is your criticism when I take the iced tea away from your mouth.

“For that remark, the slave must suffer,” I say, and remove one of the ice cubes from the glass. You never see it coming; the world is just a dark red smudge behind your blindfold. I touch the cube against your neck and you wince and open your mouth wide to unleash a hurl of good-natured epithets.

“Your time will come,” you swear to me. “Little do you know, I’m kind of enjoying this.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, knowing full well it’s true.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s kind of kinky.”

“I was hoping you’d find some bit of joy in this,” I say. “And if you think this is kinky, you’re going to like what I have in store for you.”

“The Coast Guard is going to pull us over and throw you in jail pretty soon, so you’d better make your move,” you say, shifting your body pleasantly against the mast, twisting your wrists against the firm knot that binds them.

“We have plenty of time,” I tell you. “There’s no one around, and the deal was, you’re my slave until three o’clock.” I take a long sip of my drink, set the glass down beside the mast, and move very close to you. You can feel my breath on your neck. “Just don’t you dare resist anything I do,” I whisper, and feeling mighty powerful, I move my hand to your left breast and peel down the cup of your bikini top. I lean over and place my lips on your nipple, suck on it gently for two full seconds, then replace the top exactly where it was. You make a small sound of appreciation.

“No resistance whatsoever,” I say.

“Yes, master,” you reply in a husky voice.

“We’re going to begin your servitude,” I say, “with a story. You like stories, as I recall, don’t you, slave?”

“Mmmm, yes,” you answer, licking your lips.

“This is a story,” I continue, “about something that happens to us in a very different climate. Not quite as comfortable, maybe, as this one. Ready to hear it?”

“I am, master,” comes your response.

“Fine.” I turn around and take a few steps toward the starboard railing, where a canlı bahis deck chair sits. I lift it and bring it close to you, then sit down almost right in front of you, kicking back cozily and bringing my tea up to my lap. “Now if this story should arouse you, just let me know…and I’ll make it even better.”

“I hear you getting comfortable,” you say. “I can’t wait for this one.”

“As I tell it to you, my love,” I say, “I’m going to keep an eye on your bikini bottoms. If I notice it get a little damp down there, I’m adding an hour to your indenturedness. Keep that in mind.”

“I’ll get as horny as I feel like,” you say defiantly. “You can tie me up and blindfold me, but I’m still a strong woman in complete control.”

I chuckle. “Sure, slave, sure. Now then: Imagine a Saturday night back in Washington….and a place almost as far away from the troubles of the world as this sailboat adrift on a summer ocean….”

* * * * * * * *

The music seems to come from everywhere at once, the lights seem to flash inside our eyes. The club didn’t really start to get hopping until about midnight, and now, an hour later, the dance floor at Horizon is absolutely packed and throbbing. Red and blue rays shine down and criss-cross over the heads of the hundreds of young people moving rhythmically and blindly to the techno that blasts from speakers as tall as I am.

The music’s been rolling without so much as five seconds’ break for about fifteen minutes when we decide, from our perch on one of the overhead walkways, that it’s time to get down there and shake things up a bit. With so much electricity going through the place now, it seems absurd that we almost judged it too cold out tonight to head anywhere at all. A high of twenty-five degrees did make watching a DVD seem like a fine option, but we just had too much energy to stay in.

We’ve been wandering Horizon’s vast, cavernous spaces for about half an hour, drinks in hand, just enjoying the energy and watching the people throng around us, when the techno becomes too infectious to sit still for. We wedge our elbows out from between the other spectators standing at the railing and gazing down at the shifting, pulsating mass of dancers, then head for the steps that will take us into the action.

It takes some time to get to where we’re going. Hands clasped so that neither one of us is carried away by the ever-shifting throng, we make our way down a couple of staircases, past one of the several bars set up to pour drinks at a fairly desperate rate, and edge our way to the side of the main dance floor. The other one is less crowded, as it always is, but tonight we’re in the mood to be utterly surrounded by people. If we can just spot a gap where we can slide onto the floor and start moving….

Just when we’re about to make our move, a garish strobe light is switched on and we laugh at the amazing effect it has, turning every dancer into a series of fascinating, beautiful still frames alternating between light and dark, the mistakes and jerky motions of the bad dancers erased, the grace of the good ones gone too. If we try to shimmy through the crowd right now, we’ll become so disoriented we might wind up outside at the patio bar, or even down the street at the gay strip club.

“I hope you don’t mind a few guys bumping into me as we dance!” you shout over the music. I can barely hear you even though you force your words right into my ear.

I squeeze your hand and smile. “As long as no guys bump into you on the drive back home!” I yell. Looking at you in the strobe light, I can tell that if you were alone tonight, you’d be instantly mobbed by a sea of fascinated men. You’re wearing a short black leather skirt, heels, and a shiny silver tank top whose strings laced around your shoulders are thin as dental floss. It’s a wonder it can hold up your chest, which is admirably on display.

Finally the strobe light disappears and everyone is bathed in a tropical orange glow as the volume of the music seems to rise. We can see the silhouetted DJ at the end of the dance floor, elevated above us, clapping his hands, urging everyone on. The young crowd is in a frenzy. An hour from now they’ll be even more worked up.

Hand in hand, we make a dash for an open space on the floor. We bump past ten, twelve, fifteen people, the casual contact of our bodies against theirs not even registered. There are going to be some unexplained bruises tomorrow. I just hope that I don’t get hit with cigarette ash, which has happened before, or even slapped in the face by a stray hand, which I seem to remember happening twice.

At last we have our space and right away you’ve gotten in sync with the pulsating beat. You raise your arms to the sky, smile, and begin to dance. I follow your cue, not nearly as good as you are, happy to just be beside you, keeping up with the beat, and losing myself with eyes closed for ten or fifteen seconds at a time. The body heat around us is palpable. It’s got to be ten degrees hotter here than it was on the edge of bahis siteleri the dance floor. It’s okay; just thinking about the bitter cold outside makes it seem like paradise in here.

The lights dim a bit and the DJ segues into a peppy techno remix of an old A-ha song, “The Sun Always Shines on TV”, and then we’re officially off and running. You close your eyes and smile and shake your hips with perfect timing, turning and using your arms to achieve flawless balance as you move. Your hair flies in your face, obscuring it sometimes in a most lovely way. The dark orange vibe on the dance floor lights you softly and flatteringly. Every thirty seconds or so the dimness erupts in a flash of bright white from overhead and everyone is lit up as if a Polaroid of the whole place is being taken from the heavens. It’s quite a shocking effect which the DJ, some famous guy from Germany, or maybe Oslo, has managed to time with the beat. After it, fiery spots appear in our field of vision as the orange glow returns.

It gets tough to concentrate on the music when there’s so much to see right in front of me. You look amazingly sexy as you dance, the beat seeming to snake up through your entire body. I can see the muscles in your legs doing their thing, your feet gliding from position to position, your hips always in motion. When you turn away from me briefly your ass shakes seductively. When you turn toward me, your breasts bounce with unbridled eroticism. From above, I’m sure your cleavage looks quite phenomenal when the occasional flashes of white light illuminate it for the appreciation of all the spectators crowded around the railings high above us. I’m almost jealous of their vantage point.

It’s too dark most of the time down here on the floor to see anyone’s eyes, but plenty of heads are turning your way. I almost lose the beat entirely sometimes, so riveting is the sight of you moving every part of your body in tune with the blasting music.

We go for about five straight minutes, working up a nice sweat, when the music breaks and thunderous applause breaks out. The DJ has given everyone the smallest of breaks, about thirty seconds in which to regroup. We clap and laugh and I kiss your forehead just so that everyone around us knows you’re mine.

“This is some good music!” you shout, the look in your eyes telling me that venturing out through the January frost was the best possible idea after all.

“We’ll definitely collapse before we hear it all!” I shout back, rolling up my shirt sleeves. You place your hands fondly on my hips as we look around and people-watch for a moment. There are couples everywhere, many of them becoming sexually charged for the first time as their potential partners flaunt their physical attributes through the time-honored medium of club dancing. There are individual singles here and there, girls of twenty-one or twenty-two just waiting to be surrounded by aggressive guys, and loving the attention. Many people head over to the bar, fanning themselves, but just as many people replace them.

The thumping of the music starts again, a slower, more seductive cut this time, more trance than techno, but still heavy on the bass, laced through by an addictive beat. The lights above us switch from orange to a deep sea blue. Tacky lasers pop into action, highlighting the smoke in the air, swishing across the room, intersecting with each other constantly. You run your hands up through your hair, hold it and let it fall, then slide those hands down your sides and onto your legs, which you erotically half-cross.

You move closer to me and put your hands back on my hips as I resume dancing, and our eyes meet. We both smile suggestively. It’s a very sexy song, two women chanting the lyrics, some very interesting words and phrases worked in for the benefit of those with vivid imaginations–and on the dance floor, everyone has a vivid imagination.

You move close enough so that the front of your silver tank top grazes my chest and I look down at your smooth, half-exposed breasts. You see me staring and run a finger beneath my chin, tilting my head up. You wrap your arms around my neck and gaze up at me, your mouth partially open. Our hips touch and rotate against each other. When your skirt first comes into contact with my jeans, it’s instantly arousing.

I put my hands on your lower back and press you a little harder into me, letting my hand almost touch your ass. I give you a brief kiss on the lips and you return the favor, your mouth tasting slightly of good vodka. It’s so very nice. We dance and remain close, noticing how close others are getting too. The beat picks up slightly and our hips really begin to rock in harmony, moving from side to side and then, at your doing, back and forth, a not-so-subtle simulation of an act similar to dancing but even sweeter.

You slowly turn around as you dance and back up into me, your ass pressing against my crotch, and you wrap my arms around your waist. As I move to the beat I draw them playfully across your belly, and bahis şirketleri lift the bottom of your tank top and inch to run a finger across your naked skin. You tilt your head back against my chest and enjoy it. I move my hands a little higher, to your midsection, holding you firm. We dance like that, intimately, for a long moment before you bend over at the waist, pressing your ass into me snugly, holding my hands out to the sides.

You catch sight of a young guy ten feet in front of you, totally forgetting about his date for a second as his eyes lock on your breasts and the much dreamed-of cleavage which asserts itself phenomenally when you bend over. You smile at the guy and straighten back up, your hips, graceful as liquid, describing circle after circle exaggeratedly against my jeans. In a few seconds you can feel it: my erection, yearning for you, trapped by the denim but bulging against your skirt.

You turn around and put a theatrical hand to your mouth to mimic ladylike shock that I would find myself in such a state. I shake my head, smiling, silently accusing you of totally setting me up. You move forward into my arms again, undoing the third button of my shirt, letting more air in. My shirt, well-ventilated before we even got downstairs, is now half undone, and you put your hand inside it and rub my hard chest as you sway this way and that, always looking into my eyes. So that’s the way you’re feeling tonight….I was hoping.

For the next five minutes, as the song’s tempo slowly increases, becoming more and more frenetic, my hands explore your midsection and your hips as we dance around each other, always in some sort of contact. Your hands dive in and out of my shirt to keep me close. I keep lowering my hands until they’re on the upper part of your ass, gripping more and more tightly.

You rub your cheek against mine, and I plunge my face into the aromatic hair swirling around your neck. Even over the din of the music I can hear the short breaths you take and I follow many of them visually by absorbing the sight of your jiggling breasts. At one point, when I’m behind you and reaching around to hold your stomach, I lift the bottom of the tank top several inches off the top of your skirt, exposing a great deal of skin, and instead of swatting me away and laughing you leave it just like it is, your lower back exposed, silver fabric bunched up beneath your breasts.

More heads turn. You pay me back by grabbing my tight jeans at the waist and yanking down hard, causing nothing more than an inch or so of actual descent but sending me a definite message that my hijinks involving your clothing will definitely be met with retaliation. A few people look at us, probably hoping we’re going to rip each other’s shirts off with drunken abandon, and we smile at them without shame. Apparently we’re the only ones on this dance floor who really know how to liven things up.

The music stops, the throng settles after another round of applause, and the DJ speaks some garbled words into his microphone. The lights come up and there’s another clumsy tide of people leaving and people coming on. You take my hand and lead me deeper into the crowd.

“I see a spot with more room!” you shout, and I follow you. We’re very close to the far edge of the floor and in a moment we’ve popped right off it, stopping beside a tall pillar where people who are just about to hurl themselves into the fray gather to watch the human ocean before them. “Let me adjust my clothes first, you troublemaker!” I hear you yell, as you elbow me in the side. You stand there and pull your tank top back into place. I run my hands through my hair, feeling the sweat there, and decide it’s not such a bad feeling.

A sudden rush of cold air hits our backs and we turn. Someone’s ducked out through one of the exits and it’s like a splash of icy water on our bodies. We shiver in unison and the door closes again. Thick smoke fills the air, trapped again indoors.

“So you can’t control yourself out there, huh?” you say to me, eyes flitting down to the front of my jeans. “I didn’t think you could.”

“Could you grind your ass into me any harder?” I ask you, grinning. “We don’t want any accidents out there.”

You casually flick two fingers across yet another shirt button and undo it, then press a warm hand onto my chest. “I told you we were going to have some fun tonight, boy.”

“If you think you can get away with more than I can, you’re wrong, girl,” I threaten jovially.

You step forward into my arms, which wrap around you instinctively and possessively. I inhale your perfume, press my lips to your forehead. “I am so much more brave than you are, it’s not even funny,” you inform me, and tilt your head up for a kiss. I give you one, a firm one, and when I break it off you demand another, something more personal.

Our lips touch, lock onto each other, and explore. Your tongue touches mine and we keep them in contact for several seconds. Your head moves slightly, allowing my mouth freer access. I raise a hand to your cheek and touch it gently as our kiss becomes more intense. When we finally part, you begin to run a hand up and down my side, starting at my ribs, descending to a point all the way down to my knee.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

İlk yorum yapan olun

Bir yanıt bırakın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.