Then his hand is flat and motionless against my pussy. His palm gently undulates, subtly stimulating my pudenda, causing a warm trickle of liquid to ooze out of my pussy and pool in his hand. Inserting a fingertip between my yearning pussy lips, he spreads my natural lubricant all over my clitoris, fondling and stroking with a movement as smooth as his dancing. I'm pumping hard now, my clit and pussy throbbing, a beat so loud and insistent I'm surprised it doesn't drown out the music and the crowds.
I free his buckle and thread his Spanish leather belt through the loops of his jeans, unbutton his fly, release the cock that is straining against the worn denim. I see it in the pale light: beautiful, young, hard, mine. It is smooth, the same olive brown as the rest of him, and trembling with anticipation, a fat tear of pre-cum oozing from its tip.
He continues using the juices from my pussy to smoothly circle my clit until he's sure I'm ready. When he slips a thumb into my convulsing cunt, I nod, answering his unspoken question. Responding to my growing need, he slides his cock into me very slowly, filling me up again, and again, and again, pulling out to penetrate me anew. I dig my fingers into his buttocks, urging him to go deeper and deeper and deeper, feeling the length of him inside me. The base of his dick is right where I need it to be, rubbing away at my clitoris. I can feel something delicious bubbling up inside me. It's a new feeling, and I know I'm about to experience my first orgasm. All the while, he's kissing me softly and doing everything as slowly as he can. I close my eyes, dizzy with pleasure, letting my body go and allowing him to lead. I feel him tense and know that he's coming, and as the base of his dick grinds hard into my clit, a rush of pleasure comes from nowhere and turns my body into a series of warm, wet peaks of pleasure. My orgasm is an eruption that makes me cry out in joy and sweet relief. I have never known such intense bliss. I had no idea that I was capable of feeling something so beautiful. A tear of joy splashes down my cheek and onto my exposed breast. My dancing partner kisses the salty droplet on my nipple, slides his lips and tongue upward, chasing the track of my tear, planting a dry, tender kiss on my cheekbone and then another on my smiling lips. We move together and dance while he's still inside me, letting his spunk trickle down my legs, his dick contracting, our mouths lazily exploring each other.
The first pink light of dawn pierces the sky, bathing the courtyard in a rosy glow. At the same time, the music from the square comes to an abrupt end. The disappointed roar of the crowd confirms that the party is over. My dancing partner peels his body away from mine and uses my panties to mop up the liquid that trickles down my inner thighs. With a wink, he rolls up the sopping cotton bundle and puts it in his pocket. I kiss him one more time, and then I'm gone, through the gate, staggering the thirty meters back to my hotel. In my bed, I lie awake for an hour, thrilled, grateful, and happy, until finally I drift off to sleep.
Lara's hour of passion with Paco must have gone on longer than she expected, because it's nine a.m. when she bursts into the room, waking me up, babbling excitedly about Paco's prowess between the sheets. She jumps in the shower and is still talking as she dries herself and clambers into bed.
"Oh, Helen, I wish you'd met someone," she says. "You could have so much fun if you just loosened up a bit."
I say nothing. What happened to me is not for sharing, not with Lara, not with anyone. It's a perfect memory of two people who came together one hot, steamy night. I roll over, close my eyes, feel my body thrum and throb in memory of the rhythm of the night.
GOING, GOING, GONE
Some of the most beautiful, confident, powerful women I know are also the ones who get off on submitting to another person's will, allowing their body to become someone else's plaything for the night. Abigail is no exception. She's a smart, sexy woman, strong and in control. I wasn't surprised when she told me she likes to be dominated. She's tough. She can take it. She needs it. You see, by night, Abigail likes to sell her body to the highest bidder and submit to whatever pleasures-and pains-that bidder will offer her. It's nighttime, and I'm driving across the city alone. It's so cold outside that I can see people's breath turn to mist. Everyone is bundled up in faux fur and leather, with hats and scarves and gloves. If anyone looks in my car, all they'll see is a woman dressed in a very respectable trench coat, her red hair in a chic bob-nothing out of the ordinary. What would they think if they knew what lay beneath the coat? I laugh at the very idea and tingle with excitement in the knowledge of my sexy secret.
Because tonight I'm going to do something amazing, something I've never done before, something that has me wet at the very thought of it. Beneath my conservative coat, my body is bound in lace and leather. But no one knows this as I drive my car through the roads of the West Side on my way to the heart of the city, where, during the week, I earn my living in a skyscraper. I turn up the car stereo, psyching myself up for what's in store. As though I need the extra excitement. As though I'm not already high on my own adrenaline. I turn into a tiny cobbled alley. To the uninitiated, it doesn't look like much: a few garages and old buildings. But to those in the know, this place is the center of the universe-for one night a month at least. I fumble in the glove compartment for the laminated permit and show it to the black-clad guy who stands outside a large steel door. He looks at the pass, then at me. He nods, and then the door opens. I steer my car down a steep ramp and into the underground parking garage.
I look around: The garage is nearly full although I'm the only person down here. I look around at the other cars: They're expensive but nothing flashy or outrageous… nothing to indicate that their drivers are wild, experimental, sexy people. We all share the same secret. I take off my trench coat, fold it carefully, and put it on the passenger seat. The cold air hits my skin like a delicious slap, and I check my outfit to make sure everything's in place. The ripped fishnet stockings that cover my legs are there, disappearing beneath a short leather skirt, and the peephole leather bra is in place. In the cold air, I watch my nipples, forced through the tiny holes, become harder. I kick off the comfortable flat shoes that I use for driving and pull on the last part of my costume, a pair of boots with thirteen buckles and five-inch heels. What would my straight-laced colleagues, let alone my employees, think if they knew that on weekends I swapped my business suits and sensible pumps for these extreme items? As always, it takes a few moments for me to find my balance in my skyscraper boots. My whole posture alters, pushing my tits forward, tipping my ass out, and exaggerating every curve of my body. Walking in these things is torture, I think to myself as I take my first faltering steps of the evening, staggering like a baby giraffe finding its feet for the first time. When I'm sure I'm steady on my feet, I whisper out loud the word "torture" and thrill at the way my pussy reacts to it. I find the sound of that word as thrilling as any caress or slap; it's foreplay I can do all by myself. Smoothing down my hair, I check my reflection in a metallic car door before making my way to the private elevator that will take me one floor up and into another world.
The elevator doors open to reveal a girl with a clipboard. With a smile she lets me enter when I show her my pass. I haven't seen her before. She's cute, with dirty-blond hair and a chipped front tooth that I find deeply sexy. And so, with head held high and nipples preceding me, I exit the elevator and walk through the foyer to the oak-paneled, velvet-curtained room that has been transformed just for one night into a garden of pleasure and pain just for us.