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The New Orleans





Lene had grown restless. At first she did not know why, the source of her
feeling remained in the dark. She moped around the house and was quick to
temper. When her husband Ganzalo pressed to find out what was displeasing
her so, Lene grew cold and withdrawn. Sometimes she went for days without
speaking to her husband, and though he was generally a very understanding and
gentle man, he became tense as the moods persisted.

Finally, Lene hit upon a notion that she felt would pick her up out of the
funk. She announced to Ganzalo one Saturday evening, "I want to go
dancing."
And Ganzalo was more than happy to answer her wish, especially since it
promised to bring her brooding to a halt. Perhaps, he thought to himself,
this dancing will help to restore our marriage to its previous state.

The two had not been dancing in years, mostly because Ganzalo rarely felt
the urge to dance. He was too picky about the music, Lene often said; he
needed simply to let himself go more often. And he was not a bad dancer,
either, not like many of the boyfriends Lene had had before their marriage.



As they drove downtown, Ganzalo complimented his wife’s attire. She wore a
black vest over a sleeveless lace camisole the color of turquoise – an outfit
that never failed to inflame Ganzalo’s passions for his beautiful wife. The
camisole was nearly see-through, and he knew that Lene only wore it outside
their own home when she was feeling bold. If it hadn’t been for the recent
moodiness, Ganzalo might have questioned her teasingly about her intent, but
as it was he felt it best to leave the topic alone. What made the situation
even more titillating, however, was the fact that Lene had worn her denim
skirt and had not bothered to put underwear on. In the past, such an outfit
had always been the dramatic prelude to lovemaking sessions that left the
both of them panting, but Ganzalo had not picked up any clues that tonight
would be a repeat of such experiences. If anything, Lene remained stubbornly
chilly with him, even as they pulled into the parking lot of the New Orleans.

Lene had chosen the New Orleans on purpose: the music was always jazz and
blues, two styles that Ganzalo loved. She had figured that this would
increase the chances of his dancing with her. But she was roundly
disappointed once they were seated at their table near the stage. Ganzalo
turned down her first offer to dance with a look on his face she knew not to
agitate further.

Instead they listened to the band and drank a few cocktails. When Lene made
a second attempt to get her husband and received the same stern refusal, she
decided to take the necessary steps toward her own enjoyment and went to the
dance floor by herself. Such developments had become the norm in their
marriage, and it generally did not bother her. As long as Ganzalo did not
develop petty jealousies or make silly attempts to prevent her from dancing
with others, Lene could have as much fun as she wished.

Lene did know from past experiences, though, when she felt the urge to dance
as she had felt earlier in the evening – and as she was feeling even more
intensely now – that dancing was not a simple urge. With Lene, dancing had
always been an art form, but more than that, in certain circumstances,
dancing was an ecstatic experience more akin to religion than art. She had
always had a violent and undeniable effect on men (and some women) when she
danced, and on occasion that could lead to trouble. Of course, she had
learned early how to rebuff without offending, but sometimes even good
manners aren’t enough to squelch a thirsty male lust. As a matter of fact,
it was this very form of lust that had caused Ganzalo to approach her more
than a decade ago. And though she had made vague attempts to put off his
advances, secretly – then quite openly – she had desired his intense heat
more than any she had desired before. Their dancing had led them through the
night and then had led them quite naturally into his bed early in the dark
morning.

Now, as Lene began dancing alone on the nearly empty dance floor, she felt a
rush of revenge rising in her. It had been so long since she had danced. So
long since she had felt these passions inside. Too long since she had lost
her inhibitions. Perhaps driven by that sense of revenge, or perhaps driven
by the primal desire to dance, Lene began a slow and steady build-up of
gyrations, pirouettes and turns that would lead, she knew, into a veritable
orgiastic feast by night’s end if she did not keep it in check. Still, she
had no intentions of keeping it in check.

Through the first three dances, she caught Ganzalo’s eyes periodically, if
only to see that her dancing could still cause the burning in his cheek – it
could, she noticed! The dance floor began to fill up, but Lene danced alone.

It wasn’t until the fourth song that she was approached by a man, and she
was surprised to see that he was quite handsome and fiery-looking as her
husband. And there was a dangerous glint in the man’s eye that promised
trouble if she proceeded without caution. Somewhat nervously, she glanced
again toward her husband, but he was watching the band and paying no
attention to her at all. This, combined with the other elements of the
night, cause her to snap. In short, she accepted the stranger’s offer to
dance and launched into the rhythms that would have made Salome proud.

By the time the band took its first break, Lene and the stranger had worked
up quite a sweat. She was pleased with his dancing. Though he wasn’t quite
as wild and spidery in his style as Ganzalo was, the stranger possessed a
fluid grace and knowledge of his body that few men could achieve. This,
mixed with his intense gaze, his wily smile and his graciousness, in fact,
created a surge of attraction in Lene she had not expected. So with all
these circumstances boiling within her, she decided to sit out the break with
the stranger, not worrying that it would cause any jealousy in her husband.

His name was Stephen. His talk was as animated as his dancing. "You’re
quite lovely, you know," he said, smiling straight into her. "And you dance
like a true gymnast."

His voice was low and sexy, and the mention of gymnastics surprised Lene,
for she had been a serious gymnast in her school years, had even won her
share of ribbons over the years. She thanked him by touching his arm, a
gesture which caused Stephen’s eyes to flash, a reaction which itself caused
Lene to respond physiologically. And she felt suddenly naked, opened up
before this stranger’s dark eyes: were it not for her husband’s proximity,
Lene told herself silently, feeling naughtier than she had felt in years, she
might have grabbed the fellow and gone home with him. Instead, however, she
smiled, and the two continued talking, flirting even, until the band started
its second set.

By now Ganzalo had taken to glancing over at the couple without being too
obvious, and Lene took secret pleasure in his renewed interest – whether it
was borne out of lust for her body or out of slight twinges of jealousy.

Regardless, her dancing was beginning to explore the second level of heat
and physical accuracy. More than once, she relied on a dipping move which
lowered her body closer to the ground, causing her skirt to ride up her
thighs an inch or two. Ganzalo noticed it each time. And as they danced,
Lene felt her own body temperature rising: first one button on her vest,
then two, cam undone.

The tease had begun in earnest, and Ganzalo wasn’t the only person noticing.

In addition to Stephen, who couldn’t help but notice, several other men were
now paying attention to her, no doubt with the hope of catching a glimpse
here or stealing a peak there as she writhed across the floor to the low,
heavy beat of the band. She lifter her head with pride now, and her blonde
hair fluttered in a dance of its own atop her head. She arched her back,
angled her hips, pursed her lips, and let loose with a flurry of moves that
left no one in the New Orleans ignorant of her. Even the band members were
taking notice now; a couple of times, a dropped beat or missed note betrayed
their loss of focus. Lene felt proud and sexy. Strutting, she imagined
herself onstage alone, doing a tantalizing strip tease before a large
audience, males and females both. And she noted with even more pride that
some of the women in the New Orleans had donned that universal look of
condescension and irritation that jealousy breeds.

Halfway through the second set, Lene took off her sandals to dance barefoot.

This development was met with a few hoops and several glances of
appreciation from the other dancers. Lene had beautiful feet. Her polished
toes caught the lights and transformed them into delirious tracers across the
floor.

Two more of her vest buttons came loose. With only one button left to go,
her vest bunched open at times, revealing for those who looked closely –
several people fit that description – quick peaks at her dark areolae. The
smile on her face made it clear that this was no typical performance: she
was the essence of ecstatic concentration, her expression a kind of whirling
meditation. And Lene knew deep within herself that she still had more to
give to this dance, that she wasn’t yet close to reaching her peak, and that
her climactic steps would be far beyond anything she’d accomplished before.

At the end of the second set, Stephen excused himself to go the bathroom.

Lene sat at Ganzalo’s table, sweating profusely now and breathing heavily.

"Well, that’s quite a dance you’re constructing out there," her husband said
appreciatively. "And I think it’s working." With that, he motioned subtly
with his eyes.

Between pants, Lene glanced to where he was motioning and saw that the dance
indeed was working: Ganzalo had a pronounced erection under the table.

Looking back at her husband, Lene smiled and said, "Looks like it. I take
it you don’t mind?"

"I love it, Lene. I love to watch you dance."

"I know that," she said, "but I mean the other part. The flirting."

Ganzalo leaned back in his chair and grinned wickedly at his wife. "I
especially like that part."

Lene smiled and leaned closer to him. She whispered, "I’m feeling extremely
horny tonight. Feel this." Under the table she led Ganzalo’s fingers to her
sex. Ganzalo pulled his fingers up to the tabletop. They glistened in the
dim light. "Extremely horny."

"It’s your night," Ganzalo said, using the code language that they hadn’t
used in years.

Taking her clue, Lene went back to Stephen’s table moments before he
returned and ordered another round of drinks. "I hope my . . . dancing isn’t
embarrassing you," she said.

"How could it embarrass me?" Stephen asked. "You’re lovely."

"Thanks. It’s just that sometimes I can get a little carried away. Some
men get embarrassed by it. I try to tell them that it’s only a dance."

"It’s much more than a dance, Lene, believe me," he said. And as if to
prove his point, he led her hand under the table and placed it over his
crotch.

Lene nearly gasped, first from arrogance of the gesture, then from the
object she now found her had resting on. Her eyes flashed wide, then
narrowed into a musky gaze. Stephen was not only erect as Ganzalo had been,
but he was also significantly larger than her husband. Immediately her brain
rushed to imagine the image she held. If not exactly well-endowed, neither
was her husband average in size. But Stephen’s penis felt longer and
thicker.

Finally gathering up her senses, she managed to say, "I see."

Then the two sat in a strange silence while the band members took to the
stage again. They finished their drinks, and not once did Lene’s hand leave
Stephen’s member. By the time they took to the dance floor once again, she
was entertaining the notion of taking this old married couple’s game a step
further than in the past. As they started dancing, she wondered if Ganzalo
was prepared for such a move.

It took little time for Lene to return to the level of intensity she had
established before the break, and by the third song, she was launching beyond
that; and indeed by song five, she was in full erotic launch. As she gyrated
she kept her eyes locked on Stephen, who was having no trouble holding her
gaze. She was otherworldly. She unclasped the last button and scarcely
heard the hum of appreciation from a few of the other dancers. For those
interested – and there no small number – her breasts were free to gaze upon,
the dark nipples jutting through the lace. And now she made no attempts to
cover her lower region as she performed a few moves requiring squats, minor
kicks and bend, and an array of sashays.
She did not notice Ganzalo, her gaze now slowly turning into a focused
trance, but the effect on him was enormous. He sat mesmerized, unable to
move, a burning cigarette dangling from his fingertips. The effect on
Stephen was even more pronounced: he did not attempt to cover the now
visible signs of excitement as he tried to keep up with her.

Lene danced on, building the pace of her moves until she was doing a
double-time rhythm to the music. Beads of sweat made their way down her
throat and over her camisole, darkening the material and providing an even
more provocative view of her breasts as they swayed with her movements. Her
performance was reaching full tilt now, and she became so bold as to hold a
couple of squats for several seconds each, exposing herself entirely. She
could feel the heat rising from her pubic mound and felt as if she were
swimming through a thick swamp. Her pulse was traveling so rapidly now that
her body moved as if of its own volition.

As the band reached a crescendo, Lene followed in suit, losing no beat nor
suggestion of beat. Her hands roamed freely over her body now, and surely
she was on the verge of stripping naked then and there, yet something held
her back. She felt vaguely as if stripping would simply be anti-climactic,
as if the dance itself were the only provocation needed, her body serving as
a vessel. And finally as the band raved its way through the crashing end of
the song, Lene felt an orgasm rushing through her body, along her spine,
lodging itself powerfully in her sex. She lost control of her breathing and
nearly screamed with the force of it, but she did not lose the pulse of the
song, even in the grips of the climax.

With the last cymbal crash, the last vestiges of her own explosions reached
an end. Lene nearly collapsed on the floor but was caught and held up by
Stephen. As the crowd began to applaud, it was not clear whether they
clapped for the band or for Lene, and ultimately it did not matter. Lene
came to her senses and blushed deeply. She knew that anyone watching could
tell she was coming. Her first thought was to get out of the bar as quickly
as possible. She ran awkwardly through the crowd, exited the front door, and
turned down the busy street. She was out of breath but didn’t stop running.

She ran several blocks before ducking down an alleyway, where, completely
out of breath, she stopped and leaned against the brick wall.

She had not heard Stephen following behind her, but now she saw him out of
the corner of her eye. By the time he made it to her, he too was out of
breath. Nonetheless he took her in his arms forcefully and kissed her with
enough passion to knock the two of them over. The wall was the only thing
holding them up.

Lene was stunned, but she equaled his passion. The two embraced and began

groping at one another in an animalistic tangle of limbs, tongues and legs.

Lene found his crotch and rudely pulled the buttons open and tore the zipper
down. She lost her balance yanking his pants down. Steadying her forehead
against his stomach, she pulled his cock free. Pausing only briefly enough
to inspect it and say, "God," she finally took the shaft in both her hands
and began to move steadily, violently even, in a blur of clear intent. She
took the purple head into her mouth, alarmed at its knob-like size. Her
breathing was furious and ragged, as was Stephen’s by now, and she desired
only to make him come now. She had never wanted to make a man climax more
than she did right now. It was is if the rest of his body did not matter.

Only the cock. Only the come. Only the groaning release of the animal.

Her eyes were wide with the texture and hue of his cock, the sheer size, the
powerful sense of it. She felt controlled by it, or else controlled by a
Dionysian drunkenness, propelled only and forever by promise of his seed.

She also felt the urge to make herself come, but she didn’t dare take one of
her hands off his cock. It required two hands to be done properly, and she
was maniacal now about getting what she desired. She began saying, "Come on,
come on," in a mantra, stopping occasionally to take his glans into her
mouth, let it fill her, then to repeat the process.

In this fashion, it took little time to bring the desired results. Stephen
began coming with a loud groan and didn’t stop for a full two minutes. Lene
had never seen so much semen before. She caught a portion of it in her
mouth, but the next spurts landed on her chin, all over her vest and camisole
and in her hair. It felt like taking a very strange bath.

When the climax and the spasms finally subsided, the two noticed that
Ganzalo had joined them. He was standing two feet away, masturbating himself
to a climax of his own. The three of them began to laugh then, and nothing
else mattered but the wash of the voices rolling down the alleyway.



End of Story