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Free Erotica: Spanish Dancing



Heat Level: Mild

Sex: Straight, Bolero sex

The two of them have a thing for Ravel’s Bolero. From its origins as a Spanish dance, the music has become a soundtrack for love. The narrator and her guitar-playing, music-loving make the most of the composition.



Excerpt:

Now there were bright silver notes, chiming in a cool undercurrent, and I slid my hands down to cup the tight cheeks of his ass. With the same movement, I pressed his groin closer to me, acutely aware of the evidence of his growing passion. Now more instruments picked up the melody, driven by the steady drumbeat. Notes tumbled over and over, wanton and wild. Trombones, slippery, loud, unmistakable. Still the violins were only plucked, not bowed, and in my steadily declining thought process, I wondered if they yearned to be played.
Spanish Dancing
A console stereo squatted in the corner of our living room when I was growing up; it had a turntable, radio and speakers enclosed in a wood-grain box, conical legs tapering almost to little points. The speakers on either side were covered with a beige fabric shot through with metallic gold threads. My dad worked as a store manager for Firestone in a dusty little Oklahoma town where farm families bought appliances, bikes, TVs and stereos, in addition to tires. The stereo had been repossessed, so my dad got a good price on it; it was a very fine piece of furniture for a young couple’s first house.

When I found an old vinyl record in a battered red cover recently, my heart skipped a beat. It was Maurice Ravel’s piece “Bolero.” On the flip side was Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. It was the only classical music I heard growing up; my dad loved the 1812 Overture recording because, he always told me, they used real cannons in the recording. He would swing me up and around, narrating the events that inspired the music while the cannons roared.

Less frequently, my parents would play “Bolero.” The sinuous sound of the single oboe at the opening always made me dreamy; the drums added a strangely insistent note, never stopping through the entire piece. I knew a bolero was a Spanish dance, but that was all I knew about Ravel’s work. I let my imagination do the rest, picturing elegant ladies in black lace and men with slicked-back hair and tight pants.

My boyfriend laughed as he picked up the old LP. “Where’d this come from?”

I told him I’d found it packing away some of my parents’ old things. “The ‘1812 Overture’ used real cannons in the recording,” I said, proud of what little knowledge I had.

“Ooohhh, Ravel’s ‘Bolero!’” He caught my gaze, his lips twitching in that smug smile that usually mean he’s hatching a plan. “What do you know about ‘Bolero?’”

“It’s Spanish,” I said. I shrugged. “It’s a kind of dance, isn’t it?” That exhausted my entire store of knowledge about the classics. But he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his grin widened.

“A dance, indeed.” He turned and settled the vinyl disk on the turntable. “What’ve you got to do in the next, say, eighteen minutes?”

“What have you got in mind?”

He looked so lovely, standing there, grinning at me. His jeans were tight and his Black Sabbath t-shirt had been washed so many times it had holes in it. He plays guitar; I first saw him on stage in a nightclub, so immersed in his instrument he seemed totally unaware of the crowd. He has strong, muscular arms and amazing fingers. He touched his guitar with so much feeling I immediately wanted those hands on me. It wasn’t long before he—and all his guitars—found a favored place in my apartment and my heart.

He dropped the needle onto the record and bowed with a flourish, holding out his hand like a courtier of the eighteenth century.

“Would you like to dance?”

I took his hand as the drums took up their marching beat. He spun me slowly in a circle while the oboe began its plaintive melody. I relaxed, surrendering to his lead. With another twirl, he dipped me, low. He was looking at me with laughing eyes, not brown but dozens of dancing colors, amber to gold to deepest mahogany. We don’t dance often; usually when he is above me staring into my eyes we are making love. As that thought flashed through my mind, I could feel my nipples getting hard. He was looking at me with lust. I like that. As he pulled me back up, I could hear the violin section begin plucking notes with their fingers, not an ordinary violin sound at all.

After one last spin, he held me by my waist, and bent his mouth to my neck. As the harpist fingered her strings, he dropped tiny kisses to my throat and neck. I could feel my skin flushing: my body’s automatic response to desire.

“I think I like this dance,” I whispered. He only smiled.

The drums seemed more forceful in response to the clarinet’s introduction, its lilting tones higher, twining around the oboe’s sound. The melody spiraled down, deep, aching, lonely, then gone. Just in time, a French horn picked up the melody, sounding confident, strong and bold. Still the drums kept up their beat, a corps of snare drums, relentless.

Dave’s kisses were gathering heat, and my mind became attentive to the feel of his hands in addition to the sound of the orchestra. As I became aware of quiet piano notes slipping through the melody like water, I felt his hands become entangled in my long hair, his strong fingers cradling my head as he bent to kiss me deeply.

Now there were bright silver notes, chiming in a cool undercurrent, and I slid my hands down to cup the tight cheeks of his ass. With the same movement, I pressed his groin closer to me, acutely aware of the evidence of his growing passion. Now more instruments picked up the melody, driven by the steady drumbeat. Notes tumbled over and over, wanton and wild. Trombones, slippery, loud, unmistakable. Still the violins were only plucked, not bowed, and in my steadily declining thought process, I wondered if they yearned to be played.

No single instrument carried the tune now; at least three trombones joined to move the music forward. Bigger in my consciousness were the feelings slipping through my body; at some point Dave had pulled me down onto his lap, while his hands roved across my back, up under my clothes. With a deft twist he freed me from my bra; in the next instant he was rubbing his rough thumbs across my nipples. The sensation was so exquisite and the music so forceful it left me breathless but yearning for more of the same.

Greedy, I reached for the zipper on his jeans, but he gently removed my hands and held them, slipping my shirt over my head and exposing my breasts. The trombones played still, in harmony but with a hint of dissonance, a thread of warning, perhaps foreshadowing a darker passion to come. He caressed my breasts with mouth and tongue; I was so occupied by the sensation and the rising music I barely noticed his hand slipping my panties down. When he touched my cunt it was electrifying, an unexpected rush. I could feel my pussy juices begin to flow.

Dave’s tongue circled my nipple, teasing. From time to time he caught the nipple lightly in his teeth. The alternating waves of mild pain and delicate touch began to build a rhythm in my mind and body. His hand circled on my lower belly; my skirt lay discarded on the floor. The soft skin of my belly yielded to the firm pressure of his hand; I wanted him to hurry and touch me, enter me, but his speed was deliberate, calculated to wring every second of pleasure from my body and his.

I heard more brass catch the melody, steadily rising in volume and complexity. With a last flurry of forcefully plucked strings, strings stretched to their limit, at last the bows come down with a crash to play violins, cellos, violas and bass as they were meant to be played. At that same instant, Dave plunged three fingers deep inside me, unexpected, making me moan out loud. He moved all his attention to the hunger between my legs. Passion surged, wild as the music.

We were on the floor, stretched out full-length now. At some point Dave had managed to get his jeans off, and I grabbed his ass and pulled him to me; now we were in the classic “69” position and I could see his beautiful cock, hard, veins pulsing, a creamy drop of semen topping the head. I love to suck him off, and forgot about my pleasure for a moment to focus on his.

All the orchestra was playing now, fully engaged, the heat rising along with the volume and the tempo. The timpani throbbed, the trumpets sang out, and I heard Dave gasp as I ran my tongue around the tip of his cock. One finger trailed down the inside of his thigh, making him quiver. My other hand ran quickly, softly, over the tender skin of his ass.

I know how to stretch out a moment too, and at first I only tongued his cock, first the head and then the shaft with feather-quick strokes of my wet tongue. Then my mouth reached further, down to his balls, and I slipped first one, then the other, into my mouth and pulled at it gently with my tongue. Dave groaned; now I moved my tongue back up the shaft of his cock and took the head into my mouth, sheathing my teeth with my lips. I moved my head up and down, tongue running across the sensitive edge of the head as my hot mouth enclosed the shaft.

Now I could hear more woodwinds in the music, and I felt again light pressure across my belly, down to my thighs and up again, his fingers playing, faster now. My heart started pounding; I felt the beat of the music to my very core. The floor vibrations, the wail of the oboe and clarinet, the straining flutes and insistent trumpets all became a part of the crescendo building inside me. The whole world was sound and sensation, and Dave and I lay in the middle of it all.

As I moved my mouth up and down over his cock, my hands caressing his balls and that sweet, soft strip of skin between his scrotum and the opening of his ass, Dave began to tongue my clit in earnest, again alternating soft touch and exquisite little nips of pain, his fingers circling round the opening of my cunt, leaving me shaking like a junkie. My pussy was dripping now; the sensation of the creamy juices slipping from between his fingers and sliding to the crack of my ass was unbearably pleasurable.

The music began to swell, and I could hear an unearthly chorus of voices, no words, just notes, following the repetitive melody, entwining with all the brass and woodwinds, strings and percussion. A salty, sweaty crescendo began to build between Dave and me. Long-time lovers, we knew each other well; we had each reached the point where, with the lightest of touches, we could push each other off the cliff, spiraling down into a breathless chasm. When he thrust his fingers again deep into my cunt, his tongue working around and between his fingers, my pussy responded with ferocity, hard contractions capturing his fingers in a tight embrace.

I was attuned to his pleasure now, and cupped the cheeks of his ass in my hand as we moved together, his hips thrusting his cock into my mouth with practiced control. At the apex of his last thrust, I slipped my finger into his pink-brown asshole, and that brought him to a shuddering climax, moaning, cum pulsing into my mouth as he twisted and writhed, his movements gradually subsiding to a tremble.

The stereo speakers vibrated the floor; we moved face-to-face. The cymbals clashed and our lips met. The taste of him and the taste of me joined and swirled in our deep kiss, tongues thrusting and probing. I was exhilarated, charged mentally, physically, and spiritually.

“Nice dance,” I whispered. “Go, Spain.”

###

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