Tango a Deux

hands on legs of a woman in underthings
Urgency

They’ve shared hotel rooms before. They shared this one, last night.

It’s late afternoon, and the conference-supplied bus ride back is excruciating for its lack of privacy. Dance rides on the window side, with Emma’s thigh pressing against his as if she’d squash him into the wall, pushing at him on the curves and grinning at him sometimes, with her lipstick all licked away, and they hold hands, ridiculously hot and sweaty. Emma’s hands are strong from handling books, and the hot precise feel of her fingers makes him flash on how it’s different, still bossy but tighter, than the way Drin’s hands always feel, pulling him close.

They catch little glances at each other in startled flashes. He keeps wanting to look down her shirt, which is silly, because he’s seen her in sports bras for two years now, but it’s different.

Emma’s hair smells absolutely like herself when the breeze lifted it across his face. He takes shallow, open-mouthed breaths, unable to get enough of it. He’s always loved how she smells when she’s wearing no perfume at all, when she’s just come out of the shower with little damp tendrils trickling down her neck, and she always swipes at it impatiently, too busy to stop to dry her hair properly. There’s a little sweaty shine like that on her neck, in the bus, and he dares lean in one steep curve and brush his cheek on it, as if the swaying of the bus had pushed him there.

It makes her gasp, as if he’d done something very personal indeed. She’s jumpy.

She walks so fast, crossing the lobby, that the group heading on their way out gets flustered, startled away and scattered, with Dance offering an apologetic smile in her wake.

Dance shuts the door and watches Emma turn on a heel and come back to him. He’s never seen her like this, never seen her eyes so blackly dilated, her mouth all closed, round and soft. He’s never seen Emma hesitate, unsure, looking at him.

But he knows what to do about it–he pulls her in.

“Oh, God, Dance,” Emma whispers from where she’s buried her face in his hair. Her arms hold him with harsh urgency.

Dance shifts his hold on her, learning all over again how to hold her, the angle that you take to embrace a woman top-to-bottom, without crushing her breasts. He’d imagined that a woman’s wider hips would enfold his, but her pubic bone is as hard and demanding as Drin’s. He strokes down her spine, feeling her back arch into his touch as his hand sweeps down, slips under her waistband once more to the satiny, firm flesh there. It’s all want, and nerves, and relief.

nude woman sitting silhouetted on end of bed
Back at the Room

“God, Dance, oh God.” Emma might not even know she’s saying it, over and over. Her body rides hard against his, rubbing him up and down; the weight of her breasts remains still, and that’s another thing he’ll need to get used to. He puts a hand to her head, offering the touch to guide her round so they can kiss again. Dance had wondered if he could tango with another partner, and how it would feel; and the answer is yes, and oh yes.

“Oh,” Dance says. “Oh.”

Then she pulls her head back, and blinks at him, and one of her hands is groping in her pockets. It’s a familiar posture, one that makes his eyes widen. The silly tearing sound of a condom packet has become an intense turn-on long since, and of course she feels the jolt through his body, and smiles. The knowledge is there in her eyes. You’re going to do this, and I’m going to like it.

Then he’s asking it, the phrase vivid from two days of waking up hard as a rock, breathing as quietly as he can in the same room while she sleeps; “Where do you want me, inside you?”

She’s laying under him, her belly jumping with her breath, that tight little ribcage tilting as her shoulders push down into the bed; “Front, just like your prostate, you’ll know when–” Her bare thighs rise up around him and he feels her heels at the small of his back, she’s folding herself around him and her legs are grabbing him into her like the bed under them, and the heat and welcome of her cunt are more than he’d even begun to imagine.

She doesn’t want him to be as careful as he was expecting. She’s as abrupt as Drin is sometimes, as demanding about touching him and kissing him back, making him meet her eyes and acknowledge what she’s doing, what she wants him to do, that she wants him, by God. Right there, right now.

It takes him three hours to figure out exactly how to get that little expiring moan to come out of her that he knows has to be there. She’s got the most incredible physical stamina for this, it’s not like her limits on hiking at all. She keeps rising up again, her climaxes are noisy and spectacular, but it’s more as if she’s stopped for a brief view at stations on a mountain railway. It’s not the total collapse that finishes off himself, or Drin, for a couple of hours, leaving them placid and peaceful and totally, utterly, relaxed.

She’s much more interested in him, in his responses, in what he looks like, than he expected. He gets to lay back and let her look at him, study him, as carefully as Drin has ever done. She likes looking at his penis, learning how it reacts, how it looks, how he arches his back when she touches him. Finally, laying between his thighs, studying how he’s put together, using gloves and lube with the careful scholar’s touch he was almost afraid of–God, it’s so intense for being so deliberate, the way she leans into him, runs her fingers all over him and into him–finally, she’s relaxed enough to start talking again. That’s a good sign. Emma not talking is worrying.

“I think I must have been a queer boy in a past life,” Emma says, licking him a little bit, and watching him gasp. “I just like boys. I like boys fucking boys. I like boy bits. I just don’t have any myself.”

Which is so strange, coming from a woman adorned with the most fabulous girly bits he’s ever seen.

She certainly reacts with the girly bits in a thoroughly convincing way.

woman prone partly nude, 'untitled', photo by better-than-history on Flickr
'untitled', photo by better-than-history on Flickr

He’s done his homework for months now, almost against his will, and it whispers suggestions as he learns his way through her responses, as he gets smacked for trying things that are too intense, as he gets startled himself by his own responses to her.

She has stomach muscles he never realized were there, there’s muscles inside her that grab him and feel like nothing on earth. He can feel her clench them down on his fingers, when he explores, wonderingly, wearing the gloves that she bought, if only because he cares to assuage her anxieties. She tells him about safe sex with a woman, with those serious eyes, and she does it so well that she makes him groan in protracted arousal.

Kissing his way down her, delighting in the taste of her, is nothing like the disturbing pictures of anatomy, the inner shock, some kind of nasty surprises, the cool disengagement that he was braced for, as a gay guy sadly realizing that yes, this is a girl and he doesn’t do girls. None of that happens.

It just seems right. She smells good. Of course this is how she ought to be. It’s a new taste to him, licking the folds and turns of her body, but it makes him want to roll in it and get it all over him. God, her armpits are so amazingly soft, he could just curl up between her thighs and breathe into all that springy, dense hair for weeks. Women smell so very different than men, and he wasn’t expecting to love that either– that her sweat, her juices call to him the way Drin’s do, is nothing short of miraculous.

He learns things that make her happy. She says so. She yells it. She yells rude things. She yells unladylike things. She means it.

She’s got a wicked tongue on her. It gets rapidly more wicked too, as he tells her things, as he can’t help but react when she swoops down on him, as she figures out that he’s got no resistance at all.

He learns some things that make him happy. He yells a bit too.

She says rude things about liking the taste of his semen, which she’s not supposed to be doing at all–what was the point of condoms if she’s– but then she is, and he’s letting her, dammit, Drin is going to be mad at him for that– and she teases him about how he thrashes when she goes after the vein on the underside of his cock, and it’s probably just as well for the sake of her jaws that she doesn’t ever need to deep-throat him. He’s long gone just from the sight of her familiar mouth opening up and pushing back his foreskin and licking him, taking him in.

“That’s a nice frenum,” she says, when she’s brought him, shouting, and she smiles, her lips glossed with semen. “Nice corona, too, of course. Aaaaaand look at this nice long corpus cavernosum–”

He shouldn’t be so surprised that she’s prepared for an extended siege, and he’s the castle. She’s bought toys, God only knows where, probably the same night she knew he was flying in, because he knows those weren’t in the luggage he helped her pack–and she knows how to use them.

She was aware that he might not react to girly parts, that it would take experimenting to learn what makes him happy. When he turns out to be blindingly, magnificently happy with her girly parts, indeed totally overcome and almost in tears he’s so relieved, that he’s totally prepared to worship girly parts as long as she’ll let him, then that’s when the researcher in Emma kicks in. She can’t bear to leave the toys untested. She’s got a willing experimental subject, and she knows what to do with those.

“Okay, I’m not queer, I’m just greedy,” he says, wryly, looking up at her reflection behind him in the bathroom. Her face is flushed, her lips determined, the upper slopes of her breasts bright pink with arousal. She’s not allowing him to kiss her nipples any more, she says they’re getting sore. He kisses around them instead. He’s careful. His hurt too, because she isn’t. Careful, that is. She figured out what it does to him, and took him to school on what you can do to a man’s nipples.

“Bend over,” she says. “That’s good. God, you have the most luscious butt muscles, I just want to chew on you. Just making sure I’ve got enough lube on this glove, trust me, I am not going to let you get rubbed raw down here, that would be a crime– okay, now tell me when I’ve got it.”

“Oh,” Dance says, eyes opening wide, and not for the first time.

“You know,” she says, panting a little with effort, “male anatomy is so odd. It’s so fabulous that you like this–“ and he gasps; “Oh there, there, oh–” and she grins.

“Gotcha,” she says, and takes him apart. Again.

He’s a little bleary-headed when he surfaces from that one, surprised to find how they’ve staggered onto the bed. She’s curled up across the small of his back, with one hand still cupped under him, stroking him gently, just because she likes touching his genitals. She seems to like reaching out and stroking him. She brushes her hands and her mouth on him whenever she’s in reach of him, just because she can, whether she’s aroused or not. His genitals can’t help wanting to give her things to do. Even now, it’s making him twitch, making him think about hardening up again, which ought to be totally impossible.

He lets himself lay there and breath for awhile, blinking. Her other hand is cupped around his ass, stroking his skin, squeezing a little, as if the muscle is like those ergonomic wrist rests with a gooey filling, and she just can’t resist tightening her fingers on it.

This is totally unfair of her, because she laid down the absolute law on squeezing her wiggly bits: No Jello Wiggler tricks. None. No blobbling or woogling or wibbling or shaking her bits. She says they embarrass her. She claims her butt is fat when it’s not, it’s just what it should be. She says it’s not right that it moves at all, it should be tight as a drum. This leftover fragment, this women’s-magazine distortion of reality, is fascinating to him. He points out, as gently as he can, that he’s got a fairly tight set of muscles, and his ass wiggles a little bit too, it’s what meat does–and that ends in her tackling him back onto the bed to find out.

So he turned it on her. He grinned, and he asked what he’s wanting to ask for a year.

“Show me,” he says, softly. “Show me how you like it yourself, I want to watch you come,” and just at hearing the words, she gives a huge loud groan that alarms him, shoving her knees wide, arching her butt almost off the bed, hands straining at him, grabbing bruises into his back. Girls can smack you around as badly as any guy, if they’re really coming hard. And they do it more often.

A lot more often.

He can’t think where women ever got the idea they should stop looking wiggly. He loves it on Emma. They’re perfectly gorgeous wiggly bits, but no. Millions of years of fascinated male genes want to watch her butt jiggle whenever she walks away into the bathroom, want to tighten their grip on that breast pooling with such hot weight across his back, but no.

No. She says girls don’t like to feel jostled. They don’t like feeling their wiggly bits shaking around so much. She told him she doesn’t even like getting joggled around in the bus, with her boobs bouncing around visibly in the open collar of her shirt, no matter how fascinating he finds it.

He’s known for two years now that breasts are heavy, that they get hot, that they’re a pain to carry around when they’re that big, and that brassieres are the invention of the devil, but also, sadly, that such stupid contraptions are the best that most women can manage. Now, there’s corsets of course, but not common. He spent quite some time learning about her breasts with his mouth. It’s nothing like what he expected. He’s not sure now what he was thinking. They move and they breathe and they loll like cats when they’re pleased.

She’s talked to him there from the bathroom, washing her face and her hands after he’s left her a mess. She’s told him about modern corsets, and gotten him hard as rock at the thought. She’d love to get one, a properly fitted corset that props up her damnable big blobby boobs in a nice tidy pile, it’ll take the weight off her shoulders for a change. Of course she hasn’t ordered one so far, because that’s going to be expensive, and she has better uses for that kind of money, but damn, there’s seamstresses these days on the Internet, making silk brocades into the most amazing confections with steel boning and–

He’s certain that the image of her skin pooling in a creamy pile atop an expensive silk relic of history deserves to be right up there with his bloody hateful much-cursed Locatelli.

He knows what that is going to do to poor Drin’s brain.

Hell, his brain is locked up, while other bits wave helplessly in the wind for attention.

He’s never thought of himself as a tits-and-ass type of guy. Never. But here he is, with her incredible legs tangled with his, and his brain can only come up with those weak fritzing noises. The legs came in for some mouth-time, too. They’re strong. He gets hard just kissing her thighs, and the shoes make her calves stand up in smooth curves as maddening as abstract art. He wants to howl at the moon.

“Okay, now you show me yours,” she demanded as soon as she’d caught her breath from that undeserved climax, rolling onto her knees, and shoving his knees wide with her own. He hadn’t learned anything about what she does to herself, and he wonders now if it’ll take a campaign of his own to find out. She’s stained bright pink from the shoulders down, irresistibly cute, as if he’s thrown a bucket of flesh-colored paint on her. If that isn’t proof of a climax that should have finished her off for at least twenty minutes, then all that homework was in vain. But her eyes are still dilated, her face intent on his body. Looking at his cock as nakedly as any queer man would do. Which is, by God, totally rigid with interest.

“Show me how you like to masturbate,” she says, caressing the word. “Show me how you stroke yourself.”

Dance laughs. “Just looking at you like that is going to do me for a couple of hours! Don’t make me–oh– oh don’t, no, easy, easy, no tickling, no, I’ll come–” and of course he does.

Oddly, that is what seems to finally satisfy her, and lets her lay back and be at rest, while their hands twine together.

Emma is humming a little, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. She’s a deep enough alto that she’s off on the high notes. Dance smiles. He’s learned that he gets to wiggle her blobby bits quite a lot if he’s doing it with his mouth.

He likes doing that regardless of whether his poor abused little man is up to anything. He knows she likes being licked all over like an ice cream cone on a hot day. He can make her amazingly happy doing that.

Look, Drin, what I found out, he thinks, and grins against her skin.


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