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Colours and magic and Eastern music. We’re in a gymnasium, sitting in the front row. I’m to your right. To your left is someone else, a stranger. We’ve come here on a Tuesday afternoon because there’s a belly dancing competition. I didn’t want to go, but you convinced me. I was amazed at your enthusiasm; I didn’t know you liked belly dancing. As we sit and wait for the first performance to start, you tell me about how, when you were younger, your friend invited you to her competition and you fell in love with the dance. It’s erotic, you say. And sensual, you say. And, you say, the women are like the ones you like. Before I can ask what that means, the first lady emerges from behind a pair of dark curtains. The crowd—there are maybe eighty of us, all in chairs arranged in rows—goes silent. But I don’t have to ask what you mean. I can see. The woman is attractive, but that’s beside the point. She has a beautiful belly. I smile and squeeze your hand. You smile back.

The first performance is good. Not excellent, but solid technically and creative. It’s the first time I’ve seen someone dance like that and you can see in my eyes that I’m glad I came with you. Exotic, I whisper into your ear. You nod and point with your chin—second dancer:

She is shorter than the last and dressed in darker colours. She also has darker skin and black hair. The dance is very traditional. I assume it’s more advanced than the last dance, but it was definitely not as fun. I’m not the only one who thought so, either. Applause is merely polite. The dancer leaves the stage and the third one arrives. That is when it begins.

To my eyes, this dancer is less pretty than the other dancers. When she walks to the centre of the stage, she is also less graceful. But your reaction is different. You lean forward, your eyes widen. You’re unashamedly staring at this woman. I notice, but don’t do anything. I’m interested. Do you know her? Is there something about her that you’re looking at? Nevertheless, the music starts, the lights are dimmed and the routine begins.

And to think I ever thought this woman wasn’t graceful. From her first movement, a gliding motion to her left, she is the epitome of grace. Yet at the same time she is earthy, grounded by her body. I’m enjoying the first few seconds of the dance—when suddenly I hear you moan, ever so lightly. I must be hearing things. There it is again! A moan, a soft moan. Maria, I ask, what’s going on? You close your eyes and try to steady your breath. Why are you out of breath? I take your wrist. Your pulse is quickening. Maria, what’s going on? You clench your teeth and can only manage to answer through a suppressed moan: “I… don’t no-o-oh…”

Maria? Your breath is getting heavier and heavier, you’re moaning under your breath through clenched teeth. Your eyes are fixed on the belly dancer as she weaves in and out of her femininity. That’s when you buck your hips for the first time. Slightly forward. Coupled with a moan. Maria, I say, louder this time, do you want to go? We can leave—

For the first time you tear your eyes away from the woman dancer and turn to look at me. You look angry. No, you say. That’s it. One word. You buck your hips again. Your chair bounces ever so slightly off the ground. No. The man sitting behind you shakes his head, thinking you’re getting bored or anxious or, at any rate, disturbing his enjoyment of the performance. Maria, I say, what are you doing? Let’s go. Another movement of the hips, another bounce of the chair. Suddenly, I feel your leg start to press against mine. Your right leg against my left. It’s pushing my leg aside. Your legs, you’re spreading your legs!

The dress becomes tight between your knees. You moan loader. The dancer continues her dance. I start to take you by the hand, ready to pull you out of your chair—but stop. Frozen. My eyes glued to the inside of your left leg. There’s a drop on it. A drop? A drop of what? It slides down your ankle, onto and over your shoe and onto the ground. Then another drop slides down. And another. Jesus, it’s not the only place that’s wet, bahis şirketleri either. The floor beneath your chair is turning into a small puddle. Your dress—the back of your dress—is wet, soaked through. Every few seconds the dress releases more liquid into the puddle. Every few seconds another drop slides down your left leg and over your shoe. Discretely, I run my hand up the inside of your right leg. Discretely. I almost forget to breathe. Jesus Christ! Your leg is all wet, not a patch of dry skin left. I realize: Your pussy is. You moan. Out. You push your hips forward. Of control. You spread your legs further.

The belly dancer is getting into the heart of her routine now. It’s by the far the best and most erotic dance of the three, but, of course, I don’t care about that. I don’t know what to do. It’s only a matter of time before someone realizes—the man sitting to your left clears his throat, you’re pushing your left leg against his right, taking his space; then he looks over. He sees you staring ahead, your legs spread, my face telling him exactly the following thing: I have no idea what the hell is going on either!

Whoever made this gymnasium did a terrible job. The floor is crooked and your puddle has now started turning into a stream that’s slowly making its way back through the rows and rows of seats. I can hear someone whisper in the back, “I think someone spilt their drink”. I’m listening for any more comments when suddenly I’m neither listening nor thinking about anything anymore. You can’t control yourself any longer and you moan so loud that the entire audience can hear. It’s almost a scream. And I’d be pulling you out of your seat and toward the exit right now if it wasn’t for the fact that as you moan you also put your hand on me, through my pants, and squeeze so hard that I groan just as loud as you did.

After a few seconds, your hand still firmly squeezing me cock, I regain my bearings and realize that though the dancer is still dancing and the music playing, all eyes are directed toward us. You don’t seem to mind or care but I’m already thinking of excuses. None of them make any sense: so sorry, she’s sick; I’m afraid she got some bad news today and can’t handle it? I’m half thinking about making an announcement that your “water broke” when I notice that your left leg is now on your neighbour’s knee. He’s looking as bewildered as I am and just as aroused. His arousal is showing right through his dress pants. His right hand is massaging your juicy calf muscle.

And, for the love of god, you can’t stop moaning.

The man on your left has now done the most sensible thing a man with your calf on his crotch could possibly do and taken his cock out through his zipper and started rubbing it against your leg. Your juices are making him slick and though I very much have my own predicament, I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy: those are my juices! I thus do what seems like the only other sensible idea at the time. I unwind your fingers off my pants, take out my cock and let you grab hold once more.

Mercy, you squeeze hard!

Your hips are now moving so much that people behind us would be thinking you’re possessed by Satan if you weren’t surrounded by two men with their cocks out and, altogether, there wasn’t a trio of people in the front row making the most wonderful and erotic sounds of pleasure anyone in that gymnasium has ever heard. That’s probably the moment when I realize: fuck it, it’s too late to put on the brakes, so I might as well enjoy it. The man to your left seems to have adopted the same philosophy some time ago. Indeed, the women to his left is, what looks like unconsciously, rubbing herself as well. The woman to my right, meanwhile is—what woman to my right?

There is no woman to my right. But there is a woman standing, or rather kneeling, in front of you. Your chair overflowing with juices, the floor around you a slippery mess, she must be seeing some kind of amazing view because she can barely swallow. “Oh,” is all she can manage, “oh my.”

For you, though, none of this seems to be bahis firmaları going on. You’re staring, focused, thrusting your hips toward the belly dancer, who is uninterested in anything except her dancing. How she cannot notice is anyone’s guess. Must be an amazing feat of concentration—

“Yes, yes, oh… yes, yesss,” you purr.

The lady who’d been staring between your legs now has her hands somewhere inside your dress. Her whole body is shaking. It’s a surreal sight. She’s maybe in her late 30s or early 40s, looks to be about the most normal middle-aged woman in the world. Yet she’d doing the most extraordinary thing: taking, slipping off, ungluing your panties from your soaking wet, torrential pussy. Because your legs are spread about as wide as possible, she’s had to improvise with a pair of tiny scissors, yet she’s eventually successful and pulls out what used to be your panties and what is now a pulpy mix of cunt juices and cotton.

If the stunned silence of the rest of the audience has been a surprise, I think it is best explained by the following comment, shouted out rather desperately by a male voice from the crowd: “In the name of all that is good in the world, someone get a fucking microphone up there!”

Well, there is one in the gymnasium, the one used to announce the dancers, and sure enough some brave and willing soul has dragged it to the front row in no time at all. You’re moaning. I’m staring at the lady holding your panties in her hand—the wetness of them, the creaminess!—who herself is staring at your pussy, muttering something under her breath and burying her free hand beneath her own dress.

And then you, your moans, boom out through the gymnasium speakers.

The dancer keeps dancing. My cock is harder than titanium and you’re alternating between stroking and squeezing it. The man on your left is getting the exact same treatment. People are gathering around, making a semi-circle around us. I close my eyes and start to groan. Whatever’s happening, there’s no stopping it. Best to enjoy the sensations. And what sensations.

I suppose it was seconds after that, or maybe minutes. That the moans started becoming indistinct. No, that wasn’t it. There was another sound, a different sound. A sloppy sound. A wet sound. A beautiful and arousing and that bastard! The man on your left, the, the, the—

His hand is on “my” pussy and rubbing. Juices are flying everywhere. Mrs. Middleage is even getting them on her glasses. And the sounds: incredible, delicious, tasty, erotic, pure sex. Your moans, your wetness, my groans, and who knows who else doing what and feeling way too good about it.

Except, wait a second, that’s “my” pussy.

I gather my faculties and push my hand toward it. I feel that bastard’s hand. It’s rubbing so greedily. I push against it. I push it out of the way. It pushes me. Two hands, ten fingers, fighting for one prize. I meet the bastard’s eyes. We angle our eyebrows, anger and pleasure and insatiability etched into our faces. Of course, the result is two hands absolutely ravaging your pussy. Rubbing against it, sliding into it, wrists getting covered in goo. All the sounds being projected echoed, bounding around the room, everyone hearing each squish, splash, moan, slap, drip, groan, each slimy second of pleasure. And you’re stroking me, him, both of us, I hope it never ends…


We must have both cum up at the same time, your two hands making us feel like heaven and hell at once…

I remember: I felt my cock contract, almost crouch—and then pounce forward, orgasm, sending squirt after squirt of cum into the air (poor Mrs. Middleage and her glasses!) and wave after wave of pleasure passing through my entire body. The sound, my sound, hearing myself through the gymnasium speakers! And at the moment of orgasm, the natural reaction, the obvious motion of pressing fingers into your cunt, into you. Feeling it swallow them, suck on them, want them. Immaculate.

And then your grip relaxes, you let go. My cock, still erect, is suddenly alone, cold. kaçak bahis siteleri I put my hand on him but feel proud. We aren’t hiding. Time to get my bearings. The dancer is no longer dancing. In fact, she’s walking toward you. The crowd parts. You put your right leg on my knees. I hold it tight. The bastard, who I’m no longer fighting, is holding your left leg. Mrs. Middleage is leaving her own slimy trail on the floor and muttering, “yes, yes, open her…”

The belly dancer stands in front of you and smiles. I can feel your body shaking. We all hold our collective breath as my fingers push into the flesh of your leg and the belly dancer, in all her sensuality, kneels in front of you. She smiles again and licks her lips, slowly. To Mrs. Middleage she holds out an outstretched hand. Into which she receives the panty-cutting pair of small scissors. I shiver as I feel your goosebumps.

“please, please, do it…” you say so softly and in such a wavering voice that maybe it’s only my imagination, “make me feel so good,” the belly dancer brings the scissors closer, “like that, just like that” and puts them on the edge of your dress, “I need…” cutting and ripping it from bottom all the way to the waist, “you,” and then slides open the two makeshift wings of the dress, revealing your naked, glistening lower body, a throbbing pussy, its hair wet and its lips so full, and you moan, “please, pl-ea-se…”

The dancer puts one palm on your left thigh and one on your right. She massages them, teasing out each second of existence until it feels like minutes, hours. She holds her head a foot from your pussy, her tongue sliding around her lips like a dancer of its own, as your hips push, beg, drag your body towards her face. The feeling and strength of your sexuality is incredible to feel. Yet I know that I can’t let your hips win. I hold you back. As does the man on your left. He’s not a bastard anymore, we’re working together. The look on your face is pleasure mixed with so much yearning. But I hold you back, I hold you back because I know that’s what I have to do.

The dancer puts her tongue on your wet thigh, slides it across your stomach, tasting you. The microphone is picking up the sound of your breath. You are being so patient. I feel proud of you. I pat your leg, such a beautiful leg. The man to your left is kissing your left leg, making love to it. Someone behind you has—when? I didn’t notice—tied your wrists behind your chair and along with a younger woman is taking turns licking the back of your neck. I feel pride, satisfaction, eroticism; I feel chosen, to be able to hold this leg. I give it a kiss of my own.

The belly dancer breathes softly on your pussy. You squirm, you moan. She breathes and it feels cool and cold against the wetness. Behind you the man and woman licking your neck are also taking turns whispering things into your ears. The man is being vulgar, calling you names: a slut, a whore, a cunt, a deviant; the woman is being sweet and loving, calling you: a goddess, perfect, an ideal creature.

The first touch of the tongue is warm, inviting, intoxicating. Your muscles and body, fighting for so long to force themselves into the dancer’s face, loosen and relax. Your eyes shut, your voice begins to purr. The gymnasium finds itself silent save for the sound of your ecstasy and the sound of a lapping tongue, which circles you and enters you and covers itself completely in your wetness. From my position, I can see the dancer on her hands and knees, her big dark eyes staring up at you, her mouth and tongue hidden by the individual wet hairs of the most beautiful part of the most beautiful body in the world.

Your legs kissed, your neck licked, your ears being told what you are, you lose yourself in the moment, which lasts forever, and you let the tongue and her dancer love you and taste you and eat you.

And all at once I understand. What appeared to be cruelty and endless teasing and control, was but the creation and nurturing of a moment—a single everlasting and perfect moment. The belly dancer, weaving and twisting her body, oblivious to yours, was not truly oblivious at all. She was aware and conscious and every second she wanted this as much as you did; every second she had to deny herself. Until this second, this moment, this now.


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