Dancer

dancer

“Something in the way she moves” wrote George Harrison and James Taylor. I think I understand what they were trying to tell us.

I first spotted Sam, through a crowd, at the nightclub. Just a glimpse, but I shuffled down the bar a few feet, so as to give myself an uninterrupted view. She was dancing around a pile of handbags with a brace of other girls. Bowie’s Jean Genie was playing and her mates were going for it; squawking and thrashing about: I guess it was a favourite song of theirs. Sam was swaying in a disinterested way, barely moving her feet. But she looked like a dancer to me.

There’s a quality of erect flexibility that dancers have. It’s so difficult to describe faithfully. A wonderful synthesis of strength, poise, subtlety and grace that seems to inhabit their spines and hips. They don’t need to be dancing for this quality to be apparent. You can see it if they only walk across a room. Samantha had it, couldn’t conceal it, even across twenty yards of smoky nightclub.

She was otherwise quite unremarkable to look at: slim, quite a boyish figure really; tall, but not cat-walk tall; long mid-brown hair; blue eyes; pretty face, but not stunning; good teeth; clean fingernails; so, far from ugly, but far from film star material too. But she moved like an angel! Every little mundane thing she did: tidying a wayward lock behind her ear; bending to scratch her ankle; turning to see where her friends had got to; all executed with that careless aplomb, that surety of control, that gentle feline force: my head was spinning!

The chat-up was easy: like shooting fish in a barrel. Sam had caught her previous beau shagging an (ex!) friend; she wasted a month raging, another month weeping, a further month finding her savoir faire, and now she was back in the market, ripe for the picking. I was very lucky to catch that fleeting moment. She seemed flattered by my attention in a quiet, smiling way. I sensed this was not a girl to be rushed.

I felt chuffed with myself about the dancer thing. She told me she’d studied dance, and still did salsa and ballet with local amateur groups in the evenings, but it hadn’t worked out for her as a profession.

So we dated. She was warm but not passionate; friendly but not tactile; close but not intimate. Three weeks and half-a-dozen meetings later, I couldn’t get her out of my mind, night and day. I could feel myself falling: I wanted that woman. Still, I forced patience upon myself. I felt her comfort with me growing: the way she kissed me when we met; the way she nestled into me in the cinema seat; the easy way her hand found mine under the table at the dinner party. But we parted at her front door: I was not invited in for “coffee”.

I was toying with the idea of confronting her; forcing the issue; pushing things to the next level. Something inside me said no: the prize would be all the better for the wait. Then, out of blue, driving her home from the club one night, she leaned across and whispered “I want to tell you a secret”. Something about the way she said it thrilled me but she refused to say any more until we were sat together on her bed. “I don’t shag, not at all, never.” I felt myself deflating. “But I just adore oral. I love a tongue teasing my clit; a finger on my g-spot; and, most of all, a big fat helmet nudging my tonsils. You’ve been very patient with me. I think tonight’s the night I should show my appreciation of that patience. I’d like to worship your cock for an hour or two. Do you think you could cope with that?”

My mind went “twang”! I failed to deliver a coherent reply but we were naked in seconds and she was upon me; making up for lost time; eager and hungry; arching her back; thrusting her crotch into my face, whilst juggling my testicles on her tongue. Then she was sucking on my helmet whilst stroking my shaft with her right hand, and pulling my hair to force my mouth tighter with her left.

What a night! I thought I was “lad about town” and I’d seen it all, but this quiet girl taught me a thing or two. She was insatiable. I had always imagined a sixty-nine to have only two variants: her on top or her underneath, but to Sam it was a self-contained art-form in its own right. I lost count of the number of ways she knew and the number of times she made me orgasm.

Our last throw was amazing. I was sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back at about forty-five degrees, propped on straight arms behind me. She was arched backwards, belly up, above me, so her feet were near my hands, her thighs were over my shoulders, her hands were by my hips, her neck was bent way back, so her forehead was pressed into my belly, my tongue was squirming in and out of her sweet dripping pussy, her mouth was way down my shaft and her tongue was licking out at the base. How she maintained that back-breaking position whilst I pumped my load into her mouth, I will never know.

We were both exhausted when she gingerly untangled herself from me, but she pulled me next to her, found the quilt to cover us, kissed me, said “You’d better get some rest. I’ll be needing more of that.”, and curled up in my arms like a kitten. Something in the way she moves indeed!

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