Spanish Dancers

Dear Dastardly X,

My husband and I rarely go out to clubs or discotheques together. Occasionally he'll go out with friends to drink and look at the girls wiggle, but neither of us particularly loves dancing, and I've never been a four-in-the-morning kind of girl. But when it's August in Barcelona, where we've been this past week, four in the morning just means a late dinner and a nightcap. The parties go till noon and then they start again, so one midnight we decided to find some sexy place. A friend had recommended a club near the Barrio Gotico, where we were staying, but when we got there the place was still empty. The waiter assured us that it would be filling up soon, so we chose a table in the corner as far away from the dance floor as possible. The music was good – not too loud, not too trendy – and we ordered a bottle of wine.

Want to know what I was wearing? Well I was well put together, Mister. A devastating black silk dress that wraps across the front of me and ties at the side. Not shiny silk, but a rougher, rawer silk that scratches slightly (but deliciously) against my skin. It's sleeveless and comes to about my knees. No bra, in case you're wondering. In Spain it just doesn't feel right. Also because my nipples just look perfectly edible in this dress – you see just a hint of them. And him? Will you allow me to describe my sultry Don Juan? A white linen shirt open a few buttons, and these slim black pants he just bought that really show off his cute ass. And no underwear. Me neither. We've both been horny as hell and have been setting each other our own little experiments. So for the record: no underwear.

I love to watch sexy women dance around in tight dresses almost as much as my husband does. The place began to fill up after a while, the music got a bit louder, and a trio of Spanish girls had started dancing together on the corner of the floor nearest us. The asses on these girls? Fabulous. And big full tits, absolutely perfect. Also, they knew how to dance, and so it was a pleasure to sit there watching them have so much fun. You couldn't help but smile at them, and my husband and I hardly said anything for a while. We just smiled, at them and at each other (me with a knowing wink in there occasionally for him) and drank our wine until I was feeling slightly tipsy and the girls were more than slightly turning me on. My husband, of course, has the most infuriating poker face, but he was most definitely…focused.

I hadn't forgotten about you, Mr. X. The club had filled up by now, and there were several groups sitting at the tables around us. Because we were in the corner, our hands beneath the table were hidden to them from both directions. They could see our smiles and our torsos sitting close (and probably my nipples, wide awake watching the dancing scene), then maybe my unheeled foot rubbing against his leg in the shadows, but nothing more. Some good-looking men had moved up to dance next to the sexy girls, but the girls ignored them. They liked being at the center of attention, and that attention included my husband's. Who could blame him? I would've loved to rub myself up against those bodies (and licked just a little bit, please, those big firm tits?). I put my hand to my husband's crotch. He was already half hard, just entranced by these girls, and my hand on him, and the other people close to us drinking and flirting (and so close to us!).

Without looking at me, he reached for my knee and slid his palm a few inches up the inside of my thigh. I was hot now. I wanted his cock in me. I wanted to taste him in my mouth. I wanted to watch him fucking those three girls, masturbating from a chair in the corner of some hotel bedroom. Instead I unzipped his pants, slowly, letting him feel the danger of being slowly exposed. His palm slid further up my leg, towards my crotch, his pinky playing casually along the joint between my leg and my pussy, gently teasing the trace of hair there. I slipped my hand through his zipper and his cock popped right into my palm, hot and swollen. Squeezing and squeezing, I moved further down towards its base, as he now cupped my pussy with his palm and hooked his middle finger inside of me. Through all of this we hadn't even exchanged a glance. We watched the room, nonchalant. But now we turned to face each other and kissed passionately, my tongue stabbing thirstily into his mouth, his other hand moving across our bodies to press up into my tingling breast. Then he pulled away from me to look back at the dancers, as casual as ever. Reluctantly I did the same. I wanted more kisses, but I also wanted to let the excitement build even more. I'm admittedly a glutton like that.

I couldn't properly stroke his cock without unbuttoning his pants, so I did, and it rose up under the table to meet my hand. I tried to cover every inch of it, stretching my fingers wide, and then I began to move the skin of his shaft up and down. Occasionally I would turn to watch his face. His lips were parted, and occasionally his tongue would snake out to wet them. He had two fingers in me now, and I was squirming slightly on the leather seat (dancing to the music – sort of), my juices drenching his hand. The thrill of hand-fucking each other in secret like this (that's sex by my definition, Mr. X), so close to so many other sexy people, nearly shot an orgasm through me. But I've always been extremely slow to come (although when I do it is definitive, sir), and I felt him swelling more, that last surge he always makes before he blows. But he caught me. He put his hand on top of mine and stilled it. We sat there frozen, my hand over his cock, his hand on mine, the two, sometimes three, fingers of his other hand squishing up over my clitoris and into me, then out again. I wanted even more fingers in there! I was getting close too.

He was imagining the girls, I knew, and that excited me somehow. I was going crazy, squirming beneath the table, my dress up around my waist now, the leather cool on my dripping thighs. I shook off his constraining hand and began to stroke him again. His dick was slick with sweat and its own juices now, and so I could really ring him hard and slide up and down. He fingered me steadily and deep. We were both at the edge. Another thing about my definitive orgasms: I tend to scream. I can't hold it down, I have to totally self-combust. But here I couldn't without totally embarrassing us both. I felt the tremor building downwards from my ass, and I knew it was coming, and I wanted to shriek but I could only turn and look at my husband. We locked eyes and his cock got even slicker, the tops of our bodies hardly moving, people dancing everywhere.

I was coming, driving my pussy down onto his knuckles and the slick leather seat. God I somehow managed to hold it together, channeling the explosion into my fingers instead, stroking him fast and hard until he was gushing up into my palm. I capped his explosion with my hand and let it all drip back over his delicious cock down into his pubic hair, over his balls. I would have given anything to have it in my mouth right then. I think I was probably more turned on than I've ever been in my life (yes, I realize I often say that). His come covered my hand. I spread it down the slight blond hairs of the insides of his thighs, front and back till I was mostly clean. Meanwhile he took his fingers from me, dipped them into his wine glass, then drank. I buttoned his pants, and pulled my dress back down, more or less. I couldn't get enough of him. My hand went back through the zipper to dance through that humid tropical forest for a while. I wanted everyone to know that I had just made him come, and I wanted to come and come and come again.

So there, X. Here's to dancing Spanish girls and exceptional me. Nicely done, if I do say so myself. Horny? Well that's your fault. You asked for it, baby!

Goodbye!

Me

Republished with permission from The Sex Experiment. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.