Letting the Artist Work

Letting the Artist Work

I was alone in the city, winding down from a women’s business convention. As things ran their course, some of the other gals made plans to take in a show featuring men dancing in leopard print thongs. I was looking for something a little more hands on, and I found it at the hotel bar. The place was elegant with white marble columns, and checkered along the floor. Statures of some gods long forgotten lined the hallways with red carpets. It was all straight out of the nineteen twenties.

I was dressed rather conservatively, wearing a dark gray business suit. My legs have always been my best feature. They were highlighted with a pair of black silk stockings that led down to a set of stiletto heels.

I sat and sipped a cosmopolitan in the nearly empty bar, and listened to the slow steady and almost sensual rhythms of the three piece jazz band. The bass player was a tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome. He had a somewhat Mediterranean look about him, and his dark eyes fell on me the moment I walked in. His fingers strummed a perfect rhythm on the upright bass, and the bass lines poured out like flowing honey, moving the band to create a perfectly smooth melody.

When the musicians took a break, he made his way over.

“My name’s Dom.” He extended his hand as he spoke. “And you must be Janet.” My eyebrow rose, and then I remembered I was wearing the nametag from the convention.

I smiled wryly. “Nice to meet you Dom. Do you come here often?” He grinned back at me.

“We’re just on hand for the night.”

I smiled back at him, wetting my lips. “All night?”

The band went back on without him, and Dom asked me to dance. He led me out onto the floor, and through the motions of a slow number. His heels seemed to move a fraction of a second before the notes came giving the impression that the music was being generated somehow by our movements.

As the rhythm got slower, and if possible more intimate, I leaned my head against his chest and felt the smooth silk shirt against my cheek. He wore a heady cologne that formed a perfect alchemy with his own natural scent. I had always been a woman who got what she want; who took control, but I felt lost in him, as I gave myself over completely to the dance. He was masterfully and ever so patiently in charge, and I let myself be pulled along like a moon in orbit.

It was the same in my bed that night. He moved in a perfect rhythm, and at times I wanted desperately to spur him on. He smiled down at me, unmoved by my incessant nonverbal demands, and like any artist, he slowly but surely brought me to the edge again and again. I lay on my back, and gave in to the dance once more, surrendering completely to the sensual rhythm you could measure time by.

Nothing moved too fast, or too slow, and every aspect of our love making played out like a set number or a dance. Soon he was lying between my legs letting his tongue work like paintbrush up and down my very needy sex. Never speeding his tempo, he settled in on my clit, and his talented tongue offered me the same sweet bliss as she had given with his cock.

He swept me over the edge several times before he came, and in the end we were lying exhausted in my bed. When I woke the next morning, I found an old 45 record next to me. I took it home, and purchased a turntable at a thrift store. I played the old record, and settled back in a chair with a glass of wine. The music brought it all back for me. I pulled up the hem of my skirt, and my hand travelled downward to strum that slow steady beat at the valley between my legs.

Word Count: 678