“Elaine, you shove and I shove; but I won’t let you go. We’re in the Tango and our struggle is part of our dance and life, isn’t it?”
Whatever! I’m tired, infuriatingly horny for him, and he’s forever bossing and correcting me all around his private practice area, above his dance salon of wood, mirrors, and rich colors, ringed by café tables and bar.
I’d arrived here, a visitor with a visa, hoping to learn from a man I’d only seen in shadow, smoke, and artistic angles prowl and masterfully “struggle” with his partner, with such sensuous elegance in a documentary, in which they’d only called him “K.”
But, worse, how can I learn, when the dance itself arouses him to maddening firmness, every time we move pelvis to pelvis.
“Pay attention, Elaine. Your O-hi-o is behind you. Be here, in Buenos Aires, where we are Tango — the inner sexual attraction versus the outer willful resistance of man and woman. It’s eternal their battle of will and sex—.”
“Yes, K. I know!”
He squinted at me, darkly.
“Elaine. What is wrong with you?”
“Why must something be wrong, with me?”
“You always call me K, when you’re impossible. You’ve snapped and grumbled and been dissatisfied every time I touch you, these past weeks. Tired of the Tango, and of me, so soon, North American?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Cheers. Someone was doing fantastic moves on the main floor. It was dance night, no instruction, just being inside this incredibly sexy and intimate dance, because if felt so wicked and good at the same time.
But K was getting on my last damn nerve.
“Well ... Kurt, I’m tired of you shoving me around.” I shoved him.
The fucker shoved back.
My thoughts heard Mom crow, “Serves you right, going half way around the world, speaking like that, being taught to do THAT, with a man like him, in public.”
“My damn feet are throbbing in these heels.”
“You’re a woman. You can’t Tango in track trainers and your Cleve-Land [Cleveland] State University sweatshirt.”
I turned my back to him and stared down at them from his balcony view. The salon had been nearly empty, then, when I’d arrived, gushing with….
To learn from the true master this sensual couple’s dance, of mixed African and Spanish bloodlines—the snap turn of heads, angling their shoulders, wrestling in the dance, and flicking their taunting, teasing feet between each other’s legs.
Like sex on high heels!
I’d naïvely burned into my savings, to touch this glamour. Only to be insulted by his dance partner, for my stupidity and imperfection, and rudely humiliated by K himself.
My school Spanish is faulty when I’m unsure, but I’d cussed him out, in fairly flawless Andalusian I’d learned from my best friend and her mom. He’d understood.
“Fuck you. I’ll find a better teacher.”
Then, I’d run into the streets of the second most heavily populated city in South America and was instantly lost; but, he’d followed me and brought me back — never saying why. Or why he wouldn’t take payment for my training.
But he’d said:
“I’m not that dream in the film, or in your head, North American. I’m real. I’m flesh. I’m a dangerous man.”
He is that, as he now leaned all his exquisiteness against my backside, slipping his hand around my imperfect waist. But….
He sniffed my hair! So, now I have dirty hair, too?
“Tango with me, Elaine.”
Women do not say no to him and so he pulled me tighter to him, his hand low, on my pubis, setting me on liquid fire which nearly poured from me. I struggled, but the man’s made of steel and dragged me back.
“I don’t want to,” I grumbled.
He shifted and his half hard cock — I told you, “the Tango” gets him up! — brushed so rudely against my sensitive ass cheeks, making me insane. I stomped on his foot.
“Ow!” He let go, then.
I ran down the stairs, and halfway across the main floor to the doo—.
Everyone froze, startled, but not me, until that steel grip caught me by the elbow.
I managed to rip away. Surprised, he grabbed me; I wiggled out, but fell. Furious, I ripped off my high heels and threw those Mandarin torturers at his head. He caught each, and gazed back with smugness.
“Aa-uh!” I lost all my words in all languages.
He ripped his own feet bare, mocking me, before lunging and seizing me by the waist, to lift and force me against a central pillar. He stared at me, surprised; I glared back, until his glance fell to my lips which he then took with his own, hard and without mercy.
Yes!! This Is the way I’ve always wanted to be kissed, I would’ve thought; if I could think.
Our emotions were naked and without reason, before everyone, as I gave him no mercy in return.
The crowd gasped, when I feverishly shoved his hand through my slit dress. And then I gasped, when K ripped away my panties, before seconds later….
His rock hard cock pierced into me wide and deep, and also without mercy.
Neither of us cared that we weren’t alone, as the Tango blared louder and resumed all around us.
I clutched at him and bucked my hips, rocking to catch his cruel thrusts. They were demanding, bruising, and ruthless; but, we cared not, as we fucked and I made him even more insane for me when my slippery cunt sucked tightly on him, demanding, grasping, and ruthless.
We said nothing, if gutturals and panting doesn’t count.
We, Kurt and Elaine, were in perfect, brazen synch, as we slowed our movement and selfishly smoldered together, enjoying each other, while fucking in plain view — his cock unbreakable and penetrating deep into my sopping wet ring, of soft, greedy, but yielding….
While the others swirled and strutted around us, in their own intimate Tango.
=========An Old West Calvary Colonel and a "virginal," corseted, mulatto beauty.
Asian Indian Romance and Sex Short Stories by Neale Sourna
All of the above stories by Neale Sourna at www.Writing-Naked.com / copyright for these stories in this form by http://indiansex-video.com/[No longer found]
Our hardcore main line
[sensuality is R, NC17, X, XXX]
medium and hard erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica
Our softcore line
[sensuality is PG13, Soft R]
soft erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica and general fiction
Our nonfiction line
[PG13, R, NC17, X, XXX]
Other projects Neale Sourna has written and have been published beyond PIE.
Copyright 2017 Neale Sourna
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