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Vicar's wife is used by brother in law.

. . which are outrageously soaking in your juices of desire, in spite of yourself. I chuckle and whisper in your ear that I think you have been having a good time so far.

We notice a small group of musicians gathering in an alcove of the terrrace below, setting up for a night of background entertainment for diners and dancers. A group of young black men, with a lady black singer, steps up on a platform of two risers to be more visible . . . two percussionists, piano, base, saxaphone, plust the vocalist. The men are dressed in a variety of colourful "Mandela" shirts, the lady is a soft white summer dress, semi-shear, gathered just under her bust to accentuate her fabulous figure. Her hair is braided/beaded a la African women, her voice soft and sultry, her eyes smoking and sensual.

Shall we dance?

The band starts into its repertoire of rhythm and blues, samba and salsa, a variety of song styles and themes. We watch at first, as one, then several couples cave to the need to move to the pulse of the bongos and base. Our resistance, if we ever had any, is gone as well, and the intoxicating music soon has us on the floor below, strutting our stuff. We are captured by each song, in endless ways, jive or tango or rhumba or quick step . . . we are up to the task, surprising each other at how natural we seem together, how we flow to the different rhythms, and know just what to do. We dance, we improvise, we spin, we cruise across the floor.

The night grows darker and deeper, but our energy on the floor is not abated, and the southern breezes lighten and refresh as we continue to be captured by the need to move our bodies under the band's magic spell.

The population of couples starts to thin, until, at last, we are the only pair remaining. And yet, we have almost been oblivious to others from the very start, wallowing in only the sensations from the music, and the look and feel of each other as we dip and swing and whirl and grind.

Now alone, we barely perceive the gradual slower pace of the selections. Each new tune, softly voiced by her magnificent phrasing of each melody, combines the song and the rhythm to render us into an almost trance-like state. Now, I we hold each other, the senses seem to be magnified . . . the touch of your skin, the heat of your body next to mind, the aroma of your warm flesh, the sound of your voice in my ear, the sensations on the back of my neck as your hands play there . . . this is heaven, but heaven not yet realized to its fullest extent.

The band is now playing just for us. Each song now offers us opportunities to connect even more closely. We dance tightly together, moving as one, your breasts pressing into my chest, your sex feeling the swelling in my slacks, my hands sliding down to the tops of your cheeks and marvelling at the motion of your muscles as you glide with me. Our eyes meet, our lips touch, just briefly, my mouth moves to your ear, the nape of your neck, back to your face, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips. Gentle caresses of love and rapture. I am enjoying the rising of your breasts as your breathing grows heavy. I am enjoying the reaction of your hips as I press my swollen shaft against your sex. I am enjoying the moans that are now audible from your ruby lips as I move against you, as my hands caress your shoulders, back, and down to your beautiful ass, pulling you in to me even closer.

I need more of you. Need to feel more of your flesh. Need to feel you move against me in urgency. Need to meet your growing passion with a deserving response.

We dance one more song this way, our hands circling and pressing, sliding and probing . . . our lips teasing, our eyes reflect the raw power of the lust that is now overtaking us.

I take control, and turn your body around, so that you are now facing away from me.

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