Learning to Dance

The snow-crusted boots piled up by the door at Jimmy's like a haphazard mountain range, and the air inside hung thick with the scent of fried onions and spilled beer. Diane laughed as her friend Sarah spilled a story about the latest ER mishap at the hospital, their table a sticky island amid the post-closing chaos. It was that time of night—11 p.m. sharp—when the staff at this ski town staple flipped the script. Tables scraped back against the worn wooden floors, and the jukebox kicked into gear with a thumping bass line that rattled the empty glasses. Locals knew the drill: Jimmy's transformed into an impromptu dance hall, bodies swaying under strings of bare bulbs that cast everything in a raw, unflinching glow.

Diane nursed her third gin and tonic, feeling the warmth spread through her limbs. She'd been pulling twelve-hour shifts at the hospital all week, patching up twisted ankles and hypothermia cases from the slopes. Tonight was her reset button. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her jeans hugged her curves just right after a long day in scrubs. Across the room, she spotted him—the dance instructor, Marcus, as everyone called him. He moved like he owned the floor, hips rolling to the rhythm with a precision that made the crowd part. Tall, broad-shouldered, with skin like polished mahogany and a fade that screamed confidence, he caught her eye mid-spin.

She excused herself from the table, weaving through the press of bodies. "Mind if I cut in?" she said, flashing a grin as the song shifted to something slower, sultrier.

Marcus turned, his eyes lighting up as they scanned her. "Only if you promise not to step on my toes." His voice had a deep, easy rumble, laced with amusement. They fell into step, her hand light on his shoulder, and he guided her with effortless pulls. "Loosen up here," he said, his palm pressing against the small of her back. "It's all in the hips. Feel the beat, let it pull you."

Diane tried, her body stiff at first from the week's exhaustion, but she picked it up fast. Her hips swayed, matching his, the friction of their closeness sending a spark up her spine. Sweat beaded on his neck, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and sharp. "Not bad for a beginner," Marcus said, leaning in closer. "You got rhythm hidden under those scrubs."

They danced through two more songs, banter flowing as freely as the drinks. He bought her a round, and she teased him about teaching ski bunnies by day and owning the bar by night. The gin loosened her inhibitions, and curiosity gnawed at her. She'd never been with a black guy before, and the rumors—whispers from girlfriends about size, stamina—played in her head like a forbidden playlist. By the time the crowd thinned, she was buzzing, adventurous. "My place is just a quick cab ride," she said, her voice low against his ear. "Want to keep this going? I could use some private lessons."

Marcus's grin widened, his hand lingering on her waist. "Lead the way, Diane."

The cab ride was a blur of stolen glances and thigh brushes, the town lights smearing past like comet tails. Her apartment was a cozy third-floor walk-up above a gear rental shop, all exposed brick and mismatched furniture. The door barely clicked shut before they were on each other. Marcus pinned her against the wall, his mouth crashing into hers with a hunger that made her knees buckle. His lips were firm, tasting of whiskey and salt, and she kissed back fiercely, tongues tangling as her fingers knotted in his shirt. He tasted like the night—raw, electric.

They stumbled to the couch, shedding clothes in a frantic trail. Her blouse hit the floor first, then his tee, revealing the taut muscles of his chest, dusted with dark curls. Diane's bra followed, her breasts spilling free, nipples hardening in the cool air. Marcus groaned against her neck, his hands roaming, cupping her ass through her jeans before yanking the zipper down. She kicked them off, left in black lace panties that he peeled away with his teeth, nipping at her thigh.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he murmured, his breath hot on her skin. She pushed him back onto the couch, straddling his lap, grinding against the bulge straining his pants. Her curiosity burned now, insistent. She fumbled with his belt, heart pounding as she freed him. His cock sprang out, thick and long, veins pulsing along its length—easily nine inches, girthy enough to make her mouth water and her pussy clench in anticipation. It was darker at the base, the head flushed and already leaking pre-cum. Diane stared, a mix of nerves and thrill twisting in her gut. She'd heard the stereotypes, but this was real, heavy in her hand as she wrapped her fingers around it, barely closing.

"Nervous?" Marcus asked, his voice husky, watching her with dark eyes.

"A little," she admitted, stroking him slowly, feeling the heat radiate. But the hesitation melted fast. She slid down, kneeling between his legs, and took the head into her mouth. Salty, musky— she swirled her tongue around it, sucking gently at first, then deeper. Marcus's hand threaded into her hair, guiding her as she bobbed, taking more with each pass. Her jaw stretched, lips slick, but the challenge turned her on, her free hand slipping between her own thighs to rub her clit.

He thrust up suddenly, fucking her mouth with shallow pumps. "That's it, take it," he growled, his grip tightening. Diane gagged once, eyes watering, but she pushed through, hollowing her cheeks, loving the way he filled her throat. Spit trailed down her chin, her pussy dripping now, aching for more. After a few minutes, he pulled her up, kissing her hard, tasting himself on her tongue.

They moved fast, bodies slick with sweat. Marcus flipped her onto the couch, spreading her legs wide. He dove in, his tongue lapping at her folds, flat and insistent. Diane arched, moaning as he sucked her clit, two fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot that made her toes curl. "Oh shit, right there," she gasped, grinding against his face. He ate her out like he danced—precise, unrelenting—until she shattered, thighs clamping his head, juices coating his chin.

Not done, he grabbed a condom from his wallet, rolling it on with practiced ease. "Where do you want it?" he asked, rubbing the head against her entrance.

"Everywhere," she breathed, pulling him down. He thrust in slow at first, stretching her wide, the fullness making her gasp. They fucked like that on the couch, her nails raking his back, his hips snapping with a rhythm that built fast. She wrapped her legs around him, meeting every plunge, her tits bouncing with the force.

"Turn over," he said after she came again, voice rough. Diane obeyed, ass up on the cushions. He entered her from behind, hands gripping her hips, pounding deep. The slap of skin echoed, her pussy gripping him tight. But she wanted more— that anal curiosity she'd buried for years bubbling up. "Wait," she panted, reaching back. "Try... my ass. Go slow."

Marcus paused, thumb circling her tight ring first, slick with her arousal. He pressed a finger in, then two, scissoring gently as she moaned, pushing back. When she nodded, he lubed up with spit and her wetness, easing the condom-sheathed head against her. It burned at first, a sharp stretch, but she breathed through it, relaxing as he inched in. "Fuck, you're tight," he grunted, holding still until she adjusted. Then he moved, slow thrusts building to a steady fuck, her hand flying to her clit. The sensation was intense, forbidden—waves of pleasure mixing with the edge of pain, pushing her over again.

They collapsed, breathless, but he wasn't finished. He pulled out, shedding the condom, and she spun to her knees. "Cum in my mouth," she begged, mouth open. Marcus stroked himself, fast and furious, before pulling back at the last second. His load erupted—thick ropes across her face, hot and sticky, dripping down her cheeks and lips. She licked what she could, savoring the salty burst, then wiped the rest with a wicked smile.

They cleaned up laughing, tangled on the couch under a throw blanket, sharing water and stories until sleep claimed them.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the living room. Diane woke sore—her pussy tender, ass throbbing faintly—but the ache was a good one, a reminder. Marcus stirred beside her on the makeshift bed of cushions and pillows they'd dragged to the floor. "Round two?" he murmured, his hand sliding between her thighs.

She winced but nodded, horny despite the twinge. "Gentle this time." He kissed her slow, building heat without rush. They fucked missionary on the rug, him rolling his hips deep, her legs hooked over his shoulders. No anal, just steady thrusts that hit her g-spot until she came quietly, clenching around him. He followed, pulling out to cum on her stomach, the warmth pooling as they caught their breath.

"Breakfast?" she asked later, pulling on a robe.

He dressed, smirking. "Next time. Work calls." They parted with a lingering kiss at the door, no promises, just the spark of possibility.

Weeks blurred into a rhythm. Diane spotted Marcus at Jimmy's most Fridays, their eyes locking across the bar. A dance here, hips grinding close under the guise of lessons, led to stolen moments. One night, after closing, they slipped into the back storage room—shelves of liquor bottles rattling as he bent her over a crate, fucking her quick and hard from behind, her hand clamped over her mouth to muffle moans. Condom on, always, but the risk amped everything, her pussy soaking through her panties before he even touched her.

Another time, in the alley behind the bar, snow flurrying around them, she dropped to her knees in the shadows. His cock filled her mouth again, her sucking sloppy and urgent, swallowing his load as headlights swept past, heart racing from the near-miss. They laughed about it after, zipping up fast, the cold air biting their flushed skin.

But life in the ski town had its churn. Marcus mentioned gigs drying up, better opportunities down south. A few months in, he was gone—packed up his duffel and hit the road, leaving a note at the bar: "Keep dancing, Diane. Find your rhythm." She felt the pang, but it was clean, no mess.

Spring thawed the slopes, and Diane threw herself into work, hikes, and the occasional fling that paled in comparison. One evening, months later, she was at Jimmy's again, solo this time, sipping a bold red that reminded her of playful nights. The jukebox hummed, and she watched a new crowd sway. Her phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number: "Heard the beat's still going strong. Miss those lessons? -M"

She smiled, typing back: "Always room for a remix." Who knew? The night was young, and so was the possibility.