Good Vibrations Magazine

At a particularly loud touchdown I scrabble for the remote, hastily jacking down the volume with a guilty glance towards the open kitchen. The TV tends to get loud when I watch, in part because I am, as my wife says, deaf as a stone; I feel bad when I notice it, because my Katie is a musician and a dancer with (what seems to me) exquisite hearing. She hasn’t yet noticed this latest volume infraction, though, because in the interest of cooking dinner she’s put on her headphones and turned up her mp3 player. I watch her for a second, and then the football game, the loud TV, and even dinner are forgotten because as she’s making spaghetti, my wife has started dancing.

Katie’s been a bellydancer for as long as I’ve known her. Bellydancers, I have learned, have fewer issues with body shape and size than do other kinds of dancers—strong and bendy, is my Katie, even if her waist isn’t long and tiny like some of those waifs she constantly outperforms at community showcases. Her hips bounce with a deep rhythm that always makes me want to reach for her, even when she’s twenty feet away and up on a stage. At present moment, however, it’s not her bouncing hips I’m focused on; it’s her breasts as she pops and rotates her torso, seemingly independent of the rest of her body, and her entire chest sways in a figure-eight around her spine. Swaying over to the cupboards, her hands and arms lift themselves with sinuous ease and she grabs a jar of something or other off the shelf, then undulates her whole body on the way back to the stove to shake it into the pot of sauce. I am off the couch now, leaning on a counter, utterly entranced by the hypnotic circles of her hips and the boneless, liquid grace of her back and arms. Her eyes are closed and she probably doesn’t know I’m watching, but when she starts a slow shimmy, she is begging to be touched. As she turns back to the refrigerator, I oblige.

My hand on her tick-tocking waist disrupts her rhythm for only a second; I pull her a little closer and she responds by rolling her entire backside down me, her shoulders against my chest, her spine running down my torso, and her delightful derriere rolling against the front of my pants. I love that move and she knows it, following up with a hip-circle that brushes my waking cock through the front of my jeans. Yes, dear, you’ve got my attention. Though I am relatively unpracticed when it comes to following a beat, the timing of sways and snapping of various body parts is never hard for me to follow. I start to move my hips, first in time with her sensuous drops, then in opposition to them, letting her feel my rapidly-stiffening shaft trail across her ass as she figure-eights across me. These pants are definitely becoming a problem.

Whatever she needed in the fridge is forgotten, as she lifts her hands and spins in my arms; her eyes are closed and she leans just her shoulders into me, her breasts brushing my chest as she repeats the figure-eights, her arms snaking out on either side of her. Through my old t-shirt and hers I can feel her nipples stiffening against my chest. Now she’s rolling in a move called a corkscrew—hips circle, chest circle, hip circle, her head drifting back on her neck until I can’t bear not to kiss her throat.

Her pulse pounds beneath my lips and I feel her shiver as I press my mouth and tongue to her skin. One hand strokes the back of my neck as I find the hem of her shirt and pull it upwards, stilling her chest rotations with my hands on her breasts. Through her bra I can feel her nipples poking out like hard little buttons. She presses her hips against me, now shimmying with a decidedly different urgency than before, pulling me as close as she can. I roll her nipples in my fingers and she sighs mightily—not quite a moan yet, but I’ll get her there.

Her tongue is rolling now against my earlobe, her breath hot on my neck, and I can hear the drums still ticking out from her headphones. Forget the undulating elegance of her art form, Katie is grinding against me now and my dick is fighting to get out of my pants. I can smell her—oregano, lemons, and a heady spicy sweaty scent. My knee goes between her legs and she straddles my thigh, nibbling, then biting my neck and shoulder. She rubs her leg against my crotch and seems to finally catch on—she’s fumbling with my belt, then an agonizingly long moment later, with my fly. Her mouth presses on mine as I hoist her onto the counter. Normally we try to make it to the bedroom, or at least the couch, but I need to feel her around me, and I need that now.

Oh goody—my wife wore a skirt today.

Katie scoots forward and wraps her long legs around me as I yank my boxers down and let my pants fall to the floor. Surprise, surprise, my dancer isn’t wearing panties—and it’s a long, slow slide in to her tight, enveloping warmth. Bellydancing, Katie has told me, is all about muscle isolations and control—and boy, does she have some precise muscle control. My cock is captive inside a pulsating embrace as I slide in and out of her. Finally, a moan escapes her and I open my eyes to one of the best sights in the world: my wife’s flushed, wide-eyed look as she’s right on the edge—

I spoke too soon.

All those delicate, wet, warm muscles roll and pulse against my tense, aching cock as Katie lets out an explosive moan and clamps every available limb around me, including her teeth into my shoulder. A half second later I feel every muscle I can readily identify tense and I let go my own moan letting sweet release shoot hard and fast into Katie as she shudders in after shocks.

A little while later I come back to myself, still wrapped in Katie’s limbs, my forehead pressed against the cabinet. She is nestled against my chest, breathing slowly and deeply. The little popping noises I hear are coming from her headphones and the spaghetti sauce is bubbling and spitting in its pot on the stove. I reach over and turn off the burner, then gather up Katie and lead her to the couch. Finally she removes the headphones, dropping them on the coffeetable and snuggling up next to me on the couch. Right before I doze off, I remember to switch off the TV.