Yeah, a time and a place, right? What the hell.

When I stand up again I know I’m flushed—luckily it’s been busy all night and I have that excuse. My nipples pop up against the barrier of my bra like two little spring-loaded electrodes, tingling against the cotton and sending little aching shocks through me every time I move. Finishing my shift is torture of a most exquisite sort; I can’t help lick my lips because my tongue needs something to do. It flicks over my lips as I’m shaking martinis and rolls around in my mouth when I’m lining up shots. It wants to slide over his cock, swirl around the tip and flicker in the pre-cum I can almost smell. Finally, my shift is over, the night girls come in, and I collect my tips and head out.

The drive home is so much longer than before: my heart is racing and every shift of my legs, every bump in the road, sends a tender little twinge from between my legs up my spine. I’ve been itching for the last hour to touch myself, to be touched, but I keep telling myself that he’s waiting at home, and that no matter what time it is …. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, impatient at the last red light, and clench my thighs together, relishing the little ache that rides along the electric current racing up from my swelling clit.

Everything is quiet and dark when I let myself into our kitchen. I feel like I am pulsing in the darkness; my breath rasps in my ears and I cringe, my blood cooling a little, at the loud clunk of my shoes on the linoleum. I know he’s asleep upstairs and I am as quiet as I possibly can be, shedding my socks, shirt and pants on the way up to the bedroom. I can smell myself: half a dozen fruity drinks spilt over the course of the night have landed on my skin and there is smoke in my hair, but a shower is out of the question right now and besides, the smell of sex is going to drown everything else out.

He turns over when I open the bedroom door, but doesn’t wake up as I slide up between the sheets from the bottom of the bed. My entire body is tingling to touch him and he has no idea: he doesn’t even sigh as I ease up next to him. I hesitate only a little before reaching into his shorts, through that oh-so-convenient slit, and closing my hand over that thick sleeping cock.

His reaction is immediate: a gasp, a moan, and a stretch, and a wild-eyed stare down the sheets at me. “Honey, I’m home,” I murmur, just before clamping my lips down over his suddenly rock-hard dick. He fills my mouth to the back of my throat and I swirl my tongue down his hot, hard length, sucking with abandon. He moans again, bucking against my mouth, and I slither on top of him, pinning his legs. His hands grope down, find my head, and fist in my hair, then pull up—I let go his dick with a wet pop and slide up. He kisses me, hard, and I know his body’s awake but he probably isn’t all the way—let him think this is a dream, then. I know it’s real, even if I can’t quite believe my own audacity. I twirl my tongue around his, straddling him, grinding the thin cotton between us. His hands are everywhere and mine are yanking aside our collective underwears. Finally, my clit moans, as I slide his hot cock inside, slick with spit and the juices I’ve been making all night; he fits so perfectly deep inside that my every nerve ending fires at once. He and I moan together and I move up and down on his shaft—slowly at first, letting my swollen pussy feel every vein and little bit of texture pressing against my tender tissues. I’m not going to be able to hold on for long: I begin to pump myself harder and harder down on his cock, relishing each rough thrust as it pushes me closer and closer to the edge. My skin is on fire, my nipples are pointing out so hard and fast that it hurts, and I can feel my orgasm building—

I come first, whimpering his name with a deep-throated relish as my thighs spasm and my pussy muscles squeeze around his quivering shaft deep inside me. Even asleep he’s not going to let me stop, and so I bounce up and down on the aftershocks, more and more out of control as he thrusts his hips up and in me, as hard and as far as he can, groaning and grunting with each push towards his own orgasm. By the time he comes, I’m almost crying with pleasure and he yells my name, his hands hard on my hips and his cock quaking and shuddering inside me—I come a second time, harder and faster, as his cries abate a little. I am exhausted and completely out of breath, hair stuck everywhere on my sweat-sheened skin. He gropes blindly for me and pulls me close, but doesn’t pull out; I curve around him in bed and fall asleep with my legs still wrapped around his waist.

Hours later, I am dimly aware of his alarm going off and him easing out of bed to start his morning. I am just starting to drift off to sleep when a pair of hands gently parts my thighs and a minty-fresh tongue darts in to tickle my clit. Instantly I am awake, every nerve standing on end, and I look down the bed to see him smiling at me from between my thighs. “Good morning, sweetie,” he says, flashing a wicked grin, before burying his freshly shaved face in my pussy once again.

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.