Caramel Flava

“It matches my dress?”

His hand moves in his pocket and the butterfly jumps to life. It hovers, buzzing greedily as if I were a deep, thick-petaled flower. The vibrations spread through my labia to my ass. My cunt is furious and I pull at the shower rod. Plaster shakes loose at the bolts and settles to the floor. Tal looks ready to eat me.

“Tal, Tal.” My voice sounds small and tight. “It’s not enough. Tal.”

“Pace yourself.”

“Motherfucker.” I am moving my legs together, then apart, grinding my hips in changing circles, until I see him crouch down to watch more closely.

“That sounds like a hurt word. I’m afraid it’s quiet time again. But if you really want a gag, keep talking. I have this red one. It basically holds your jaws apart.”

He opens my cabinet and finds some makeup. He grabs a fistful of hair at the base of my skull while he wipes the sweat off my forehead.

“You look fine as you are. You don’t need any blush. I want to add some lipstick, though.” He leans into my swinging breasts, still gripping my hair.

He murmurs like someone drunk with love as he licks the top of each breast. He can manage only two or three words between kisses. “You can either have them rouged or I’ll make you wear bells on them, in public, until midnight at least.” He takes the lipstick and smoothes my black nipples into long, sticky, crimson peaks. I want to cry but even that release won’t come.

When he turns the butterfly to low, I can breathe again, but it still takes all my concentration to keep my hips still. I watch the long, smooth curve of his cheekbones as he reaches over my head. His throat is a little swollen.

“We’ve been meaning to go dancing for so long,” Tal purrs, unlocking my wrists and massaging my arms briskly. He slips the dress over my head and helps me into my shoes.

He holds my head gently now, questions fluttering over his lashes again. I lean forward and bite his pink lower lip. When I pull back, his eyes are pure limpid bliss.

Señor Frog’s is always crowded on Friday nights. The club is a tiny neon box, tucked under the freeway overpass. Salsa rhythms beat through its thin walls. Crowds huddle against the wind, hurrying over the black ice that gleams multicolored throughout the parking lot.

Inside, the chairs and tables have all been pushed to the corners. The dance floor, the lobby, the dark hallway to the kitchen, every inch is thick with dancers. The crowds clear reverently for the best couples. A haze of smoke and perfumed steam hangs just under the low ceiling.

I’m brought straight back to my cunt when the butterfly jumps again. My cry isn’t heard over the music, but I turn to Tal’s eyes, hard as ebony. I try to move away but we are pushed hip to hip. We’ve eased into a slow merengue, his hand resting on the small of my back. Our bellies touch, his shirt buttons flick over my nipples. In my mind, I undress him quickly, suck him into hardness, and impale myself on him several times, here on the uneven floor. I doubt many would notice.

Before I can speak, he tugs at my hair and kisses my ear. “Dance with everyone who asks you.”

He’s gone. The butterfly is on low and I clasp my hands together tight, looking down.

Soon I’m asked to dance. A tall, quiet man tries to lead me in country dances I never learned. I do my best to follow, watching his feet, almost forgetting the relentless little sting of pleasure. I look up to find his eyes transfixed on my vivid nipples. I can’t keep them from pushing out farther. Just before the music finishes, the butterfly is turned to high and I have to stop moving, clutching my hands over my mouth. Two desperate moans escape. My partner stops, alarmed, asking if he’s stepped on me, most likely thinking I’m about to throw up. I do what I can to assure him and thank him, panting, moving away into the crowd. I can’t find Tal.

But he must see me because the torment ebbs as soon as another man asks me to dance.

A portly, quiet-eyed professor touches my back tensely as if I were a silk-covered bomb. He ignores the music and moves me in a slow, thorough orbit across the floor. He cries out at the end of the song when my fingernails sink into his wrist. I leave without looking at him.

A Haitian man, dreadlocks flying, twirls me on every fourth beat. The room spins in front of my eyes, changing direction as his dark hands nudge my shoulder or pull my wrist. Our stomachs meet as a new phrase starts, his teeth flash at me as he laughs. He is irrepressible, radiant as a bride. I press my forehead into his at the end of the song, watching his full lips as he begins to speak. They look soft. Tal turns me up and I pull away.

A young student asks me to dance. I wait for him to look up at my face before I say yes. His drenched silk shirt is nearly sliding off his smooth chest. He carefully strokes my neck as we settle into our rhythm and I smile, imagining it’s step five in some article he’s memorized: Ten Moves Chicks Dig.

He turns me and I see Tal, watching. Girls surround him like fireflies.

I reach Tal before he can move his hand to his pocket. He grabs my wrist but it’s I who lead him to the women’s bathroom.

Two elegant grandmas are sashaying out just as we arrive. One winks at me. I slam Tal against the far wall, harder than I meant to, then turn back to the door.

The ladies are still there.

“We’re not well.” I lock the door.

I turn back to a pile of clothes. Tal has undressed and is sitting on the counter, gleaming under the vanity lights. His skin is flushed and velvety like rose petals. His cock swings up, vein-covered. Stretched to its capacity, hard as an ingot of pure gold, shimmering like fresh honey. His knuckles are white as he braces himself on the counter.

I reach him in three steps.

My hair falls over his belly and clings to the wet skin. The sweet head of his cock nearly chokes me. I stretch my lips over him, tickling his balls, running my tongue over the crinkled, pulsing flesh. My jaws ache but I would do anything to coax that choked falsetto cry from him.