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Apparently, Evan had the room specifically modified for any cinematic scenario. It can be turned into a movie theater room with risers and recliners, it can double as a concert room for small bands, and like tonight, it can become a stage, with doors on either side for performers to make their entrance.
Two figures draped in black emerge from the back as if on cue, dancing and writhing to soft, swelling music. Right about the same time, Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant enter, taking their seats.
It takes my brain a minute to catch up as they do.
To realize that they are completely naked, their robes hanging open.
For some reason, it didn’t click before, the reason for the robes. They weren’t there to wear between outfits.
This has all the makings of another “testing of my presumptions” by my new boss.
Fine. So the guests are nude.
They were getting fresh with the wait staff.
Makes sense. They’re here to add some spice to their life.
Which is only further confirmed when the two dancers on the stage drop their black outfits to the floor, revealing almost naked bodies, only dressed in dark painted silicon lines to accentuate their forms, covering their nipples and genitals.
Both women are uniquely stunning. Straight out of an art installation or fashion ad. And both glitter in gold paint from head to toe.
The initial movements of the deep, electronic and symphonic music catch me up in the moment, and I can tell the couple watching is enthralled, eager to see what comes next. Their eyes sparkle as more performers, men painted the same way, join the two women, spinning, writhing, and bending expertly to the beat.
It’s the opening movement, designed to draw everyone in, to heighten the senses and get the blood pumping. The spiked drinks help the effect along.
All leading up to the main attraction.
As the six dancers spin apart from the center of the stage, I feel a gasp tugged through my lips. The parting curtain of bodies reveals a man and a woman, both completely naked, standing in the middle of the spotlight, clutching each other tightly.
Only subtle, pencil thin lines of black ink trace the lines on their bodies, either incredible paint or tattoos.
Masks cover their faces entirely, but no one is watching their faces.
They start the dance with their hands, curling around, grazing each other, barely touching. I see Mr. an Mrs. Cormorant lean forward, both wide-eyed, faint smiles on their faces. I can’t blame them. I can barely take my eyes off the couple on the stage.
Their fingers intertwine as they watch, a gesture of caring and anticipation.
I glance back to the stage as the music swells again, gaining momentum. The man and woman’s dance becomes more intense, flexing and pulling at each other, bending and twisting in impossible thrusts of passion. It goes on like that for minutes, through leaps and sweeping rolls down onto her back, the godlike muscles of the man taking him over her, dragging past, but never quite touching.
He tosses her, catches her, lifts her over his head, and she always tries to kiss him, bite him, touch him, but never can.
Gripping tension builds, anticipation that they’ll join, fulfill the growing need I can sense in the room for release, for completion.
But they never do.
They never quite touch.
His tongue, darting out, misses her nipples by a fraction of an inch.
Her nails, raking up his ass and back, but never digging into his tattooed skin.
They’re sweeping back down, falling, and he’s arched from his shoulders to his tiptoes on the floor as he holds her at arm’s length above him.
His rigid, incredibly thick cock swipes past her soaked, glistening folds as he lowers her, and I unwittingly let out the softest moan, willing him to enter her. It’s edging torture, toeing the line of climax but never giving in.
It takes me back to Ora’s party, to my fantasy of Tell, of Gavin.
Our two clients are just as incensed, clutching each other’s hand between their chairs as they watch, rapt. And thoroughly enjoying the attention they are receiving from the rest of the dancers as hands run all over their bodies.
