I don’t like to dance. I can’t dance, in fact. Forget the cliche two left feet, when I get going I have at least six or seven of them. I do appreciate good music, though, and so the sensual sound of salsa is soothing my shopping experience.

I like this town. There is so often something going on. Today, there is a group of people dancing. Professionals, dancing with each other. The men are in black from head to toe, their shirts open to reveal golden cinnamon skin below. The ladies costumes are bright and swirling, fringes and layering around the short skirts add movement as they sway and shake their hips. Red, yellow, white and blue dresses swirl to the sexy salsa beat.

I sit on the wall outside the hardware shop and listen. I can only catch glimpses of the dancing as the crowd shifts and people move on, but I can feel the beat of the music slipping and sliding all through my body. I slowly swig from a bottle of water and am aware of the stretch of my neck and the way I swallow. I think of sex, of being on my knees; a cock between my lips, spurting thick cream down the back of my elongated, begging throat.

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It has been a long time since I’ve been dancing in a smoky, crowded club. Tonight I’m doing so under unique circumstances. It’s not everyday you get together with a bunch of folks you’ve only met online at an erotic story site, is it? I’d been the instigator, organising and preparing for this weekend of debauchery, but when it arrived, it still surprised me. Scared me, even. Especially since I’m letting one guy stay in my spare room.

Mike is a twenty year old student who really wanted to attend this meet up. To make it happen, I offered him a room free of charge, so he’d only have to pay his airfare. I’d gotten a little worried as the day approached, but I needn’t have. Mike is a sweet young man. His manners are impeccable. Also, he has some pretty damn sexy dance moves.

I’ve been dancing with him most of the night. Well, he’s been dancing and I’ve been shaking my hips, in the age old tradition passed down to me from my mother. Every now and then his hand reaches out and rests on my hip, our pelvises millimetres apart.

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Lazy, sunny, summer days. You know, the kind where you just want to lie out on the grass, turn up the radio and watch the fluffed up pillow like clouds roll by.

“Oh, Kev, its just way too hot.”

I disturb my husband’s slightly snoring slumber to move the blanket out of the sun and back into the shade again.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he snaps. Then, looking at my hurt expression he adds, “I’m only good at heating you up.”

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“Andre will be with you in a moment.”

The austere blonde receptionist smiles thinly as she takes my name and appointment time. Sliding the glass divider shut, she turns on her high heel and continues to look intently at a wall of filing cabinets.

I find a seat on the far side of the small waiting room. The room is painted a lovely shade of buttercup yellow and several nice prints are on the walls. An attempt to make the room feel warmer and less like a hospital waiting room, I would imagine. You can’t get rid of that smell, though. You know the one; it’s like a cross between an old woman and a musty charity shop, with a sharp hint of pine disinfectant

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“Come on, you reds!” I chant, flopping into the sofa, then straightening my United top.

“Sod off, you reds!” He imitates me, waving his blue scarf in the air.

“Oh, shush you, before I start singing ‘bog off, you blues’ and it starts to rain.”

He shrugs and wraps the scarf back round his neck, the ends draping over the blue top below it.

“Aren’t you hot with that thing on?”

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