Crimson Threads in the Sand

She arrived late, a flash of crimson against the Moroccan restaurant’s deep shadows. I’d already settled into my low-slung silk cushion, a glass of sparkling water sweating in my hand, navigating the menu and wine list – a 1997 South African Cabernet Sauvignon seemed the perfect accompaniment. The restaurant itself was a sensory overload, a labyrinth of dark wood, intricate tilework, and the intoxicating scent of spices. The table, tucked away in a corner, was carved from a single piece of dark wood and draped with a richly patterned Persian rug, lending an air of opulent intimacy.

Then she walked in, a whirlwind of color and confidence. The fez-wearing Arabic maitre d’ practically bowed as she approached, and she moved with a deliberate grace that immediately drew the attention of everyone in the room. Her brunette hair, newly and dramatically cut, framed her face in a series of playful waves, and the large bangle earrings added a touch of bold glamour. It wasn’t her own style, but it suited her perfectly, highlighting her radiant smile and the captivating darkness of her eyes.

But it was her dress that truly stole the show. A simple, knee-length knit creation, it possessed an almost unsettling versatility, capable of being styled in a multitude of ways. Tonight, she’d chosen the strapless option, the sleeves twisted cleverly and wrapped around her chest in a bandeau bodice that showcased her generous cleavage with an unapologetic allure. The dress bared her shoulders to the dim light, a tantalizing invitation that I couldn't resist answering. A long string of pearls, delicately draped between her breasts, drew the eye downward, emphasizing their swell and smoothness, while the uneven hemline added an element of rebellious sensuality. Strappy slides with high, slim heels completed the ensemble, accentuating her long, lean calves. She was a masterpiece of controlled desire, a captivating paradox of confidence and vulnerability.

“Hello there,” I said, rising smoothly from my seat and extending a hand. As she reciprocated the gesture, I brushed my lips against her cheek in the Latin style, savoring the warmth of her skin. “You look marvelous.”

Her response was a warm, genuine smile. “Why, thank you,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. “That wasn’t much of a kiss, but I don’t want to get lipstick all over your mouth… At least not just yet.” The playful wink sent a shiver down my spine.

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I love the new look.”

“You mean the hair?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Good – I’m so glad you like it. And it will be so easy to take care of.”

“Not just the hair,” I corrected, a hint of mischief in my voice. “The makeup, the dress, the whole package. As well as its contents.”

She giggled, a light, melodic sound that seemed to fill the room. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t quite get my hair the way I wanted it, but I think I have it down now. Awfully vain, huh?”

“It was worth the wait, believe me,” I assured her, my gaze lingering on her body. The dress, with its daring cut, seemed to cling to every curve, emphasizing the exquisite lines of her torso.

As we settled into the low table, leaning forward and sliding our knees underneath, her full breasts spilled over the bodice of the dress, a sight that threatened to overwhelm my senses. I fought the urge to reach out and caress them, catching myself just in time. The silky fabric flowed over her curves, creating an air of mystery and invitation. Her skin was warm and soft, and her nails were perfectly manicured. I imagined the sensation of her fingertips gliding down my bare back, perhaps digging in a little as she became aroused.

We proceeded to indulge in a five-course feast of soup, a salad platter, pastry stuffed with Cornish hen, roast quail on a wild rice pilaf, and a sesame cake with tea for dessert. The wine, a deep, ruby red, flowed freely, loosening our inhibitions and amplifying our desires. As she looked at me over her glass, her eyes flashed with yearning, and her half-smile was undeniably seductive. I took her cue, swirling the wine in my glass and gazing back at her, letting my gaze linger on her every move.

As the evening wore on, she began to toy with the pearls in her cleavage, pulling them gently and letting them dangle just below her breasts. It was a subtle yet undeniably provocative display, designed to draw attention and ignite my lust. I found myself unable to look away, captivated by the way the pearls caught the light and reflected it back onto her face.

“You know what I’d love to do right now?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Tell me,” I urged, leaning closer, my heart pounding in my chest.

“I’d love to slide my hand along your bare thigh until I felt lace, then slip my fingers under your panties so I could stroke your vulva.” The words hung in the air, charged with both desire and anticipation.

She recoiled slightly, feigning surprise. “What! Right here? You can’t do that!” she exclaimed, a hint of playful defiance in her voice. Then, leaning over conspiratorially – and absently letting her bosom be partially bared again in that maddeningly seductive way – she whispered, “And do you want to know why?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice husky with desire.

“Because I’m not wearing panties,” she replied, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “And I’m not wearing a bra, either, in case you hadn’t noticed. So if we take a walk downtown, say, and the wind blows up my dress, you and the observing public will get a show. And if you do anything to arouse me in anyway, you’ll be treated to a display of very erect nipples on very swollen breasts that this dress will not disguise even a little bit. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do.”

Now it was my turn to be shocked, but my surprise was genuine. This woman was utterly unrestrained, a force of nature wrapped in a crimson dress. I realized that I had underestimated her, that she wasn’t just beautiful; she was dangerous.

“’Any way’ meaning what?” I asked, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

“Well, your little scheme to finger me under the table, for instance. That would definitely elicit such a response,” she replied, her voice laced with anticipation.

“Hmmm,” I pondered, weighing my options. It was an audacious request, but the thought of her pleasure was too enticing to resist. As the waiter stood over us and poured more tea, my hand slid under the slippery knit dress and along her smooth thigh. She shifted her position, straightening her leg slightly, and in a moment, I felt her toes nudging my crotch. It was a surprisingly intimate experience, and a wave of heat washed over me.

As I continued to explore her body, her inner lips began to separate, hot and slick with wanting. She leaned back on both hands then, in a fetching pose, and stared into my eyes with a lust that I had rarely seen on the face of a woman. Her breasts were swelling, and her nipples were becoming erect and pressing against the filmy fabric of her dress.

“Are we done here?” she moaned, her voice laced with pleasure. “I need to take a walk. Can we get the check now?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied, struggling to contain my arousal. The scent of her perfume mingled with the aroma of the wine and spices, creating a heady blend that overwhelmed my senses.

“I don’t want you to stop. I am so hot you could fry an egg on my ass,” she giggled wickedly.

As the lights dimmed and a haunting, sensual melody filled the restaurant, two nubile young women in the exotic garb of Eastern dancers slipped into the open space in the center of the tables and, with an ease that came from hours of practice, began to move in the classic rhythms and patterns of the belly dance. We were both entranced, and as I gazed at my lover, I confirmed what I had suspected all along—that even heterosexual women who are deeply committed to their husbands enjoy the sight of beautiful girls as much as men do. And why not? The female body is the crowning glory of God’s creation, and when it is a particularly beautiful and lithe body it is a special pleasure to behold.

The dancers, dressed in their shimmering costumes and adorned with elaborate jewelry, moved with a grace and skill that was truly captivating. One went to the other side of the room and took the hand of a handsome young stud who was there with his girlfriend and pulled him to his feet. The poor girlfriend, giggling nervously, seemed nonetheless put out that her guy was about to give his undivided attention to a pretty, lithe and scantily dressed belly dancer.

The second girl came—you guessed it—right to our table. As she got closer I saw just how beautiful she was—dark and exotic, with clear olive skin and eyes as black and shiny as onyx. She had the hardened muscles of an athlete but she was still feminine and alluring. Her hair hung to her waist in a cascade of black curls, and she carried herself with confidence and poise, allowing her beauty to make its intended impression on everyone in the room. When she reached us, I was gripped with a momentary terror until she reached for my wife’s hand, and, smiling warmly, said in an Eastern accent, “Come and dance with me. I show you how to move your body like mine. You will learn fast. This will please your husband a lot. You are very beautiful.”

Now I ask you, what woman could resist that? Anyone else would have thought this is shameless flattery, but I could see the girl really meant it. She smiled at me then, as if to seek my encouragement, but that was unnecessary. My wife smiled enticingly at me and stood without hesitation. She leaned forward on the table very deliberately and kissed me long and hard on the mouth, letting me look for several delicious seconds into the gap left by her hanging bodice. I could see all the way to her sternum as I stared between her breasts, and tiny pearls of perspiration glistened on her skin. Her bodice was slipping down little by little, and I wondered if she knew that if she wasn’t careful she would soon be dancing topless. (Not that I’d mind watching such a performance, mind you, but not in public.)

As she grew more confident she started to enjoy herself, and her partner was pleased that she followed his instructions so easily and seemed to be a natural. The man was actually doing a good job of imitating the girl’s movements, and as she touched him, holding her body close to his to help him understand what to do with his, she evidently asked him to take off his shirt. He whipped it off with a flourish, clearly flattered that she would want to see his naked torso, and his girlfriend cheered and clapped with the other diners as she caught it. He had an impressive physique, and as the dancer patiently tutored him, he began to move with more confidence. As he moved his rock-hard abs forward and backward he attempted—but failed—to move his feet with the same lightness as the nymph that was instructing him.

My eyes, however, were drawn to the stunning beauty in the red dress. She was dancing opposite the dark-haired girl, and she was smiling broadly. Her hands were high in the air, gracefully mirroring the movements of her instructor, and though her loosely-fitting dress did not allow us to see the undulations of her torso, I could tell she had done this before. Her breasts bobbed freely in her flimsy dress, and I could see that her nipples were hard. Her bodice was slipping down little by little, and I wondered if she knew that if she wasn’t careful she would soon be dancing topless. (Not that I’d mind watching such a performance, mind you, but not in public.)

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Crimson Threads in the Sand

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