"Nympho Vixen Sluts Do Miami" was my personal favorite, especially the lesbian gang bang scene in the car wash. Happy days.
I finished my ratty and beamed at my husband, suddenly feeling more at one with the world. After all, he almost looked like a rather well upholstered and mature version of James Bond in his debonair outfit. I was just pursing my mouth to blow him a fond little wifely kiss when I spotted the creeping hand. It was an artful little technique which my nearest and dearest had oft used to give me a frisson in a public place. Although, to the other guests at the table, it would simply appear as if H was politely hanging on Ms. Flyswat's every murmured word, I could clearly picture the furtive maneuvers taking place beneath the napkin draped across her lap. My dearly beloved had worked his hand up her long tanned thigh and inside her flimsy knickers. If she was wearing any. Somehow, I doubted it. Lush's eyes were slightly glazed, the pupils dilated. Harry knows where to find a clitoris. Just at that moment, the band struck up a ruckus with a Latin-American beat. I stood up and threw down my own napkin as if it were a gauntlet.
"Right! That's it! Come on, Harry – let's dance!"
My freshly betrothed stared at me as if I'd gone completely bananas.
"Jay, sweetheart, you know I was born with two left feet. I'd only crush your lovely little tootsies with my great plates of meat."
This was true, not an avoidance device. I groaned, inwardly. No way I was tripping the light with Boner or that greasy, sozzled doc. That left the Captain and instinct told me he'd stay close to his table in case it went down (the strained remnant of Lush's bodice, that is).
I lifted my chin and marched onto the small spotlit square of parquet which formed the dance floor. There was no one there, it being mid dinner, but the band played a mellow background medley. A sign on their glitzy podium read "Escabeche."
Mm, hot sauce. They certainly were a rather tasty quartet. Four hunky young Latinos in gaudy ruffled shirts and cock caressing pants jiggled their snake hips to a lively beat. One played the maracas and sang, one beat on his bongos, the third strummed a bass guitar and the fourth tootled a trumpet. The resulting din sounded a bit like Herb Alpert grafted to Santana, which more or less summed up the average age of the diners. I'd rather have had Carmen Miranda myself, but I've always been a retro kind of gal.
Seizing the spotlight, I surreptitiously undid the top two buttons of my slinky gown and began to sway sensuously to the sultry rhythm. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime. I'd show that has-been old Lush that Titty Boomboom still had the power to drive men wild with desire.
Harry would not be unimpressed.
Jay had obviously gone bananas. Everyone from the Falklands to Oslo knows Harry Neptune can't put one foot in front of the other on the dance floor unless it's a strict 3/4 waltz. The Gay Gordons may be performed under extraordinary pressure, but the tango and suchlike modern gyrations are definitely where Harry happily sits it out. I have never even attempted the Twist.
Miss Lawrence, on the other hand, is something of a whiz on the dance floor. Not to mention the brass pole and the lap. Early ballet training had found an application that would have scandalized old Miss Prodworthy with her cardigan and metronome.
I settled down to see what La Lawrence would deliver, and kept up a deft rhythm under cover of the napkin.
"Oh, my, Mistah Neptune! Ah do declare I may at any moment experience some deep satisfaction!"
Good. That was the idea. Then maybe this luscious Luscious would come back for more under the ministrations of the well-known tag team of Lawrence and Neptune. The name Voluptua Luscious rang a faint bell. Something to do with the X-rated Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Ah well, I would find out later when I presented my bride with her honeymoon gift and ripped off the wrapping.
Speaking of my bride – by golly, she was on form tonight!
"Good heavens!" Even the squiffy doctor raised his head at the entertainment.
Jay's dress was hiked up nearly to the top of her thighs. Her feet were wide apart, her arms raised high in the air, her hair flew in a dizzying circle as she tossed her head wildly. At least three buttons had come undone on the top of her dress and her ample breasts thrust rhythmically against the expensive material as her body grated to and fro.
My fingers increased their pace inside Loretta's thin and sodden panties and I circumspectly eased the growing pressure on my trousers.
"Ooh la la!" squealed Mrs. Goldfinkel as the tempo of the music increased. "Just like the Crazy Horse in Paris before my second husband passed away!"
The Captain took another sip of mineral water and smiled quietly to himself. This was beginning to look like a memorable evening.
Jay slowed to an offbeat rhythm. She ran her hands lasciviously over her breasts, over her stomach and along her thighs. She was moving very slowly now though the music was becoming even more frenetic. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was moaning quietly to herself.
Her hands ran back up her thighs and for a moment took her dress to waist level. The glimpse of knickers disappeared as the dress fell back and she massaged her ribs. She started moving quicker again, eyes still closed. She squeezed her breasts.
Miss Swat's breathing quickened and I felt the warmth of approaching orgasm. My fingers slowed and she convulsively grasped my thigh. Harry knows when to prolong the pleasure.
Jay opened her eyes and in a sudden movement pointed at the maraca-wielding chanteur. He needed no second bidding. As he leapt from the low stage I saw it was Raoul, Mrs. Goldfinkel's quoits companion. He had all the usual greasy Dago attributes.
The band launched into what I think is called the Lambada. Whatever it was, Jay was into it. She slithered all over Raoul without touching him. He obviously knew the score because he matched her move for move with arms outstretched.
"The view's much better beside you, Harree!"
Mrs. Goldfinkel had tripped round to my side of the table and now gripped my arm tightly as she watched the dance with what I thought might have been a touch of nostalgia.
Loretta dug her nails in and I slowed the pace yet more. I felt a faint shudder pass through her body.
I saw that Jay was dancing a few inches further away from the Latin male bimbo, and the reason was evident for all to see. He needed more space to keep to the no-touching rule. Jay ran her hands down her breasts and thighs again and I knew he was willing her to grab his meat and two veg. She licked her lips.
It occurred to me that this was hardly the way a lady was supposed to behave on the first evening of her honeymoon. Dash it, her eyes were supposed to be on me. Never mind her hands. I began to wonder if she would be quite as appreciative of my gift of Miss Swat as I anticipated. She seemed to be in a hetero mood tonight, which is not at all the kind of threesome I had in mind.
All of a sudden Jay stopped dancing in mid-movement. Still in dance pose she fixed her eyes on Lothario's. He stopped too, mere millimeters away from Jay's sweating body. Her hands slowly traveled down her heaving breasts and glistening thighs. As they moved upward again her dress rose too, slowly this time. One hand caressed her crotch, a finger pushing the wet material into her pussy.
The band played on, on autopilot now. Every eye in the room was on Miss Lawrence. Raoul was mesmerized.
Jay's free hand ran round the inside of her thighs. She opened her mouth wide and ran her tongue over her lips.