Hanukkah's Gifts

"Ready? One, two, three..."

She read Martin's lips more than heard him, as the band took their cue from him and chimed in with Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." She walked over to the bar and got herself a refill of Boddington's, then after a beat, requested a shot of whiskey and took them both back to her table.

She wasn't sure how long she'd zoned off, her mind drifting in the mellow lit pub, putting herself in the pictures with the Motown artists, her mind fueled by the music that evoked the strains of the Harlem Renaissance, when all of a sudden she saw Martin in front of her, his right hand outstretched. She was aware the band was still playing behind him, but there he was, in front of her, inviting her to dance. For a fleeting fraction of a second she thought of turning him down but his warm eyes, green behind their black-rimmed glasses, gave her no such option.

"Dance with me."

She looked around him, confused. "But who's playing the guitar?"

He tipped his chin towards the stage. "My friend Patrick is sitting in for a couple of tunes. He's really great. And hopefully that will let me do something I hardly ever get to do."

"What's that?"

"Dance at my own gig. Care to dance with me, Simone?"

She simply nodded and rose, placing her hand in his and letting him gently pull her along towards the stage. In front, she felt shy all of a sudden, not quite knowing what to do. He was looking down at her, those green eyes smiling gently. He placed his hands on her shoulders and began to move, swaying to and fro, leading them with his hips. His smile got broader and his eyes crinkled, never leaving hers, not letting her think. Just moving, swaying in rhythm to the music.

When he pulled her close, every inch of his body touching his, his arms wrapped around her and holding her, one hand on the back of her head, it all felt so natural, so sweet, that she didn't pull back. His chest moved with her own, to and fro, weaving back and forth. Soon their hips were glued together, and she felt his thigh slot itself, as if innocently, between her legs. And then, in time with the music, his pelvis pumped into hers, and she responded, rubbing herself slowly up his leg, from side to side, feeling his thigh muscle contract. As she reached the highest point, having extended to her full height, she felt the unmistakable bulge of his excitement, not lewd but insistent. Reminding her he was a man and she was a woman, and that things could and might just happen between them.

She felt good in his arms, Martin thought. Womanly curves, neither thin nor fat, not tall nor short. Well-proportioned all over. When he drew her into his chest, he felt her breasts pressing into him, soft yet tipped with the harder nubs.

His cock responded as it had to every woman that had ever piqued his interest. He wished it hadn't. He was pretty sure she would not be very receptive to any advances, should they come. Well, should they? He knew nothing about her, really. Her mother was sick in the hospital and she had traveled from Tucson to be with her, dropped the rest of her life to take care of the woman who'd brought her into this world. Surely that was a good sign.

She had expressive brown eyes that had lit up with interest when he'd spoken about his band. Another good sign. Cautious but not repressed, open but not forward. A deeper voice than most women he'd known, speaking English correctly, a little formally, with a slight accent he couldn't place.

The more he thought about Simone, the more he realized she had asked more about him and hadn't yet volunteered that much about herself. And yet she'd answered his questions without bullshit or hesitation. He realized she didn't flirt with him. Of course she didn't flirt. They hadn't met in an occasion where flirting was called for, or appropriate. The first time he'd seen her she was clearly done in, mentally and physically exhausted. And that must have accounted as well for her carelessness later that night, when he'd run into her in the parking lot of the playhouse accosted by that loser.

He'd seen her as soon as she'd entered the room from the bar, carrying her beer glass and her order number, looking around cautiously for a table in an unobtrusive place. He'd smiled to himself a little - she'd passed a couple of empty tables in the middle of the floor with a better sight line to the stage, but she didn't seem like a woman to place herself front and center. The cautious politeness of her conversation when he'd joined her, uninvited, and yet she had so naturally reached out to him when he'd told her about being out of a job.

All this passed through his mind as he swayed with her, their hips pressed into each other's. She had teased him with her wiggling and rubbing up his thigh, and she couldn't possibly have missed his response.

It had been a reasonably long time since he and Dennese had parted company. No huge drama. They'd grown apart after nearly ten years together, she preoccupied with her calling in politics, he more and more repelled by the lifestyle of a political fundraiser. Dennese was still going strong, the fire lit in her small belly, concentrating only on the end goal of putting her candidate into office.

He had gradually lost the hope it would ever happen, though he didn't begrudge her enthusiasm, nor think her foolish. But over time he'd gotten tired of the rhetoric that didn't change from one candidate to the next, one year to the next. Same issues, same promises, same negotiations, small successes and large failures.

He'd felt more and more marginalized from what had originally brought them together on their first political campaign. He'd withdrawn more and more into his music. He still kept up with the news releases, the reports, the media, but not like before. She'd accused him of becoming increasingly jaundiced about politics, and as much as he tried to offer excuses to the contrary, he had to admit she was right. He felt it still, but not with the fire or passion he'd felt before. Dennese had started calling him on it, and he'd become irritated in return. She saw the blues and jazz drawing him away and began to resent the time he spent with his band.

He thought at first she was jealous of their first vocalist. Selene, her skin with a dark sheen to it and a wide, toothy smile when she bothered to relax. Towards the end of their gigs together she'd become downright ornery with him, capricious and terse and demanding, despite the fact he'd bent over backwards to do whatever she'd asked. Up to a point - he was not going to give up control of the band to her if she didn't show any loyalty to it, that's for damn sure. He had found these folks, had bound them together, had found them gigs, put up with their many foibles and quirks - spent hours and hours making web sites and editing videos and burnishing their image to make them look professional.

Selene had done nothing but complain lately. Not enough gigs. Too many. The wrong places, too far away. The other band members shouldn't expect her to wiggle her butt to increase all their tips - after all, the male musicians didn't have to do it. They sat back, safe from being ogled and felt up, didn't need to worry about looking sexy and good and as if she could be dinner to any Tom, Dick or Harry in the audience.

It wasn't quite true - they all tried to provide the jaunty, carefree atmosphere audiences liked, letting the music move their feet. It was true the bassist was pretty poker-faced. It was just his way, his personality - never quick to a joke, when he actually got into his groove, his dry sense of humor was crazily funny. And Martin had tried his best to help Selene out when she'd had family troubles. Well, she'd left anyway, in a huff, accusing him of being callous and not caring about her.

He'd been depressed for months before they'd found a new singer. He had put out ads, had made countless overtures to wherever he could think of. When he'd had bites, he'd interviewed people, worked with them to see whether their sound could fit in with the band's. Found someone good who then had to stop because of complications with her pregnancy. And all through it he'd stayed steady, a rock to the others and to himself, keeping up the appearance of nonchalance.

And in the end it was an accident of fate, a friend of a friend who'd heard they'd lost their singer and who'd done some singing in his college days and in church growing up, singing gospel songs in church choirs. He'd been worried and cautious about taking on a male singer when most bands had women fronting them. Club owners had a reputation for looking for good quality tits and ass. But somehow it had all fallen into place and, after their first gig together, all of them had agreed they sounded great: they fit, like pieces of a puzzle. Only time would tell, but so far so good, and tonight they'd been smoking hot.

And here Simone was, in his arms, the two of them as close as two people could possible be without being naked. He felt every curve of her body, her clothing not bulky enough to hide her, nor revealing in any suggestive way. She moved well, and after a few seconds of hesitation he'd realized that moment when she'd relaxed and let the music's beat draw her self-consciousness away.

On impulse, he bent his head to her neck and, moving her brown, slightly wavy hair out of the way, nuzzled the skin below her ear and chin line, then placed a small kiss on her cheek, right below her eye. She wore a spicy, mysterious scent that permeated his nostrils and reminded him of the Taj Mahal. At that he felt her stretch up and press herself into him, an instinctual response of pleasure that elicited another swell from him. He could get used to this. He wondered where it might lead.

When the song ended, Martin led her back to her table and kissed her lightly on the cheek again.

"Could you wait for me? We've got maybe another hour to play, probably less than that."

She nodded, and he made his way back to the stage, launching the band into a rendition of Love The One You're With - not a usual part of their repertory, but a standard he knew the band could play and which he had a hint might speak to her right now. He didn't know whether he was pushing it too far, but he took the chance and would find out soon enough. They then slid smoothly into Voodoo Child, which allowed him to show off his prowess with a guitar, and closed with the rousing It's Your Thing, by The Isley Brothers.

They packed up their gear and Martin walked to her table.

"Simone, I need to take the gear home and park the car in a safe place so it doesn't get ripped off. But I'd like to offer you a ride to your hotel or, if you agree, invite you to have a night cap at my place. I'll take you back afterwards, it's quite close to where you're staying."

She was pleasantly buzzed and didn't feel like walking or going back alone to her hotel. And if she was honest with herself, she wanted his company.

"OK. Can I help?"

"No, no, we've got it. Unless you want to grab my guitar."

She smiled and followed him, and half an hour later they were driving to his place, where he helped her out of his car, parked it in a garage, closed the door and led the way up the walk to his door. His apartment was one of four the house had been divided into. It was spotless, the wooden floor gleaming, everything in its place except for a laptop sitting on an ottoman next to an armchair, and a book on the couch nearby. He pointed to the armchair and invited her to sit down.

"What can I get you to drink? I'm afraid I have a rather limited selection. Some beer, nothing special, some rum from Barbados, and I think I still have some Wild Turkey."

"I'll take some Wild Turkey, thanks."

"Ice?"

"One ice cube, please," she said. Before sitting, she wandered over to the glass enclosed shelves that held his books. Among them were biographies of Heinrich Heine, Friedrich Schiller, Brahms, and Beethoven. And yet, when soft strains of music wafted in from the speakers, it was a Chaka Khan tune.

"I see you're into the classics," she commented, pointing to the bookcase as she took the glass he offered her.

"Yes, a major obsession, I'm afraid."

"A bit of a paradox, no? Your band and your classicist tastes? Or is it only your reading?"

"No, no. I listen to a lot of classical stuff. I have a moderate collection of albums as well. On vinyl," he clarified.

"A true classicist."

She sat in the arm chair, modestly arranging her flouncy black and white skirt. He couldn't make out whether the shapes were stylized flowers of butterflies. He pulled the ottoman in front of the armchair, sat down, and clinked his glass to hers.

"Thank you for coming to listen tonight. I hope you liked it."

She smiled coyly, "I did, thank you for the invitation," but the corner of her mouth twitched slightly and in her eyes flickered a mischievous look. "And thank you for the dance. Was that the beginning of a seduction?"

He smiled broadly. "Would you like if it was? It's so rare I get to dance at our own gigs. Lucky, really, that I had Patrick to take my place. And even luckier I had such a beautiful dance partner."

He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth, her expression disbelieving, surprisingly shy.

"No, don't," he said, and without thinking he put his hand on her thigh, encased in the silken black stockings she wore. "Don't knock yourself down."

It was electric, the smoothness of her leg. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, and felt her lips close rather than open. Was she shy? Coy? Cold? Had he moved too fast, put her off? He almost leaned back, worried that he'd been much too forward, but she pressed into him and kissed him back, her reserve morphing progressively into abandon. He probed her lips tentatively with his tongue, and she in turn ran hers along his lips, then went deeper, tasting his mouth and sucking in his tongue.

That wasn't coy or shy, definitely not cold. He relaxed a fraction.

"Would you like some more Wild Turkey? I'm afraid you may need it. My skills at seduction may be a little rusty, they have not been taken out and practiced for a while."

She nodded and held her glass out while he poured some more of the fiery amber liquid in. Both of them sipped their drinks and looked at each other a bit shyly.

"I'm not sure I believe you," she said. "You sure do seem pretty smooth and sure of yourself."

"Believe it. It's been quite some years since my skills have been called upon. May I?" Martin asked her.

She looked at him askance but made no move to turn him down, and he placed his hands lightly on the inside of her thighs.

"I have to confess something," he said.

She lifted an eyebrow and smiled at him.

"I rather have a thing for panties."

She lifted her eyebrow even higher and sucked in her breath. He moved his hands farther towards the juncture of her legs, sliding his fingers underneath her skirt. And what he felt there floored him - her thighs were slippery wet with her juices.

"Oh, Simone... "

His voice had deepened and his hands crept farther up her legs, pushing her skirt higher, until he reached her panties.

"Incredible," he said. "So, so enticing. I can't resist."

She stared at his hands, fascinated, and bit her lower lip as she dug her fingers in the arms of the chair.

"May I...?" he asked again. "Please, I have to taste you. You smell divine, and you are so incredibly wet!"

He pushed the ottoman back, and he knelt in front of her. He noticed her fingers were causing even deeper indentations in the armchair, nervous, but she didn't stop him and he could hardly wait to taste. But he managed to slow himself. He brushed his fingers slowly up her thighs, sweeping them into the viscous fluid that had seeped out. Her panties were glistening and near-transparent, saturated as they were with her juices, and he had to adjust himself in response. He nuzzled her thighs just at the juncture, breathing her scent in deeply, inhaling her aroma. Divine! He reached out with his tongue and touched the thin material, and let out a combination groan and sigh. He couldn't wait - his mouth grabbed onto the panties and some of the soft meat underneath, careful to use only his lips. He licked and sucked the fluids in, reveling in the salty-tangy taste and the texture of the fabric permeated with her.

"So good, Simone, you taste so good."

He heard a small satisfied combined whimper, sigh, and groan, and was gratified when she pushed her pelvis farther into his mouth.

"I can't hold back. Please, may I take them off?" and, barely waiting for her nod, he slid her panties off. She'd lifted her hips to help him, and he took it as a sign that she wanted him to feast on her as much as he wanted to do it. Her brown eyes had widened and were watching him, fascinated and hungry at the same time.

Her labia were clean-shaven and plump, swollen with her desire. So beautiful to him, the purplish flesh dripping with her want and need. He couldn't remember having seen another woman so wet. He left any hesitation behind and filled his mouth with her, drinking her fluids and savoring her vulva. His tongue swept up, dipping slightly between the plumped lips, lapping up the fluids upwards and swallowing. She felt and tasted so good, so satisfying, and he sensed she'd relaxed and let herself enjoy his attentions. She slid towards him, lifting her hips and pushing her mound farther into his mouth, against his teeth, and he guessed she wanted more.

He wrapped his arms around her legs and, drawing in his breath, he pushed his tongue between her lips, all the way into her, as deep as he could go, and swirled it around, tasting, scraping, pushing and pulling against her walls. Her hips bucked into him and he couldn't help himself, taking another mouthful of her, and using his nose and chin, submerging himself in her, smothering himself with her flesh. He felt her hands on his scalp, fingers running through his hair.

He pulled back slightly and used his thumbs on either side of her labia majora to pull them apart, revealing in full the swollen clit. The sight immediately caused him to swell even more, his cock already impossibly swollen against his jeans. Not yet, he thought, but soon. He brought his tongue to that tight knot of flesh, caressed it, sucked on it, teased it with the flat of his tongue. She could barely contain her hips.

"Martin...," she whispered. "Could we... go to your bed?"

"Of course, anything you'd like. But... in a minute," and he continued flicking his tongue across her clit, then inserted two fingers into her, deep, feeling for the rough pad of skin at the top of her channel.

"I want you to cum for me, Simone."

His tongue and his fingers worked in concert, sucking and rubbing and twirling, her hips lifting even higher off the chair and pushing into his mouth. He lifted her, cupping her buttocks, and continued gorging on her. Soon he felt her muscles clench, frozen in space, and her spasms started, tumbling one after the other in fast succession, a high wail accompanying them. He didn't stop until her buttocks relaxed back on the chair.

She surprised him then, looking straight into his eyes.

"Now, where's that bed?"

He smiled and took her hand, pushing back the ottoman.

"Not far."

He led her to his bedroom and turned her to face him, then embraced and kissed her, feeling her hands roam across his shoulders and back. When they broke off the kiss, her hands smoothed over his chest and pulled his shirt above his head. He helped her slide it off. They said nothing, asked no question, communicating only with their eyes and hands and bodies. Both of them breathed heavily, in fits and starts. Her hands slid down to his belt and she started to undo it, then got stuck.