The Dance Lesson
"His cousin's wedding is next month, and he can't dance. His aunt offers to teach him. What starts with a waltz doesn't end there."
"You don't know how to dance?"
Aunt Mariana stares at me like I've confessed to a crime. Which, in her world, I basically have.
"Never learned."
"Your cousin's wedding is in four weeks. You're a groomsman. There's a choreographed dance." She shakes her head. "How did nobody teach you?"
"Mom tried. I stepped on her feet too many times."
"Then you need a teacher who can handle a few stepped-on toes." She holds out her hand. "Come on. My living room. Now."
Her house still smells like the empanadas she made for Sunday dinner.
The furniture has been pushed against the walls, leaving a clear space in the center. She's set up an old speaker, something classical playing softly.
"Basic waltz first," she says. "Then we'll work up to the choreography."
"I really don't think—"
"Hand on my waist." She grabs my hand, places it on her hip. "Other hand in mine. Good. Now look at me, not your feet."
I look at her.
Aunt Mariana is fifty, Mexican, and built like a woman from another era. Wide hips, full breasts, a soft belly that presses against me when she steps close. She's wearing a flowing skirt that swirls when she moves and a blouse that's maybe one button too low.
"You're staring at my chest," she says.
"Sorry—I—"
"Eyes up. Step with me. One-two-three, one-two-three."
We move.
I'm terrible at first. Stiff, awkward, counting out loud. But she's patient, guiding me with her body, her hips swaying to set the rhythm.
"Better," she says after ten minutes. "Now pull me closer."
"Closer?"
"A waltz is intimate. You can't dance with a foot of space between you." She takes my hand on her waist, slides it to the small of her back. "There. Feel the connection?"
I feel it. Her body against mine. Her breasts pressing into my chest. The warmth of her through the thin fabric of her blouse.
"One-two-three," she murmurs. "One-two-three."
We dance.
Lesson two, she's wearing less.
Yoga pants instead of the skirt. A tank top that shows off her shoulders, her cleavage, the fullness of her arms. When she presses against me, I can feel everything.
"You're tense," she says.
"I'm concentrating."
"You're nervous." She stops moving. Looks up at me. "Why?"
"I just... it's been a while since I've been this close to a woman."
"Ah." Something shifts in her expression. "How long?"
"Eight months. Since the breakup."
"Her loss." She resumes the dance, but closer now. Her cheek almost touches mine. "Any woman would be lucky to dance with you."
"You're my aunt."
"And? I'm still a woman. I still notice things." Her hips sway against mine. "Like the fact that you've been half-hard since we started."
I freeze.
"Keep dancing," she whispers. "It's okay. It's... flattering, actually."
"Mariana—"
"I haven't had a man respond to me like that in years." Her hand slides from my shoulder to my chest. "My husband stopped noticing me a long time ago."
"I notice you."
"I know." She presses closer. "I've been noticing you notice."
The music plays. We sway. And something dangerous hangs in the air between us.
Lesson three, something breaks.
We're practicing the dip—she leans back in my arms, trusting me to hold her weight. She's heavy, but I'm strong, and when I pull her up, our faces are inches apart.
"Good," she breathes. "Now the spin."
I spin her. She comes back to me, presses against me, and my cock is fully hard now, impossible to hide.
"This is becoming a problem," I say.
"Only if we let it be." Her hand drops to my belt. "Or we could solve it."
"Aunt—"
"Your uncle hasn't touched me in eighteen months. Eighteen months, James. Do you know what that does to a woman?"
"We can't."
"We can." She unbuckles my belt. "We're both adults. We're both lonely. And we're both pretending we don't want this."
Her hand slides into my pants. Wraps around my cock.
"Fuck," I hiss.
"Language." She strokes me slowly. "But yes. That's the idea."
She leads me to the couch.
Pushes me down. Pulls her tank top over her head. Her bra is black lace, barely containing breasts that are bigger than my head. She unhooks it, and they fall free—heavy, dark-nippled, swaying as she climbs onto my lap.
"I've been thinking about this since lesson one," she confesses. "Feeling you against me. Knowing you wanted me."
"I wanted you before that." I reach up, cup her breasts. Squeeze. "I've wanted you for years."
"Then take me."
She undoes my pants. Frees my cock. Pulls her yoga pants down and off—no underwear, just heat and wetness—and straddles me.
"I want to feel every inch," she whispers. "It's been so long—"
She sinks down.
We both groan.
She rides me like the dancing was foreplay.
Rhythmic. Controlled. Her hips roll in waves, taking me deep with every motion. Her breasts bounce in my face, and I capture one nipple in my mouth, sucking while she moans.
"Yes—mijo—just like that—"
I grab her hips. Pull her down harder. She's tight around me, her cunt clenching with every roll of her hips.
"Harder," she gasps. "I won't break—"
I give her harder. I plant my feet and thrust up into her, watching her body shake, watching her eyes roll back.
"I'm close—Dios—I'm so close—"
"Come for me." I reach between us, find her clit. "Show me what you've been missing."
She comes screaming. Her cunt clamps down on me, her whole body shaking, her nails digging into my shoulders. I don't last—I bury myself deep and let go, filling her while she rides out the aftershocks.
Afterward, we lie tangled on the couch. The music has stopped. The house is silent except for our breathing.
"The wedding's in three weeks," she says.
"I still need lessons."
"Is that what we're calling this?" She laughs, low and satisfied. "Lessons?"
"Dance lessons. With benefits."
She climbs on top of me again. I'm already getting hard.
"Then we'd better practice," she says. "I expect perfection by the wedding."
By the wedding, I can dance a flawless waltz.
My aunt dances with me three times. Nobody thinks anything of it.
Nobody knows what we do after.