The Heart of a Dancer
Copyrightę 2012 -- Nicholas Hall
The Heart of a Dancer - Chapter 1- "Malachi"
"I'm going to fuck you, you know," the stranger in front of me announced, while eyeing me up and down from crotch to face and back to my crotch, "if not tonight, then eventually."
I looked at the extremely handsome man smiling at me from the neighboring bar stool. He was a bit taller than me, somewhat heavier but extremely well-proportioned, evidently from weight training or sports of some sort, and grey to green eyes that sparkled. White, oh so white, teeth outlined by soft, beautiful lips, and dark hair buzzed short giving impetus to his naturally mocha colored complexion. He was that shade of African-American, black, but not black, if you know what I mean, sort of a cream-colored coffee complexion. As tempted as I may have been, he wasn't the first person over the past three years that wanted to take me to bed and fuck me stupid.
I looked at him, slowly shook my head, softly but firmly saying, "No, I don't think so."
As I rose, I half expected him to grab or touch me as some of the various clientele sometimes do when rejected, but he didn't. I still gave the bartender the high sign to have the bouncer keep an eye on this particular guy. For some reason, I was uneasy in his presence; he meant what he said, he was determined to take me up the ass, and I was just as determined that he wouldn't.
I quickly joined the other five dancers who made up our little troupe for the trip back to Iowa City. This was the last night of our two night gig as male exotic dancers -- strippers, really -- for a "ladies night out" in the club where our agent booked us. Although I was the "star dancer," our entire dancing group was in high demand since we were young, handsome, boyish in appearance, lithe and slim, and talented. We could entertain any audience, male or female. What I lacked in the cock department, compared to the others, I made up for in charisma, dance skills, and personal attention to the viewing audience. Not to say I was small in the penis parade, but average or a bit above. Our shaved pubes emphasized our tubes as we stripped and wiggled about the stage, flopping our wares in the audience's faces for the finale each night. They loved it, responding with generous tips tossed on the stage or handed to us. Usually by that time of night, when we gave them the "full monty," we already had emptied our G-string pouches several times. The money was great and paid our expenses as well as our costs at college.
Tossing the gym bags holding our scanty costumes in the mini-van, seating myself in the driver's seat while the rest of guys loaded, I looked around the parking lot for the man who'd been so determined to bed me, but caught no sight of him. It did little to relax me since I had the distinct feeling he was somewhere close by watching us load. The thought of him was making me feel very uncomfortable, not only because of his determination, but he seemed secretive, with eyes that could see into my soul or capture my heart. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive, he was; in fact, he was fucking beautiful, but once burned, twice warned, I thought.
During my freshman year at the University, I had a lover, a person I gave my heart and my body to. My lover, a strong, virile, handsome senior, liked to take me quick, deep, and hard. I was in love, taking his rod any way he wanted to give it to me. I thought I was happy, finding my life mate, until one March morning after a particular vigorous doggy-style fuck, while still buried, throbbing, spewing inside me, he turned my face to his and asked, "I'm getting married in June. Do you want to be my best man?"
I damned near twisted his cock off with my asshole as I reared back and rolled out from under him, standing, and ready to do battle, when the fucker decked me with a right to the face.
"Well," he said matter-of-factly, "I guess that answers my question. I suppose you won't want an invitation to the wedding either," slipped on his pants, and left my dorm room.
I was hurt so deeply I vowed never to give my body and my heart to anyone until they proved their worth, their unqualified, unfettered love for me -- forsaking all others.
When summer arrived, I joined the dance troupe, finding with them an outlet for my frustrations and an opportunity to earn some great dollars (much of it tax free since I often failed to report it on my income tax forms) doing something I enjoyed and was good at. We were paid a performance fee plus tips from audience members who stuffed bills into our g-string pouches or ties, tossed them on the stage, or handed them to us, hoping to cop a feel in the process. The bigger the bill, the longer we let them fondle our pieces parts. A couple of the boys would step out every now and again with a customer to provide him with an extra treat, returning with an additional hundred or more depending if it was a blow job or a quick bunny fuck. Thank you very much, I passed on that activity preferring to keep not only my vow, but my health. I earned enough as it was to pay for my education, a nice apartment, four-wheel drive pickup, and put money in the bank.
We didn't return to Des Moines, after doing gigs in other cities, until the Christmas/New Year Holiday season. The Christmas gig was uneventful, but New Year's wasn't. One of our smaller, younger lads (a freshman), and the only African-American in our group, had to use the restroom after our last performance. When he didn't return immediately, we started looking for him. We heard a ruckus in the hall and scrambled in the direction of the noise. Lying face down in the hall, g-string ripped off, and bleeding from the rectum was our missing dancer. Leaning over him was the man who propositioned me at the bar a few months previously. Four of us immediately tackled him and held him down while the fifth called for help, the law, and an ambulance.
We made certain our private parts were completely covered when the cops got there, since we knew they didn't take kindly to male strippers, believing we're all prostitutes using dancing as a cover. Well, all of us aren't. Our prisoner insisted he was innocent and, hearing the noise in the hall, came to the aid of our friend. All he saw was Mickey lying on the floor and heard a back door shut. Of course we believed him -- bullshit we did! Mickey had been raped, brutally, and someone had to pay.
The cops took our prisoner from us, wrote down our statements, and the ambulance hauled Mickey to the hospital, with us following as soon as we got dressed. By now it was almost daylight and we were tired, but anxious to find out how he was doing. When we arrived at the hospital, the doctors were just finishing examining him in the emergency room. A rape kit test discovered evidence of semen, mixed with blood and shit, but they obtained enough to make a case using DNA, if they ever caught the rapist.
Two detectives appeared on the scene, requesting statements from us. When we pointed out the cops at the club had taken our statements, the two detectives insisted we be interviewed again, "just in case the other two missed something." When they interviewed me, I was tempted to relay my experience with guy we caught in the hall, but for some reason, I was reluctant to do so. After they were through with all of us, I said we'd take Mickey back with us if he was in any condition to be released, but one detective said, "No, he'll be here overnight. Des Moines is his hometown, so his family will take care of him. They'd like to get him some counseling at the Rape Crisis Center here in town so he can begin to deal with what happened." I couldn't argue with that, so we left for Iowa City.
The second semester was my student teaching semester, so I took a leave from the dance troupe. I'd be student teaching in Des Moines, of all places, in the elementary grades. I was fearful of running into my accoster, but the eighteen weeks went smoothly. I was going to look up Mickey and see how he was doing, but I never knew his last name and, I was so busy I really didn't take the time. Student teaching went so well, the Des Moines School District offered me an elementary job in the fall. Teaching jobs were scarce, so I was overjoyed and accepted it.
August and the beginning of the school year was upon me before I realized it. I was assigned to an older elementary school in a less than prosperous part of the city populated with a substantial number of minority children, mainly black, some Hispanic, and a few poorer white children, but I loved it! These youngsters needed a strong leg up in their lives, someone to fight a bit for them, and give them some hope. I knew how they felt, alone, worried the entire world was against them, and no hope for the future. I was the same way when my parents kicked me out of the house when I announced I was gay.
As I became more relaxed, assured in my position and my abilities as a teacher, I began to have a little more free time after hours and weekends. There was much to do in Des Moines and there was a diverse population, although I had to seek it out. Since I was familiar with the clubs in the city from my previous job experience, one Saturday evening I decided to head for one of them for evening out, have a drink or two and go to a movie. Perchance, I ended up at the bar where the handsome black man had announced his intentions toward me. There was a small combo playing and several same sex couples were dancing, enjoying the music and each other's company.
I walked to the bar, ordered my drink, and sat sipping it, listening to the music when a soft voice from behind me asked, "I understand you're quite the dancer. Would you like to dance?"
Recognizing the voice, shivers raced up and down my spine, my groin clutched in fear, and my stomach began to flip-flop. Turning slowly, knowing before I even looked who I'd see, I took a deep breath and faced a man of light, chocolate color, grey to green eyes staring at me. Before I could reply or even run, he held up a hand to stop me and said, "It wasn't me you know. The DNA tests proved that, but the cops do have a suspect they are trying to catch."
"Right," I responded cynically, "and I'm supposed to believe you? Hah, last time you talked to me you told me, not even asked, told me, you were going to fuck me that night or eventually."
He laughed, a rich, deep laugh emanating from a well- formed chest, and accentuated by twinkling eyes and a broad, happy smile. "Well, I didn't, did I?" and holding out his hand introduced himself. "I'm Malachi Stevens and you're Jackie West, right?"
Why I extended in my hand in return to introduce myself, I haven't a clue, except this man seemed to mesmerize and suck me into his very presence. He frightened me with his ability to conquer me emotionally, twist my resolve into desire, and leave me weak-kneed wanting more. He clasped the proffered hand ever so gently, but firmly, a strong handshake without overpowering the other person.
"No," I replied, "that's my stage name. I'm really Matthew John Westmoreland, hence `Jackie West'."
He smiled, nodded knowingly, and offered to buy me another drink. O.K., I should've said no and left the bar, but I didn't. Staring at his eyes, his trim, well-proportioned build, firm, tight waist, and engaging smile, I found I really wanted to know more about him, but not so much it might present difficulties for me. After a bit of small talk, consuming my second drink, I discovered he was five years older than me, gay, unattached, enjoyed dancing, and little more; not where he worked or where he lived or anything about any family he might have. He finally took my hand into his and asked again, "I did ask you to dance, are you interested?"
I nodded `yes' and he led me to the floor. We danced slowly, we danced fast and I had one hell of a good time. During one particular number the combo played, one which I happened to dance to during my job as a stripper, I became so involved in the music, I placed my arms about his shoulders and began to dance for him, sliding my hands down his back, grasping the back of his dress pants, sliding the front of my body up and down his just as if I were still on the stage. As I rotated my crotch up against his, bumping and grinding him as I often did with dance patrons, growing harder with each pass, I felt a very distinct and extremely large bulge behind his zipper giving every indication he'd breed me in a second if given the opportunity. Considering the size of what I thought was lurking there, the mating could be painful unless, once erected, all the blood would rush from his head and he'd pass out.
The music ended and I begged off from more dancing saying I was tired and needed to rest. We found an empty table and Malachi bought us one more round. Slowly finishing it, while we continued our visit, he softly asked, "Would you like to go to dinner next Saturday evening?"
Again, I should've declined, but instead I smiled and said, "I'd love to, but, just so you know, we're not going to fuck! I'll go for your company and a pleasant evening, but if it's your desire to ply me with food and drink just to get me in bed, I'll stay home, thank you very much."
Malachi smiled, we exchanged phone numbers, and the date was made. The first date turned into another and another. Each time I vowed to end the relationship, but, like a moth to the flame, I just couldn't force myself to do it. There were many reasons why I felt I should, nothing specific that I could point to; perhaps it was the way he looked at me, undressing me mentally with his eyes; or when we were out, the way he scanned a room before entering as if looking for someone or something; or the fact he didn't discuss his life, job, or family with me. If we were at a bar and another man would begin to speak to me, a sharp glance from Malachi or a soft step forward would invariably send the other man on his way. Nothing would be said, only the tension could be felt, the claiming of me by Malachi, warning all others to stay away. Malachi wanted me for himself as much as I desired him, but I wasn't ready for a relationship where I'd be used as I'd been in the past. Yet, I never refused his offer of a date, accepting and returning his kisses, but refused any hints of anything any more intimate.
Finally, one late night after dinner and a movie, I invited Malachi in for a night cap. One drink led to another and then another. I don't know if it was the alcohol, my desires for him, or my subconscious decision to take it to another step, but while sitting on the couch, his arms about me, I leaned forward and kissed him, signaling my intentions. Malachi responded by pressing his lips against mine, tickling my lips with his tongue, seeking access to my mouth, and my tongue. Opening, I let him explore me, taste me and I him, tantalizing me, increasing my desire.
Leaving my mouth, standing, bringing me with him, looking deeply into my eyes, he slowly moved his hands to the front of my waist. Unbuckling my pants, sliding down the zipper and with one pull, dropped my pants and boxer shorts to my ankles. Shucking off my shoes, I stepped out of my clothes as he settled to his knees, slowly sucking in my circumcised cock, flicking his tongue around the crown, across the slit, bringing it to full erection and twitching with each pass of his tongue. His nose buried in my pubic bush, my cock embedded in his mouth, he played sweet music on my skin flute, music I've not felt before. I was in ecstasy, heaven, squirming, trying to slip more of me into him as I gentle fucked his lips.
The sensations traveling from my cock, to my balls, to my heart, was weakening my resolve, threatening to tie me to this mysterious lover of mine. Slowly fondling my balls, siphoning the pre-cum from my phallus, then releasing them and slipping a hand between my spreading legs, he began massaging my tiny rosebud, twirling his finger about the rim; he slipped his middle finger in until he was sheathed to the hilt. Finding my prostate, massaging it in time with his bobbing head on my cock, I felt the pressure began to build as the electricity and ardor increased, causing me to whimper, "Oh, my God, Malachi, I'm going to cum" expecting him to pull back, but he continued to suction my hose as spurt after spurt of my semen shot down his throat. Never have I had such an orgasm!
Malachi pulled back, looked up at me, said, "Now, I'm going to fuck you."
I didn't object, so he lowered me to the floor, positioned me on my hands and knees in the classic "doggy style', readying me for fucking. I lowered my head and arms, placed them on the floor, and raised my love chute for better access. I heard a foil wrapper tear open and then felt the cold of lubricant around my anal ring and a finger inserted into my ass, globbing the inside with slick stuff. One finger was followed slowly, gently, by two and then three, as he carefully prepared me for the intrusion which was to come. Each time a finger entered me, he purposely slipped it by and over my prostate, bringing little cries of pleasure from me. Malachi knew what I wanted and he was about to give it to me.
He rose, I heard his pants hit the floor with a loud "thump" and, looking between my legs I could see him lower himself to his knees, naked, scooting forward to position himself for entry into my ass. As he forced his cockhead into the object of his desire, I grimaced in pain as the very girth of him popped through and began its journey into my depths. He felt huge, bigger than the lover I had some four years previously, as my sphincter stretched to its very limit to accommodate him. Inch by inch he slithered forward, forcing my bowel open, slowing to allow me to get used to his presence, thrusting a bit forward and then back until his cockhead began to brush my prostate. It was at this point I realized he was fucking me bareback, no protection, skin to skin! I panicked and tried to tell him to stop, but all that would erupt from my mouth was gibberish so filled was I with him and pleasure and pain. I struggled trying to pull away from him, but my ass had other ideas, only succeeded in impaling him deeper, massaging and stroking his hard penis with my inner muscles, milking his big cock further into me, passing that internal barrier, and becoming fully sheathed. Finally, after what felt like forever, I felt his balls resting against my perineum as he began to push in and out, making short, pleasant, erotic trips into me. Perhaps it was my imagination, but each time his cock throbbed, I thought I could feel it near my navel. How he managed to insert all of that in me and how I managed to take it, I'll never quite be certain.
The initial pain and discomfort began to recede as my body adjusted to him. I expected him to ravage me, take me hard and fast, tear me apart, but instead he fucked me gently, tenderly, lovingly, wrapping his arms under my arms and over my shoulders as he began our mating dance. Pulling back and pushing forward, sliding his full length into me and out, passing my love nut each time, elicited whimpers and cries of pleasure from me and moans of ecstasy from him until all I could do was beg him for more.
His long dicking continued and brought me more pleasure than I'd ever experienced in my life. Faster and faster he pumped, feeling him breathing harder, my own juices building in my balls as my nut was being pummeled, I could hold out no longer and began spewing spurts of cum from my twitching slit onto the carpet. My orgasm, tightening my sphincter around his throbbing cock, brought about his own eruption as he thrust deeply into me, growling in unbridled pleasure, driving forward until his pubes and my rosebud meshed, his balls sending their load up his fleshy tube and firing into my bowels. I could feel him bounce, pulse, and jerk with each volley.
Malachi lay across my back, imbedded in me, stiff with resolve even after expending his contribution to our encounter. Keeping me impaled, he turned me, taking me to my back and fixing my legs tight about his waist, my arms clutched about his chest and back, carried me to my bedroom and laid me on my back with him astride me. Leaving my legs around his waist, allowing them to grip him, he leaned forward, locked his lips on mine and took me again, this time slowly, deliberately, prolonging the pleasure we were each having.
During the night, at least once during my erotic rest, he maneuvered his phallus into me. In my half sleep I could feel him thrusting, grunting, nibbling my neck, and then cumming inside me. In the morning, I awoke to his slow deliberate fucking again. Noticing I was awake, he placed me again on my back, pushed himself back into my depths, lowered his body so my own hard cock would jack itself on his warm stomach, and began bringing us both to pleasure. Malachi moaned in my mouth signaling he was delivering another load, as I coated both of us with my semen. Once satisfied, his dick began softening, and he slowly pulled out. In the morning light I could see the weapon which had me impaled and highly satisfied all night. Flaccid, it wobbled, uncut, six inches or so over firm, smooth balls, larger than walnuts, one hanging a bit lower than the other, both capable of producing the prodigious amount of cum soaked into my rectum during our love sessions. I had been well and truly fucked and loved it!
Standing by my bed stretching out in all of his magnificent glory, his smooth brown body slim, inviting, he frowned when his cell phone, on the night stand near the bed, began to ring, shattering the mood we were in. Looking at it, reading the text message appearing, he suddenly headed to the bathroom. I could hear him cleaning himself up and reappeared with a terse, "I gotta go," and walked to the living room to retrieve his clothes and dressed. Puzzled, I quickly rose and followed to the living room door. I was sore, my ass felt as if a bus could park there and have room to turn around, and small drops of cum oozed out of my ass, sliding down my perineum, dripping off of my balls.
He had his shirt, shoes, and pants on with his back to me as I entered the room. Reaching down to the floor, he picked up a large, nasty looking handgun, and stuffing it into the back of his waist band, snugged it against his spine. That weapon of death is what I heard hit the floor the night before when he dropped his pants preparing to fuck me. When I gasped at the sight, he turned, seeing me, and quickly slipped his coat on, covering the weapon. Malachi looked at me intensely and without saying another word, not so much as a "I'll call you," or "I love you," or "thank you," or even "kiss my ass," he left me standing naked in the living room, wondering what the hell the problem was and what had I done wrong.
To be continued.
Thank you for reading "Chapter 1 -- Malachi" from "The Heart of a Dancer." I hope you enjoyed it and invite you to follow "The Heart of a Dancer" to its eventual conclusion. Other stories of mine can be found at:
Nifty- Beginnings - "Table Number Five" -- January 18, 2012
Nifty- Beginnings -"The Carpenter and the Piano Man" -- January 24, 2012
Nifty-Beginnings -- "Gillie" -- January 31, 2012
Nifty-High School - Sheldon's Nutshuckers
"The Stinky Pinky" -- February 14, 2012.
"The Head of Medusa" -- March 8, 2012
Nifty- Beginnings --"Last House on the Left" -- February 21, 2012
Nifty-College -- "First of May" -- February 29, 2012
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