He couldn’t have imagined taking dance lessons back in the day. Most of the others had dutifully traipsed through the dusty old steps because it was expected of them. He had preferred to take a dive into the crowds at clubs and concerts instead. Following the rhythm and his own feet, dancing and sweating around others but still in his own world. Alone with the music, the energy pumping through his veins.
So he rather surprised himself being on his way into the dance studio now. His former colleagues, half in jest, had presented him with a voucher for it at the leaving do. The last Christmas party must have stuck in their memories. ‘Small groups & individual tuition,’ only those words on the card had convinced him to even call and arrange for an appointment.
He wore the black trousers with the pinstripes, the flat grey sneakers, the dark grey shirt, the chequered jacket with the hood. The appropriate attire for management meetings, weddings, funerals and first dinner dates. The sign at the doorbell informed him that the studio was situated on the third floor. It lay in an inconspicuous new development in between agencies of various sorts whose names didn’t infer their areas of specialisation. There were too many startups and not enough letters left in the alphabet. A simple buzzing signalled him to enter and he walked up the stairs, slowly but steadily. For the first time he felt a little nervous at the thought of having to count steps at the hand of an unfamiliar lady to uninspired music. Presumably in front of a floor to ceiling mirrored wall.
The door was already open when he arrived on the third floor, and his nervousness proved to be justified.
Although the impending music and his own reflection no longer mattered to him, there was no chance he would be able to concentrate enough to do any counting. The woman who presumably was going to be his teacher was beautiful. More beautiful than he could have or ever would have imagined. Her short dark brown hair was tousled with an assured sense of style. Her black eyebrows swung in pertly arches above her dark eyes. If these even had an iris or led directly into lightless depths he couldn’t ascertain from where he stood. But they would devour him whole, that much he was certain of.
She reached to the tip of his nose in her low heeled black shoes. They were fastened around her ankles with straps and silver buckles. Her bare legs and knees ended at the seem of a burgundy dress that nestled up against her and laid itself over her shoulders. “Welcome!” she smiled at him and invited him into the brightly lit studio. They introduced each other and she enquired about his previous experience and preferences before gesturing him over into the middle of the room. “Good, let’s get started. I will lead you in this first lesson.”
He put his left hand in hers und let his right be placed on her waist.
Like this she began steering him across the dance floor, alternately directing his gaze onto her feet and into her eyes. His nervousness dissipated with ever shared step, but his excitement rose in equal measure. He savoured the accord between them, the rhythmic movement of their bodies, the warmth radiating from her, her scent. “Are you erect?“ she asked while looking him straight into the eyes.
Abruptly snapped out of his notions, he froze on the spot. He felt the rush of blood into his face. His cheeks glowed as intensely as the stiff penis in his trousers. “Y-yes,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention, it’s only, I am just not used to…” She interrupted him by grabbing his hips and turning him to the side in the direction of the mirrored wall. Then she stepped behind him. “Open your trousers!” she demanded in a determined but good-natured tone. He unbuckled his belt and opened each of the buttons one by one. When he let his hands fall to his sides she put hers around him and onto his pelvis, moving them downwards so that his briefs along with the trousers slid over the tensed buttocks and his erect cock down to the middle of his thighs.
She took the pulsating rod in her right hand and with her left gripped his testicles tightly.
Slowly but surely she moved her hand along his shaft, forwards and backwards, again and again, while rubbing and massaging his painfully swollen balls between her fingers. He felt her warm body nuzzled against his back and held himself upright like she had taught him during the dance, while observing his own reflection and that of the brightly illuminated room in the mirrors.
It did not take very long until a tremor ran through his body which he had tried to keep under control to no avail. He panted and moaned as a hot surge of his sperm shot from his glistening glans and poured onto the floor in front of him. Two more ejaculations followed and she massaged his member further until the last thick drop had splashed between his feet.
“Next time we can concentrate more on the fluid movement of your feet,” he heard her voice from behind. “I think you have talent. We will make a proper dancer out of you.” She let go of him and walked over to the small bathroom from where he could hear the rushing of an open tap. “Would you please clean up your sperm from the floor? Then we are done for today.” He pulled a tissue from his jacket and bent down to his knees to wipe his semen off the highly polished wooden floor boards. Then he stuffed the tissue back into his pocket since he didn’t know what else to do with it and put on the jacket. “Good bye,” he said and placed his hand on the handle of the door to the hallway. “Until next week,” she replied.
Read more stories about masturbation.