Showstopper — Jeremy Edwards

“I want to tap dance naked for you,” said Melinda.

“Yes! I feel the same way,” I reciprocated with zest. I thought she was articulating a creative metaphor, one whose whimsy evoked the euphoria of erotic love.

“No, I really do.” Melinda, it turned out, had taken tap lessons before we’d met, and she’d been speaking literally. She still had the shoes somewhere, she said.

The problem with Melinda’s desire to actually tap dance naked for me was that we didn’t have the right floor for it. It wasn’t that she was overly fussy about the surface. But even I, a tap ignoramus, knew that wall-to-wall carpeting was not tap-compliant, by even the loosest standards.

So I forgot all about naked tap dancing for a few weeks—believe it or not. Sure, I understood that Melinda wanted to do it. But there were a lot of things that Melinda theoretically wanted to do, and not all of them could be arranged.

“Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” she casually asked one Saturday.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” She smiled indulgently at my poor memory. “Tomorrow, as in the day you promised we’d go to the park.”

“Oh,” I acknowledged, laughing at myself. “That tomorrow.” A trip to the park didn’t especially thrill me, in and of itself; but I knew we’d have fun. Melinda and I always had fun. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it—uh, now that you’ve reminded me what I’m looking forward to.”

She grinned, and kissed me on the nose.

On Sunday afternoon, Melinda threw some things into the back of the car and drove me to Delaunay Park. There was a healthy level of activity there, as on most summer weekends. But she took us to the back parking lot, which served a less popular area around a bandstand. I saw that we were, as a matter of fact, the only people back there—which was not unusual when there wasn’t a concert in progress.

One of the special features of this park was that the band shell faced a dancers’ pavilion, which had been erected courtesy of a grant from an arts foundation. The idea had been to encourage swing dancing. The pavilion was wired for evening lighting, and it had a parquet floor. I noticed the glimmer of sunlight on the wood as we got out of the car.

And suddenly, I realized why we were here.

Until this moment, I hadn’t given much thought to the gym bag that Melinda had brought. Sometimes she brought rollerblades, sometimes she brought a frisbee, sometimes she brought a bunch of grapes . . . and today, I now inferred, she had brought her tap shoes.

I followed her up to the pavilion, where she tossed the bag on the floor. As the shoes went clunk, something else went clink. I heard this clink and deduced that the taps must have clicked against each other when the shoes dropped, the left and right shoe kissing toe to toe—or possibly grinding together in a heel-to-toe soixante-neuf.

Melinda did a three-sixty to verify that there was nobody in sight. Then she started to unbutton her cherry-dyed cutoffs, knowing how much I liked the fact that she always undressed ass-first. Her teasy candy-striped panties came down with the shorts, and I admired her sandy bush. Finally, she stripped off her indigo dance-company tee. Her unclothed breasts looked robust in the daylight.

Her tap shoes were faux-patent pumps, old-movie black with a cute heel. Their classy sexiness was unmissable, particularly when Melinda kicked off her sandals and made the tap shoes the sole element of her attire.

She did another three-sixty—this time for my benefit—and I lifted my eyes from the shoes to feast them on her beautiful bottom. Her cheeks seemed so bare in this context, their delicious roundness resonating in eclectic harmony with the glossy floor and the shiny pumps. “Ohh,” I said. It sounded a little stupid, but it was all that came out.

She twirled back to face me, simultaneously initiating her dance. A-tippity-tap, a-tippity-tap, a-tippity-tap, a-TIP. Her hips moved with grace and her bosom bounced slightly, with a stately joy. A-tippity-tap, a-tippity-tap, a-tippity-tap, a-TAP.

As surreal as it was, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I was mesmerized.

I think it was the humming that made me unzip my jeans. Yes, with a beatific smile anchoring her freckle-happy face, Melinda had begun to hum. I recognized the tune from a Fred and Ginger movie, though I couldn’t remember the title or lyrics. This was for the best, actually, because there was nothing to distract me from the purity of Melinda’s humming.

Or the magic of her dancing.

I was dancing a little, too. My fingers were in my jeans, cradling my balls, and my dick throbbed against them. Melinda and I had been together for over a year, and I’d enjoyed her in many settings before today. But this was an unprecedented form of enjoyment. She looked gorgeous and dynamic and desirable in a shiny, new way. Naked . . . naked in kinky tap shoes. A-tippity-fucking-wow . . .

After a while, she began to dance toward me, and soon she was close enough to touch. But I waited to see what she wanted, lest I risk disrupting her performance by touching her in a place or in a manner that might not be compatible with what she had in mind.

Ever attuned to my body language, she sensed that I was waiting to take my cues from her. She took hold of the hand that wasn’t in my pants and brought it to her chest, closing her eyes. She kept humming, kept dancing while I fondled her.

I’m not terribly musical, but it was easy to get into Melinda’s staccato yet sensuous rhythm. I found myself titillating her nipple on the tippities and squeezing the surrounding globe on the taps. I felt a part of what she was doing and of who she was, and my head was wrapped in an olfactory cocktail of summer air, fresh feminine skin, and exposed pussy.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken since saying “Ohh.” But I decided to continue letting my hands do the talking. I removed the left one from my groin—first bringing my cock into the open, then transferring my hand from my own hardness to Melinda’s complementary softness.

She was nice and wet, and her hum changed to a purr when I stroked her lips. She danced around my finger, maintaining the tempo and beat of the tap act. Her hand clasped my erection. A-tippity . . .

I hated to wreck the rhythm. But when I added a second finger to her cunt and started petting her thatch with my thumb, she had to break out. The tippity-tap became, first, a libido-heavy, shuffling sidestep; then it became a no-step, a rooted-on-the-spot quiver of dancing thighs. All she could do now, as my hand fucked her pussy and gratified her clit, was squirm, moan, and pull convulsively on my cock. Which was absolutely fine.

I’d seen her masturbate this way, standing in the nude (minus the tap shoes), indulging in a one-woman knee-trembler. I tried to imitate the style in which I’d seen her do herself—squishing my digits up and down her hole, and rubbing her bump with an increasingly frenetic thumb action.

It worked. The dancer lost what little control was left and became a singer, wailing in a fuck-me soprano that surprised the birds. Then, as the vibrations of her hips signaled her inner explosion into a pleasure bigger than the whole damn park, she roared into the summer afternoon and echoed off the hills.

And they said vaudeville was dead.

I went wild in her hand, spurting more from the excitement of her excitement than the sensation of her frantic strokes, exquisite though they were. I soaked her fingers, pumping inexhaustibly, while still clutching her hot cunt.

When we separated, a milky drop plunked onto one of her tap-shoe toes. Ta-da!

Melinda began humming again on the drive home. Though she’d changed back into her sandals when getting dressed, I imagined a faint tippity-tap in my head. The sound felt like a Melinda hand under my butt, tickling me gently . . . making me dance.

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Jeremy is a favorite author on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over fifty anthologies, and his work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9. Jeremy’s newest book is The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio (OC Press, November 2011). His greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.