Caribbean Passion

Lucia Gonzalez breathed in as the streams of water from the shower fell onto her body. Drops of water flowed through the waves of her jet-black, slick wet hair, over her beautiful Hispanic face, her exquisite eyes closed, better to feel the warmth of the water’s touch. Her luscious lips parted, as the streams ran down her neck, through the deep valley between her large, full breasts, the areolae expanding in the warmth, nipples pert. The water ran down her dark, sun-kissed olive skin, across the toned abdomen and down her shapely thighs and long, beautiful legs. She breathed in as the rivulets ran down between her legs to the secret place, the folds deepening colour with the heat.

Not for nothing was she taking her time in her family home — that night she had a dance competition at the convention centre in the middle of Rio de Janeiro. Her dance partner was Jorge, her long-time childhood friend, who now occupied a kind of friend-with-benefits/de facto boyfriend status in her life. They had been early boyfriend and girlfriend at school and had started dance classes in the evenings. Various things had happened — falling out, getting back together again, she had met other guys, he had played around with other girls a little bit when she had been in other relationships, but they had always got together again, mainly because of the dance classes. He was a great dancer and they complimented each other on the dancefloor really well — most importantly, better than any other dancer in the club. Right now, things were officially “casual” between them, he acting like her boyfriend when they were together to fend off clumsy chat-up attempts from clueless dweebs when she went out in the evenings; then, when she was at a loose end, bored or else between relationships, he would get the inevitable booty call from her. He would show up late somewhere neutral looking studly and hot, they would hook up and there would be a night of passion where he would pound her pussy until she cried out in orgasm, before curling up together in bed until the rays of early morning sun came creeping through the window panes.

It was in the post-orgasmic bliss, when Jorge had fallen asleep and she lay in the crook of his arm looking at the ceiling, when she would once again contemplate whether he was worth keeping around. He was a good enough lover in bed, definitely better than the creeps who approached her in bars, plus he possessed that earnest sincerity in his eyes that suggested that he really cared and would like her to get more serious. She worried that he hoped for a long-term relationship, since he always came back to her. Would he even consider marriage and a life together with her? She felt it was too early for that, if only for the fact that they were both 20 years old. Plus there was always a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that the only reason why he was still around was because of dancing. What if she stopped going? Would they drift apart? Would he make an effort to keep her around? She had spent her whole life more or less in this area of Rio and still felt she hadn’t really lived — never travelled far, been anywhere, seen anything. She wanted to get all that under her belt before she made any plans about settling down.

“Lucia!” she heard her mother call. “Dinner’s ready! Hurry up!”

Lucia reluctantly twisted the taps to turn off the water. Grabbing a towel, she hurriedly dried herself, before unlocking the bathroom door, tiptoeing quickly over to her bedroom, where her dance costume had been laid out on the bed by her mother some half-hour earlier. She hastily got dressed and rushed downstairs to the large table in the kitchen, where dinner was served.

“Here — sit down and eat; you’ll be hungry later and I don’t want you snacking on junk food — you have to be beautiful to be a samba dancer,” remarked her mother. Dolores Gonzalez was 43, with the same lustrous, black hair that Lucia had inherited from her. She was shorter than her daughter by a few inches — five feet five compared with Lucia’s five feet nine. Lucia’s height had come from Dolores’ husband, who was six feet tall. Her daughter’s height pleased her. She, too, loved samba music and had been a pretty good dancer in her youth but her dreams of dancing and modelling had not got far, thanks to her short stature. She wore a green, rather non-descript top that covered her ample bosom, while a purple, knee-length skirt and black shoes completed her look.

Lucia was ravenous and made quick work of the light meal — not too heavy, or else she would end up with a stitch or a stomachache while dancing, which was a major hassle.

“Your father’s working late tonight, he’ll be back after seven,” said Dolores.

“Any answer from the overseas recruitment agency?” enquired Lucia. She had applied for a cruise ship position some 6 weeks ago but had heard nothing. She had decided on a whim to test out her theory — getting a job overseas would mean time away from Jorge, time to think, time to travel and to see if Jorge would hold onto her in her absence. Would his interest cool while she was away? However, now it looked as though the plan was going to fail — no word had come.

“Not yet — I checked the post office this morning — just bills and tax demands — again!” Dolores tutted. She always felt concerned about money but her husband did most of the work paying them off, so she hoped that everything would be OK.

Lucia finished her dinner, went upstairs, brushed her teeth and put on her make-up for dancing. After another half-hour had passed, she stood up in her bedroom and looked herself over in the full-length mirror beside her bed.

She saw shimmering sparkles on her lustrous hair, a skin-tight dress that hugged her breasts and figure, complete with exquisite beading, acres of leg and elegant black high heels. Her lipstick was perfect and her eye make-up was a work of art, with elongated eyeshadow designed to look like red-orange flames that extended from her eyelids around to the sides of her brow, finished off with more glitter and sparkle. She smiled at herself. She looked fabulous and she knew it.

Presently a taxi arrived outside that her mother had called for. She stepped in. “Good luck,” said her mum. “Try your best but don’t be disheartened if you don’t win. There are a lot of competing couples. You and Jorge are great but it’s the taking part that counts.”

Lucia smiled. Her mum always cared. “Thanks, I’ll try.” With that, the car door closed and the taxi sped off down the street.

Weaving through the traffic, the taxi wended its way towards the convention centre. Lucia leaned back and took a deep breath. She felt nervous but excited.

The convention centre’s backstage area seemed packed with dancers. There was an air of excitement and apprehension as female dancers whooshed by in dazzling Latin American dresses, while tall guys in tuxedos, cummerbunds and black shirts and trousers stood looking moodily around. Lucia made some last-minute adjustments to her outfit in front of a mirror.

“So here you are,” said a familiar, male voice. Lucia turned her head to see Jorge standing behind.

“Hi,” said Lucia. She looked him over from head to toe. Jorge was five feet ten, with slick, short black hair, combed back in a pompadour style. His angled jaw and slim but athletic build was encased in a tight, white shirt that did nothing to hide his pecs, while a pair of satin white trousers covered a slight bulge near his groin and continued on down practised, toned legs, to a pair of patent leather slip-on black shoes. He looked good and well-turned out. “You look great”, Lucia smiled.

“Look who’s talking,” Jorge grinned. “Wow!” He grabbed her hands and spread them wide to get a better look at her frame. He felt a stirring in his loins as his eyes wandered from the deep cleavage between her breasts, along her slinky abdomen and down her long, long legs. Why did she always have to look so great! It was awesome to see her but she turned him on and wondered whether this would affect his dance performance. Still, just being able to hold her in his arms and feel her flesh moving to the music was a huge honour, and he loved it.

“Thanks,” blushed Lucia.

“ALL DANCERS TO STAGE”, bellowed a male voice through a loudspeaker. Everyone suddenly moved forward at once and filed through a pair of double doors and through a brief corridor, arriving at another set of double doors that led directly onto the dancefloor. The announcement had said “stage” but it wasn’t, really; it was a flat, rectangular dancefloor, with seats for the audience on three sides and a place for prize-giving sat up on the near end. The judges sat at the far end, furthest from the door.

Suddenly, samba music started up and the master of ceremonies, who was already on the dancefloor, an older man with a balding pate, dressed in a tuxedo, cummerbund and black bow-tie, announced the couples by number. There were 20, and Jorge and Lucia were number 10. The two of them watched with apprehension as the nine couples in front of them were called out one by one, around 30 seconds between each one. Finally, the MC said, “Couple number ten!” Jorge grabbed Lucia’s hand and out they went.

The music and the beat rang in Jorge’s ears as he led Lucia around the dancefloor. Lucia’s moves were spot-on and her floorwork impeccable. He held her toned waist as she wriggled her hips to the music and swished across the floor.

There were three rounds and the judges were examining the dancers as they swirled around. Half of them would be eliminated, then the ten survivors would go onto the second round.

Couple number ten easily made it through — Jorge and Lucia were old hands at this, despite their young age, with more than eight years’ experience together, while the other couples were either younger couples or else older ones with unfamiliar partners that appeared to not have practised enough. Although this contest was only a local one, Lucia and Jorge had experienced their fair share of larger venues and events, so were well-prepared.

In the second round, there were five songs, where two couples at a time danced before the judges. Esteban and Maria, couple number seven, were paired with Jorge and Lucia. Lucia knew them and so did Jorge.

“Don’t worry,” said Lucia. “Maria’s OK — I usually beat her. She’s only beaten me a couple of times.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about — Esteban’s been really great just recently and he’s only 18 — two years younger than me.”

“Forget him — the judges usually look at the woman more than the man, anyway — at least the audience does, anyway!”

Jorge smiled, looking down at Lucia’s fabulous body. “Yeah – I wonder why?”

Suddenly, the MC’s voice announced the couples’ numbers and out they went. Couple seven went first. Esteban, tall, thin, with dyed blond hair, danced out, followed by long-legged Maria. Jorge was astonished at the speed they crossed the floor while keeping the steps in time with the music. He grabbed Lucia’s waist and followed them out onto the dancefloor amid the roaring crowd.

The samba was loud as he guided Lucia backwards. He wasn’t going to zoom across the floor like Esteban — he wanted to focus on the steps and, besides, he needed to put some space between himself and the other couple so that the judges could see them more clearly.

Two of the five judges leaned forward to see better as Jorge and Lucia neared the panel. Lucia was beginning to sweat, beads of perspiration forming on her face, running down her neck and through the cleft between her breasts. Good, thought Jorge. This is when Lucia lost herself to the music and went wild. He could trust her. All he had to do was make sure his steps and floorwork were immaculate.

Lucia looked over to Maria. Just then, she saw Maria stumble slightly. Aha, thought Lucia. Esteban quickly reacted and whooshed by, attempting to hide the mistake. Had the judges seen? Lucia began to hear beyond the sound of the music, feeling the beat drum its way into her soul. Her hips moved almost without thinking, her body swaying, the rhythm starting to control her movement. Her eyes half-closed as she went on and on, without thinking, just feeling, just reacting to the feel, the flow, the rhythm, the atmosphere. At length, the music stopped. Jorge and Maria bowed to the judges and made their way out. They had been second, so now there was a wait for another three songs for the six remaining couples. Jorge and Lucia collapsed down on a bench backstage.

“Well, huh,” said Jorge.

“Maria slipped,” remarked Lucia.

“I saw that.”

“Did the judges?”

“I think they did — they’re pretty hot on that stuff — they could lose a point.”

“Hmmm.”

Round two came to an end. The ten couples waited for their scores. It was 9.5 for Jorge and Lucia, 9.0 for Esteban and Maria. They were currently at the top of the list, so would make it into the final round.

Round three began. This time, there were five songs, each couple dancing alone. Jorge and Lucia would be on third, so they waited backstage. The first couple went out. While the music played, Jorge and Lucia watched as, on the other side of the backstage area, Esteban and Maria were talking. It was too noisy to make out what they were saying but it seemed like Esteban looked concerned. Maria was apologising, Esteban was nervously trying to give her advice.

Lucia watched them. “Esteban’s a good dancer but he takes it too seriously.”

“Well, he wants to be a professional in the future,” replied Jorge.

“Maria’s good at footwork and floorcraft but she can’t feel the music — everything’s technical with her.”

Jorge looked down at Lucia and grinned. If there was ever a woman who knew what passion was, it was Lucia. She loved feeling it — and Jorge loved giving it to her. The samba just made it easier for him to bring out her wild side. She was a fabulous, erotically-charged, sinuous, super-sexy woman. If only he could make her recognise that more often, their life together would be perfect.

Esteban and Maria were on next. Out they went. There was a slight rush to Esteban’s feet, as though he was in a hurry. Jorge and Lucia looked out at the dancefloor, the MC, the judges and the audience. It was deafening but exciting.

Once Esteban was out on the floor, he slowed a little to allow Maria to catch up. He couldn’t screw up now. Maria’s hips and feet worked rhythmically, technically excellent, while he focused on guiding her backwards in high heels. As the music worked up into a frenzy, Maria went faster and faster. This is where she had stumbled before, missing a step slightly. He hoped she wouldn’t this time.

Maria danced on. She didn’t want to disappoint Esteban. As the song continued towards its closing stages, she realised that she was going to make it. She began to relax, have fun and enjoy the music. She felt the rhythm begin to affect her dancing. She decided she liked it.

“Pay attention!” hissed Esteban, frowning at her with irritation. The permasmile on his face slipped as he glanced at her with annoyance. “Concentrate!”

Just then, the music stopped. Esteban twirled her around, smiled at the judges, then they both gave a polite bow and walked off with a flourish. Esteban was relieved — no mistakes this time.

However, the judges were talking. It seemed as though at least one of them had seen the brief glimpse of anger from Esteban.

“Oooh,” said Jorge to Lucia, as Esteban and Maria walked quickly past them. “Temper, temper,” he remarked.

“He shouldn’t be so hard on her,” replied Lucia. “I can hardly believe it but I think I saw Maria finally start to feel something out there.”

“Yeah, I thought I saw -”

“COUPLE NUMBER TEN!” announced the MC.

“Wow, let’s go!” said Maria.

Jorge grabbed her hand, the music started and out they danced. The samba filled Lucia’s ears and mind. By now, the music was affecting her, moving her soul, filling her mind, the hypnotic, mesmerizing rhythm moving her hips, her waist, her legs, her feet. As she spun around the dancefloor, sweat gleamed from her olive skin, her flesh glistening, slippery, the dancefloor like glass, the lights above her, the roar behind her, the whole experience cocooning her in her own world, framed by the arms of Jorge. She lost control, her whole body sinuous and gliding, pulsating, the excitement starting in her loins, moving up her spine, taking control of her nervous system, her conscience, her mind. Just then, she felt a slight drag from Jorge’s arm. Moving onward, the music finally took over completely. She surrendered to the passion, her body the expression of her heart. She danced, she danced, she danced, leading ever onward, faster, stronger, harder, more forceful, until finally she let her soul be led by Jorge into the bliss of the beat, the rhythm of the night, that equalled the pounding of her heart.

A great cheer went up from the crowd as the music stopped and she and Jorge took a bow. They had obviously been the audience’s favourite but would the judges agree! As they walked off the dancefloor, they wondered whether it had been enough.

They had to wait for the last two couples’ turns, so they sat back down on the bench backstage.

“Wow, that was awesome!” said Jorge, excitedly. “You were amazing!”

Feeling flushed and exhilarated, Lucia exclaimed, “Yeah, thanks! You, too!”

“Well, I hope so…”

“Oh, yeah! What was that thing that happened? I felt your arm drag just then out there,” remembered Lucia.

“My foot suddenly slid slightly and I had to move my arm to stay balanced.”

“Did the judges see?”

“I don’t know — I just focused on the dancing because I wanted us to win.”

“Hmmm, we’ll have to find out,” said Lucia. Had Jorge cost them a point?

After the other two dances were over, there was a 15-minute break for all of the five remaining couples while the judges deliberated the final scores. Then, the MC told the five couples to assemble in a row at the near end of the dancefloor to reveal the winners.

Jorge and Lucia stood next to Esteban and Maria. Couple number three were first up. 8.0 points overall.

Couple five were next, with a combined score of 8.5.

Couple twelve came third place, with 8.75, after a strong performance in the second round.

Lucia bit her lip. What would happen now?

The MC was handed a small white piece of paper. After a few seconds’ reading it, he resumed. “The judges have decided that, in terms of dance ability, footwork and floorcraft, both couple number ten and couple number seven are equal.”

What! Were they to share the prize, Lucia wondered. An equal score! It made sense, though. Both couples had made mistakes.

“However,” the MC went on. “In terms of showmanship, quarter of a point has been deducted from the score of couple number seven.”

A big whoo went up from the crowd. Jorge and Lucia had won. They looked at each other. So the judges had seen the flash of anger from Esteban and penalized him!

Esteban and Maria turned to each other. Maria was annoyed — so it hadn’t been her who lost the contest — it had been Esteban and his condescending behaviour. Esteban’s face looked glum.

“So, in second place,” boomed the MC, “with 9.25 points, are couple number seven, Esteban and Maria!”

Esteban and Maria smiled politely, accepted their award, then walked off the stage.

“So now, finally,” announced the MC, “the winners of tonight’s contest, with a prize of 2,000 reals, is couple number ten — JORGE AND MARIA!”

The crowd went wild. There was a bang and confetti and tinsel came falling from the ceiling as a pretty young woman walked onto the stage to hand the cup to Jorge and Maria.

“We won!” yelled Maria. Jorge lifted the cup to another huge ovation from the audience. He felt exhilarated.

Finally, to blaring samba music, Jorge and Maria walked off the dancefloor while the MC finished up the show.