FOUR BEAT RHYTHM

http://darkmediacity.com/group/friday-frights

This is my Friday Fright for the DarkMedia City group Friday Frights.  Our prompt this week is Dance Party Of The Dead. I included the link above for everyone to submit their tales if they wish, or just to read some super  tales of horror. Obviously, mine has a rather interesting dance involved. I hope you enjoy it.




Four Beat Rhythm



     Everything is different here. Sao Paulo, a huge, bustling city, rivals Rio De Janeiro for the night life.

     And things that dwell in the night.    

     Ah, but that's just superstition, isn't it? The native legends added to the old Portuguese tales create a rather colorful visual: shapes of what roam around the fringes of the densely populated, modern metropolis, grabbing the attention of the locals, and word leaking to the tourists as well. There is no place for such stories now. Or is there?

     My grandfather told me of the superstitions many years ago when I was a mere child of nine, sitting next to him on the stoop in back of the house, listening to his great tales of the sea. He had been around the world many times over and knew not only of ocean haunts, complete with ghost ships, vanishing light houses, and fog so thick the demons from Hell could walk on it, but there was many an inland town he got to visit while waiting for the cargo to be loaded on his ship. Brazil was a place he had been to many times. Back in the days of WWII, the Nazis forged a pretty strong hold on certain areas, and even today there are stories of many experiments performed in the jungles that had not turned out well.

     Okay, so my grandfather sometimes stretched the truth a bit, but there is something in the air here that isn't right. I feel things: things off to the side; things I can't see, but they're there non the less.

     This is my last night in the city before I head back home after being here for four years studying some strange reptiles-half snake, half crocodile-found in a tributary of the Amazon. This was a miraculous find, and I'm actually disappointed I have to leave now, but my funding ran out. I suspect there are other unknown species in the area as well. If the truth be told, there is really nothing much waiting for me back in the states. This has been as much, if not more of a home to me than any other place I have hung my hat.              

     The streets are alive tonight, and music drifts through the hot, moist evening, reaching into my soul, filling me with the urge to swing to the four beat rhythm permeating the air. This is Lambada country. Yes, the dance of love. And what a dance it is.

     I walk into a club I know well, the music intoxicating, working as a drug, dragging me by the nose, then opening my nostrils to the sweet musk present on the dance floor, an aroma only certain to intensify before the night is over, driving every red-blooded male in the place to levels of ecstasy only surpassed by performing what should logically transpire after the foreplay of the dance. This is not a dance for the timid.

     On some nights, I actually manage to sit on a bar stool and watch the action before me for a while before I find a young lady willing to take a chance on me, not knowing what skills I might possess or lack. For the most part, they are presently surprised, and when the ladies wearing the typical short skirts and I take to the floor, arching our legs, stepping side to side, turning and swaying to the beat, hips gyrating before the characteristic spinning sends her skirt high enough to expose the delicate thong underneath, we are one with each other and the music as well.

     The Lambada works its magic. Those who arrive alone and find a dancing partner do not go home alone. Such is the aura  and mystique within the hearts and souls of the participants.

     This is one of those nights that makes it impossible for me to sit on a bar stool at all. I need the feel of a woman against my body, enjoying all the delights that only a lady can offer me. This is my last night in town. Let the dance party not end.

     My wait is short lived: a young Indian girl comes up to me, her white blouse showing me she does not wear a bra, her nipples long and firm, pushing through the gossamer material, the roundness of her breasts seemingly confined within far too little material to contain her beautiful bounties. I am honored she has chosen me. Why me, I have no clue, but a more beautiful dancing partner I could not have.

     The music is hot and torrid but not as much as my beautiful partner who captivates not only me  but the rest of the crowd as well. Yes, I have acquired a mastery of sorts on the dance floor, but my partner makes me look like a star, as if no one could better compliment her than me. Our side moves get oh so close to our neighbors on the floor, but we never touch them, and her spins . . .her spins are pure heaven, enhanced not by the display of the delicate thong beneath her short skirt but the beauty of no thong at all, the moisture of her sex adding to that of the perspiration from her magnificent display of dancing skills, both of them causing her soft, downy feminine hair to glisten in the club lights.

     We dance for hours, not stopping for a moment. Surely we need something to drink, but we don't bother. Where is this energy coming from? How much longer can we continue this torrid pace?

     Closer and closer we get to the rising of the sun. The club never stays open this late, but tonight it is. And more amazingly, I notice we are not the only couple so involved with each other and our dancing. Every couple on the floor is experiencing the same thing. We are in a frenzy, our desires going higher and higher, and yet we can't stop dancing. It is no longer a dance: it is magic.

     The music stops, and my partner holds on to me in a way that says she doesn't want to let me go but she must. I don't understand. Nothing about this night makes any sense other than the extreme joy of it all. I have never felt such bliss.

     All the patrons step outside, greeting the pre dawn mist floating through the streets, sorry for the cessation of the music, wondering if the usual ritual of orgasmic frenzy will follow. We expect it will, but something is different, something that says this night is over.

     Unless . . .unless, my God, I understand now, I understand!

     My partner walks farther in to the fog and turns back to me, a smile on her face. She holds her hand out, and I go to her and take it in mine. Together we walk, not saying a word, knowing where we are going, what we will be doing.

     The Lambada. The dance of love. Tonight: the dance of the dead.

      I will not be going back to the states. My happy place is here.



Blaze McRob