Oracular Encounter

[AmatorialWriter]

(closed)

OOC
====

Greg Collins

A 43 year old with brown hair, brown eyes, 6 ft tall and average weight. He's more successful in the corporate world than his personal life. The eleven year long marriage to his wife has been on shaky ground for various reasons, mainly the two spouses grew further apart than together. The childless marriage offers fewer bonds and reasons to monogamously remain together. The marriage morphed through various modes to its present state of separate lives and separate vacations while living under the same roof like roommates with benefits. They love but aren't in love with each other. They sleep in the same bed partaking in conjugal activities despite their history with other lovers. Sometimes polygamy exhilarates their lives, other times it tears them apart.

So what keeps these two together when most others would have retreated to divorced lives? They give each other enough elbow room and don't want to change their groove. Such liberties came at a price, that of a monogamous secure marriage, a price paid over and over with doubt and uncertainty.

IC
==

A fortune cookie half crumbles between my teeth. The other half lays on the table surrounded by cookie crumbs. Its soothsaying strip of paper held in my fingers is inscribed as follows.

'The wise are open to exotic opportunities"

"Well what does it say?" Asks Rhonda. Upon her inquiry I raise my head and read aloud while 22 eyes are upon me. Those eyes belong to some of my staff who suddenly break out in laughter. They work for me, the division manager. Today is my 43rd birthday and we're celebrating during a long lunch at a Chinese restaurant favored by many in the area. Some are here because they like me and others to play the political game and stay visible to the boss. Either way is fine with me.

Rhonda is one who likes me and I like her. She's my personal secretary. We get along well, very well but keep the relationship strictly professional with a few exceptions of flirtatious moments and confiding personal chats.

My thanks are expressed to those who sit at the table and in a self mocking manner, I declare we must return to work. The one and a half hour lunch ends when we leave the restaurant afoot heading back to the office just three blocks away. A blue sky spotted with benign clouds forms today's canopy over the city. Mother Nature contrasts realities beset in our competitive corporate world.

The leisurely walk is seamlessly transitioned to a relaxed but busy afternoon. The budget was submitted this morning, ongoing projects remain on track, proverbial fires are few and far between, and moral is good. The celebratory lunch became the day's high note and the briskly paced afternoon will give way to a quiet evening. Quiet because my wife is vacationing in Italy. We have no children and trade off the emptiness with more activities and freedoms. At times we live separate lives in the company of others.

Turning my head from the window, glancing at the right lower corner of the computer screen, the time is shown as 4:46, 14 minutes till quitting time.

Suddenly an uncustomary sound is heard from an uncustomary sight. A curvaceous woman dressed as a bellydancer, arms flailing, hips shaking, Loreena McKinnitt's "Marco Polo" plays on a boom box, and she dances into the office filling my vision and capturing my interest.

"Happy Birthday Boss!" Someone shouts among the increasing number of people mustering in way of the open doorway. Thinking back to lunch, the signs were there. The fortune cookie and that robust laughter from staffers who collaborated on this unique treat.

Her fingers smack each other not flesh to flesh but finger cymbal to finger cymbal. Their sound in sync with music and her never still body. Hips constantly reshape her hourglass figure always in motion. Bodacious breasts not only fill her bra adorned with coins and beads, they stretch it. This instrumental tune rich with sounds is syncopated to rhythms as her dancing body becomes the melody.

I remain seated at my desk and watch the performance progress before my eyes. Some staffers watch her too, some watch me watching her. While her aura is one of happiness and joy, I silently curse my wife for being seven time zones away. She has been away for a week and I'm between lovers. My nature compels me to climb walls before taking matters in my own hands sort of speak. Needless to say, I'm in agonizing ruttishness.

The depressing thought that I'll either be alone tonight or can spend the evening at a watering hole, was suddenly snapped when she turned, hair flies from one side of her head to the other, her eyes lock on mine and her body gyrates with fluid motions I didn't think were possible. The sheer attire offers peeks to her flesh. Moreover, her scent reaches me, it's different, I must know of it, she makes me want to know her. Is that her personal intent or professionalism as a dancer? I don't know. The agony grows.

She pulls herself away leaving more fragrant air in her wake and the dance continues for another minute. Music fades to silence and loud boisterous applause takes over. Applause appropriately earned. Catching her breath, she bows one more time toward me. Does she know I can see her cleavage? She must. Does she know I'm glad the desk hides the excitement below my belt? Probably not.

Now the bellydancer became the day's high note. She vehemently entered my office and exits just the same, every second graceful. I must remain at the desk till I'm presentable without embarrassment in the public arena of my staff. Primal urges demand a cold shower or a hot woman, preferably the latter. A bite inside one cheek and strained circuitous mind control help maintain my civility.

Quitting time arrives and soon thereafter I safely leave the office with my manly dignity but a torrid mindset. Rhonda dashes after me near the elevator and offers a business card. "In case you want to know who she is," says Rhonda with a smile on her lips reddened for the evening commute. Those lips tell me more in her knowing smile but I pry not. Instead I pull the business card from her fingers and she's thanked with a kiss on her cheek for enhancing this day of mine. We take the same elevator but leave through different doors to different parts of the parking lot.

Rank has its privileges (RHIP) so my car is near the door in its usual reserved spot. What's unusual is the bellydancer's car is just opposite mine in the visitors' area. The I-dream-of-Jeanie outfit must be in her bag, because she's dressed casually in low rider jeans, heels, and a peasant blouse that only enriches her bra held bosom. Sheer fabric reveals her midriff and offers glimpses of the denim line circumventing that alluring figure of hers.

She doesn't see me watching her stuff the trunk with belongings. The jagged hem of her blouse silently slides like a curtain as she bends, just when my cell phone buzzes. "Happy Birthday darling" appears on the display under my wife's name. Eleven years of marriage and just three words come my way from one third of the globe away. She must have a lover on higher priority. It happened before. I did the same to her but just three words in a text message bears the sobering chill of an ice cube dropped down my back. The unanswered message is deleted from the phone's memory and the phone returned to its usual pocket. When I raise my head eyes meet eyes. My wife tells me when I see her with my bedroom eyes. That must be how my eyes appear now but the dancer remains silent expressing herself only with an alluring smile. Placing the attache case on the ground by the driver door of my car frees my hand and I walk toward her.

Worst case scenario, I thank her and go to my empty home. Best case scenario, wedding rings and vows fail to stop us. Most likely scenario, I just don't know.

 

[haremfaery]

OOC
====

Jacqueline Murphy

A 31 year old auburn hair and large hazel eyes, 5 feet 4 inches in her stocking feet. Her body is toned but not ripped. She doesn't have a hard body. It's been sculpted by her dancing, she works out, but spends more time dancing, doing yoga, tai chi, other types of dance classes. She's long waisted with a nice bust to hip ratio. 34C 24 36. Nice legs, great ass, very shapely.

Jackie is a professional middle eastern dance instructor and performer. Her 'stage name' is Johara. Not that she's fooling anyone that she's from the middle east with her hair and pale skin. She makes fairly decent money by teaching at a local dance school and the Y. She also performs semi-regularly at a few local restaurants and private gigs, birthday parties, reunions, organizations.

Her husband makes good money and has health insurance. He does systems analyst work and travels out of state to work on-site with clients. He also writes fiction and holes himself up frequently when the muse strikes him. He's had a few short stories published.

Jackie fell in love with him, Gilbert 'Gil' Archer, in college. Their friends thought Jack and Gil was fun to say and they got teased about it. Jackie was attracted by his smarts. He was so intellectual, she found it challenging. His mind didn't instantly go to the gutter when she told him she was a belly dancer. She found it refreshing. He wasn't her first, but she considered him to be the best of the three lovers she had during college. He was sweet and gentle.

They got married and once settled into married life, Jackie discovered that they were not as sexually compatible as she had thought. With their schedules, she wanted to make an occasion of it, spend all day in bed making leisurely love. But Gil was always once and done. Too many things to do to be spending all that time in bed.

((more to come))

 

[haremfaery]

Jacqueline Murphy pulls into a visitor's parking space by the main door of the building. She is early, she is always early for a gig. She needs to get into her costume, and cue up the boom box. She pulls out her cell phone and calls Rhonda, the woman who hired Jackie to perform for her boss's birthday.

"Hi, it's Johara. I'm in the parking lot....No I just need a bathroom to change and a safe place to stash my things until I'm done...Okay, I'll meet you in the lobby. " She closed her phone and got out of the car.

Jackie is what all of her friends called her. Joharah is her stage name since people expect something exotic and Jacqueline Murphy, a nice girl of Italian-Irish extraction is not all that exotic. But she dons a persona when she puts on her makeup and costume and people buy the illusion.

She opens the trunk, pulls out her boom box and small duffel that contains her costume and other necessities. She locks the car and schleps her things to the lobby. A good-looking guy about her age sees her through the glass that makes up the front wall. He hustles to open the door for her. He gives her the once over, taking in her overdone makeup, peasant top, jeans and heels. Her face is a little over the top for the office and her clothes are a little too casual, even for casual Friday.

"Here for an interview?" He teases. Maybe he thinks she is some exec's trophy wife, high-maintenance and trashy.

She gives him a smile, "No. Don't tell, but I'm the boss's birthday present. His admin hired me to belly dance."

She walks to the Reception Desk just as another woman is approaching. "You must be Johara. I'm Rhonda." Jackie puts down the boom box to shake hands. "Here, let me take that. Come with me and I'll show you the ladies room."

They go up the elevator to the top floor. Jackie heads into the restroom to the handicapped stall where there is more room. She and Rhonda chat a bit while she changes. The usual stuff: "How long had she been dancing." "What made her want to belly dance." "How did her husband feel about her doing this sort of thing. Wasn't he jealous?"

She doesn't tell Rhonda that actually her husband is far from jealous. Gil saw the dance as an artform just like ballet. He didn't find it a turn-on at all. Other men nudge him and say how lucky he is to be married to a belly dancer. Gil just shrugs. She wishes it turned him on, even a little. She is always keyed up after a performance, especially if the audience is appreciative. Jackie likes nothing more than to go home and make hot animal love. But Gil...he hates her makeup and prefers that she shower and get the dance sweat off of her first. By the time she is done, he's generally asleep. That is if he were home and not traveling for business.

Jackie shakes herself out of it, not the proper mood to be in when an audience awaits her. If they are half as interested in seeing her dance as Rhonda is--it will be a good gig.

---

Johara enters the room and sets the boom box on a mahogany credenza against the wall. She presses the button and the music of her routine begins. She plays her zills using them to accent moves and music. Her bare arms snake in time. Slowly she removes her veil revealing more bare skin. Pale skin. Smooth flat stomach, an unadorned belly button. Her skin is in sharp contrast to the line of her costume belt, stiff and bead encrusted. She takes impeccable care of her skin. Tan lines look tacky and her fair skin burns anyway.

Her perfume wafts subtly through the air with her veil. The boss, Mr. Collins, is safely ensconced behind his desk. He watches her with a hawk-like intensity. Her smile falters for a moment. Is he enjoying this at all, or simply being polite since his employees decided to celebrate his birthday with a semi naked woman. Their eyes meet again and she felt fully naked. He isn't being aloof at all. Far from it. Johara is used to men looking at her with glints in their horny eyes. But this...this is different. It is palpable. She thinks she finally understands what people mean about sparks flying. She took a breath and spun away.

Johara takes her veil and expertly wraps it around a nearby bald man's head. She normally ties the turban around the person of honor, but he sits like a king, unapproachable. Even as he looks at her with those eyes. Let everyone laugh at the bald man. They can't laugh like that at their employer.

Johara goes through her routine from veil dance to slow sensual moves that show off her stomach flutters and tiny shimmies along with her graceful hands, then to the earthy beat of the drum solo and finally the finale. At the end of the song, she turns, still very much in character, picks up her veil, makes once final spin and quirks a sultry smile at the bossman. "Happy Birthday, Mr. Collins." She mouths.

Rhonda follows after Johara carrying the boom box. They go back to the ladies room so Johara can change into street clothes. Rhonda gives her a sealed envelope with the company's address and logo. "Thank you so much. I know he really enjoyed it. You helped make his birthday special. What a beautiful costume and what a beautiful dancer you are."

Johara smiles. "I'm glad." She pulls some business cards out of her duffel. "If you wouldn't mind...please pass my cards out to anyone else who might be interested in hiring me. Word of mouth is my best advertising."

The women say their good byes and Johara goes to the lobby to sign out and then out to the parking lot.

---

Johara, because she is still Johara and not Jackie until she starts to drive and unwind from the gig. Or maybe not until she gets home and actually takes her makeup off. Johara puts her things in her trunk leaning over to make sure the boom box is carefully wedged in. She hears a buzzing behind and turns to look.

And there he is. Putting his cell phone away and looking at her. Their eyes meet and she feels the sizzle again. What is it about him? He's attractive in that older man way, cool, confident, arrogant maybe from the way he looked at her when she was dancing. I'm not your slave girl, buddy. She thinks. Get over yourself.

Johara gives Mr. Collins her professional smile. The smile people expect from a sultry belly dancer. He sets his briefcase down and walks over. She isn't sure what to say, Hope you enjoyed the show? Hope you have a nice birthday? You work for a liberal company that let's you have belly dancers for entertainment?

"Did you have any idea Rhonda hired me to dance for you? It must be hard to keep something like this a secret." She put her weight on one foot which made her look like she was taking a belly dance pose.

 

[AmatorialWriter]

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Collins."

Those words replay in my mind and reach me more than my wife's words 'Happy Birthday darling' texted from Italy whence ancient Romans ruled the world for centuries. But she isn't there for history's sake. She's there on a vacation separate from me and life here. She's there to find romance and leave it behind as she has done before.

The curvaceous woman who bellydanced in my office just a short while ago is my current destination in more ways than one. Keeping strides slow, the casual walk brings me closer to her presence. I want to see her eyes up close again, her beaming smile hued with an off red shade. I want to whiff her body from which that captivating scent exudes. I want to hold her. I want to fuck her. I want to wake up with her. I want, I want, I want ... Thusly goes the runaway train of my thoughts carrying a cargo of wishful thinking to bliss or on a collision course with rejection. I woke up this morning with a dirty mind now fertilized by her sensuality that swelters the heat of my desires.

"Did you have any idea Rhonda hired me to dance for you? It must be hard to keep something like this a secret."

Says the sexy bellydancer during my last step into her space. Am I transparent to her? I must be or she must be getting such offers after her dances. I know she's wearing a wedding ring. So am I. Either she's someone's wife or the ring is worn for preventing some advances. Some men regard a wedding ring as an entree to an affair or sexual conquest of a damsel distressed with loneliness, locked up in the confines of a miserable marriage, bonded to an unloving husband. But I dare not utter such thoughts to a woman I just met in serendipitous circumstances.

"I didn't know but I'm not surprised by Rhonda. We have been close friends for a while and she followed me up the ladder. Rhonda is low keyed with her accomplishments." I say to her wondering why she wants me to know that up front. Is she nervous? She doesn't seem to be, in fact she's well composed and her posture is relaxed. Or is she fending off what I have in my mind about her?

"Thank you for the wonderfully sultry dance Joanna." Says me and sees a subtle but obvious pattern change on her made up face. "I mean Johara." I add after realizing I misspoke her name and recalling it's different if not unique.

We stand facing each other in this asphalt desert spotted with a decreasing number of cars. We stand close enough to breathe the same air, close enough for my hand to touch her but I don't, not yet. Momentarily turning to each side and seeing more people exiting the mass of concrete marble steel and glass configured into an office building spotted with tinted glass. That glass and air conditioning in this geographic cauldron of Mother Nature prevent the sun's heat from nearly simmering people in the synthetic environment we spend up to a third of our lives and call it our workplace. No amount of glass or other substance can attenuate the heat inside me, the heat of passion inflamed by her dance and aura. She can be out of sight but not out of mind so I do the expected thing uncertain of the outcome. I throw a Hail Mary pass of words like Staubach threw the pigskin down field.

"It's dinner time. Would you like to join me? There's a good restaurant a few blocks away that serves excellent shish kebab and döner." Those words are followed by an exhaling breath filled with hopeful anticipation that she will accept the invitation. I want her badly enough to reinforce my invitation with a moderate grip of her left upper arm, one that keeps another attentive. My eyes gaze into hers, a gentle breeze flickers her flaring hair that in turn caresses her soft skin rendered with Cleopatra like makeup. In a smooth motion my hand leaves her arm, a finger guides the intrusive locks from her eye and cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

She makes me feel comfortable in a manner of speaking. Yes I'm hormonal, my insides rage with desire expressed in body language diplomatically subdued by gentle words. Quietly my arm leaves her comfort zone and returns to my side. We're on different wavelengths but I patiently wait for her response. If rejection is her retort, patience and persistence will be in order.

 

[haremfaery]

"Thank you for the wonderfully sultry dance Joanna." Says me and sees a subtle but obvious pattern change on her made up face. "I mean Johara." I add after realizing I misspoke her name and recalling it's different if not unique.

"Johara is Arabic, it means jewel." Johara says. "It's my stage name." Keeps the creeps from finding out where I live.

They seem to stand there for a long time. Johara tries to think of a way to gracefully get her out of there. But Collins looks like the sort of man who is used to getting his own way. She wonders if he is sleeping with his admin--that's the cliche isn't it?

Johara, who is rapidly feeling more and more like Jackie and less and less like her professional dance persona, looks at Collins for a moment. He did _not_ just ask her to dinner. And touch her. She stiffens. Then he presses his (he thinks) advantage and touches her face to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Oh, no he didn't.

Johara/Jackie flinches away. "I'm married. And shame on you, you're married too." She waggles her left hand at him showing her ring. "I don't go out with clients. Or anyone. The dance was your birthday present--not me. I dance, that's all." She doesn't realize how angry that touch makes her. She feels violated that Collins would be so bold, treat her like she was cheap. Some men, and women too, think just because she is a dancer, she is trashy, or horny or worse. She is horny, but that is beside the point.

Johara/Jackie turns to go and something in her can't resist a parting shot. "Sorry, Mr Collins, it's just you and your hand tonight. Or better yet, have your wife take care of you. You want a happy ending to your birthday? Go home to your wife." She turns from him and slams the trunk closed.