I’m so thrilled to host an original story by Jaimie of Jamie’s Erotica. She writes the kind of erotica I admire and aspire to: confident, atmospheric, sensual, and completely unafraid to let tension simmer before everything finally boils over. It is lush, luscious, and lascivious all at the same time.

You can feel the heat in Seville and the pulse of the music, smell Leo’s pure masculinity, taste his arousal, bask in the tension between them. It’s sexy in that way the very best erotica is sexy: not just because of what the characters do, but because of the anticipation, rhythm, and emotional momentum carrying you there.

“El Amor y el Flamenco” is what literary, high quality erotica looks like. I’m so lucky to have discovered this beautiful writing, and the lovely person behind it. Do yourself a huge favour and check out Jaimie’s site. All of her writing is gorgeous, and so are her self-shot photos! She also has a stories on FrolicMe and at Girl On The Net. I know you’ll enjoy them as much as I do; Jaimie is a rare and wonderful talent!

El Amor y el Flamenco (Love and Flamenco)

I’m waiting outside in the heat of the late afternoon and, frankly, beginning to wonder what I’m doing here. He’s clearly forgotten me. The only question now is how long I’m willing to wait before accepting the humiliation of being stood up and returning to my hotel, where, at least, I could go and drown my sorrows at the pool bar.

My friends would be waiting for me there, and I’d have to endure a certain amount of ridicule, for sure.

I check my watch again. Ten minutes late. I shift my weight from one foot to another as my mind goes back to last night, the reason why I’m standing here in a black dress and not lying in a bikini on a sun lounger with a margarita in my hand.

My friends and I have been in Seville for two days. I’d convinced them that we should do something a little different for our girls’ summer holiday this year and, instead of taking refuge in the familiarity of the Costas or Balearics, should try to fit in at least some culture alongside the sun-worshipping and bar hopping.

After going to see a flamenco show two years ago and deciding that it was the sexiest and most passionate thing I’d ever seen on a stage, I started flamenco dancing lessons with a Spanish ex-pat at a local dance studio every Monday evening. I’ve been obsessed with the idea of visiting the home of flamenco since then.

Seville was everything and more than I’d imagined; one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever visited.

Yesterday, we were making our way back to the hotel when I noticed a sign outside a small bar. Not a flamenco joint but a music bar. My friends agreed, grudgingly, to go with me that evening.

The bar was tiny. More like a corridor than an actual room. There was a bar at one end and at the other a small platform where the four-piece band were crammed, elbow to elbow. The band leader was a young woman, mid-twenties, who was a startlingly good pianist.

I loved the salsa-infused grooves. My friends didn’t and left after half an hour.

Midway through the second and final set, the pianist spotted someone she knew at the back of the bar. There was a conversation, called across the heads of the patrons, and a few beckoning gestures. Eventually, a beautiful young man, lean with shoulder-length black hair, came forward. The pianist called a tune and began to play. It was – I realised with a thrill – flamenco. What followed was one of the most exciting live performances I’ve ever seen. The young man was a flamenco dancer and, no more than maybe eight feet away from me, he danced to the tune his friend was playing.

Time stopped. I had to remind myself to breathe.

I lingered after the music finished for the evening, trying to keep my glances at the dancer as unobvious as I could manage. Despite my efforts at discretion, his eyes and mine did eventually meet. Instead of flashing him a seductive smile, what I did instead was immediately blush and look down at the – suddenly highly interesting – table top. Fuck. Not exactly the sexy, confident image I wanted to portray.

‘Hola.’ I looked up, and there he was. ‘English?’

‘How did you know? Is it that obvious?’

‘Quite obvious, yes. Can I sit?’

He introduced himself as Leo and charmed me by asking plenty of questions, seemingly genuinely interested in my response. He seemed amused by the revelation that I’d been taking Flamenco lessons.

‘I teach too.’ He revealed. ‘I do not think I could teach an English person, though! No, no. This is impossible!’ He laughed, and I tried my best not to look indignant. 

‘But maybe you can show me?’ he said with a mischievous smirk, indicating the area of floor where he’d danced earlier. 

‘Here? No way!’

‘Ah. You’re not a performer. Yes. I understand.’ He laughed again at my obvious flusterment. ‘If you like, you come to my studio tomorrow. Five of the clock? Maybe you can learn something from a real baile?’ I wasn’t sure if this was just him making fun of me again, but I nodded my acceptance. 

‘Good. Here.’ He fished about in his wallet, producing a battered business card. ‘Is here. Not far.’ He stood, then a final question: ‘What size feet?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘For shoes. Unless you bring your flamenco shoes with you?’

‘Umm, forty.’

‘Vale. Five tomorrow then. Buenas noches, little bailaora.’ 

Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t brought a dress or skirt suitable for dancing, so I went shopping the next morning, finding a black mid-calf circle dress in a soft, sheer fabric. I examined myself in the full-length shop mirror, imagining how I might look to him. Hopefully, like a serious student. Hopefully, sexy and desirable.

Here he comes at last. Just as well. I was about to cut my losses and head back to the hotel.

He’s dressed casually: faded black jeans, a loose white shirt, rolled to the elbows and buttoned only halfway up his torso. His hair is scraped back into a pony-tail. He carries a beaten black leather bag over his shoulder. He smiles as he recognises me.

‘So, you really are interested in flamenco, huh?

‘Yes. Hello again.’ I give him my best winning smile, which he ignores, and he rummages in his pocket, producing a key fob.

‘Well then. Let’s see how much you know.’

Having let us in, he shows me upstairs to a large open space. The walls are broken plaster, revealing the dusty brickwork beneath. The floor is worn: dark boards, probably centuries old. The light comes through two huge windows, filling the space with a golden wash. There’s a small jumble of dark bentwood bistro chairs in one corner, piled in together, but otherwise, the space is bare. The contrast with the dance studio of my teacher at home couldn’t be starker. No pictures of dancers on the wall, no water fountain, no coloured lighting. This is bare, spartan, utilitarian. This is a boxing gym for dance.

I give an involuntary shiver of delight.

‘OK, little English dancer. Here. Shoes.’ He produces a cloth shoe bag and pulls a pair of women’s flamenco shoes from it.

He pulls a chair out, turning it towards me.

‘Sit.’

I sit

He kneels and pulls my sandals from me, replacing them with the flamenco shoes. I watch his dark, long fingers tying the laces. They’re finer than my shoes at home. Supple black leather. Nail taps on the toe and heel.

‘How they fit? Good?’

I stood and took a step forward and back.

‘Yes. Perfect.’

‘OK. Your teacher – she Spanish, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Vale. We will see how good she is.’

He turned and strode to a PA speaker positioned in one corner, fiddled with it and his phone, and suddenly the sound of flamenco guitar filled the room. ‘You know palmas?’

I nodded.

He placed his hands in front of his left shoulder and began to clap a rhythm. Following the guitar but subverting it, skating across the pulse. Nodding at me, I raised my hands and followed, finding a contrasting rhythm which danced against his. He shifted his claps, and a polyrhythm emerged, weaving sinuously around the music, feeding it.

Oh my god. This. This was really happening. Not in some dance studio in rainy old England but here in the heat of Andalucía.

The rhythm shifts again, and I follow. His eyes, glued to mine – inscrutable – as I shift around the rhythm, growing in confidence as we continue this motionless dance.

‘Enough!’ He stops abruptly. ‘You’ve been taught well, so I will not go so easy on you now.’ Let’s really see what you can do, yes?’

I nodded. My heart was thudding in my chest. Oh fuck.

He goes to his bag again and pulls from it a bottle and two small glasses. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he sloshes the red-brown fluid into both and holds one to me. ‘Drink with me.’ He commands.

I take the glass and, following his lead, toss it back, wincing—Spanish brandy.

‘Now. Dance for me.’

He fiddles with his phone once more, and the space is filled again with flamenco guitar. Urgent. Ardent.

I grab my dress and swirl it, stomping out a staccato pulse in symmetry with the rhythm of the guitar while he stands, feet from me. His eyes boring into me. The intensity of his stare isn’t helping. I burn.

‘Stop! Again’

I jolt to a halt, refocus and begin again. His gaze is eviscerating.

‘Stop! Begin again!’

I begin again, yearning for his approval.

‘Stop!’ He curses – I assume – in Spanish. ‘Like you mean it! Now!

This time, he allows me to go on a little longer, walking slowly around me like a circling predator. The music abruptly stops, and when I turn to look, he’s stuffing his things back into his bag. I stand with my arms limp.

He approaches and takes my chin in his strong fingers.

‘Flamenco is not just nice dance. You do not understand! Flamenco is protest. Flamenco is passion and anger and intent.’ He leans in until our faces are only a few inches apart. ‘Flamenco is not lovemaking. Is fucking! I cannot teach, if you do not understand this.’ He releases me and makes towards the door, glancing back at me. ‘Leave shoes and pull door shut when you leave, English girl.’ He remembers that he must switch off the PA speaker and detours back. I watch him mutely.

He turns back to the door, but just before he reaches it, I have.

‘Where the hell are you going? You were going to teach me, and all you’ve done is behave like a dick!’ He looks up at my, no doubt, red face. Expressionless, he turns away again, and before he can grasp the handle, my smaller hand is gripping his wrist.

‘Don’t ignore me! Who the hell do you think you are?’ He pulls his hand, but I grasp

 harder. ‘Treat me with some fucking respect!’

He turns towards me again, and I see that the look of disdainful dismissal is replaced with a smile, and I notice – how have I not before – that his eyes are turquoise blue. ‘You do have passion, then?’ I have simultaneous urges to slap his face and fuck him.

‘You bastard.’

‘Sí, bueno. You… how you say? ‘Hold that thought.’ He shakes his hand free, turns and returns to the room. In a few moments, he’s shed his street shoes and pulled on black suede flamenco boots, and the sounds of the guitar are filling the room.

I start again and make a conscious effort to hold on to the feelings of anger and humiliation. And lust; there’s no point denying it. Soon, I don’t have to think about it: it’s there. It always has been, but now I can feel it welling up from me at will. All those times when I’ve felt small, vulnerable, overlooked; all the times that I’ve been swept up in a red haze of lust. All of those emotions now inform my steps, my gestures. He’s already taught me more than I could have imagined.

He watches me, at first. Still inscrutable, but after a couple of minutes, he steps in towards me, sweeping his shirt up and over his head in a single move and casting it aside. He’s now naked from his leather belt up: Jesus, he’s beautiful.

He begins to dance, and the transportation is complete. We exist now in a bubble, a space outside of time where it’s just us: him and me, and I have never intended my movements more than I have at this moment. Seconds last hours, and I’m completely aware of myself and the air filling my lungs; the whisper of blood in my veins and the heat building between my hips. That yearning; that ache.

We might have danced for five minutes. It might have been twenty or longer. I’ve lost track of time.

We’re both covered in a sheen of perspiration. I wait, hands on hips, while he retrieves from his bag a bottle of water. I take several gulps before passing it to him to drain. I notice he has an orange in his hand, which he peels deftly, tossing the skin to the edge of the room. He breaks the fruit in half, then places a segment into my hand.

‘Eat; is good.’

The tang from the tartness of the Seville orange makes my saliva glands pulse. It isn’t the only thing pulsing. The way those strong brown fingers break the fruit apart, gentle but purposeful, his skin glistening with juice… I have an image of his fingers gently but purposefully handling other fruit, spreading it, opening it, slick and plentiful with other juices. He holds out another segment, but instead of depositing it in my hand, he holds it to my mouth, feeding me. I close my mouth about it, my lips brushing his fingers as I do.

His eyes drill into me again as he eats a segment, not breaking my gaze as he swallows. Another segment peeled and glistening held to my mouth, and I bite down on it, my mouth flooded with tangy orange, all of my senses tingling. His index finger catches the drip of juice that trickles down my chin, and he puts it to his mouth, catching it with his dark red lips.

In a moment, his mouth is on mine. I’m not sure who moved first; perhaps we both did, but we’re now grabbing at each other. His hands are on my arse, dragging me against him; my arms are wrapped about his neck, hands now in his hair, holding his face. I realise that for the last half hour or so I’ve been consumed with the urge for him to be inside me, completely.

He’s pressed against me, and I feel the swelling through his jeans and the thin, clingy material of my dress. It’s as though the kiss, that sudden fracturing of any residual ice, has allowed me to realise just how turned on I’ve been – watching that lean, taut torso stalking me, his powerful gestures and graceful sweeps. I was wet before this; I’m allowed now to acknowledge it and surrender.

His lips break from mine, and I lunge my face at his neck, smothering it in kisses. His hands are pulling at my dress, upwards, ravelling it until I feel his hands on the soft skin of my thighs and now, slipping round onto the globes of my arse. Again, he pulls me onto him, but now it’s skin on skin, flesh on flesh as his powerful hands mash into me. I give a gasp which is more like a squeal, and he repositions his hands again, hooking thumbs into the sides of my knickers and sliding them down my thighs. There’s no teasing; just need. He needs to be able to get at me, and my black thong is a temporary distraction, easily dealt with. I needn’t have bothered picking out the sexiest knickers I’d brought on this holiday: he wasn’t going to see them.

They drop to my ankles.

His breath blasts hot against the side of my face now, just like a bull. I’d stand about as much chance of withstanding a charging bull, frankly.

What’s ‘toxic masculinity’ without the ‘toxic’ bit and the ‘masculinity’ dialled up to ten? This is it. The sheer force of his maleness: his strength, control, and his need for me, is overwhelming. Yet, as frightening as that could be, this masculine force is in my service and makes me feel not only safe in his arms but similarly needy. I have to give myself without condition: surrendering all to his tender brutality.

He continues clamping me to him with one hand, his erection hard against me. He removes the other, brings it up and brushes hair from my cheek, then, gently but with purpose that doesn’t invite debate, takes one of my arms from around his neck, grasping my wrist and moves it down, moving back just enough to reposition it on the swelling which is threatening to break his fly.

I moan.

I swear it: I actually moan with lust and his cock jerks against the weight of my hand upon it and I have no real control now as I loosen my grip around his neck and slide down the front of him – the hot damp skin of his body; my lips dragging across his hard stomach.

The taste of male sweat. I could just drink it, lapping at him.

It’s the work of a few moments as I tear open the button and yank the zip down. There won’t be any teasing from me either. Can’t be. Oh, god, oh Jesus, let me have him. Let me. Any second longer that I’m separated from his cock is too long.  And then – suddenly – I’m not, and it’s rearing up in front of me, and my hand is on the base of it, in the soft hair there, and the hot, hard flesh is pressed against my cheek as I breathe him in. I try to wrap my whole mouth around the shaft, my breath coming in short, hot, out-of-control gasps.

His hands now are on my head, and he’s holding me firmly but also caressing me and it’s his turn to moan now as my lips slide over the swollen head; the ammoniac taste from a dribble of his pre-cum making my cunt ache.

I’m not a deep-throat expert, never having had much success at mastering my gag reflex, but I’m not thinking clearly – or at all – and have to pull back for a few seconds as tears prick my eyes.

Get a grip.

I need to recapture the complete control over myself that I had while we danced. I recentre and advance again, sliding my lips down that throbbing cock as he now seems a little less in control. We’re still dancing – there’s an ebb and flow – and now I have him where I want him. I wrap my arms around his hard thighs and clamp my hands on his ass now – fuck, has this man been sculpted from marble?

I’m lost in this simple act: my mouth sliding up and down his shaft, stopping to swirl my tongue around his glans before continuing, and although I have a need as well, I would love nothing more than for this beauty to empty himself into my greedy mouth, swallowing frantically in my desperation not to waste a drop.

He mutters something in Spanish and gently guides me back to my feet.

‘Hold on,’ he says gruffly. I obey as he stoops; his forearms catching me around my legs and hauling me into the air with the seeming effortlessness of a dancer’s strength. I yelp in surprise and excitement, wrapping my arms tightly about his neck and my legs around his hips. His mighty cock bumps against me.

‘Put it in you,’ he instructs, and I release one arm and, reaching under myself, catch it and position him at the saturated, sloppy entrance to my sex. I moan again, and he lowers me slightly as I clamp around his neck, burying my face into him. He bumps up with his hips, and he’s in me, and I’m groaning into the salty sweat-bathed skin of this bull of a man, fixing my mouth to him and tasting him even as he slides into me, filling my cunt.

I’ve never been fucked like this before. His strength is as much fuelling my lust as the cock which is stretching me out now. Our rhythm matches the pulse of the guitar, my hips undulating – not willing for too much of him to slip from me and aching to have the last centimetre buried to the hilt, which, with every synchronised hip-roll, he is, his loins locked to mine, that throbbing dick, penetrating into my centre.

I’m trembling all over, sparking sensations radiating from my clit as he grinds against my mound, and I clasp, wrapped around him while he spears me, running me through with each jolt of his hips.

Taking me by surprise with the speed of its approach, I orgasm, clinging to him as I gasp and shudder, shaking in his arms.

Even with his strength, he cannot maintain this position indefinitely. He moves, stepping carefully, still buried inside me as the aftershocks and jolts of my climax continue pulsing through me. He’s lowering me now and himself, and I feel the toes of my shoes touching the oak boards again. He has sat on one of the bistro chairs, and now he’s under me, and I’m sitting astride him. It’s my turn to lead the dance.

I clamp his head to me and begin to undulate my hips, rocking back and forward: driving down with my full weight on each forward thrust. Deep, I need him deep in me: deeper, deepest. My juices – flowing freely from me – are streaming down his shaft. I don’t need to be able to see; I know the pulsating ache which signals that I’m soaking him as he clasps his hands, again, on the soft skin of my arse as he pulls me onto him. He wants to be in me as deeply as possible, too.

I understand what he means by fucking rather than lovemaking, but this is the most intimate fucking I’ve ever experienced. The line of demarcation is nuanced, I decide.

I’ve barely ceased orgasming, and it’s rushing up on me again. He’s grabbing at me more firmly, too, driving up with his hips.

Oh fuck. I’m there.

He releases my arse and grasps my face in his hands, staring into my eyes; so intense, so, oh fuck, oh fuck. His cock is pulsing, and I can feel it shooting deep into me as I cry out; cresting an orgasm that feels as though his manhood has pushed its way right through the centre of me, breaking me into shuddering, moaning fragments.

*

After leaving the studio, we go to his small apartment.

I’m already becoming familiar with the way that those eyes – seemingly intense by default – seem to bore into my soul while he whispers to me in Spanish; his cock jerking inside as it shoots wads of semen into my body. I’d keep doing this until he has no stamina left for me, but he has an appointment tonight which he can’t break. Fortunately – he confirms with a gentle kiss – I’m invited, if I wish to accompany him?

That’s how I came to be sitting at this little table now with a brown ceramic jug of sangria in front of me. I tip some into my glass, the cubes of ice clinking merrily and swirling in the ruby-red liquid, slices of orange and lemon bobbing. I’m his guest to see his group perform tonight, and I can’t imagine being happier in this moment.

 Later, he’ll take me for tapas and then back to his bed.

I messaged my friends to say that I’d be out late, maybe until tomorrow, and not to worry. They’re drunk, having spent the afternoon at the pool bar. I’m pleased they’re having a good time. Let them drink and be happy.

And as for me?

I’m drunk on Seville.

*

Glossary:

Flamenco: The folk dance and music tradition originating in the region of Andalucia in Spain. Complex and rich, it has at times been a vehicle for protest, including against the regime of General Franco.

Palmas: Handclapping, in which each participant improvises a (often very simple) rhythm that fits the pulse of the music. With multiple participants, complex, evolving rhythms can emerge.

Baile: A male flamenco dancer

Bailaora: A female flamenco dancer

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