Los Cinco Hermanos Ch. 01

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Wherein I get stranded, take a chance and meet some amazing guys…

Author’s note: this is part 1 of a 12-part story arc which I’ve put under Group Sex because it involves the adventures of a thirty-something woman and a posse of young men, self-styled The Five Brothers, along with a number of their friends. Like all my stories, it begins with character development and in this case, over several chapters. The chapters can have the elements of a number of different categories and I will try to give advance warning. This one is primarily Mature, Group and a lot of introductory background…

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

This wasn’t like me.

I was the one to sit home weekends, pigging out on dried fruit, frozen yogurt and Diet Dr. Pepper while watching black-and-white reruns from the 60’s or engrossed in the Syfy Channel. And occasionally wearing out the batteries on my California Exotics Waterproof Rabbit.

It was definitely not like me to be sitting at the bar in the slightly sleazy lounge near my hotel, on a Friday night, watching the testosterone-based eye candy walking by. Of course, it wasn’t like me to be on the road over a weekend, either. I was usually careful to be back in my own bed by Friday night.

Tonight was different, insofar as the ding-dong that was running our roll-out project had bolloxed things up but good. So instead of a mid-week implementation and a late flight Friday night, I was staying over while the software hotshots figured out what went wrong. I wasn’t going to be teaching our clients’ people about their new system until it was up and running, and I couldn’t go home until they’d been blessed with all the knowledge I could impart.

I have no idea what wild hair got up my ass, but I was feeling so disgusted at being trapped in L.A., that I decided to take a pass on room service and go find something in the way of a real, brick and mortar restaurant. I found one – a nice Italian place with heavenly scents wafting on the breeze – sandwiched between a strip club and the aforementioned sleazy bar.

Deciding there were other thirty-something people walking around in the neighborhood and in particular, frequenting Antonio’s (the restaurant), I decided to put on my Big Girl and brave trying it. It turned out to be well above average. A wide variety of Italian cuisine and a decent wine list determined my treat to myself… Pollo alla Cacciatore with a carafe of the house Chianti. I let myself get lost in fantasies of dining with a mysterious stranger in a Florentine café along the banks of the Arno, watching the Medici’s coach roll by while people scattered out of their way as they toured their Grand Duchy of Tuscany.

Or so my mediocre romantic fantasies went. Most of my real world relationships were dead before they started. Married early, divorced, no kids… a career took the place of a family. It also took the place of a good portion of my social life, which is why I went through batteries so quickly. My libido wasn’t a problem. Satisfying it was. I had become very good friends with my Rabbit.

That wild hair was still tickling my ass when I left the restaurant, delightfully sated – for food, at least – and slightly buzzed from the wine. I was about to head back to the hotel when I realized there was some decent rock/blues/jazz coming from the bar next door. Listening closely, to make sure it wasn’t coming from the strip joint, I decided to investigate. I love jazz and blues music, and these days it is almost impossible to find a place with live music that isn’t some kind of hip-hop/rap crap.

When I entered, there was a small vestibule with an old, unused coat check room to the side. Straight ahead there was a long bar hugging the right wall and the rest of the room opened to the left. There was a stripe of tables down the middle, then a dance floor and then a stage, where the band was playing. Beyond the main room, there was an anteroom with additional tables. And the whole place had “atmosphere”… dim lighting, the smell of beer, cigarettes and dope, and the sound of conversation drowned out by the band.

The band caught my attention. Three guys, two girls, had to be in their late twenties, maybe early thirties, and at the moment they were playing some of the smoothest electric blues I’d heard in forever. One of the girls was on bass guitar and the other was playing rhythm. The three guys had lead guitar, drums and keyboard. The bass drumhead said “Fuzion”, which I presumed was their name. It would make sense, since the music they were playing was an eclectic mix – a fusion – of a lot of different styles.

So I walked on up to the bar and spotting a seat about halfway down, eased over to it. There wasn’t a drink, or anything marking the spot, so I slid out of my coat, hung it on the back of the barstool and sat down. As the bartender came over, I glanced to either side. To my left was an attractive couple, backs to the bar, definitely interested in the band. To my right were a couple of apparently kartal escort single guys – they didn’t seem like a couple – also paying attention to the band but surreptitiously giving me the eye.

Again, totally atypical me, I decided if they wanted to look, so did I. So as I settled in, I gave both of them a very solid once-over. It seemed only fair, since they were doing the same thing. Actually, so was all the eye candy walking around. Definitely scoping each other out.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, and I turned my attention to him. I could go back to the guys later.

“Something red and reasonably good,” I told him. “What have you got?”

“A Cabernet or a Zinfandel, mostly,” he told me. “Inglenook if you want Napa Valley or Yellow Tail if you want Australian. That’s about it for the ‘good stuff’.”

“A glass of the Yellow Tail Zinfandel, if you please, sir,” I smiled to him. He just nodded, returning my smile, and headed off to get my drink. I went back to perusing the guys. They must have finished their inspection of me because they were back to looking at the band… mostly. I caught one of them pointing out a pretty young girl, over by the guy playing lead guitar. As in, pretty, young, and pretty young.

These two gentlemen, for want of a better term, next to me weren’t all that bad looking. Had to be mid-20’s, both well groomed, trim… couldn’t see their asses, but their shoulders, waists and hair looked nice. Once of them had dark, medium length hair combed back into what my grandmother’s generation would have called a D-A… a “duck’s ass”. The other had short, sandy blond hair, almost a military look. I guess I wasn’t too careful about my sizing them up.

As my drink arrived, the blond turned to me and said, “Hi. I’m Dave. I hope you like what you see. Would you like to dance?”

That caught me completely flat-footed.

“Um… uh, I don’t know,” I stammered. “I don’t dance much.” He kept looking at me rather expectantly. “Oh, sorry…”, I recovered. “Hi. I’m Elizabeth – Beth, for short. And yes, I liked what I saw.”

He held his hand out. “Dance, Beth-for-short?” he asked again.

The band was just wrapping up the bluesy jam they’d been doing and I had a moment of panic. If they played another slow song, it meant slow dancing with a complete stranger. If it was a quicker jazz or rock piece, I could probably do okay. But he’d still be a stranger. “Hi, I’m Dave” didn’t count. Then “Fuzion” surprised the hell out of me. They started an electrified rock version of Glen Miller’s “In the Mood.”

This was swing. This I could do. Jitterbug. Perfect!

“Sure,” I smiled, slowly standing up… then fumbling around, trying to figure out what to do with my purse.

“I’ll watch it for you,” the dark haired fellow told me.

“That’s Paul,” Dave informed. “A buddy of mine. He’s cool. He’ll save your seat and watch your purse, no problem.”

“Thank you, Paul,” I nodded to him, leaving my purse on my seat, knowing it might be a mistake, and turning to follow Dave. And to pause for a moment as my breathing stopped and my uterus clenched. Hard. And my pussy.

Dave, now standing before me with his hand out to escort me, was a hunk. A major hunk. I’d noticed the cotton dress shirt he’d been wearing, sleeves rolled up, when he was sitting next to me. It looked nice on him. Now I could see that it was unbuttoned in front and he had on some kind of stretchy Lycra-spandex-cotton-whatever “Dago-T” on under it, and the man had abs to die for! And pecs! And buff shoulders, and chiseled forearms, and a tight waist and oh-my-God I was going to be in trouble. Addle-pated schoolgirl came to mind. And that’s not good in your thirties.

I looked up from staring at his chest, to his face, his slight smile and his electric blue eyes. Oh, fuck! He had to have gorgeous eyes…

I looked down, embarrassed at my reaction, and that was a mistake, too. Nicely tailored slacks, probably Hardwick or Corbin or something like it, and since he was turned sideways to me I could see his tight, well-muscled ass… I was in so much trouble! But right now, it was just an invitation to dance, and dammit, I deserved some attention! Or so I told myself as I took his hand, trying to ignore the shudder that ran through me, and let him lead me to the dance floor.

We reached an open spot and he took both my hands without a word and slipped into a classic jitterbug. It took me a moment to sync up with him, because of being surprised, but it quickly dissipated as I got lost in one of the things I truly enjoyed and seldom had anyone to do it with. He was good, and pretty soon his strong lead had me doing moves I hadn’t done since high school. He was dancing an East Coast Swing pattern and it felt easy to twirl in his guided turns, to move side-by-side and back, to move a breath away from a kiss and slide back, teasing with a bit of hip shimmy and loving the look in his eyes as he followed my moves. maltepe escort bayan

I was rapidly getting lost in him, and I didn’t care.

I was disappointed when the song wound up, and it probably showed. I started to turn to leave the dance floor, but Dave caught my arm.

“Another?” he asked. “I like dancing with you.”

“Me, too,” I admitted. “You’re a damn good lead. Where’d you learn jitterbug?”

“My mom and grandma,” he told me. “They’d go on and on about how the simple swing dances were so much better than the ‘vertical fucking’, as my grandma rather colorfully put it. I had them show me, and I liked it. How about you? Where did you learn?”

Fuzion slid into their next song and I was surprised that it was a Springsteen number, “Dancin’ in the Dark”, a good solid rock beat good for swing. Dave put out his hands and I figured what the hell? I’m loving this…

Conversation over the driving rock was impossible, so we just fell back into dancing and I fell back into his lead. He was getting a little more than suggestive at times, but I really didn’t care. Actually, I really liked it. I tried talking again as Springsteen faded into a sustained reverb.

“My mom, too,” I told him. “We used to mess around in the living room. She loved swing and got me hooked on it. I’m damned glad you asked me to dance.”

“Paul and I did the rock-paper-scissors thing for it,” he smiled and I felt my breath catch. “I won.”

“Why?” I asked, but before he could answer, the band slipped into Eagles’ “Take It To The Limit”. I figured we’d walk off the floor at that point and again started to turn away.

“You’re going to bail on a waltz?” he asked, and held out his arms.

Oh, my God, he waltzed, too!

“Oh, no…” I stumbled. “I just figured, a slow dance… you know… you might want to take a break…”

“Please, indulge me,” he asked, still holding his arms out. I sure as hell wasn’t going to say no!

I stepped forward and he pulled me into an almost perfect cage. I loved it. But I was also starting to get a bit randy and this much younger man – well, maybe much younger… not sure on that one – anyway, this very sensual and sexy man was aggravating it. I didn’t want to insult him. But maybe a little flirting?

“You know, you can relax our dance space a bit, if you want,” I told him. “Even if you are professionally trained.”

He chuckled, but he also eased up, drawing me in. Oh, my God, he felt good…

“I’m not professionally trained,” he told me, leaning his head next to mine, to talk into my ear without shouting. “My mom and grandma gave me a solid background in ballroom dancing, but no real classes or anything. I like it. With the right partner, ballroom and especially Latin ballroom can be a lot more intimate than any of the ‘dirty dancing’ that passes for social intercourse these days.”

I pulled back a little to look into his face. I was probably going to regret soaking my panties later, but right then I wanted to look into his eyes.

“So, Dave…” I asked slowly. “Um… if you don’t mind… how old are you, exactly? You look young, but you speak with the wisdom of the ancients.”

He chuckled again. “Not the ancients, I assure you,” he told me. “Just good manners, I hope. I just turned twenty-five. I hope that’s not too young for you.”

“Too young?” I iterated, rapidly going through all the things he might be too young for and not finding anything that would stop me. The randy part of me was really starting to stand up on her hind legs.

“No, you’re not too young,” I told him. “Of course, that begs the question, too young for what? I mean, really, Dave… how old do you think I am? Do you think I’m one of those MILF’s or Cougars or whatever they’re called these days?”

“I hope so,” he muttered softly, then went on a bit firmer. “I’d say you’re about thirty-three to thirty-five,” he answered seriously. “Middle-class, good job, takes care of herself. Probably single or divorced from the lack of a wedding ring. Generally conservative from your clothes, but not anal about it. You like music and dancing and feel great to be with. Paul’s going to be envious as hell that I’m hogging you.”

“Thirty-seven,” I told him, “and thanks for the compliment. Yes, middle-class, divorced, no kids, travel for my job and usually stay at home. Is that too boring for you?”

“Not at all,” he told me, drawing me a bit closer. “There are definite advantages to ‘older women’, especially when they let their adventurous sides out. I’m enjoying one right now. You know how to dance sensuously and intimately without making a spectacle of it. You do know what MILF stands for, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I do…” I breathed. “Is that what you have in mind?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Right now, I’m enjoying dancing with you. I’m going to have to give Paul a shot, or he’ll be insufferable tonight.”

It was my turn to chuckle. “It’s nice to be appreciated,” escort pendik I told him.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, drawing me in even closer so that my head was on his shoulder. I was definitely waking up in my nether regions.

“So what do you do for a living?” I asked, letting myself collapse into his embrace.

“Navy,” he told me. “Just finished four years active duty. Now I’ve got two years active reserve, then two years IRR. I’ve got about a month’s leave to burn before reporting to my next station. What about you? What do you do to pay the bills?”

“Teacher,” I told him. “Medical Information Control Systems. I teach corporate and hospital personnel how to use my company’s order-entry and tracking software. Boring.”

“Not at all,” he smiled graciously as the music ended and we slowed to a stop. “Band’s going to take a break. Let’s go back and rescue your purse – and give Paul a bio-break. He probably needs it.”

“As do I,” I smiled. “Thank you, Dave… you are making my night.”

“Well maybe we can do even better,” he smiled, then guided me back towards my spot at the bar.

Paul was watching with curiosity as we approached and my purse was exactly where I had left it.

“Paul, buddy,” Dave addressed him as we reached the bar, “Beth-for-short is an amazing ballroom dancer and quite a bit of fun. I figure I’d piss you off if I monopolized her all evening. I’ll watch the seats if you two need to run to the head. I’d really appreciate it… Ms. Elizabeth (emphasis his)… if you’d come on back afterwards. I truly enjoy your company.”

“Oh, bet on it, Mr. Dave,” I told him. “I’ll be right back. And thanks, again, Paul for watching my stuff.”

“Not a problem, I assure you,” he smiled as he stood to head for the foyer. He was slimmer than Dave, and had dark eyes to go with the dark hair, but he had a catlike grace and he was every bit as effective on my female bits as Dave had been.

I made my way to the Ladies’ room and waited my turn – everybody headed for the ‘loo when the band took a break – and eventually finished touching up my face and taking a hard look at myself in the mirror. Depending on which part of my self-image processor was online, either I didn’t look too bad or I looked like a wreck.

I mean, I’m not that bad, until you put me with a group of college girls barely out of diapers. Then I look frumpy, no matter what I do. It’s an age thing. But Dave was right, there are advantages to adventurous older women – in this case, mid-thirties – although I really don’t consider myself adventurous. I’ve had some wild sex, both with my ex and a couple of men I dated afterwards, so anal sex and tie-’em-up games weren’t all that strange to me. In fact, with a partner I could trust, I really liked them.

And I guess being “full figured” could be attractive. I wasn’t up to “voluptuous”, yet, as far as I was concerned. My tits are a bit big, being a 34D-26-37 at 5’7″ tall, and there’s definitely a bit of “comfort padding” spread around my butt, hips and belly, but I do work out some and watch my diet, and I keep my weight hovering around 125 lbs. with occasional excursions to 135 tops, so it’s not like I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy or anything.

I did have to wonder what those hunks Dave and Paul saw in me, since they could probably pick up any woman in the place, and I also wondered what Dave had meant by ‘maybe we can do even better.’

I headed back and found Dave and Paul chatting with a third fellow, also around mid-twenties by my guess. This one was thin, like Paul, and dressed in a coat, open shirt and slacks. He had short red hair and a goatee to match. When I got closer, I realized he had green eyes. Another one for the ‘good looking’ books.

“Elizabeth,” Dave addressed me as I approached, putting out his hand to take my arm and guide me in. Somehow I liked his use of my more formal given name. “I’d like you to meet Jerry, another friend of Paul’s and mine. It’s his place we’re staying at. Jerry, I’d like you to meet Ms. Elizabeth… sorry, don’t have a last name. She is a music aficionado and danseur majesteuex. We’re enjoying her company this evening.”

“Fantastic!” Jerry turned to me. “Will you be coming out to the house?”

I looked at him blankly. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

“We haven’t filled her in on that, Jerry,” Dave jumped in, then turned to me.

“Paul’s on break from college,” he explained, “and I’m on leave, so we’re staying at Jerry’s. Paul and Jerry and I, and a couple of others, are all friends from high school. We all sort of decided to get together for a few weeks and Jerry’s was the best place. It’s up in the hills. He’s got a pool and spa, tennis court, in-home theatre… a bunch of other stuff. He’s done pretty well. We were all going to go back there tonight. From Jerry’s comment, I’d say you’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Jerry, and I appreciate the offer,” I told him while an unruly part of my mind ran wild with what I could do with five hunks, one of whom was obscenely rich. “Let’s see how the night plays out. I’m staying nearby and intended to go back to my room tonight. But I’ve got a rental car, so I can be flexible.”

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