The Woman in the Blue Dress

 a poem by sc sanders

The color of her dress was truly striking

a blend of azul blue and midnight navy.

Rich, elegant, not overstated

No gratuitous cleavage, but enough to keep me

entranced.

Her legs are long and shapely

teasing out from the slit of her gown,

impossible to ignore.

Her rhinestone heels caught the light,

they sculpted her calves to perfection,

ankles delicate as though unreal.

Her hair cascaded down her back to her waist

a waterfall of waves and curls

styled to movie-star glory.

Simply stunning.

And here she was, this beautiful vixen,

at the fabled Fontainebleau Hotel,

to have dinner with me.

Drinks first, at Collins.

Me, a Far Niente Chardonnay.

Her, a Vegas Vice.

The room couldn’t stop staring at her.

Neither could I.

Dinner was impulsive, Papi Steak

no reservation needed

at least,

not when you’ve got a woman like this on your arm.

“Please, Sir and Madame, right this way.”

“At the bar is perfect.”

We had Hamachi Crudo, for starters

We had a Snake River Farms Wagyu filet,

for the entree.

We had laughter.

We had flirtation.

Gazes that lingered too long.

Touches that started casually—

her hand grazing my arm,

my fingers brushing her hair from her face,

a palm resting on her thigh.

Each time returned,

each touch bolder.

The bar then erupted with showgirls,

music pounding, lights flashing,

the crowd alive with revelry.

Vegas, baby.

Pressed against each other,

we kissed again,

hungry now,

playful,

reckless.

My hand slid to her thigh,

drawing shapes across silk-smooth skin.

Circles. Lines. Even a heart.

Her legs parted slightly

an invitation?

I ventured higher.

The fingers found the lace of her panties—

Beyond that—heat, wetness, want.

She moaned softly, eyes half-closed,

then surrendered as I slipped inside.

She clenched, then yielded,

rocking to the rhythm of my hand.

The music roared.

No one knew.

But they might have guessed.

Then—

her hand found me.

Hard and raging

in her delicate grasp.

Her nails bit through denim,

stroking, squeezing.

We were both lost in trance,

caught between pulse and pleasure.

And then it happened—

her body arched,

her grip fierce on my wrist.

She came

shuddering, electric,

her nectar spilling into my palm.

Her thighs trembling,

panties drenched,

my fingers slick with her warmth.

Slowly, I withdrew,

sliding my hand free with discretion.

Too late.

Eyes were on her.

Mine most of all.

She still held me.

I raised my glistening fingers to her lips.

She took them in,

licked them clean,

slow and deliberate.

The Drink of the Gods

The crowd roared.

She blushed.

I smiled, triumphant.

Vegas Baby