My day was pretty much done, so I went to the Art Institute.

I always do when I’m in Chicago. I’ve been going there a lot over the last couple of years. I was working on a big project that took me to the city often, so when I wrapped up, I liked to decompress at the museum.  I know some of the rooms well enough to head for them without looking at a map, but I still prefer to wander first.

I moved slowly through the galleries, stopping where I felt like stopping. American paintings. Some French things. A room of portraits.

Then I noticed her.

Blonde. Good figure. A full-skirted dress that fit her well. Hose and heels. She stood in front of a painting and looked at it. Not glancing, taking it in.

I saw her again in the next room, then two rooms later. Once, she caught me looking and did not seem bothered by it. She looked back, then went on. After that, we kept crossing paths. Neither of us spoke.

I came back to the top of the great staircase. I saw her on a bench, looking up at the giant Tiffany window. I stood there a moment and looked, too. As much at her as at the window. Then I walked over.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “The waterfall is so vivid. I understand it was in a church for over a century.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is beautiful.”

“May I?”

She nodded, and I sat beside her.

Up close, she was even better looking than I had thought. Not young, thirty-something maybe, but fresh and self-possessed.

“I’m James, by the way,” I said. “I’ve noticed you several times walking through the galleries.”

She smiled at that.

“You’re very attractive,” I said. “Lovely dress. It suits you.”

She laughed softly. “You are very direct.”

“I’m from New York,” I said. “We have our faults. I always make time to come here when I’m in Chicago.”

“My name is Juanita,” she said. “From Bogotá. Colombia. Long-time Chicago girl.”

We shook hands.

We talked for a few minutes. The museum. Chicago. Travel. I made a couple of remarks that made her smile. One or two earned a small giggle.

Then she stood.

“C’mon,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

She took my hand before I could answer and led me through the galleries, moving quickly, as if she knew exactly where she was going.

She stopped in front of Archibald Motley’s Nightlife.

The painting seemed to move. A crowded club. People dancing, drinking, leaning close. Music you could almost hear.

“I love this painting,” she said. “So alive.”

“I can see why you like it,” I said. “You belong in it.”

She laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. I love to dance.”

“I’m not much in that department,” I said. “I’m kind of clumsy.”

We stood there a moment.

Then I said, “I have only this night in Chicago. I fly back to New York tomorrow. Would you join me for dinner?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“I have a better idea,” she said. “Come dancing with me.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “You don’t want me out on a dance floor. It’s a Class One felony.”

“Then I’ll have to put you in handcuffs.”

We both froze for a second after she said it. The words seemed to surprise her as much as they surprised me.

“I don’t know where that came from,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I said.

Then we both laughed.

“All right,” she said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You go back to your hotel. Shower. Change. Put on something that makes you feel brave.”

“Brave,” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ll need courage where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“Meet me at eight o’clock,” she said. “The Alhambra Palace. Randolph Street.”

I nodded.

“What happens there?”

“We have dinner,” she said. “And then I teach you salsa.”

“Eight,” I said.

“Eight,” she answered.

#

I arrived at the club a few minutes early and took a seat at the bar. The place was already alive. Recorded music drifted through the room as the band arrived and began to set up. People laughed, talked, and moved easily.

Then the door opened. I recognized her at once, though she looked nothing like the rather sedate, even conservative, office woman or school teacher I had met a few hours before at the museum. Here, she was a Latina knockout. It’s a cliche, but the appropriate adjective is fiery. Sultry, even. Her low-cut, fitted red dress showed her shape, full, rounded breasts tapering to her slim waist and out again to her hips. Higher heels. Hair down. She carried herself with confidence, as if she belonged there. Turns out she did. 

She spotted me and smiled. “You clean up well,” she said.

“So do you,” I answered. “You look fabulous.”

“You think?” she said, though her eyes spoke differently: Of course I do.

The host greeted her with a kiss to both cheeks, “Buenas noches, Juanita. Estás fabulosa esta noche. Muy sexy.”

“Muy buenas, Guillermo. Te ves sexy tú mismo. Este es mi amigo James."

“Good evening, James,” he said, reaching out his hand. “Welcome to the Alhambra.”

I flashed back briefly years and years ago, when I was backpacking in Europe and spent a night in the Alhambra. I had been traveling for a few days with another guy. We arrived in Grenada late and made our way through the narrow streets. We tried several hotels. All booked. Finally, at the last hotel before the entrance to the palace grounds, the desk clerk told us nothing was available. “Many people,” he said in English, “sleep tonight in the Alhambra.” My buddy and I trekked into the dark woods, found a spot, rolled out our sleeping bags and crashed. 

Guillermo led us to a small table near the dance floor. Juanita ordered dinner and two Mexican beers.

“Wow,” I said. “You must be a regular. How often do you come here?”

“Whenever I can,” she replied. “I like to dance at least a couple of nights a week. There are other Latin dance clubs, but this is my favorite.”

We hurried through our dinner, then the band started up. The floor filled quickly.

She stood and held out her hand.

“Time,” she said.

“All right,” I said. “But you’ve been warned.”

She laughed. “Just follow me.”

She placed one hand on my shoulder and took my other hand in hers.

“Left,” she said. “Now, right. Step back. Good.”

I stepped on her foot. She laughed again.

“You’re terrible,” she said.

“I told you.”

We tried again. After a few numbers, I improved a little. Very little.

Then the band took a break. Couples wandered back to their tables. We stayed where we were. Her hands rested on my shoulders. Mine stayed at her waist.

“I’m better at slow dancing,” I said.

“Show me.”

There was no music. Still, I pulled her close, and we began to sway. My cock hardened. Her eyes widened. Clearly pleased at the effect she was having on me, she pressed herself into me, massaging my hard-on with her thigh. She tilted her face upward, her red lips slightly parted. We kissed.

“Take me home, James.”

#

We found a taxi. She gave the driver the address. We rode in silence most of the way, kissing and gently exploring each other’s bodies. She massaged my hard cock through my trousers. I slipped a hand beneath the hem of her dress, gently caressing my way up her thigh, past the top of her stocking. I reached her panties, where I felt the unmistakable form of a stiffened penis, not hard, not fully erect, but firm and eager nonetheless. I stroked her through the silky underwear.

“You didn’t tell me,” I whispered.

“I meant to,” she whispered back. “Are you angry? Please don’t be angry.”

Though I had known her for only a few hours, I realized that at that moment, she revealed her most vulnerable self, fearful that I would reject her, accuse her of deceiving me and, perhaps, even hurt her. 

“No worries, darling. I’m anything but angry. I’m thrilled.”

“That’s a relief! Just so you know, I’m two-hundred percent woman.”

With that, we fully embraced each other, our mouths open, our tongues intertwining, hands roaming freely.

At her building, she paid the driver and led me inside. She unlocked the door, and we were barely through it when she pulled me to her. We kissed hard. She closed the door and began loosening my tie, opening my shirt. I slipped the zipper of her dress; it fell to the floor. She wore a black bra, thigh-high stockings and the tiny black panties I had already breached. 

She led me to the sofa; I shed my pants as she lay back. I turned her over and eased her panties down. I gently kneaded her cheeks, gradually spreading them apart.

I traced the crack of her bottom with my tongue. Down, over her pretty little pussy opening and down between her legs, her balls slapping my face.

“Oh, James, that feels so good!”

Then back up to her pink hole. I flicked my tongue over it. “Mmm,” I said. “You taste so good. Sweet. Nectar.” I continued spreading her with my hands, darting my tongue into her.

“I've never had a man lick me like this!”

She got wetter and wetter. I took one finger and circled the rim of her hole as I tongued it.

“Yes! Yes, yes!”

I pulled her up a bit so she was on her knees, just enough that I could reach around for her tiny clitty. I kept tonguing her as I stroked her. “You are so wet, Juanita. Wet and hard.” I pushed my finger into her. Then another finger. And another.

“Oh, yes. Make me cum, James. Make me cum.”

Soon, I had all of my fingers, half my hand in her, stretching her, getting her ready for my rock-hard cock. I pulled my hand away and replaced it with the head of my dick. It slipped in easily.

"Is that what you want, baby? My dick in you? Tell me how much you want my dick.”

“I’m dying, James! I'm dying for it! I've been thinking about it since I first saw you this afternoon. Oh, god, baby. Oh god. You feel so good in me.”

“I want you to cum, baby.”  I was fucking her so hard now. She pushed my hand from her cock and began to stroke herself furiously.

I held on to her hips and fucked her harder and harder. “Cum now, baby, while I'm fucking you so hard.”

I could feel it inside her. Her ass clamped down on me like a steel trap. She began to shake violently—moans from deep, deep within her. Then, I exploded in her.

#

We lay together, close and quiet.

“You’re not in such a hurry now,” she said.

“No,” I said.

After a minute, she asked, “Would you like a hot tea?”

“Yes.”

She rose naked, save for the stockings that still clung to her. I watched her perfect ass, filled with my cum, as she walked to the kitchen. After a few minutes, she came back with two cups.

We sat side by side, sipping slowly, talking a little about our lives. Nothing heavy. Just enough to know the outlines. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock. I set my cup down.

“I hate to do this,” I said. “But I have an early plane.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

I dressed. She slipped into a robe and watched me button my shirt.

At the door, I turned to her. “May I have your number?” I asked.

She held my gaze for a long second. Then she shook her head. “No numbers,” she said. “No last names.” She put a finger to my lips, as if to silence me. “You know where you can find me.”