The Vingt-Deux is an intimate club just behind the Rue Fénélon.    It’s really a night club, but for those in the know, the bar is open during the afternoons except for Mondays.    Whatever else we might be at the Vingt-Deux we are discreet.

Although I work with the band, on this particular Tuesday afternoon I was behind the bar instead of Henri, our usual barman.   Henri is a good friend, and I was happy to help him out when he needed the afternoon off.

  Tuesdays are always very quiet.   I know because I sometimes slip in for a blanc sec.   This particular Tuesday was no exception with myself behind the bar, and just two other women sitting at the bar, nobody else.   I assumed they worked the local hotels – you know the kind of thing, chambre avec oreiller.   This is the euphemism for a room with a girl (not a pillow as the words say!). Paris at the very end of July is a hot and stuffy city without a breath of breeze.   Those who can do so take their holidays at this time.   They flee the city for more comfortable places.   This particular Tuesday it was particularly hot and stuffy with a definite feeling of approaching thunderstorms in the air. They sat at the bar, silent but glamorous in an understated sort of a way.   I had been slicing some lemons and, after washing my hands, I put a Carlos Gardel CD on the player.   It reflected the weather, I thought, and the effect was as if I had turned a switch to ON.   The women at the bar looked at each other, and as one they silently stood and moved over to the tiny dance floor.   As one they held each other in a very stylised Argentine Tango embrace, their breasts and hips pressed together, and through the opening bars of the music they hardly moved from the spot.   Instead, their feet wove in and out between each other.   It reminded me of the way a cat will weave in and out of your ankles. How striking it was, the way they looked into each other’s eyes.   Their gaze was locked together, seeing beyond and deep into the other’s face.   Their expressions told little of what was going on behind those eyes, but from where I was standing behind the bar I could feel the distinct and deep connection between them. As they danced their breasts and their hips were locked against each other.   The one with the shorter skirt had the other’s knee thrust between her legs making this contact both closer and more insistent.   It also had the effect of making her skirt ride up her thighs.   Behind the bar I found myself gripped by this picture on our intimate dance floor.   It was, of course, only natural for me to move over and dim the lights in the main room, switching on the dance floor blue spots at the same time. Within me I felt myself being drawn into this picture playing in front of me.   It was strange how I felt a part of it.   The glow within me left me in no doubt that I was more than a little involved. The first track came to an end.   They stood there, un-moving.   They were locked in that dramatic embrace.   Then, I perceived just the faintest of elbow movements.   As the second track started to play their danced resumed.   A skirt fell slowly to the ground.   It slipped down around the legs of the woman facing towards me.   Without breaking the step or the rhythm of their dance she stepped out of the skirt now crumpled upon the floor. I slipped off my shoes to pad across from the bar towards the door.   I locked the front door, and turned the sign around to show Fermé.   Silently I returned to the bar.   Oblivious of me their dance continued.   Those legs were gorgeous, and I realised she couldn’t be one of the working girls.   With legs like that she was obviously a dancer.   What was unfolding on the dance floor gave further testimony to this. Now they made an unexpected twist with a deep sway.   I saw the back of the other’s dress was unzipped.   Her bra strap had been unclasped.   She was held tightly against the other with a hand placed firmly in the middle of her back.   Once more they twisted and their bodies parted just a fraction as their feet wove in and out.   The top of her dress fell down, and as their hands parted in the briefest of separations her dress fell from her.   With the grace of a hunting feline she stepped away from the dress lying on the floor. Another gorgeous pair of legs.   Her back was towards me.   I was so engaged with what was happening that I could easily imagine another woman’s breasts pressed closely against mine.   As I watched, the tenderness of that moment flowed right over me.   Oh how I would have loved to have been part of that dance! Track 2 came to a finish.   A hand slide up beneath the remaining top.   As Track 3 began that top, and a still-fastened bra, came up and over her head.   Had they had been holding each other closely?   Their bodies now were seamlessly conjoined from their shoulders right down to their knees.   Their breasts were flattened against each other as they danced.   Their proximity caused them to rub and grind one against the other.   My own juices were flowing and my nipples were erect.   My skin had taken on that peachy texture that it does when I am aroused and (hitherto) only a man slipping into me has been sufficient to satisfy my needs.

While I am lost in those thoughts two pairs of knickers have made their way down over those lovely legs and over their slender ankles.   They have been left, discarded on the dance floor.   Now they dance dressed only in their shoes.   Their bodies touch at the most intimate spots, helped by their heels.   As they dance they press themselves together in a sensuous clasp which is magical in its beauty.   They continue their dance, all the while enjoying each other’s closeness, but now steering towards the far end of the floor where there are a couple of booths with leather sièges.   Right up until the very end of Track 3 they dance, weaving themselves in and around each other, teasing and drawing themselves to the point where only an even closer contact will suffice.   As the track ends they slide onto a siège and into an embrace for an altogether different, yet equally passionate dance. It would have been wrong to leave their clothes strewn across the floor where they had fallen.   There would be enough rushing around if anyone were to rattle the door trying to come in.   I slipped my feet once more from my shoes and quietly walked over to pick up their discarded garments.   There was something both exciting and very attractive in the feel of those clothes to my fingers.   That underwear would have been a joy against the skin of the wearer.   It would also have made an alluring sight for a lover.   In knowing that just moments ago these garments had been worn by my dancers was an unexpected thrill to me.   I couldn’t help touching them against my cheek.   Their fragrance and their sex was unmistakable.   I closed my eyes and breathed that heady aroma in before folding them and placing them on their respective bar stools.    I left the CD playing.   The subdued lighting was making it difficult to see clearly what was now taking place.   You will recall at the start I told you that whatever else we are at the Vingt-Deux we are certainly discreet.   This was one of those moments that demanded discretion.   I busied myself at the bar, dusting and re-arranging the bottles and glasses, cleaning the shelves and the mirrored back to the bar.   If I found myself watching their reflections in the mirror you will understand it was only to check there were no finger marks or blemishes to spoil the sparkling mirrors.   And if I watched closely you will, I’m sure, deduce that it was only to establish they were not likely to be disturbed in their intimate pleasures – I’m so glad we understand each other on this point. Where formerly they had danced with their bodies and their feet they now danced with their tongues.   They traced the rise and fall of each other’s contours, pressed moistness against moistness, and let saliva penetrate and lubricate their most intimate places.   Fingers probed and slid in ways that only a woman’s fingers can achieve.   All the while they might have been doing these same things to me.   I felt it all within me.   I could hear their breathing despite Track 4 (or was it 5 or 6?) that was now playing.   It was powerful and urgent breathing that rose until a long and heartfelt moan signalled a joyous release of pent-up emotion.   Involuntarily I found my own breathing was laboured, and pressed myself against the shelves at the back of the bar in a vain attempt to reach that same release. The breathing had started again, this time with a harsher and more insistent cadence.   It was accented by sharp cries and gasps, but culminated in the same finale of a body-shaking groan that went through my own frame and actually brought me to one of those sweet and excruciatingly pleasurable orgasms that only I would know about. I had lost count of which track was playing on the CD.   I was engrossed in my own thoughts, and all the while watching those beautiful bodies writhing on the siège as they excited and pleasured each other.   When they sank between each other’s thighs to plunge a hot tongue into the very essence of the other I almost cried out at the cruel denial to my own body.   But you will understand that as well as being discreet we are also very professional.   It would not have been fitting to succumb to the needs of my own body.   But I will tell you this, I was just a finger tip away from doing so. Carlos Gardel was still singing as they moved back to the dance floor and resumed their intimate dance.   At the end of the track they returned to the bar, and slowly replaced their clothes.   So what would you have done in my place?   There was only one thing I could do.   I poured three glasses of blanc and pushed two towards them.   I raised my glass.   “A la vôtre!” Was it my imagination, or was there perhaps an added dimension to the look they both gave me as they raised their glasses to me.   In unison they chorused “A la prochaine!”   Did that mean they knew they could rely on our future and continuing discretion at the Vingt-Deux?   Or, more interestingly, did it mean that perhaps my own participation might have a more active role?   “A la prochaine!” I answered, hopefully with that same degree of ambiguity in my expression.