Lady's Last Dance
Chapter 1

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Ma/Ma, Mult, Consensual, NonConsensual, Rape, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Tear Jerker, Incest, BDSM, Rough, Sadistic, Group Sex, Interracial, White Couple, Safe Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Violent,

Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Paul Brown's mind has made him a very rich man. Paul Brown's generous nature made him a very popular person. Will his mind and friends be enough to avert tragedy? This story will get dark and graphic at times, but this is the way the story wanted to be written. There are codes here I don't like (MM & BDSM), but were necessary to the story

Akron, Ohio

The smoke oozed through the room as if it were a rational being. It so filled the space breathing became labored. Light was so limited by the black haze that it became difficult to see the next table without the light spill from the stage. The lack of light did, of course, obscure the ratty furnishings and decaying walls. The peeling black paint of the walls and ceilings also helped to hide the dirt and spills on the unpolished wooden floor.

The stage was simply a few boards of plywood set on concrete blocks. On each side of the stage pillars of speakers reached the ceiling. Reverb speakers were tilted upward to reach the back ceiling. The drums were set on a second step of the stage in a precarious balance that amazingly allowed the stage to shake without falling apart.

"Some people call this atmosphere," thought Paul through his growing headache and burning eyes.

The pounding amplified bass from the band created shock waves that could be felt in the deepest part of the body and inundated the senses. The bass hid the lack of talent exhibited by the lead singer whose sole job seemed to be to scream obscenities into the microphone without moving the lyrics more than 3 notes from an off-key "C". The drums reached back to the base rhythms generated by the natural progression of propagation.

A look around the room gave notice that the music was having the desired effect. Urges were bubbling up from the group's primal being. Couples on the dance floor were so lost in the pagan sensations that their wanton dance almost became fertility rituals.

The combination of alcohol, tobacco smoke, marijuana smoke and barbaric sensual rhythms created an atmosphere of enhanced sexual tension and reduced inhibition. Each man became the man he dreamed he would be, and each woman became the goddess of desire she knew she was. The artificial barriers of society that restrain nature began to break into a thousand insignificant pieces as the natural drives that propagate mankind began to resume their rightful place. The dance became an orgy of raw nerved movements. Cleavage became exposure. Touching became stroking. Clothing became superfluous. Dance became sex.

From this magical fog, she materialized. Her eyes came first. Those eyes, oh God, those eyes! The blue, so deep that it reinforced itself as a thousand opposing mirrors, drew men's eyes and hid the slight stagger of too much tequila in too short a time. Around those eyes were long curled eyelashes that were framed in a face reflecting a perfect blend of intelligent exposure to the sun and flawless skin. Her nose rounded to counterpoint her eyes, and rested over thick well-formed lips of liquid red. The skin flawlessly merged into a long sensual neck and faded into the loose curls of golden hair that reached just below bare shoulders.

The dress of a blue matching her eyes snugly fit to a body designed to stop traffic. The top of the dress visually went from open cleavage to covered breast without notice in a manner reminiscent of nudity, but with much more excitement and mystery. The smooth flow of her waist flared around a solid 5'8" frame, and highlighted muscles gained in obvious hours of exercise. From the waist, the dress continued to barely cover hips so beautiful they should have never been covered.

Out of the bottom of the dress her two bare legs seemed to be as long as she was tall. The tan on the legs eliminated the need for stockings or any other enhancement. Her modest high heels caused her legs to tighten those already impressive shapes into an almost airbrushed perfection.

As she passed the table, she tripped just enough to lose her balance. Paul quickly reached out to support her elbow and prevented the rest of her fall. "Looks like you need to set down for a moment or two," he suggested.

"Yeah, guess you're right," she replied in a deep raspy voice that melted Paul's heart. "You mind?" She inclined her head to one of the two empty chairs at Paul's table.

"No, please make yourself at home." Paul stood and helped her to the chair closest to him. "My brother was just called away by his baby sitter to an emergency at home. His daughter is sick, so I am alone for the rest of the evening. I'm Paul. You alone?"

"No, I'm here with my twin sister. This must be sibling night. Her divorce finalized this week, and we went out to celebrate. She's doing more crying than celebrating, though. I'm Cindy."

"I am not crying!" came a slurred voice from behind Paul. "I just got a nasty reaction to the smoke. Got any cigarettes, Sis? I gotta smoke in self defense."

"Heather, I thought you quit smoking when you married Bill. You even badgered me into quitting. You made me quit, now I'm not going to let you start again."

"Shit! Nothing worse than a reformed smoker!" she said in exasperation. "Don't hold that against me. Cin, that was before Bill screwed me in court. God knows he didn't screw me in bed. That mother fucken butt fucker just beat the hell out of me. I'm so desperate. I haven't been fucked in a year. I can't stand it." Just then, Heather seemed to notice Paul setting in front of her.

"Hey Stud, how big's your dick?"

"Heather," shouted Cindy. "You can't talk to people like that!"

Paul turned to look at Heather. She was almost a duplicate of Cindy only with a pageboy haircut. She wore a white shift that would have been a little more conservative than Cindy's except that a spilled drink had turned part of the top of the dress translucent and showed the outline of perfect breasts. He tried to be gracious without staring or stammering.

"Why don't you join us, Heather? I'm Paul." Paul stood and reached out his hand.

Heather turned a bright red in the face, knocked his hand away, and hissed, "Paul, uh, are you a Goddamn butt-fucken fisherman?"

Paul was stunned at her change in mood. All he could get out was "What?"

Cindy broke in; "Heather's ex husband is a fundamentalist TV preacher. Every time she hears the name Paul, she remembers that she walked into Bill's study in church, and caught him with his dick up the choir director's ass. They called it going fishing. Of course, in divorce court both men denied that it ever happened. The judge was a right-wing fundamentalist Republican and believed the brothers Bill and Paul.

"They claimed Heather was doing everything up to and including selling her body to buy drugs and alcohol and that when they confronted her with her affairs, she made up the story. They had witnesses from the congregation talking about the cross Brother Bill had to bear with that Jezebel who tricked him into marriage. In fact it went so bad that Heather lost Bill Jr., her son, and has to pay child support and alimony to Bill."

Paul, somewhat stunned from Heather's attack and the explanation for it, tried to get back into to a lighter mood. "I am sorry this happened to you, Heather. Why don't you call me something else, your choice."

"How 'bout Stud?"

"If you want, but don't take that to be a measure of my performance," Paul replied still trying to keep it light.

"Fuckin' story of my life, poor performers," came the reply, as Heather sat on Paul's lap, reached her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips. "Shit, if I'm going to be called a slut, I might as well get something out of it. Right, Stud?" She went back to the kiss, and her tongue probed Paul's lips as she pulled his head to her. He finally opened his mouth, as Heather's tongue explored his mouth.

In self-defense, Paul returned the probe with one of his own. After several minutes of the embrace, Heather swooned "Oh shit, Sis, this boy can kiss." Without warning, Heather's hand reached between Paul's legs and grabbed hold of the growing bulge in his Dockers. "Oh yes, we have a winner here. We've got to take this boy back to the hotel. He's gotta have 12 inches down there. I want him in my mouth, between my tits, up my cunt, and up my ass. Let's go! I'm gonna fuck his brains out! Come on baby you're worth getting a beating for. I know men like to beat their women when they take their pleasure, but I bet I could get some pleasure from you too."

People around them were starting to turn their heads and look at Paul with some disgust. Violence against women was one of Paul's pet peeves. Paul was offended and somewhat embarrassed. "Wait just one damn minute! Listen kid, I don't know where you are coming from, but I don't do violence with sex or any other way unless I have to. I may be some kind of chauvinist, but a man who beats a woman is not a man. I am a man!"

"BOY, you can say that again!" cried Heather.

"Thank you, Heather. Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee, and we can talk about sex when you have the presence of mind to do something about it and know you are doing it. Let's put this discussion off till then, OK?"

"Are you saying you don't want to fuck me? You're queer, ain't you," shouted Heather as she reached behind her to unzip her dress. "Is there any man here with enough balls to fuck me? I gotta have it!"

Paul quickly took her hand away from the zipper and tried to calm her down. "Heather, I don't think you want to do that here."

Heather shook her hand out of Paul's grip and slapped him across the cheek. "Get your fucken hands off me, queer boy!"

Cindy's quiet voice came through the noise, "I am so sorry, Paul. I hope we did not ruin your evening, but I think I had better get Heather back to the motel. She is a little under the weather. I'll go call a cab."

"No need to do that. I was leaving anyway. I'll drop you off. Where are you guys staying?" Paul asked.

"Some little place called the No Tell Motel over on South Main. I live out of town, and came to help Heather get through the divorce. When Heather was thrown out of the rectory without any clothes or money, she had to go somewhere cheap until we could find an apartment and get her set up."

"Tell you what," replied Paul, "that is a bad part of town in daylight. After her display of charm, I would not feel right about you having to take Heather to that hotel at night. She might get thrown in jail for soliciting. I have extra guestrooms at my place. Why don't you let me take you home."

Cindy's distraction created the chance for Heather to unzip her dress and uncover one bra-less breast. When Heather heard Paul's word, her mood seemed to change back to friendly as she squealed, "Oh boy, I am gonna get fucked by that big dick! Let's go, Stud."

Cindy was a little more cautious. "Heather, zip up your dress!

"Just because my sister is having a bad time, I am not going to let you take advantage of us. Heather is not like this normally. She is no slut. No way in hell are you going to get either of us into bed!"

Heather interjected, "That's ok, there's more room on the floor anyway. We'll need the room if Cindy is going to help me fuck your brains out. You got a hot tub, Stud? How about a pool?"

Paul hugged Heather and said, "I have both." Then he turned. "Cindy, I do not need to seduce drunks in bars. My offer has nothing to do with sex. My brother just went through something like this in the other direction and lost prime custody of his daughter. I know what she is going through, so I feel sorry for your sister.

"You obviously don't have a lot of money or you would not be staying where you are. Let me do my good deed for the day, ok? My house is very safe, very big, and there are several rooms. If you wish, you won't even know I'm there."

"Well, OK, but don't you even think about getting to Heather like some male dog going after a bitch in heat. I won't let it happen."

"Listen, what part of non consent do you not understand to be rape? I am not a rapist! I do not violate people who cannot help themselves. You sure do make it hard to show how real Christians work. We are not all hypocrites like your Brother Bill."

That stopped Cindy, and she blushed. "I'm sorry, Paul, we have just been put through hell by the local Jerry Farwell. He may have jaded me somewhat. I know better than to think all men are hypocrites, but I can't help it emotionally."

"I understand, Cindy. Let's try it again. Would you like to stay 'til the end of the music and think about it, or do you want to trust that some people are decent and leave now?"

"I wanna go fuck! Right now. I want that horse cock up my cunt. Right this fuckin' second." Heather's voice was, again, rising over the music, and the tables around them were now openly staring at them. Three of the local bikers started to make their way over from their group in a corner.

In unison, Cindy and Paul said, "Heather, shut up!"

As Heather started to pout, Cindy saw the drunk bikers, "I think we better get Heather to your place before she gets herself and us in trouble."

"Good thinking," was Paul's reply. As Paul turned, the first biker walked into him and pushed him back. "Too late," said Paul under his breath. Paul looked at 6 feet of dirt and fat. His hair spread around his head in strands that looked like he had not washed his hair in several weeks. He wore a jean jacket without the arms over a Harley Davidson tee shirt and dirty blue jeans that matched. None of his clothes had ever seen the inside of a washing machine. The only thing that was clean was the new Wellington boots on his feet.

"Boy, this ain't right, you got two sluts and we don't have enough. We'll take the one who wants to fuck, and let you and the prude out without any trouble. Now get out of here."

Ignoring the biker, Paul pulled Heather from her chair and placed her on her feet. "Young lady, we need to get you someplace you can get less comfortable."

The first biker grabbed Paul's shoulder and turned him around. "Hey! Shithead, did you hear me? If you give me any trouble, I'm gonna take both of those bitches and kick your sorry ass."

Allowing the force of the turn to increase his momentum, Paul brought his foot into the groin of the first biker. An audible "Ouff!" was all that could be heard as the first biker hit the floor and rolled in misery. About the time biker number one hit the floor, biker number two pulled an 8-inch butterfly knife from his pocket, flipped his wrist, and caught the loose end of the handle with his little finger. Continuing in one fluid motion, number two lunged at Paul's chest.

Biker number 2 was in much better shape. He had on the same "uniform" as biker number one, but he had a shaved head, and all his clothes were clean except for his jacket. This biker was not fat. If anything, he was somewhat muscle bound. If he had had any training, this opponent would have been formidable.

Again, Paul used his assailant's motion to skirt out of the way, grab his wrist, and slam the knife into the wooden table between the girls. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw biker number three bringing a large steel rod in a large arc toward his head.

Biker 3 was about 5'8" tall and weighed about 150 pounds. His face was covered in acne and a scruffy beard that grew at different lengths. His long narrow face reminded Paul of a rat's face.

At the last instant, Paul fell to his back and swiped his leg behind the knees of the third man. The pipe continued its swing as the last biker fell. A sharp crack shattered the now perfectly quiet room followed by a scream from biker number two as his forearm hung from his elbow as if it were an empty shirtsleeve. The bone was sticking out of a nasty wound, and blood was spurting in long pulsing streams.

The life went out of the fight at that point. Two of the bikers were on the floor in total misery, and the third stood on his knees staring in horror at what he had done to his friend.

Paul ran to the bar. "Call an ambulance, this guy could bleed to death! Give me that." Paul grabbed a square tray and broke it into 4 pieces on the edge of the bar. "Give me a handful of clean bar towels.

Paul went back to biker number two and pushed him flat to the floor. "Don't move, or you could lose this arm." Paul picked up the butterfly knife and started cutting the bar towels into strips. He took one of the strips and tied a tourniquet above his elbow. He grabbed an ink pen from a startled waitress, and tightened the tourniquet until the bleeding slowed to a drip. He then wrapped the arm in clean towels and pulled the arm straight. A scream came from number two and he passed out.

The other members of the biker gang started to move into the scene. "Don't bother him," came the words of the giant of a man who seemed to be their leader. "This puke looks like he knows what he's doing. This may be the only way Hobo can keep his arm. Give him room." As if by magic, the gang stopped.

Paul then put the broken tray on four sides of the break and gently pulled on his hand as he tightened the straps. "This will hold him until the paramedics get here. Now, anyone else feel like stopping my friends and me from leaving?"

"Yeah, I want you for what you did to Hobo's arm. Ya didn't have to break it off." The leader stepped forward. "Because you tried to help, I won't kill you, but you may wish I had."

Paul looked up to the biker and swallowed. Before him was a bear of a man. Six foot 6 inches of pure muscle. The shaved sides of his head had scars fading into a dirty blond short flat top hair cut. Flame tattoos escaped from his mandatory sleeveless jacket and sleeveless shirt. Neither looked or smelled as if they had been cleaned in weeks. The biceps were enormous, and his black jeans hugged massive legs. Under his blonde hair were light blue eyes and a look of pure hate. Paul knew he was in trouble.

Out of the group, came a stunning redhead with just the briefest of a black leather two-piece skirt and halter. The halter just barely held her more than ample breasts, and the skirt would show her thong-covered ass if she bent over. She laid a hand on the leader's arm and her emerald green eyes looked respectfully into his face.

"TC, these three idiots started this, these people were trying to leave but Skuzzy wanted to take the drunk outside for some fun. I sent Hobo along so Skuzzy wouldn't rape her if she changed her mind.

"He," she continued and pointed at Paul, "didn't hurt anyone. Ratso tried to bean him with a wrecking bar he found under the stage. All this guy did was duck after Hobo tried to cut him up with that damn knife he stole from the pawn shop."

TC looked at the girl. She nodded her head reassuringly. Her long well manicured fingers tightened on the big man's arm to reinforce her words. The tension in him began to drain. "Shit, you tried to help Hobo after he took a knife after you?"

Paul started to relax somewhat, but he was not sure he was out of the woods yet, but things were looking up. "Hey, he was drunk, and really he's more of a hazard to himself with that thing than he is to anyone else." As Paul handed the closed knife to the giant, he said, "You might want to think about a Swiss Army Knife for him, and take away this frog sticker."

Paul knew he was safe when TC started laughing. "I told him to get rid of that thing before he got hurt. Maybe he'll listen to me next time." The leader stuck his hand out to Paul. "I'm Top Cat. My friends call me TC. I hope you call me TC. I'm sorry about the boys."

Paul took his hand. "It's an honor, TC. My name is Paul. I think Hobo is going to be ok after a few days in the hospital. I would keep this guy," as he pointed to Skuzzy, biker number one, "away from women for a while. A hard-on would really hurt for a few weeks."

More laughter filled the room as Paul turned to the girl who stopped TC. "Thank you, Miss for speaking up for me. If there is ever anything I can do to repay you, just ask."

The redhead looked at Paul in disgust. "OK, big talker. I'm Mrs. Hobo, and we don't have money to keep Hobo in the hospital for the few days you so casually talk about, or even to pay for setting his arm. What little I get from stripping just barely covers the bills. Why don't you pay for the hospital if you are so grateful! Put up or shut up. I hate men who make promises they don't intend to keep."

Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone and wallet. "Excuse me for a minute." He walked to a quiet part of the room and made a call. (The band had stopped playing and the room was dead silent from the fight.)

A few minutes later, he returned to the group and pulled out two business cards. He stopped a waitress to borrow another pen, wrote something on the back of one of the cards and handed both to her. "When you get to City Hospital, have the admissions department call me if you have any problems. I'll take care of everything. Keep the other card. When Hobo gets out, why don't the two of you visit my office? I may be able to help with better jobs."

Mrs. Hobo's eyes started to water as she stammered, "For real?"

"For real. Can't have a hot number like you hating me."

"Why are you doing this?" She asked.

"TC just invited me into his sphere of friends. You are one of his friends; therefore, you and Hobo invited me to be your friend. You can't have enough friends. Friends help each other out. I can help, so why not. Some day, you can help one of my other friends. It all comes back to where it starts, and if I give you any more platitudes, everyone here is going to throw up. Just do it. By the way, what do I call you when you come for your job interview?"

"Shawn Jones."

Paul took her hand and looked into her face. "Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Don't wait too long for you and your husband to make that visit."

During this exchange, Cindy hardly moved. She could not believe what had just happened. Her mouth was open and her eyes were twice their normal beautiful size. Heather was busy flirting with the men that came over to watch what should have been a lopsided fight in the other direction. She was having little luck with the men who had just seen Paul decimate three of the toughest thugs in town for trying to touch "his women".

Paul looked at his two adopted charges, and said, "Ladies, let's go to the house." He then looked at TC. "OK by you?"

TC bowed and swept his arm toward the door.

"OH boy, now we can fuck!" As the words came out of her mouth, Heather turned a slight green, and a confused look came to her face. Suddenly, a stream of green liquid came out her mouth and landed in the middle of Paul's chest and splashed onto his face.

"Heather," cried Cindy, "are you OK?"

"Ohhhhh nooooo! I'm sick!"

"No shit." Paul started picking the chunks off his shirt and brushing himself off.

"I don't feel so good."

"Cindy, let's get Heather someplace less hazardous."

With Paul on one side and Cindy on the other, Heather made it to Paul's SUV. As they poured Heather into the back seat another stream erupted and covered the back seat and floor of the Suburban.

Paul just shook his head. "Let's go, Cindy.

As they drove the 45 minutes to Paul's home, Heather unloaded two more times, passed out, and urinated in her pants.

Cindy looked into the back seat as the smell spread throughout the car. She started to turn pale and gag. Paul noticed the coming loss of control from Cindy and said, "Cindy, roll down the window and stick your head out a little. You have to keep control, I don't think I can handle both of you getting sick."

"I'm sorry Paul, I'll be OK, I should know better than to look at that stuff when I've had too much to drink. God, how did you keep control when she hit you?"

"I had some friends in college at Case Western that were not able to hold their booze. I learned how to baby-sit drunks back then. I also learned to control my own drinking, but I do not bust on those who can't. Here we are."

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