Divergent Dance

I wish I had stories to tell.

Instead I sit here, staring at the harsh white glare emanating from the screen in front me. Just staring. Typing, sighing, jabbing a finger repeatedly on Backspace. Not good enough. Never good enough.

She drapes herself over me from behind, arms hooking languidly over my chest, chin resting in the nook where neck meets shoulder. Stares at me staring at the screen. Blank.

Once I would have written stories about her, changing names and hair colors just enough to make them seem a little more exotic, a little more foreign. Hastily I would clack out stories of hitched breath, seeking fingers, triumphant mouths and screams that made the cats in the alley outside howl in cacophonous harmony. I would let the words flow forth, caressing QWERTY keys as they caressed her where her flesh came to hard points: tiny brown nipples, painfully swollen clitoris, even the tips of her canines before they closed lightly on the pads of my fingers, tongue teasing my fingertips until I groaned and shuddered.

Once I would have soliloquized at length of the exact feeling of each strand of her rough-chopped hair against my ear, of the warm breeze of her breath across my chin, of the night she got up from where she had sprawled on the bed, slick and glistening cock still bobbing from the harness around her narrow hips, got up and grabbed the scissors I used for clipping newspaper articles and took them to her hair like she was hacking away a noose from around her neck as I watched from the doorway, eyes heavy-lidded in a post-orgasmic, pot-aided haze.

Once you would not have been able to get me to shut up about the night she made me stand fully naked on a bar and jack myself off for the world to see. She caught the liquid evidence of my orgasm in a shot glass and, looking me right in the eye, knocked it back and then sucked on a wedge of lime. Or the time I bent her over in the middle of the crowd at a rave and fucked her from behind until her knees gave out under her; we sank to our knees in the neon dust and were joined by countless other bodies until everywhere, skin, lips, ass, cunt, hair, everywhere was glistening with sweat and saliva and come.

That was then. Now, I stare at this screen. Tap, tap, Backspace. Sigh.

Her arms slide from my shoulders, fingertips pausing to press only slightly on my collarbone. Silently, she moves to the window seat and lights a cigarette.

It was a study in contrasts.

It was the soft, well-worn nip of the rope that bound my wrists; the rough and eager bite of tree bark against my ass and shoulder blades. The cool slither of raindrops between my breasts met and consumed by the fire of her mouth as it made the journey from a place where the heat emanating forth dwarfed even that of lips, breath and tongue.

It was the weak, gelatinous consistency of my patellae and the consequent weight of my flesh, sinking against its bonds into the sturdy, infallible cradle of earth. The unrelenting angles of her body as she pressed them into the soft and yearningly pliant dunes of my curves.

It was her deep, guttural growls full of open throat and savagery blending through melded lips into the soft punctuation of the cries meandering their way from the depths of my chest.

And it especially, god, especially was the hurtling, crashing, feral waves of the hurricane of her climax sweeping me out into deep waters while she, coming down, floated with eyes closed in the sweeping, sighing current of my release.

(Lyrics from the song “Sleep Isabella” by Abney Park. Kickass song. Listen to it here.)

Dance, child, dance
Dance, child, dance
Nighttime’s awaiting
Dreamtimes are fraying
So dance, child, dance

My eyes scan the crowd, nonchalant; not seeking, just enjoying. The undulating mass of dancers glimmered under the colored spotlights, each writhing body like one scale of a snake, together sliding lithely across the hardwood floor of the club. Then, like a magnet to steel my eyes pick her out of the crowd, all rich curves and tousled hair, eyes closed, arms over her head, dancing with abandon.

She must be steel because I feel my entire being pulled into her. Barely realizing it, my feet find their way from the bar to the dance floor, shouldering through the crush of bodies until I am all but crushed against her. She doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t let on that she does. Sucking breath into my chest in an attempt to fortify my courage, I fit my body into the fluid lines of her back, waist, hips and legs and match my rhythm to hers.

Dance, dance, my Isabella
Staying in your own carousel
Spin through the dreaming
Your whole world deceiving
Dance, my child.

We dance, one verse sliding into another and then another again. Just when I start to doubt myself—she really hasn’t noticed me, too far in her own melodic world, not interested, god what a mistake, you fool, you idiot—she flicks her hair back over her shoulder, one lock whispering across my chin, and catches my eye. Even in the uneven light I can see her eye is smiling, matched one second later by an uplift of the corner of her mouth. And then she moves.

Without warning she pushes her ass back into my pelvis, muscles under her skin pulling and gliding until she fits into me like the perfect piece of a puzzle, pressing my harnessed cock into my swelling clit until I bite back a groan. My jeans go tight around my thighs and I looked down to see her hands fisted in the denim, pulling me even more closely against her and holding me there as the muscles of her hips and ass do incomprehensible, amazing things that drain all the blood from my head into every tissue of my cunt and clit. I can feel the throbbing all down the length of my cock as if flesh has somehow fused with silicone.

She feels it too. She arches her lower back, curving slow and long like a cat just awoken from a nap, swaying side to side to the beat of the music until, through my jeans, my cock is nestled in between her ass cheeks, grinding and rubbing until I know there will be a telltale damp spot on the denim.

Down my hands slide, steady and deliberate, until I can feel smooth skin instead of stiff fabric under my fingers. And up again, underneath that fabric until my palms are cupped around her bare hips, right hand continuing around until my middle finger is nestled into the dampness between her labia, tracing delicate and teasing patterns on her very slick clit. She leans back into me, body curving so that her cunt is pressed into my hand, one arm hooking behind my head and the other—shit, the other hand moving to the button of my pants, swiftly releasing it before tugging down the zipper.

My cock pushes forth, out of the confines of denim and up against her, settling again between her ass cheeks but this time without encumbrance. With the one hand still busy on her clit I bend her forward until the head of my cock is aligned perfectly with her cunt and, in one long, smooth, hard stroke, I bury myself. We hold it for one sweet, delicious, motionless moment; then she begins to move on me. One reverberating thump of the beat and she is further away, poised on the head of my cock; the next, she’s buried again, her eyes fluttering closed, lips pursing in a silent “oooooh” as she hooks her fingers into my belt loops, leashing me, as if I’d be going anywhere.

Clearly she’s a girl who knows exactly what she wants and how she wants it. I let her work my cock as needed, my focus turning to the hand still nestled between her thighs, teasing and tormenting her clit into rigidity. Every trick, every move I know I use on that clit, working it until I can feel it swell and pulse almost unbearably under my fingertips. And still our rhythm maintains, guided by the beat of the drum in the lead singer’s hands or perhaps creating that beat, I don’t know, but for one suspended moment our entire existence threads through that beat until at last she gasps, grabs me hard, clutches me close and bears down on my cock, enough for me to feel the muscles in her cunt pulsating as she rides out her orgasm.

Slowly, muscle by muscle she relaxes, straightening back against me so that I slip out of her, still hard in so many ways, leaning her head back onto my shoulder. I brush the hair back from her forehead and kiss her where her jaw meets her neck, the spot I have always found to be a delicacy on women. I see her eyes slide over to me and the corner of that gorgeous mouth quirk before she pushes herself off me and starts to step away. That isn’t it. That can’t be it. Speechless, I watch her go.

Sleep, sleep, my Isabella
Safely in your carousel-a
Sleep through the spinning,
Just like your beginning
Sleep, my child.

She turns. Flicks her eyes down to where I’m hastily tucking myself back into my jeans. Catches my eye again and grins, beckoning with one finger.

I follow.