4 comments/ 17173 views/ 7 favorites Join in the Dance By: Nameless_Rose The room is hot. Steamy. The heat of all those bodies thrusting and grinding to the thunder beat of the music rises and condenses, forming a fog of sweat and pheromones. The cloud settles over the club, making the air thick and nearly cloying, coating the windows with fat droplets of moisture which run down the glass in tiny streams, the distilled essence of the evening. I have been standing here for half an hour by now, on the outskirts of the crowd, watching the dancers, envying the grace of all those sleek, perfumed creatures whose bodies tremble and shiver like reflected sunlight. They seem like hallucinations to me, like projections of a fevered imagination. I came here with no one, wearing as little clothing as decency allows and heels so tall that by the end of the night it'll feel like I've been wearing iron hobbles. Men look at me every now and again, their eyes sliding from gleaming red shoes to the froth of blonde curls surrounding my face, lingering on the landmarks in between. I try to smile at them, my lips slick with gloss, red, pouting, practically begging to be put to a better use. They walk over to me, smiling in that secret satisfied way men have when they think they're about to discover a shortcut to the land of intercourse and I try not to shudder away from them. They buy me a drink; we talk for ten, maybe twenty minutes. After awhile they leave. They don't come back. I drink my drink. I like them rough; I want to taste the sharp, mind-numbing tang of the alcohol, feel the burn as it slides down my throat and into my belly. I prefer the dark liquors, the oak and smoke of whiskey, the exotic, desert wind taste of tequila. I've got three or four drinks in me by now and my buzz is starting to edge over into drunkenness. I feel looser now, less anxious about my surroundings. The feeling of being hemmed in by hundreds of warm bodies sometimes frightens me, makes me feel short of breath, but after coming here every weekend for months on end, the fear has for the most part left me. The first time I came here I had to leave only a few minutes later, shocked by the onslaught of masculine interest I had received. That first time was only a whim, coming to the club, but I realized afterwards, driving home with my heart still hammering in my chest, that this was something I had to force myself to get used to. Normal people went to clubs. Normal people enjoyed going to clubs. Normal people did not spend every day of the week secluded in their apartment reading or just staring out the window, wondering what was going on outside. I would force myself to be normal. So Every Friday night I dress up in my skimpiest outfits (not that I have very many of them) and, feeling as if I have already been stripped half-naked, I go to the club and force myself to talk to men. This has been going on for months by now, and I think I've become pretty good at scaring them away within twenty minutes or so. Someone touches my arm lightly and I jump, almost tripping over my own feet. Fingers dust over my skin, tracing the point of my elbow briefly before settling lightly on my forearm. My skin tingles where the fingers touched me, as if I had just been brushed with a bundle of live wires, and I wonder whether the sensation is physical or just in my head. He cups my elbow in his palm. "Are you thirsty?" he asks, and now I look into his face. He's cute. Probably too cute for his own good judging by the way he carries himself. A man like this is not used to rejection, especially from women who look like I do tonight. The way he touches me is not too invasive, but just familiar enough to indicate a knowledge of exactly what it is that girls like me are supposed to want to do with boys like him. My first instinct is to jerk my arm away, but I restrain myself. I let him touch me. "Yes," I say. My throat is dry and the words come out almost as a croak. He smiles at me and I look into his eyes. They are dark hazel, a light brown shot through with green. I realize that this one is dangerous, but not in a predatory sort of way. I could easily lose myself in eyes like that. "I've seen you here before," he says. His voice is pitched low but even so, I can hear it over the pulsing of the music. It's a deep voice, slightly rough as if he had either just been smoking or screaming. I smell no smoke on him. Only clean skin, the faint musk of cologne, and the barest hint of whiskey on his breath. "I come here a lot." I say. I keep snatching little darting glances at him. He never seems to be looking anywhere but at my face, so our eyes are always meeting. Every time it happens, I feel a jolt in my belly. It makes it hard for me to concentrate. "Could I buy you a drink?" It's barely a question. He's already leading me to the bar when I say, "Yes." He makes his way easily through the crowd, who seem unconsciously to move aside for him. His hand lingers on my elbow, pulling me along in his wake. I'm surprised that I feel no desire to shake loose of him. He approaches the bar and the red-haired woman working behind it gives him her immediate attention. "Yes sir?" she asks. "Two of the Chivas Regal, on the rocks," he says, "The good kind please." I watch as the bartender reaches not behind the bar but beneath it, pulling out a gleaming wooden chest and setting it down in front of us. Out of it comes a squat brown bottle, its label so gilded and ornate that I can't even tell what the letters on it are. She pours a generous measure of the whiskey into each glass before handing them both to the man beside me. He begins to walk towards a bunch of high tables towards the left of the bar, a sort of annex divided from the rest of the club by a dozen potted palm trees. I follow him. He sits down at one of the high tables and I sit across from him. He hands me my drink and I raise it to my lips, taking a long, slow sip. It is the best whiskey I have ever tasted, smooth as velvet but burning with astonishing violence on its way down to the stomach. I feel drunker almost immediately. My body feels elastic, and everything is bathed in a warm whiskey-colored glow. The music pulses in my ears like a heartbeat. I wait for him to say something, but he just sips his drink and stares at me over the rim of his glass. I say, "Do you come here often?" It's an inanity I know, but it's all I can think of to say. "Yes, you could say that." He takes a few sips of his drink. Then he says, "You've been coming here every weekend night for the past month, but I've never seen you dance. Why is that?" I have no idea how to respond. I wonder who he is, what he does for a living, but I won't ask him either of those things. They don't really matter do they? At least, not tonight. I wonder how to answer his question. "I guess I've never really felt like anyone wanted to dance with me," I say. It's not the truth. Plenty of men have asked me to dance. I've just never had the courage to say yes. "You could dance with any man here," he says, gesturing with his glass at the crush of people just beyond the potted tree line. He continues to look at me and his gaze is hot, making my clothes, what little there is of them, feel suddenly too tight, stifling. I take a drink and the sensation of the ice-chilled whiskey first cooling my mouth and then burning its way down my dry throat makes me shiver. He notices. "Are you alright?" he asks. "Yes," I say. "It's very hot in here, isn't it?" "Yes." I stare at the tabletop. "Would you like to come with me to some place a little bit cooler?" I hesitate, images of the nasty things that can happen to a girl at the hands of a stranger flickering through my head. I force back the paranoia. "Where did you have in mind?" I ask, and I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake at all. "A VIP room. The club usually keeps it for me and my guests. Would you like to see it?" I hesitate again, unable to help myself. I should say no. He could be a crazed sadist wanting to whisk me away to a broom closet for a quick raping. I take another long sip of whiskey to quench my throat and then I say, "Yes." He finishes his drink in one smooth swallow and gets up from the table. I take the hint and follow his example, knocking back what's left of my drink and barely even wincing as it sizzles its way down to my belly. I stand up. He takes my hand, folding it inside of his own, and leads me back through the club, past the DJ booth to an unremarkable door set into the far wall. He opens it with a key he carries on a gold ring in his pocket. Behind it is a staircase, dimly lit, paneled in dark wood. We climb it, him still keeping a tight hold on my hand, as if he is afraid that at any moment I might try to run away from him. The thought does occur to me, but I've come this far already. I might as well let myself go a little further. The stairs lead directly up into a single spacious room. One wall in entirely taken up with a Plexiglas window which overlooks the club. The view is god-like. All those people, all their secret dances, the ways in which they flow through and over one another are visible to us in this eyrie. The rest of the room is just as impressive as its window. In its center, two black leather sofas stand on either side of a glass-topped wrought iron coffee table. A stereo system the size of a man stands against one wall and a well-stocked bar is sunk into another. The light is dim and golden, filtering down from the room's only real extravagant affectation, an ornate wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The door clicks shut softly behind me and I turn, realizing that now we are completely isolated from the crowd. He could do anything he wants to me up here and nobody would know. He's watching me take in his room. "What do you think?" he asks. Now that we're insulated from the throb of the music, I can detect the barest trace of an accent in his voice. It could be Spanish or maybe Italian, something that lifts the edges of his sentences and makes some of his words sound as if he is about to sing them rather than speak. "It's beautiful. The window," I gesture to it, unable to find words to describe the effect that the window has upon the room. "Thank you," he says, "It cost roughly as much as the stereo downstairs, but I like to think that it was worth the money. I would have paid a fortune to be able to have this view." He crosses the room to stand beside me at the window. My first instinct is to draw away, but I restrain myself. Instead, I ask him something which I had begun to suspect ever since I saw him order the Chivas Regal. "Is this your club?" He pauses for a moment. "Yes. One of them. Probably my favorite. My name is Andre." He offers me his hand and I take it. The handshake is more intimate than such a cursory gesture should be. He presses his palm to mine for several long seconds, and I can feel his pulse. It's steady. He is perfectly at ease. If he can feel mine, he'll know that my heart is pounding in my chest. He releases my hand and says, "Do you have a name?" My cheeks sting. "I'm Sophie," I say, without stopping to think. I don't usually tell men my real name. I give them a fantasy name like Desiree, or Veronika, or Justine, something that sounds like the handle of a high-priced call girl. "Sophie," he says. From his mouth, my name sounds exotic, even sexy. I've always thought it sounded like the name of a pre-pubescent girl, but hearing him say it makes me feel like a woman. "Not quite what I expected, but it suits you." There is a pause and then he asks, "So, do you often abscond to private rooms with strange men?" The question catches me off guard. "What?" He laughs. "I'm sorry, I was just kidding." "I don't usually do things like this," I say, and despite all my drinking my throat is dry. "You're the only one who's ever asked me." "I find that very hard to believe." "It's true." "What a shame." He raises his drink to his lips and half of the liquid inside slips smoothly down his throat. "Now, there is one thing that has been puzzling me. Why do you come to a dance club if you don't dance?" "I guess I come here to watch." "Just to watch?" "I don't know. Maybe if someone really persuaded me I would join in." He smiles very slightly and raises an eyebrow. I look down, my face flooded with a hot blush. "Would I be right in assuming that that was a hint?" He asks, finishing off the liquor in his glass and putting it down on the coffee table. I do the same. "Yes." I smile at him, trying to act composed, but inside I'm trembling. This is as close as I've allowed myself to come to another human being in two years, and I'm pretty sure that he's going to want to come closer. I'm pretty sure that I want him to come closer. I watch as he picks up a tiny black remote control from the coffee table and presses a button. The stereo in the corner comes to life, purring out the strains of some exotic music, mambo or samba. He holds out his hand to me. "Will you dance with me Sophie?" I hold my breath, and then let it out. I look into his eyes, dangerous eyes the color of dying sunlit leaves and I say "Yes." I put my hand in his and he pulls me up from the couch. I feel the strength in his arm as he takes me and leads me into the middle of the room and little shivers tip-toe over my skin. I realize that although I've always wanted to be in this position, I really have no idea what I'm doing. I stand stiffly, his hand still holding mine. Do I put my hand on his waist or is he supposed to do that? I feel myself beginning to blush again as I stand there, stupidly doing nothing. "Here," he says, and pulls me so that I'm standing very close to him. I smell his cologne, very faint, a spicy musk. He rests one hand on my hip, keeping a firm hold on my right hand and raising it into the air. He begins to sway, his feet performing an uncomplicated series of steps. I try to imitate him but my feet are clumsy and I stumble into him, inadvertently pressing myself against his chest. The hand on my hip flexes and instead of pushing me away again, he holds me in position, with my breasts pressed firmly against his chest. "That's better," he says, and begins to sway, his feet no longer sketching the steps. We're too close for that. He just moves his body with the music, moving me along with him until I do it of my own accord. I realize that I'm drunk. Only a little, but it's enough to make the light from the chandelier hazy and to make the music feel like it's inside of me as well as all around me. It takes over my body, relaxing the muscles and whispering to me to move just a little bit closer to him, to close the half-inch gap that still stands between us. I move my body forward. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done. The gap between us closes and I realize immediately that he has an erection. I can feel it through the taut cloth of his jeans. A part of me wants to draw away again, to blush and apologize and then beat a hasty retreat, but I'm tired of being afraid, afraid of men and afraid of myself. Fear's been ruling my life for way too long. Instead of drawing away, I angle my hips so that I brush against the front of his jeans when we move. I'm wearing only the most minimal panties, so I wonder if he can feel the wet heat of me underneath my skirt. The thought excites me and I realize that this really is it. I'm going to do it. Not letting myself think anymore, I stand on tiptoe and press my lips to his. He tastes like the liquor we've been drinking, and some other exotic flavor all of his own. I suck at his lips, loving the plump firmness of them. We're still swaying to the music, but now he wraps both of his arms around me. One hand slides up to cradle the back of my head and he presses my face more firmly against his. His lips part beneath mine, and for the first time his tongue darts into my mouth. I meet it with my own, flicking at it tentatively, and then he's devouring me, taking possession of my mouth as if he were trying to suck the breath out of my body. My knees weaken and I slump into him, but he isn't fazed. What he does is reach down and scoop me into his arms as if I weigh no more than a doll, his mouth still fastened over mine, his tongue still working diligently. I wonder where we're going, but I realize that I don't really care. I focus on kissing him back with as much ferocity as he is kissing me. He carries me to the sofa and lays me down on it, perching himself on the edge of one of the cushions so that he's looking down at me. He reaches out and begins to run his hands over my body. His fingers run lightly down my face, tracing the groves of my flushed cheekbones, my eyelids, my kiss-swollen lips. He cups my chin in his palm, feeds hungrily on my lips for another moment and then his hands are running down my shoulders, my bare arms, tracing the outlines of my collarbones. He works his way down until he's cupping my breasts with both hands through the thin satin of my shirt. I wear no bra, so my nipples stiffen immediately beneath his touch. He pinches them, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my pussy. His hands begin to massage me, kneading my breasts with a tender ferocity that continues to send shockwaves down between my legs, which have fallen apart on the couch cushions of their own volition. But now memories of the last time someone touched me like this start to crowd my consciousness. I remember how I felt the last time that I lay with legs spread and a warm male body over top of me. My stomach clenches and a cold chill extinguishes the pleasure which has been igniting my nerve endings. I freeze beneath Andre. I can't help it. I think of hands tearing at my clothes, ripping them away to get a hold of the tender flesh beneath. I remember the dull pain of a knife-point pricking at my belly as clumsy hairy-knuckled hands fumble at a recalcitrant belt buckle. Never mind that the here and now is all warmth, all pleasure and alcohol glow. I begin to shiver. My legs try to snap together, but Andre shifts position, no longer sitting on the edge of a cushion but moving so that he's kneeling over me with his knees planted between my thighs. "What's the matter?" He murmurs, hands still caressing my breasts. He kisses me again, but my lips won't open for him. His hands stop moving. He looks at me more closely. "Are you ok?" "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm being stupid. I'm not ready for this. I shouldn't be here." I try to get up, but he pushes me back down, gently, but I can't refuse. "But I thought we were--" He pauses, "Connecting. Have I done something to scare you?" "No, it's my fault. I'm sorry. I'll go." Again, I try to get up, but he's still above me, still looking down at me with questions in his dangerous eyes. "I won't stop you," he says and moves to get up. "I'm sorry if I did something to offend you." I watch him begin to draw away. This is the closest I've come and I'm ready to throw it away because of memories. I can't let this happen. I breathe. "Wait," I say, settling back into the cushions. "I'm sorry. I want to stay. It's just—I have—there's probably something I should tell you." Andre perches once more on the edge of a cushion, looking down at me. "You don't have a dick tucked into those panties do you?" he asks, trying to joke, but his eyes are serious, watchful. This is the last thing I want to be doing, talking about this, but he should know. He should know why I'm so goddamned afraid of something that should be so simple. "I've never done this before," A very long pause, and then he says, "You're kidding me, aren't you?" "Two years ago, when I was eighteen, someone tried to rape me. He came out of nowhere. I was walking home one night and he pushed me into an alley. Held a knife on me. Someone must have heard me scream before he put his hand over my mouth and called the cops. They pulled him off of me before he could...you know, do it to me, but he did...other things. I haven't been able to get close to anyone since then." My voice wobbles a little on the last word and I snap my mouth shut. He looks at me without expression and I feel myself shriveling up inside. He's going to tell me that he's changed his mind. No one wants damaged goods. I should have just left. Join in the Dance He surprises me. Instead of getting up and showing me the door he moves so that he's kneeling between my legs again, his head hovering over top of mine. I tense up, and then force myself to relax. He's not going to hurt me. Not all men are rapists. "Do you still want this?" he asks, and he kisses me. It's gentle, but not that gentle. There's hunger in it, and I notice that the bulge of his erection is undiminished. I think about it for a few seconds. A part of me is screaming that I should say no. No, I'm not ready for this, I'll never be ready for this. Instead I say "Yes," and I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his lips down to mine, blotting out the past. As he kisses me his hands begin moving again, this time lifting my shirt to bare my breasts. He breaks the kiss so that he can look at me properly. His hands skim over my belly, cup my breasts, tease my nipples. "You're beautiful," he says, and plants a kiss on my left breast. "If you don't like what I'm doing, just tell me, ok?" I nod, and he fastens his mouth over my nipple, sucking at it with a steady, maddening pressure. He nips it gently and I gasp pleasure jolting through my body. The heat growing between my legs has become maddening, insistent. I want to touch myself there to try to alleviate some of the pressure, but I restrain myself. I use my hands to touch him instead. As he continues to suckle my breasts I reach down between us and find the bulge at the crotch of his jeans. I run my fingers over the taut fabric, tentative, unsure how much pressure to exert. He stiffens against me, giving the softest of moans and, encouraged, I increase the ferocity of my caress. I work for a moment his pants' button and zipper. They come undone almost at once, and I start pulling his jeans down past his waist, past his ass so that they lay pooled around his knees. He wears black boxer briefs and the elastic seems to be stretched to the breaking point by what's inside them. He arches against me, grinding the bulge of his erection against the throbbing heat of my pussy and I cry out, I can't help it. I almost come right then and there, but then he moves away slightly, his mouth leaving my breast to trail scalding kisses down my belly. His hands fumble for a moment at the catch of my skirt, and then it's gone along with my panties, both of them pushed down to my ankles and off in one smooth gesture. His lips trace a burning path down from my bellybutton to my pubis, but there he stops. His head hovers above me for several moments and then dips. His tongue begins to lap up and down my slit, lapping at my flesh the way a cat will lap at a saucer full of cream. I moan. I tremble. I tangle my hands through his dark hair. His tongue broaches my opening, finding my clitoris and licking it erect. He fastens his mouth over it, sucking at it as he had at my nipples, and my moans turn into strangled gasps. I feel my inner muscles spasm, grasping desperately at something which they had been denied for far too long. He begins to lick me again, his tongue tracing my labia, dipping briefly inside of me, but now purposefully avoiding my throbbing clit. I feel as if my belly has been filled with electricity. Trembling, I grind myself against him, hardly able to believe that I've begun to whimper like a woman on the verge of tears, but still he won't touch my clit. I moan desperately, pushing his head against me, and finally his tongue touches my clit with the lightest possible caress. It sends me over the edge. My entire body stiffens up, the electricity inside of me bursting forth and coursing up and down my every limb. I buck against him, voicing cry after breathless cry as my pussy spasms and shudders. His tongue continues to flicker ever more rapidly back and forth over my clit, drawing out my orgasm until I am certain that my body will be forced to shut down due to an overload of sensation. When finally the spasms quiet down to sporadic twitches, I allow my body to go limp, realizing only as I do so that I had been lying with back arched, tense and trembling. Andre pulls his head away and moves so that he is lying over top of me. His body presses against mine, warm and firm, his cock hard and struggling against the stretchy cotton of his boxers. He kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips, a mixture of salt and musk. We lie there like that for a moment and then he takes one of my hands in his, guiding it to the crotch of his boxers and releasing it there. I can feel the heat of him underneath the thin fabric. I stroke the material softly, tentatively, and he moans, rising so that he is kneeling with one leg on either side of me. I sit up, my body still shaking from the intensity of that last climax, and place my hands on the waistband of his shorts. I breathe in and out once and then I pull the material slowly downwards. His cock springs out all at once, fully erect and larger than I would have believed possible. I stare at it, I can't help myself, and he laughs softly. He takes one of my hands and guides it to him. I grip his shaft gently, getting a jolt when I realize that my fingers are only just able to span its circumference. His hips jerk a little when I enfold him and he gives a sigh of pleasure. His flesh is warm and soft and as I begin to stroke him, running my hand lightly up and down, I fancy that I can feel his body temperature rising. He sighs again, but as I lower my head towards him and begin to lick at the head of cock, the sigh transforms into a deep-throated moan. I flick my tongue back and forth, tracing the contours of him, lapping up and down his shaft, licking at his balls. I work my way from balls to tip and then back down again. The next time I go up him, I open my mouth wide and take the first few inches of his cock into my mouth. He tastes amazing, exotic and salty. He tastes like sex, and as I begin to suck experimentally, he puts his hands on either side of my head, pulling back my long hair so that he can watch me. I look up at him, staring into his beautiful, dangerous eyes as I try taking another couple inches of him into me. My throat contracts and I cough lightly. He groans. I begin to move my head back and forth as I suck him, loving the slick friction of his cock sliding in and out from between my lips. He rocks his hips a little and I hold still, letting him thrust as he pleases. He cradles my head in both of his hands and begins to fuck my mouth, very slowly, giving me time to adjust to him. His hot flesh slides against my lips, his cock passing over my tongue and slipping down my throat until I simply can't take anymore of him. My throat contracts, pushing him back out only to have him test my limits again a second later. I've begun to feel cramps of desire once more in the pit of my belly. My pussy is throbbing and wet, getting better all the time as he continues to thrust in and out of my mouth. If someone doesn't touch me soon I'm going to die. I reach down and use two fingers to rub at my clit. I concentrate on the feelings I am experiencing; the simultaneous power and vulnerability that come from taking a man's cock inside of my mouth, the molten waves of desire shuddering through me, the growing pleasure coming from the insistent rhythm of my own fingers against my clit. I begin to relax, the pleasure loosening my limbs, and I take him deeper down my throat. His thrusts become more forceful and I open myself to him, marveling that I am actually here, actually doing this, kneeling at a man's feet with his cock sliding deliciously in and out of my mouth. My fingers increase their pace on my clit, rubbing and stroking the slick flesh until I cry out, the sound muffled by the enormous pillar of flesh sheathed in my throat. Suddenly he pulls away from me. I'm only seconds away from another orgasm, so when I feel his warmth leave me I can't help but using my newly freed mouth to voice a disappointed cry. I'm almost there. A few more seconds will do it, either with him or without him. I stroke myself even faster, unthinking, desperate for release, but then he grasps my hand, pulling it away from my pussy, and the need to climax recedes. He looks at me. His pupils are dilated and his breathing is coming hard and fast. I feel overheated and my limbs tremble. My heart hammers inside of my chest. Human beings are not designed to exist in a state of such acute arousal for very long. I lie back down against the cushions and close my eyes. I spread my legs wide for him, sighing at the echo of pleasure that the movement sends shivering through my body. "Please do it now," I whisper, shutting my eyes tight. "Try not to make it hurt." He doesn't say anything, but before I can open my eyes he has scooped me into his arms again. I realize that he is taking me to the window. He has kicked off his jeans and boxers and has somehow also divested me of the remnants of my own clothes by the time we get there. He puts me down, and side by side, naked, we stare out the window at the sea of dancers in the club beneath us. They shimmer and writhe, twirling around and through one another like the eddy of the tide. Despite the room's soundproofing and the strains of music coming from the stereo, I can feel the pounding beat of the club music. It seems to be going in time to my own heart beat. Andre moves behind me, puts his hands on my shoulders, stroking my arms and then cupping my breasts. He pushes gently at my back and I bend forward, bracing my hands against the window glass. "Look at them," he murmurs, his fingers toying lightly with my nipples. "From up here they look like fragments of bright colors caught in a current." "Yes," I say, staring down at them. My breath fogs the glass and I wonder if one the dancers chances to look up, would she be able to see the faint cloudiness on the window, the vague silhouette of two people standing front to back? The thought sends a thrill through me and my breath catches. "Are you ready?" Andre asks, his voice husky, dry with desire. He puts one hand between my legs, finding my clit and he rubs it gently as he rests his cock against my ass. Fear tries to tear its way through the haze of pleasure and I struggle to force it back. I look down at the crowd of people below me, at their secret ecstasy, and I take strength from them. "Yes," I whisper. I brace myself against the glass, and all I can see is the dancers. I plant my feet far apart, spreading my legs for him. His hand stops stroking my clit and moves to spread the cheeks of my ass. Now the tip of his cock rubs lightly against my pussy, tracing the outline of my slit and then moving unerringly back to the opening at its center. He reaches out and strokes my face. Then he gives a single decisive thrust and he is inside of me. Pain blossoms up, but it is like no pain I have ever experienced. It is under-layered by a sensation of such crushing sweetness that I almost scream. My palms are pressed hard against the window. They're all that seem to be holding me up. My legs have turned to water. He doesn't move at all for a few moments, although I feel his limbs trembling against me with repressed desire. He's giving me time to adjust to his size. I don't need time. I want to feel him moving inside of me. I want him to drive this desperate ache in me away. "Go," I gasp, pushing myself against him, not caring about the brief stab of pain that the movement elicits. "Please." He cups my chin in one hand, turning my face towards his, and he kisses me. Then he begins to move his hips, driving himself even deeper inside of me, and pulling almost all the way out again before pushing in once more to the hilt. He takes his time, slowing whenever he thinks that he's hurting me. But the pain is evaporating quickly, and he senses it. My body begins to relax, and I start to match his movements with some thrusting of my own. He accelerates, his cock now sliding easily in and out of my tight pussy, probing deep inside of me. I've begun to cry out with every thrust, not from pain, the pain has vanished as suddenly as it began, but with mindless, uncontainable pleasure. He is gasping behind me as he thrusts, his hips smacking against my ass as he drives himself into me. I wish I could see his face. No sooner do I think this than he pulls out and spins me around to look at him. He kisses me violently, hungrily, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and ravishing me with it. Then he puts his hands on either side of my waist and lifts me into the air. I brace my arms on his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist as he uses one hand to guide his cock inside of me once more. He begins to lift me up and down with his powerful arms, first emptying me of his length and then impaling me back down upon it. He starts out with a slow and steady rhythm, but now that I'm able to see his face I can tell that his desire is getting the better of him. He's flushed and his breathing is ragged. He begins to work me faster, his cock pounding in and out of me so hard that I can only wrap my arms tight about his neck and sob with overwhelming pleasure. I feel myself nearing climax again and this time there will be no stopping it. "I'm going to come," I moan in his ear when I find the breath to speak. He slows his thrusts for a moment and then he turns us, pressing my back up against the window and using the additional support to drive himself in and out of me at an even more delirious angle. Something about the angle of his thrusts to be touches some secret switch inside of me and I feel the beginnings of an explosion deep inside my belly. My muscles coil and tense, readying themselves for that moment of divine release. One more thrust does it. I throw my head back, smacking it hard against the glass, but I don't even notice. I'm screaming with release because my entire body is convulsing with pleasure. Every nerve seems to be releasing its own load of pent-up tension; every cell of my being is quivering with ecstasy. The room dissolves for a moment in a series of shimmering blotches and I wind my arms more tightly around Andre, struggling to hold on to reality. He continues to pound into me, and I shudder and spasm against him, my pussy clenching and unclenching on his cock. My ecstasy is what sends him over the edge. As the pleasure inside of me crests once and begins to build again, sending me straight towards a second orgasm, he suddenly stiffens. The arms holding me tremble for a second and then he is crushing me against him as his hips begin to jerk uncontrollably. I feel him spending inside of me, his heat pouring into me as he shudders in his climax. The thrusts he gives are rough, almost brutal, and they send me hurtling into orgasm. I cry out, bucking my hips against him, milking every last drop of his seed until both of our bodies come to a shuddering, exhausted halt. We stay as we are for a long time, with his hands cupping my buttocks, his cock still inside of me. I'm breathing as if I had just finished running a marathon and so is he. Eventually, he lifts me off of him and sets me down on the floor. I look at him, naked and glorious, still half-hard, with his cream and coffee skin and rippling planes of muscle, his dark brown hair and eyes the color of twilit leaves. I turn and look out the window at the dancers in the club. Somehow their movements seem to make more sense to me now. The ripple and flow of the dance floor seems less random. It is almost as if their shimmying forms are trying to spell out a message which I can now almost understand. He comes up behind me, pressing himself up against my naked backside, letting me know that his cock is still at half-mast, and that it could easily be persuaded to full once more if I'm willing. I'm more than willing. I turn so that I'm facing him, circling my arms around his neck. I stand on tiptoe so that I can press my lips to his. When I break the kiss he looks down at me and says, "So what did you think?" I can hear the teasing in his voice. In answer, I reach down between us and grab his cock lightly at the base of the shaft. He gives a soft groan. I say, "I think that I've been waiting to do this for far too long." I begin to stroke him, my hand becoming a blur, and his half-erection becomes the real thing. "And I have a lot of catching up to do." I've joined the dance at last.