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A Step Behind - Chapter 1
A Step Behind - Chapter 1
The sound of dance music stretched its invisibly tangible energies out to the sidewalk, and pulled them back in as the door closed behind the last black clad woman to enter the building. For some reason, the doorways to these places are always dented and stained with the passing of less than gentle knees ‒ making the entryway itself a kind of preparation for what lies beyond.
The make-up and the clothing remind me of that costume ball where I danced with a man in a dress on the company dollar, and my own disguise is barely a disguise at all. Just something thrown together from the things I still happen to own.
Moving to the center of the dance floor, as is my habit, I let the music and the rhythm of bodies pressing around take over the context of my mind. Pull away from it, just far enough to allow the faces and the arms to blur one into the other, and it’s almost like becoming part of a great moving, living, mass of a creature. We are one in our voiceless, reverberating, hot, body crushing, painful foot stamping, and singleness of pointless purpose. Our only objective is to move, together, in time with whatever happens to be playing.
Well, not our only purpose. Many of those around me are here to make a connection, to find a take home adventure that closes off the evening of drinking and sweating with sweating and sleeping. I am here to feel connected - blending and disappearing into the crowd, one black lined eye being just like another, and fishnet stockings being as common place as satin lined corsets. Just a freak amongst freaks, and indistinguishable from the roving bands of Victorian era vampire circus workers that we all imagine ourselves to be (once released from the confines of what the money gathering environment imposes).
It’s a freedom to blend with those such as these. As I drop my mind down another level, and smile to myself at the luxuriousness of it, a few whose faces I recognize sidle up beside me and place their hands on my arms saying the word ‘ecstasy’ over the sound of the music. I’ve never done ecstasy. Never had an interest. But I allow them to think what they will.
I feel my hands reaching further and further out from my body and I force my eyes to remain closed. Wishing someone was there to catch them. Take them and grasp them, knowing what it is to drop down without the use of chemicals, just the training of one’s own mind. See me for what I am, not the imitation of weekend vampires, or even the collection of complicated theories that weave their way around me like so many thin lined spider webs once my fishnets are exposed to the light of day. Take…
A hand grasps, closes, gently (yet firmly) holding on to the fingers, and then the palm. A body pulls closer and I keep my eyes closed, not wishing to miss the feeling of the moment. Not wanting to see what I’ve grasped. Not yet.
A body presses closer and rhythms flow. We move with the drumbeat and some singer screeches things I can’t understand. As always, I like the momentary and fleeting freedom of not understanding. Hands on hips, arms against sides, legs against thighs, and feet moving in time with all of those around.
Just as I’m beginning to think that we, who ever ‘we’ are, will dance like this for the rest of the night (or, at least, this portion of the endless musical melding that is what they call a ‘song’ these days), the hand spins me around and I open my eyes with the force of the move.
Eye to eye - I know this face. I smile, because it’s not possible to talk. I wonder: what are you doing here? This is one place where I didn’t think to see you. There are places where I have become confident that some of those I know simply won’t follow. This is one of those places. Places along the edge where I don’t expect to see anyone from the right and proper end of the world. Isn’t this a long way for you come? Planes and trains and automobiles ‒ all powered by philosophies and theories and reasons to be elsewhere. Isn’t this a long way to travel and trial and tempt your way into? Just to move here, in this temporary moment, on this multi-heartbeat dance floor, with me?
He moves, spins me around, slowly, and stops the movement half way through, so that he can pull me close and press himself to my back. His lips, and then his teeth, touch my neck, and I can feel my head rolling back, enjoying the pleasure-pain that is a well-done bite.
We dance. Just dance and touch and move and then pull away to lose ourselves in the fast moving rhythm of a less than sensual song. But, we always come back. He always grabs my hand, spins me around, and pulls me close. Teeth on neck, hands on hips, black on black.
The last song plays. It’s the last song for me because I never stay past 1am. Taking his hand and pulling him along, I know that he’s following, willingly, wherever I might lead.
My hand presses open the bathroom door. It’s a filthy dingy dark place, but it suits the evening perfectly. Feeling the role my fishnets and tight black skirt provide, I push him into a stall, enjoying the half-smiles and rolled eyes of the women already in there. There’s another woman doing the same in a stall further down, although it looks like there are two skirts, not one, in that particular game.
He looks like he’s about to say something, so I kiss him in the interests of silence, while pulling apart his belt and his pants, and then reaching in. He’s hard and he’s enjoying this - I can tell by the way he pushes into my grip.
“Drop them.” I order, pulling away a half step. He does as he’s told, and his pants fall to his ankles. “Sit.” I continue and, again, he obeys, positioning himself on the toilet. Ready. Waiting. I step forward and he places his hands on my hips. I take them and move them to my cunt. There’s nothing but stockings under my skirt, and I lift the short fabric so that he can see better. “Rip them.” I order.
That seems to take him by surprise, but the look in his eyes quickly changes to one of wicked enjoyment and he does as he’s told - with vigorous force.
“Good boy.” I say, running my hands through his hair. Then, taking a handful and gripping tightly, I lower myself down over his lap and slowly run my already wet cunt over the head of his erect cock.
“Now use your hands.” I order. He runs his hands along my legs, taking them from my knees up to my hips. I pull his head back slightly.
“No, not there.” He groans a little and I can tell that he wants to pull me down, hard, but that’s not the game we’re playing and he’s enjoying the game too much to make it stop. His hands travel up to my waist and around to my breasts.
“Good boy.” I say, releasing his hair and pressing down onto his cock, sliding over the top of him until I can feel the entirety of his flesh inside of me. His hands stay on my breasts, moving over them more and more frantically. He grabs the top of my shirt and pulls. The fabric is a loose stretch that shows the form of my braless breasts beneath it clearly and sensually. It gives way to his pull and he takes hold of my flesh. At first he simply grabs them, like a clumsy virgin, but then breathes deeply and releases his grasp, running fingertips over flesh and stopping at the nipples. He pinches and teases, watching my face as he does so, and I reward him with ever increasing speed in the thrusts my hips are slamming down into his lap.
Feeling the itch and the tingling that are the edges of a growing orgasm, I grab him by the hair and press his face into my breasts. He takes his cue well and latches onto first one nipple and then the other. Moaning loudly, I enjoy the edges of an orgasm not yet achieved. He’s sweating and breathing hard, yet never lets go of his appointed task to my tits.
The edges are released and I feel the intensity of an orgasm slamming through my body. Its waves of heat and pleasure flow with each thrust of his cock and I let loose a strangled cry with the chaotic, out of control, pleasure of the thing.
As the feeling subsides and the thrusting has reduced to a slower pace, I realize that he’s still hard, still ready, and mumbling “C’mon baby, cum again, cum again.”
Taking him by the hair and pulling his head out of my tits, I look him in the eye, a gleeful anger in my voice, and say “I will decide who cums and when.”
He looks confused, but his eyes immediately register a level of play that I know I can mold and work with. I increase the movement of my hips.
“Are you getting close?” I ask him. His eyes roll slightly with physical response and he mumbles yes. My hand is still gripping his hair and I make sure that he looks me in the eye.
“You will not cum until I command.” I order. “Do you understand?” Again, that mumbled yes.
I watch his face as we move together. He starts to reach a point where the pleasure turns into a kind of pain. He’s straining to keep it off.
“Do you want it?” I ask, he mumbles yes.
“I can’t hear you.” I demand. He says yes louder.
“I don’t think you really want it.” I tease. “I think I should just get up and walk away.” He shouts yes this time.
“Alright.” I say.
“Hold it” He looks as though he’s going to blow, despite himself.
“Hold it” He’s till holding on, his face contorted with the effort.
“Cum! Now!” And he does, loudly, violently, thoroughly, and completely.
Then, all is quiet.
“Crystene.” He says. “Let me take you home.”
He wants to keep the night going. I know him. We were regular lovers once, and I know what he’s thinking. I could list off an entire book of positions and perversions that simply can’t be done in a toilet stall. I smile but shake my head no. “I don’t take anyone home.” I reply. “This is just a one night thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “We’re not strangers.” He counters. “We’ve known each other for years. Just let me give you a ride back to your place.”
I consider this for a moment. “Alright, Andy.” I agree. “But I’m going to fuck you in the back of your car, and then I’m going to leave you there.”
Andy ponders this for a moment. “Not a problem.” He replies. “Not a problem at all.”
The Morning After
Crystene rolled over and hit the alarm clock. “Alarm clocks should never be allowed to ring on a Sunday.” She muttered. “It should be some kind of law or something.”
“Agreed.” Said a male voice from behind a pile of blankets and pillows. Crystene jumped, and then pulled back the covers, quickly, half-terrified and half-hopeful of what she might find there.
“Is something wrong?” He asked - his brow furrowed.
“Andy!” Crystene exclaimed, as though she were seeing him for the first time.
Andy placed his head on his hand and gave her a quizzical look. “How much did you drink last night?” He asked.
Crystene looked sheepish. “Nothing at all.” She replied.
Andy laughed a short scoffing laugh. “Now that’s a first.” He replied, lying down on his back. “Do you remember anything?”
“I remember everything.” Crystene said. “I just have this rule about never bringing someone home with me because it usually takes me a while to register that it wasn’t all a dream.”
Andy gave her the kind of look that people reserve for those they have deemed to be insane. “Have you talked to someone about this?” He asked.
Crystene rolled her eyes. “The dancing was divine, the sex was good, you should consider yourself lucky that I haven’t already kicked you out, and I’m out of food, so you’ll have to leave without breakfast.” She said, sliding out of bed and grabbing her robe. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Andy watched her leave the room and muttered something about the stupidity of catching up with an ‘ex’ while searching about for his clothes. He passed through the kitchen, searching for a way to let himself out, when he noticed the schedule. There were dancing events of all kinds stuck to the fridge, with yellow highlighter selecting a different venue every weekend ‒ sometimes every night. Eyes slanting with thought, he pulled his PDA out of his coat pocket and started to take note of what was happening, when, and where. The sound of water running in the shower joined the soft tapping of his light pen.