All she wanted to do was dance, but the boyfriend was too cool for school, so she danced with me instead. It was Tuesday night in a dungeon of a club in Williamsburg, Brooklyn where you could get a Rolling Rock tallboy for three bucks so of course it was packed to the gills. My eye kept finding her during the opening act. I liked the way she moved. Serpentine and round. Black tank and black lace skirt and black pantyhose. At least, I thought they were pantyhose until she rubbed her inner thigh against the boyfriend's skinny jeans to the beat and her skirt crawled up her leg revealing the sacred line where nylon became flesh. The boyfriend pushed her away. Not much into dancing. He wanted to soak up the band. What a jerk.
The crowd surged forward when Leprous Mannequin took the stage. I was crushed against her. She was a petite, wiggly thing, but wore these huge wedges that brought her bubbly ass into perfect alignment with my pelvis. Why she was with this guy, I had no idea. He was cultivating an experimental mustache that made him look like a Spanish pimp. He had the same black horn rims everyone had. He had as much soul as a bag of frozen peas. Perhaps she loved him for his taste in plaid. She tried it one more time. Took his hand in hers and scrawled love notes in his palm with her thumb, pressed her firm breasts into his side and let the bass drum guide her hips. The bastard bucked her away and she turned toward the stage in a pout, her ass grazed my hand and a blanket of electricity wrapped my skin. I gave myself to the music. We made little circles with our hips. Her ass stuck to my crotch as though magnetized. The boyfriend yawned. I felt heat flooding out from under her skirt. My dick grew heavy, hungry. She read the bulge in my pants like it was braille. Her ass ground against my crotch and she arched her chest out, skated her hands up her sides and over her breasts, reaching her arms high into the air as she worked my cock into rigid agitation. I inhaled the erotic funk of her armpits. I wanted to taste her spit on my tongue. In an instant her fingers were groping for my zipper, she found it and pulled. Her ass gave a sharp bounce and the skirt came flying upwards. In a single deft motion she freed my cock and let it snap against the heat of her cunt. The music became muted and distant. Even though we were in a crowd of hundreds, we were totally alone.
She wasn't wearing panties and was as wet as I was hard. We sawed ourselves against one another. My dick was a set of fingers, another pair of eyes. I knew her. Felt her soft hair against my dripping helmet. Knew the sweetness of her clit as if it were on my tongue. She shivered and melted each time we connected. With each throbbing heave of my shaft, her lips parted and her pussy gushed. I was slick and sticky, close to insanity. I had to fight every instinct telling me to grab her tits and fuck her as hard as possible right there on the beer soaked floor. She must have felt the same way. Her soft hand took my cock and brushed it up and down against her opening. How I wanted her hand to open and release me into the heat of her abyss, but it was a dance and she was leading. She pulled my cock past the soft folds of her cunt and brought me to rest at her other opening. The erotic sensation of her pressing her ass against my stiff prick nearly took me over the edge. I felt her dilate. The strong ring of her anus swallowed my helmet and I sank inside of her. Perfumed clouds of sensual stink bellowed into my nostrils. Her pussy and her ass. Like jungle roses. My cock was deep inside her as we writhed to the music until I could take no more. She spasmed with each jet, our hips in lockstep as the band finished a number and the crowd behind us roared. She moved away from me. Brought her hand out from under her skirt, licked it, then kissed her boyfriend deeply. I zipped up and went back to the bar.