A Secret Dance
I don’t think you see me dancing. With your eyes far gone and the music intoxicating, will I be nothing more than a participant in the crowd? Yet I undress you with my eyes. In my mind I have dug my fingers in your long hair and pulled you closer to me. With my palms against your neck I have forced you to shorten the distance between us. My gaze already inspected every item of clothing and admired every piece of showing skin. My nails have left imaginary scratches upon your back by now.
Your dancing is so carefree that it almost looks innocent. It makes me want to devour you. I want to decorate your pale skin with grazes and bruises. Drawing blood from a destroyed lip. I want to take your innocence to me and turn it to rot. Strategically hidden between the dancing crowd I follow you like a shadow. You are my own prey, my lamb to feed on. With these ease of a she-wolf in well-known forests do I move through the other dancers. They are nothing more than trifling sheep who don’t even come close to the beauty you illustrate. I want you and my feet are drawn to you. The music is loud, dominant like hunting drums of ancient tribes. My heartbeat is increasing. The blood flows there where it cannot go.
Closer, but still invisible, I keep admiring you. You are dancing like the world has ceased to exist. With your bare feet in the mud and your long locks wildly around you, you look like a grown-up feral child. It takes a few breaths you open your eyes and see me. A wolfish grin curls upon my lips. I know that you notice me, just how I know that it is pure coy that is making you look away. Caught you. My lamb is trapped, ready to be ravaged.
I dance closer to you. Your eyes meet mine. I greet you with a glare filled with soft mockery, provocation and lust. I want you. Your fingers float through the air, meeting the rhythm of the music. I catch them and entangle them in mine. I see the surprise on your face. A surprise which is met with curiosity and a slight fear. It is exactly how I like my prey best. The dread makes the blood so much sweeter. Revere me. Adore me. Let me devour you until you will beg for the release of the little death. I hold your hands, pull you slowly closer to me and lean to your ear.
“My tent is at camping two. What are you going to do?”
The tent carries a stench of dried-up rain, sweat and weed. A scent that by now symbolizes every festival experience. You are underneath me. Clothing is already hastily forgotten in a mucky corner. My nails are exploring the shapes of your body while my mouth is getting acquainted with your tongue. I feel your lusts grow below me while I greet you with a familiar wetness. I want you. The hunger that stirs up my body expresses itself while I claim you. Your hands want to push me away, move our bodies in such a manner that you can ride me. Wildly, forcefully, I push your arms next to you. A warning in your neck, disguised as a bite, follows. No. You will belong to me. I will ride you, possess you, with all the control owned by me. You let it happen. Your hands dig into my love handles and with soft moaning you accompany my movements. My legs rhythmically move up and down. Each time I feel your manhood delve deeper inside of me. I release one of your hands so I can pleasure myself. For a moment the prey changes into an object as I creep closer to my peak. You don’t exist anymore – only the gratification you provide me. My hands are wrapped around your throat. They steal the air from your lungs as I come down one final time and meet oblivion.
Out of breath and with a heavily beating heart I fall next to you. My fingers caress your beard and the corners of my lips give away the she-wolf of earlier in the night. You seem to be tired, content, but also slightly frightened. I can feel your arm shaking next to my skin. For a few seconds the tent is only filled with silence before we both softly break into laughter. You want to cuddle up to me, maybe even fall asleep. The innocence has never left you. It is almost endearing.
“Time to go.”
Adamantly I push you away from me. A cold, awkward collecting of clothes follows. With patience I watch you leave. The night is still young. There is always a next prey to hunt for.