Lust.

He touches you while you dance, gliding his lean fingers over your your arms, sides, breasts and you don’t stop him, not even when he holds you close, grabs your hips and urgently presses himself into the small of your back.  He strokes your thighs and your dress rides up with his touch, but you let yourself be carried away; you close your eyes and flood your senses with the deafening music and the feeling of his hands over your body, flirting cautiously towards your soft, tingling pussy.  You feel free when you dance; the anonymity gives your hands and hips a mind of their own.  Occasionally, you surprise yourself with your forwardness.

Bodies gyrating in a dark nightclub push at each other in an attempt to be individual.  Faces merge together; your brain is confused and you think you recognise someone you went to school with.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they dance.  What they think of themselves, what they think of you, how they make love.  How it would be if the two of you were to fuck.  Life’s too short to be awkward, too transient to be shy.
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/Come here/, he says smilingly, beckoning to the space beside him on the mattress.  You pause for a second, and then smile back.  You lie down beside him and lay your head on his shoulder.  His legs tangle into yours, one of his knees ease in between yours.

He pushes his leg closer to you, in a quick, casual movement.  You tense up for a moment, but then relax into him.  /It’s okay/, you tell yourself, /We’re not doing anything wrong/, even though his thigh is pressed firmly against your pussy and you’re sure he can feel the heat of arousal emanating from you and now he’s smelling your hair and running his fingers through it and down your arm and side and then it slips, falls carelessly in between your bodies, gently touches the front of your expensive underwear.  You’re aroused, but you don’t dare move into him, or catch his eye, or even breathe.  You don’t know if it’s a conscious effort on his part, this quasi-flirtation.  Does he know what he’s done?  Does he like you?  Would he respond if you showed him more attention?  Does he want you to?  Is he afraid?  Is it just a physical thing for him, or does he want something more with you?

Imagine what could have happened, if you’d played things differently.  See the desire in his eyes, roaming over your face, neck, breasts, arms, stomach, ass.  Hold your breath as the smile on his face pierces into your core, weakens you.  Submit, as he leans towards you, grabs a fistful of your long, dark hair and with a smirk pushes you violently, face down, onto the bed.  Feel the firm hand on your back constraining you; smell the musky scent of his body on the dark grey sheets.  Sense your heartbeat quickening as you hear the hurried clink of his belt buckle and the rustle of his trousers as he frees himself, because now your dress is being pulled up, and he’s pushed your thong brusquely to the side, and he’s forcing himself inside you with an arrogant murmur of satisfaction.  The pain shoots through your body.  You cry out.  Try to control your breathing.  You close your eyes and gather the soft cotton in between your clenched fists, bracing yourself against his powerful thrusts.  He asks if you like it, and you do.  His strong grip, bending your body to his slightest whim sends shivers down your spine.  This is what you have ached for, longed for, ever since you first caught sight of him— to be taken against your will and made to submit.

His voice snaps you out of your reverie.  He whispers your name, asking if you’re asleep, and your eyes open briefly to see him smile, that charming, enigmatic smile you can never quite understand.  You quickly squeeze your eyes shut as his gaze falls on you, and you’re suddenly conscious of your hard nipples against your dress, rubbing against the rayon and aching for a firm hand, or a warm, controlling mouth.  In the morning, a mutual acquaintance will mention that he noticed something between the two of you, a tension, and you’ll relay it back to him, passing it off as the greatest joke you’ve ever heard.  But this isn’t the morning yet, and you’re still protected by the magic and transience of the night.  You sigh quietly inside and try to force yourself to sleep.

A few days later, he will reference another girl to you, when he’s with his friends.  /She’s gorgeous/, he says, /Great body… like a model’s.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned her to you before./  You’ll wonder whether he’s saying this because he’s actually not attracted to you and doesn’t want you to get the wrong impression, or if it’s because he’s trying to convince you (himself?) that there is nothing sexually threatening about his presence in your life, despite the way he might secretly feel about you, or act around you.  You ask his friends about the girls he’s gone out with before, and receive limited responses.  /I’m not like that/, he says.  But you wonder.