She's the dominant type, my dear.
She enjoyed giving orders, I could hear it in her voice as I danced with my broom. It was cute but not a turn on.
I wondered how she played with her boys, subservient and cowering - because she must have played at some time. What brought her to not wanting men at all, for so long, even at the risk of being alone. How could anyone not want anything from the opposite sex at all.
Dancing, grinding. I am not a dancer but there were those moments when we were on the floor and our rhythms suddenly matched. And it was easy, it was natural. And it said we are good together. It told everybody, and they knew it, and they looked as long as they comfortably could, and then looked away, jaws open, amazed, excited, surprised, embarrassed.
I didn't care. Let them be uncomfortable. They'll think of us, some of them, when they lie in bed tonight and wake up in the morning. Holding you, the curves of your legs, hips, breasts. My hands on your stomach and ass, holding you to me as we rock on the dance floor, surrounded by people everywhere, strangers, the smell of sex and sweat and hot pussy as I raise your wrists to the ceiling.
And they'll come, thinking.
