These will keep coming... and hopefully, so will you.
Pool Hall Dance
The
broken glass crunches under his feet as we glide around the felt. He hums in my
ear so that I can hear the tune he’s dancing to. He swings me around, narrowly
missing where the light fixture used to hang.
“Everyone
is watching us,” he says, licking the scars at the corner of his mouth. “They’re
wondering what’s going to happen.”
“People
don’t usually dance on pool tables,” I tell him.
He
leans his head back, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Do you
really think that’s all it is?” He takes a glance around the room, and I can’t
help but follow his gaze. They’re watching us, but it’s not a look of confusion
at two people dancing on a pool table. It’s more the look of fear at the
detonator in his hand.
He
tosses the hair out of his eyes and pulls me closer, putting the detonator into
my hand and squeezing my fingers around it. He flips a switch, and a light
flashes into life. “Don’t let go,” he whispers, his lips barely an inch from my
ear. His hand slides to my lower back, teasing and tracing some kind of random
figure into the curve of my spine. “I’m pretty sure they would prefer you to
hold tight.”
He
twirls me around, my heels tapping against the bumper, my footing uncertain. He
spins us around, the lights of the pool hall swirling, the looks of the people
sliding off my skin, their eyes glued to the trigger I’m holding.
“You
know,” he says, licking his lips again as we stop the mad twirl, “if you just
let go, no one will blame you. I’m twirling you around. I’m making you dip.” He
leans me back, a clumsy dip that makes it clear that neither one of us have
taken dance lessons.
He
jerks me back up with a laugh in his eyes and an exaggerated smile on his face,
stretching across his cheeks. “Any one of those movements could just knock your
grip, make you let go. No one would blame you.” He pulls me close again, so
close that I can hear him lick his lips, so I can almost feel his tongue on my
ear. “If you don’t like the eyes watching you move, just let go.”
More
broken glass cracks under his foot as we sway for a few more seconds to the
music he hears, the music that seems just barely out of my hearing. I feel like
I could hear it, if I just tried a bit harder. If I just focused a bit more on
the beat, on the rhythm.
“Then
again,” he says, pulling me tight and pressing his forehead into mine. He
stares deep into my eyes, past my eyes and into the deepest parts of me. “Maybe
you like being watched. Is that it? Do you like having a captive audience?
“They’re
paying a lot of attention, you know. These moments are being burned into their
brains. If they walk out of here, they’ll never forget it. The memory is
amazing when the prospect of death is so close.” He lets out a laugh, starting
as a giggle that just expands and expands, reverberating out of him and sending
tingles down my spine. “Right now, they’re all watching your hand. The tendons
in your arm. They’re waiting for you to falter, to decide that it’s not worth
it, to forget and lose your concentration. They know that’s the last thing they’ll
see.
“Is
that all you want them to see? Do you just want them to watch us dance, to see
if I can dip you again without you opening your hand? Or maybe, you want them
to watch something else.”
He
winks at me, his voice becoming deep and gravelly. “Like maybe watching us
fuck,” he emphasizes the last syllable, the hardest of k’s. “Would you like an
audience for that?”
His
eyes glimmer, and he pushes me gently away, twirling me by the hand holding the
detonator. He keeps me spinning, my world twirling long after he stops and
holds me close again, gently sliding us around the table. “They would be so
attentive. Probably feel a bit guilty about it, too. They’d feel live perverts,
watching people having sex. It’s something so intimate, so private, and yet
there they’d be, watching. Intent. Focused. Deeply involved.
“Do
you think they’d realize how important it could be? After all, if things aren’t
any good, if I can’t make you cum, you should have no trouble holding on. Your
grip will stay tight, and they’ll all be safe.
“But
oh,” he laughs a little, a manic sparkle in his eyes. “What if it’s good? What if
I can push you over that little hill? What if I can send waves of pleasure
through you? Would you even be able to concentrate on holding your hand so
tightly?” He takes a deep breath through the nose, sniffing the crook of my
shoulder, roughly inhaling my scent. “Or would you let it go in a fit of ecstasy,
a cascading joy that tickled your nerves, that made you forget how many lives
you held in your hand?
“I
don’t think anyone would blame you. It’s not like it’s your fault. I put you in
this position,” he presses his body tight against mine, tight enough that I
know what he’s thinking. Then he dips me down slowly, turning me in a gentle curve
before finally pulling me up again. “This really is all my fault. I’m the one
who put everyone in this situation. I’m the one who smashed apart the light
fixture.” He looks at the wreckage next to the table. “Do you think they’ll
keep the security deposit for that?” He laughs again, then spins me out away
from him before pulling me back, wrapping me up in his arms, his mouth by my
ear.
“There’s
no need to feel guilty about any of this,” he tells me. “Why would you feel
guilty? What have you done, other than have a little dance? Every second you
hold tight is another second of life for them. You’re a hero.” He spins me
around, one hand just above the curve of my butt, one hand on the wrist that’s
holding the detonator.
“And every second you
hold out when we fuck, every second you keep yourself tense, you let the
pleasure build, that’s another second. You can hold on to yourself, keep trying
not to go over the edge. Trying to focus, trying to keep your hand squeezed
tight. Never mind the feel of my hands on your skin, the tug of your hair, the
gentle nibble on your skin. Never mind the thrusts, the pleasure. Never mind
the audience. You just keep focus on your hand. Maybe you’ll hold it tight.
“Maybe
I’m not that good. Maybe I can’t make you cum. Maybe you won’t have to worry.
Just hold out longer than I can, and you’ll be fine. They’ll all be fine. They’ll
go about their lives having watched you have sex, and they’ll be grateful for
the memory. They’ll love what they saw, and they’ll never forget it. All you
have to do is hold tight. All you have to do is hope that I’m not good enough to
make you cum.” He growls a bit, then winks at me, sending a shiver down my
spine.
“I’ll
tell you a secret,” he says, pulling me close again, so close that I can feel
his scar against my face. “I’m pretty good at this.” Then he bites my ear lobe.
“Don’t you want to know how I got these scars?”
Those
people never stood a chance.
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