Dancing

Jonas wasn’t out on the dance floor. He was standing at the bar, a glass in his hand, his head turned toward two or three guys who were laughing, ordering drinks, and pouring him more. A distraction, just as ordered. He wasn’t even consciously turning his back on her. He’d just been given something to do while his girlfriend stepped out of the hallway with her pussy exposed.

The others’ eyes were still drawn to Silke. Hungry. Unashamed. As if they already knew that under that short dress there was nothing but a shaved, wet slut.

One of them could be the anonymous guy. The one with the number. The one who had the photos, the videos from the changing room, the glistening spot between her legs, the dress with no panties. Any mouth at a glass could be the same one that had texted her “Say yes.”

The guys at the bar were drinking. Jonas, too. Except for one. He stood a step away, without a glass, without a smile, and approached her as the next song began.

Three minutes, Silke thought. Songs lasted three minutes. He held out his hand. No grand gesture. A question without words. You’ll say yes.

“Yes,” she said. The word slipped out before she could think it over again. He pulled her onto the dance floor, not far away. The bar remained in the corner of her eye: Jonas, the glass, the friends who were no longer looking just at him. Then the man was close. One hand on her back, the other on her hip, right where the dress stopped being fabric and bare skin began. He danced close. His thigh pushed between her legs, hard, demanding, and Silke gasped because there was nothing there to cushion the pressure. Just her bare, already dripping-wet pussy. Her labia were pressed against his thigh, spread apart, wet, defenseless.

He noticed it immediately. She could tell by his breath—a short, satisfied sound, as if that was exactly what he’d expected.

The hand on her back slid under the hem. Fingers on her bare ass, firm, possessive, as if it belonged to him. Silke flinched and stayed put. The bass pushed her tits against his shirt. Her nipples were rock-hard, rubbing through the thin fabric. His other hand found the hem in front and pulled it up. Not far. Far enough.

Cool air. For a heartbeat, her pussy was exposed. Wet. Swollen. Open against his thigh. Her labia glistened in the light. At the bar, two of the guys were looking right there. Straight at her exposed pussy. One grinned into his glass. Jonas laughed at something at the bar and drank, oblivious, while a stranger was showing his girlfriend’s pussy.

The man pulled the hem back down. Dancing. Pressure. His thigh continued to rub against her clit. Then again, this time from behind. Her ass bare in the light, two seconds, three. A grin somewhere between the glasses. The hand slid forward, between her legs. Two fingers that didn’t penetrate. Just stroking through the wetness. Over the swollen lips. Testing. As if he were checking how ready she already was. Silke clenched her teeth and said nothing. She had said yes.

The song was too long and too short. His cock was hard against her hip, clearly visible through his pants. Her own wetness ran warm down her inner thigh, slowly, thickly, past her knee. A glistening streak she felt every time she moved her leg. Anyone who looked closely could see it.

Then the song was over.

He let her go as if he’d just been dancing. No name. Not a word. He walked back to the bar, still without a glass, and rejoined the others. Jonas turned halfway around, spotted Silke among the crowd, and raised his glass, tired, oblivious.

“Everything okay?” he called out.

“Yes,” Silke said.

The word was spent. It meant nothing anymore except obedience.

She didn’t know if the one who hadn’t been drinking was the anonymous one.

Next came a woman.

She emerged from the crowd right after the guy without a glass had dropped Silke back off at the bar. Slender, dressed in dark clothes, too beautiful to be a coincidence. She smiled as if she’d been watching Silke the whole time. The woman stepped closer, not intrusively, just confidently.

“Beautiful,” she said, pointing to her crotch. “And brave. But a girl shouldn’t be standing or dancing here alone—come with me.”

Silke heard the words “alone” and, for the first time, felt something that sounded like rescue. With a woman, she could be sure. No hand under her hem. No thigh between her legs. No stranger’s cock against her hip. She nodded. She went with her.

They moved a short distance away from the bar. Jonas was still there, glass in hand, his head heavier than it had been ten minutes ago. The guys around him kept laughing. He seemed drunk. Silke glanced over briefly and let herself be led away.

The woman led her to two or three more. All gorgeous. All sexy. Tight dresses, open glances. Silke suddenly felt at ease. For the first time that evening, she didn’t feel like the slut with the bare pussy, but like someone who belonged. There was alcohol. Champagne first. Cold, sweet, gone too fast. Then schnapps. Two or three glasses in a few minutes, and they were dancing in a group. The warmth rose to her head and, at the same time, deeper down, between her legs, where she was already wet anyway.

They danced. Not wildly. Closely. Hands on hips, on the waist, once on her ass—friendly, as if that were normal among women. Silke let it happen. The sparkling wine made her knees weak. The schnapps made her not care about the hem of her dress. She kept glancing over at Jonas. He was grinning crookedly, drinking, not noticing that his girlfriend was now standing in a group that was looking at her as if they knew exactly what was missing under her dress.

At some point, she got a message from Jonas. He didn’t ask where she was but said he was already on his way home. What a jerk. Silke’s new friends immediately noticed the look on her face. They asked what was wrong. She turned her phone toward them, showed them the message, and said, “My boyfriend just bailed on me.”

Before she could do anything, Susi snatched the phone out of her hand and said, “Forget that jerk—at least for today. You guys are going to let loose and go dancing.”

They drank a few more shots. Two of her new friends asked her to dance in the middle of the floor. Silke remembered the text message. That’s why you’d better dance with anyone who asks you. And don’t even think about saying no.

“Yes,” she said, handed Susi her purse, and headed toward the center of the dance floor.