Seduction on the Dance Floor

Silke walked in.

Warmth. Bass. Too many hats. The rabbit mask was running out of air; the mouth underneath was damp. She stayed at the edge at first, looking for a cape she’d picked out on Amazon for Anonym.

One of the magicians was just walking toward her. No hesitation. He said something.

Indistinct. The bass drowned out half of it. Rabbit, maybe. Hat, maybe. Or just “hey.”

Silke followed him, her body already too close to his, and asked, loud enough for him to hear:

“Did you say ‘rabbit out of a hat’?”

He nodded.

Not a sentence. Just a nod. It was simpler than asking. Silke had finally found Anonym. He came straight toward me. She recognized the outfit—it was the costume she’d picked out for him.

They danced together. Maybe for the first time. And she realized right away it wasn’t Jonas. She wanted to seduce him. She wanted to make it nice for him. Three or four minutes that didn’t feel like a party. More like a mission. She took his hand and guided it to the side of the slit, right where the fabric had an opening so you wouldn’t have to take the rabbit off. His fingers slid under the corset. Warm. Too confident. She pushed them higher, onto his bare chest, his nipple already hard, and left them there.

“There,” she whispered against the strange mask. “You wanted this.”

He didn’t say anything intelligible. She took his other hand herself and slid it back, under her skirt, to her bare ass, the slit in the fabric, her skin. No panties. Just the outline of the lingerie, open, her pussy already wet since she’d walked through the entrance.

He caught on faster than an innocent man would.

The fingers in front pinched her nipple—not tenderly, but probingly. Behind her, a flat hand on her buttock, then the cleft, then deeper, from behind between her legs, where she was wet. Silke flinched and stayed still. She enjoyed it. For three whole minutes. Because a week of rest hadn’t turned off the switch—it had only oiled it. Because Jonas was looking for her ten meters away, and this man had nodded in agreement.

“Keep going,” she said. Stupid. Clear.

He stroked her pussy from behind, two fingers through her parted labia, not deep, just along the length, spreading them apart, as if checking to see if the rabbit was ready yet. In front, his other hand under the corset, both tits, alternating; the fabric of the costume shifted but stayed in place. The mask held her face. His cape swallowed the movement. From the outside, it looked like a dance. Inside, she was open.

The bass marked the beat.

One minute. Nipples. His thumb circled, roughly, good. Silke breathed against his shoulder and thought: He’s here. He was worried. He’s not looking for the naked woman—he’s looking for me.

Two minutes. His finger on her clitoris, from behind, awkward yet precise. She spread her legs a tiny bit wider. His top hat brushed against her ears. Somewhere, someone called out for a photo. She didn’t hear it clearly.

Three minutes. Two fingers just inside her, only the first joint—the slit wouldn’t allow the rest. She moaned into the mask, wet around him, and held his hand tight so he wouldn’t walk away. Pleasure, honestly. Pubic hair right below, soft, like a spice.

Four.

He pulled his fingers out, wiped them on the inner hem, as if that were part of the trick. He wanted to pull her away. But she wasn’t ready yet. She broke free from him and disappeared into the crowd. She wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. He should find her again.

I see him again before he sees me.

My cape—the one I picked out. The top hat. The mask. I stand still on the open space, my skirt still closed, wet underneath from his fingers. I look at him and do a few sexy dance moves to lure him in. I know it’s him.

I nod. He nods. Just once. A small nod. Barely visible behind the rabbit mask. He comes. Straight toward me. No hesitation. His hip first, then his hand, and we’re dancing again as if we’d never parted. As if I hadn’t deliberately lost him in the crowd, just so he’d come looking for me.

The one who wrote “It’s over.” The one who drove to campus. The one who hasn’t asked since I told him not to ask. The phrase “rabbit out of a hat” hangs between us, unspoken, and I don’t need it. I’ve already used it up with that nod earlier. His hands find the slits without guidance.

One in front, under the corset, on my breast. My nipple is still sensitive from last time. I flinch and press myself into his hand—not away. The other one to the side, under my skirt, flat against my pussy. Open. Wet. He notices immediately. Two fingers slip between my lips—not deep, just there—and I have to clench my teeth so the sound stays inside the mask.

On the outside, two costumes dance.

Inside, I’m already turned on again.

I want him. Not the job. Him. The chat. The concern. His cock. I slide my hand under his cape, deeper, find the waistband, the warmth beneath it. He doesn’t unbutton his pants himself. I do it.

Elastic waistband. His boxers, damp in front. I grab it. It’s hard. Beautiful. Not too thick, not too soft, a clean shape in my fist that twitches once when I run my thumb over the glans. A drop. I spread it around.

In my head, a voice says: That’s why I bought him the costume. Easy access to his penis. And that’s why he bought me mine with the slits. That’s why I’m standing at a party while Jonas calls out my name at the entrance.

I jerk him off in time with the beat.

Slowly at first, because we’re still dancing. My hand under the cape, invisible, just the movement of my shoulder. His fingers inside me become more distinct—one finger, then the second, his thumb on my clitoris from the front, awkwardly through the slit, just right. I’m getting wetter around him. The skirt sticks to the inside of my thighs.

I think about “session.”

About “rest up.” About “new task.” About “take it easy.” This isn’t easy. This is my interpretation. I want to please him before he says what he wants. I want him to realize that I want him.

Jonas is somewhere.

Three-Minute-Jonas. I-Love-You-Jonas. The one looking for the naked woman and can’t find his girlfriend, even though she’s holding his hand in a stranger’s cape. The thought makes me tighten around my fingers. Shame, warm, just right. I’m enjoying this. I hate that I’m enjoying this. I keep jerking off.

His hand in front leaves my breast, grabs my hip, pulls me closer. His cock rubs against my fist and against the fabric of my skirt, almost against my pussy—only the lingerie in between, which isn’t really in the way. I could slip him inside. Right here. Standing up. The slit would be wide enough if I stood on my tiptoes.

I don’t do it.

Not yet.

I almost always come just from jerking off and from my fingers—a tugging down there that I know well, that I’ve already delivered too many times on campus, in the closet, and on my fat belly. This time, it’s supposed to be for him. For the chat. For the man who was worried.

I stop my hand. Not him. Me. Breathe. His cock throbs between my fingers, wet, beautiful, and I think: If I kneel now, that’s the seduction.

I don’t kneel. I whisper in his ear, “Find me,” and you can have me.