Monk , Natalie Ch. 01
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((This is my first attempt at erotica. I hope you enjoy the story.))
The club was full of smoke.
Most clubs of this kind are; strobes and smoke do funny things to lighting, and seeing as this was a rave club where everyone played with various lighted toys in order to cause the rush of sensation most X-heads knew as “blowing up”, that made sense.
But me, I stood in the corner, arms crossed over each other. I didn’t feel like dancing yet. I don’t do drugs; I like to keep my mind clear. Besides, the adrenaline rush from dancing itself is more than enough for me. An unlit bidi was behind my ear; I had quit smoking, not long ago, but I intended to burn this later tonight. Bidi’s weren’t tobacco, so all was cool and good.
I watched the drugmunching morons lurch about, some of them actually not half bad in their manipulation of the glowsticks that were the trademark of this form of dancing. Raving is about nothing so much as becoming a living sculpture to the beat driving you; everyone’s interpretation was different. My personal favorite was a rather attractive guy in the corner, rolling an imaginary ball between his hands. His movements were liquid and precise, skilled and solid; you could almost see the ball in his hands, rolling on its own.
It was while I was focused on him that I heard the voice in my ear. “You been starin’ at him all night. You gay or somethin’?”
I turned to see a stunning but impish face looking at me with a sort of amused disdain. I smirked. “Bi, actually. What’s it to you?”
She returned the smirk in kind. “Nothin’ t’me. Why ain’t you dancin?” Her diction was clear and her eyes were focused — I didn’t think she was on anything.
I shrugged. “Don’t feel like it. No sticks. Just diggin’ the beat and watching the unwashed masses make unholy fools of themselves.”
Suddenly, two green glowing rods were being waved under my nose. I smiled and tipped my head back, making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “C’mon, girl. Why y’pickin on me?”
“You the only one not dancing. I’m Natalie.” She grabbed my hand and put the sticks in it, closing my fingers around them. “You’re cute. I wanna see you dance.”
I snorted, slid the sticks between my fingers, and smiled as “Gotta Get Through This” by Daniel Bedingfield started pumping across the speakers. How appropriate. “Eric,” I said, as I got to work.
I’m trying to describe this so that those who do not rave or have never seen a raver in action can understand what I mean, but here is where I lose the words to do so. Techno music is mostly backbeat and synthesizer, and the dance that goes with it is all personal, all interpretive. I started with my feet planted at shoulder width, hands graced with lightsticks tracing opposing figure eights in the air. Then I started to add flourishes, crossing my wrists and circling the sticks inward, then outward; and then as the beat sped up, I matched it, hands moving almost of their own accord, body moving to accomodate the more extended motions in fluid stretches, marmaris escort the whole centered on the dancing lights in my hands. My feet began to shuffle, and I moved slightly, now tracing an intricate webwork of designs in the air.
I saw her watching me, eyes following the sticks, body moving to the beat. She was a sweet little number — trim, like I like, athletic without being overmuscled. She popped out sticks of her own, and was soon surrounded by streaks of light.
We danced like that for some time; techno remixes go anywhere between five and seven minutes. Doesn’t sound like much, but I’d like to see your average couch potato pull five minutes of continuous stickwork. There have been mornings I had to take painkillers just to raise my arms enough to put a shirt on. When the song ended, she gestured me into a small, darkened corner. It wasn’t until she shut the door that I realized we were in a closet.
“Hey, what,” I began, but didn’t get the chance to finish. She grabbed the lapels of my overshirt and slammed me into the wall, fastening her mouth on mine like a hungry leech. Her tongue invaded my mouth like fanboys would like to invade Lara Croft, and I almost choked. So I did the only reasonable thing.
I continued the kiss, hands sliding over her back, one tangling in her long hair. I pulled her head back, breaking the kiss and making her gasp. “You could have asked,” I said, bending my mouth to her throat and taking some of the taut skin between my teeth. I clamped hard, not hard enough to break the skin, but it’d leave a good mark.
“You’d — ahh! — you’d have said no.” Her nails dug into my back through my shirt. She’d ruin the silk if she weren’t careful. One hand slipped up and clawed lightly at the back of my neck. I shivered.
“Maybe.” I slid both hands up to her shoulders — and shoved her away from me, forcing her back into a teeth-rattling collision with the far wall (which wasn’t very far). Then I pushed forward, pinning her there, eye locked on hers with a predatory grin. “Maybe you should have worried that I’d say yes.”
“I never worry,” she replied, sliding her hands under my shirt and digging her nails in my back. I hissed, then roughly took her mouth back, our tongues fencing like Olympic masters. She slid my overshirt over my shoulders; I pulled her shirt over her head, breaking the kiss only long enough to manage it and to allow my shirt to follow. Her skin was warm, and she smelled of vanilla. I pulled her to me, burying my nose in her hair and breathing deep, as one hand undid her bra with the old pinch-and-slip. Works every time, once you’ve practiced it a bit. I pulled back to let it slip of of her.
It was too dark to see a damn thing in the closet we were in — perfect dark, you might say. Her hand slid into my pocket, where I had stuck my sticks after the dancing, and pulled one out. Her face was flushed, eyes dilated, and her expression was disturbingly hungry. I knew the same look was on my face; slightly crazed, predatory. “You got a condom?” she asked.
I marmaris escort bayan shook my head. I hadn’t intended to get laid tonight. “You?”
“Yeah. Never go nowhere without ’em.” She started to dig one out of her pocket, and I used the break to try and get my spinning brain back to rights.
“You pull strangers into broom closets for a quickie often?” I asked, trying not to gasp for breath.
“You follow girls who do often?”
I conceded the point as she stuck the square foil in the waistband of her panties, and the glowstick back in my pocket, plunging us once more into blindness. Our pants were still on, but we kicked off our shoes and went about fixing that problem. My hand undid the snap of her low-cuts, sliding in between the denim of her jeans and the silk of her thong. She clutched me, nails digging in — I was going to be marked all to hell when this was done. I liked it a little rough. Her thong was moist — come to think of it, my little soldier was making its little mark on my jeans too. I never wore underwear. Her own hand slid into my jeans and discovered this fact as she was clawing my shoulder. I pulled her thong aside and slid a finger inside her. Her kiss redoubled in ferocity, and her hand clenched hard on my cock. My free hand yanked her hair back again, eliciting another gasp from her, as I bent to worship her absolutely spectacular breasts. I had seen them, in that brief instance of light — not big, but shaped nicely, small, high, and firm. My searching tongue found the nipple and circled it; I closed my lips around the hard point and sucked. She shuddered, and I felt her head fall forward as I let go of her hair to support her. I felt her teeth close on my shoulder, and I winced. I bit her breast, and she moaned, biting my shoulder harder.
I moved downward, now, licking as I went, and she leaned back against the wall of the small closet we were in. Her thong followed her pants, which followed my hands, and I leaned forward and stuck my nose in her bush, inhaling the clean, thick scent of her arousal. Her hand tangled in my short hair. “God, do it, raver boy,” she said challengingly, spreading her legs after extricating them from her pants. “Eat me. Do it, come on.”
I obliged, first making small, light, teasing licks on her outer lips. Then I spread these with my hands, sliding my tongue into her slit and painting her labia with long strokes. I hunted blindly for the hard nubbin, found it, flicked it. She groaned and clenched her fist in my hair, shuddering slightly. I felt her fluids flow, and set about cleaning them up as she bathed my face in her arousal. Her breath was coming shorter and shorter as I sucked on her clit. When I judged her to the edge, I suddenly bit down on her clitoris. She uttered a high, keening scream between clenched teeth, and it seemed as if she were trying to pull my hair out as she came, hard, in that instant. I wasn’t worried about the noise; the music was loud enough out there you had to shout to be heard.
Now she was pulling my head, escort marmaris gasping, “Up. Up.” in an insistent, harsh monotone between her still-clenched teeth. I stood up, and she dropped to her knees, shoved down my pants, and made me gasp as she enveloped my cock in her mouth. She was good, too. She applied enough suction I was afraid she’d burst something at first; then she relaxed and began applying her wondrously talented tongue. She raked her teeth along my length, and over the head; by this time I was so charged, it only turned me on further. One finger pressed against my anus, and I gasped and stiffened; then she began humming, and suddenly jammed her finger into my rear. It hurt, and I suddenly arched, gave a choked shout, and came, the sudden pain pushing me over the edge into a literally blinding orgasm. Even if it hadn’t been dark, I’d have been blind as as a sheet of white light flashed over my eyes. I felt myself pumping, harder than I’d ever done, and she drank it, massaging my wounded ass as she did. I hoped I wasn’t bleeding; the girl had NAILS.
When she was done cleaning my cock, I felt her move of it and give it a few experimental tugs. “What’s it gonna take to get Junior here going again?” she asked.
“Not much,” I gasped, and sure enough, I was hardening already.
“Good,” she said. I heard her stand, and then my cock was pressed against firm flesh as she pressed her ass back against me. The song playing was a deep bump’n’grinder, and she gave me my own personal little bare-skin lapdance. It wasn’t long before Mr. Happy was back in the game; she moved away, ong enough to search my jeans for the glowstick and the condom. My man went a little soft at the delay, but a few quick throatings did wonders for that little obstacle. She slid the condom on like a pro, buried the stick in the piled clothing, and in the dark, I heard her turn around, I felt her ass press against me, and I felt her hand guide me into warmth and tightness. She moaned, and chuckled low; I felt the vibrations around my cock, and I began to move slowly. My hand traced lightly down her back, and she arched like a cat; then I clawed, digging my short, rough-bitten nails into her skin, and she shuddered and cried out. She pressed back against me, meeting my thrusts.
So it was, in the dark, two animals mating with a bestial fervor, fueled by music and lust, fired by passions baser than any others. We took each other, slow pleasure egged on by brief flashes of sudden pain. I heard her gasp, and felt her twitch, and as she clenched in orgasm, I followed suit, spilling into her with a guttural growl.
We both fell to our knees, separating; she turned and collapsed into my arms, and I caught her. We kissed, this time slow and gentle. She bit my lip, almost hard enough to draw blood; I pulled her hair again as she did, forcing her to release me.
“Natalie.” I said.
“Eric,” she replied.
“I’m hoping this isn’t a one-shot.”
“It ain’t. Been watching you for weeks. ‘S how I knew you could dance. Wanted to be sure of you, first. They call you the Monk, y’know, ’cause you always leave alone.”
“Not this time, I hope.”
I felt her smile against my chest; she bit my nipple, hard enough for me to hiss. “Nope. Not this time.”
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