In a dream, you single me out across a ballroom and ask me to dance, and we dance a sedate two-step, and you press your palm into the small of my back so that your belly rubs mine.
And then a slower dance, and your fingers slip a little lower, not outrageously so but enough to give you leverage to urge my hips close so I can feel your shaft, hard and vertical, through your fine wool trousers and my black silk sheath.
And when I respond with a discreet little grind of bone on bone, you growl into my ear, “Fucking whore.” And you take me out onto the balcony behind the potted topiary and bend me over the rail in the dark and lift my skirt, and when I feel your fingers clawing and parting my cheeks, I thank God I chose those little black panties.
I look down on the tops of the heads milling about below and pray that they don’t look up, especially when you unzip my dress and pull it down and then pop my tits out of my strapless bra so you can maul them while you fuck me.
But by the time you make me cry out, I don’t give a shit if the people down below have paid big bucks for front-row centre. You make me want spectators.
You wrap me in your jacket and hold me in your arms and say, “Next time, I’ll make you scream my name.”
Your name? I grin, because that’s the first time I realise I don’t know it.
