She was an eye-catcher.
"A kiss can be a comma, a question mark or an exclamation point. That's basic spelling every women ought to know."
-Mistinguett (Jeanne Bourgeois)
She wasn’t that tall, but she stood out from the crowd. Her black luscious hair glistened even in the dark. The knitted top accentuated her curves at the right places, and the pleated minis revealed her temptuous legs. But it was her groove that put forth all your attention; the dancers around her appeared silhouetted.
Oh, the way she moved! If it didn’t set the dance floor ablaze, it sure does leave you burning with desire. She glanced over and caught you noticing her. Afterwards, one of the ladies swooped in and began dancing behind her. She reciprocated with a seductive sway.
But it was not meant for her at all; it was a calling for you.
After a good few minutes, she looked at you again. But this time, it was deliberate and lasted a bit longer than the last. And when she smiled, it was a hint strong enough for you to put down your glass and head over. You looked at your buddy for approval. He nodded, as if to say, ‘Go for it dude!’ in deafening silence.
You could sense that her partner acquiesced to your advances, but she stepped away anyway. You duly took up the position that was left over by her friend. You held her waist, then drew her in. She didn't put up a fight.
Accompanied by the blasting tempo of Don Omar’s Danza Kuduro, you danced. It doesn’t matter if the both of you understood the lyrics; you let your bodies do the thinking.
Left and right, back and forth.
No step was miscued. No alignment was broken. No rhythm was out of place. It was almost telepathic; you were made to dance together.
Amidst all that, you slid her hair and took a whiff at the nape of her neck. Your olfactory receptors went into overdrive, relaying the crisp, fruity scent into your brain. It was overwhelming.
And you knew she felt you sniffing her. You coursed through your nose gently at the back of her neck, slowly progressing down to her shoulders, and onto her collarbone. You decided to take a shot.
You’re unsure if it’s a response of sheer pleasure, or if it’s a sign of disapproval. Either way it isn’t worth the risk, and you knew better than to go on.
‘Turn around, baby,’ you whispered, finally breaking the silence. You knew that it wasn't the words that get her the turn-on, but your warm breath that caressed her earlobes.
She obliged. You pulled a strand of hair away from her eyes. Eventually, your eyes met. And so do your lips.
As if like magic, the loud noises became muffled.
You knew at that moment, a gush of dopamine is engulfing her brain. Sure, you felt good. But you knew she savored it more than you do.
You kissed her upper lips briefly. Sporadically, you kissed her cheeks, nose and chin. When it’s back to her lips, you stroked it gently with yours. You stayed a little longer. Then you took a breather. Then you came back for her lower lips. And you mixed it all up altogether.
You’re the one in-charge: she’s just a follower.
And when she started taking matters into her own hands, you sensed the crescendo of your lip-lock.
You wanted to take things up a notch. But you’re unwilling to make the first move; you wanted her to initiate it. So you waited. Before long, you realized you weren’t even dancing anymore. You don’t care if she noticed it too, but you still waited patiently.
A commotion jolted you out of the invisible psychological privacy. Waves of sensory perception flooded your brain again. The music, the people, the atmosphere. It turns out that a drunkard had gotten himself into trouble with the bouncer.
As soon as it happened, you turned back to her. You knew that she wanted your undivided attention. The fiasco was nothing more than to prove it. You continued where you left off.
Everything but her dissipated into nothingness once again. But this time, you were greeted with a pleasant surprise.
She withered, clasping her hands at the back of your neck, pivoting herself onto you. You’ve got it locked down. She had exposed her vulnerability, as if her life depended on you.
Just like how you’ve given her a new lease of it.
She finally let in her tongue, dancing, winding with yours.
You tried to smile, but you’ve almost used up the entire 6 major muscles around your mouth to French her.
You’ve won the battle.
...Or at least, that's what you thought.
(to be continued heheh)
Power lah dey, first time fabricating 700 words for a 15-minute scene. Not bad eh??
And please, please don't see it as being manipulative. Open up your mind lah. Take it as a win-win situation.
Besides, it's all fiction anyway. You know, pigments of my imagination waiting to be written down.