Sweat, heat, near-unbearable moisture. Moving masses, drenched bodies, sticky clothes. The fast chorus animates the audience to another circle pit, intensity increasing with the crescendo of aggression in the anti-fascist lyrics.
A smile flashes across my lips as my small, braless breasts enticingly bounce with each jump, their firm jiggling only emphasized by the thin tank top that threatens to turn more translucent with every renewed collateral splash of the frequent beer showers. In the moshpit, the accidental touches can’t be told apart from the actual groping by the pervs who might be taking advantage of the situation. Still, I wouldn’t mind if it were your hands that landed on my boobs—or tore off my top the moment you got pushed into me, stumbled and tried to grab anything for support.
Between flashes of erratic colored light, I try to make out where you have disappeared behind the walls of thrashing and jumping bodies. Barely dodging the uncontrolled limbs being thrown my way, I push and shove aside whatever stands in front of me, spurred on by the hostility carried by the down-tuned guitar riffs and the singer’s shouts to rise against the capitalist establishment.
In reality, however, I get thrown and tossed around like the little lightweight I am, barely able to see past even the shoulders that are at a dangerous height for my eyes, nose and teeth, let alone the elbows. Determined to find your large, manly hands to throw myself into and find shelter in—to feel them on my body, my skin—I keep digging through walls of stainless steel-spiked leather jackets twice my size until an inevitable impact lifts me from my feet and propels me backward what appears to me like a good half-mile.
My back crashes into someone—nothing unusual at this kind of event. Anger level rising in my own blood, spurred on by the rage-filled music and cursing my own physical weakness, I try to step back into the core of the main action to take revenge but there are two hands holding me back. Their light, yet determined pressure on my belly releases a pleasant warmth in my stomach in spite of the already rather tropical climatic conditions.
As I feel a body connecting to mine from behind, gently pressing my back against its chest, I know I have found you. Just from how my heart nearly skips several beats that would otherwise compete with the music’s pace, I know those coarse hands on my exposed midriff are yours. The emotions they elicit in my chest, the hormones mixed with the wish for your hands to tear apart my top and press our drenched bodies together make me gyrate my hips against your crotch, your hard rod trying to snake between my tight little buttocks through the sturdy fabric of your cargos.
Once the song is over and the audience cheering, I turn around to take a look at you in the white strobe light—your tall, shirtless body, broad shoulders, sinewy arms with muscles steeled from your work that speak volumes about how you could crush my little body in your oversized hands. That intense glance that through cold, ice-blue eyes radiates an ardent hunger... I am so exposed, so vulnerable, subject to your mercy as I place my minuscule hands on your pectorals where every fiber of your muscles strains against your skin.
As your arms close around me, the sheer power imbalance between us is overwhelming. I feel your calloused hands slide under my, by now, visually nonexistent top; the rough skin almost scrapes my back as your intrusion separates the soaked-through cotton from my spine. The primal force with which your pull makes my body crash against yours as our lips meet in pure carnal need tantalizes the flame in my loins you’ve ignited with just your hands’ touch.
Despite you bowing down, towering over me, I have to stand on my tippy toes to wrap my hands around your neck. Our height difference alone makes me chuckle from the idea of how easy it would be for you to just lift me and impale my helpless little body on your raging erection, how easy it would be to literally jump you and let you overpower me and use me at your will.
Time seemingly stops as I take a step back from you to look at you, your hands still on my hips. Around us, the crowd keeps moving seemingly in slow motion, oblivious to our interaction, as the fast-paced shredding riffs keep blaring from the stage.
A short break for a round of applause as renewed splashes of beer are raining down on us, creating an almost romantic moment in the dim sunset-orange light—or is it the sweat that condensed on the ceiling and is now dripping back on us? Chuckling, I dismiss the thought as the dissonant crowd choir sings along to the intro of the last song. Despite the heavy-natured lyrics that my lips unconsciously follow, the moment reminds me of corny, forced photo story romances in girly teenage magazines.
With a firm yank, you pull me against your chest again. I barely avoid the draft of someone being hurled past me where I have been standing just a fraction of a second ago. I dig my face into your chest and allow myself to lose myself in your strong arms that protect me from the merciless masses and wrap me in a warm cocoon.
Your one hard-skinned hand softly cupping my face makes my heart flutter, the thumb brushing my bottom lip makes reality vanish, your intense gaze silences the abrasive, overdriven mid-range-heavy guitars that have been tearing my eardrums the entire evening. Even the final unheard breakdown leaves me unmoved as your other hand rakes my spine, firing jolts of arousal directly into my brain from how your coarse skin delicately scratches mine.
I so badly want to use my small paws to guide your enormous mitts to my panties that have marinated in far more than just perspiration. The thought of what you are capable of doing to me with just your fingers makes me unable to even think of resisting you.
The way home to my place takes us through the subway—hardly an inviting place at this hour. The thought is supported by the gawking of the man sitting across me, shamelessly ogling me. I don’t even need to look to sense his gaze transfixing me and unsolicitedly drinking in how my clothes, drenched and sticking to my body, do very little to conceal my nipples. I can't blame him.
Too horny to be ashamed or uncomfortable, I sense your reassuring hand on my thigh. His eyes find yours and quickly, he produces his phone and tries to distract himself from the thick, pheromone-heavy musk I must be oozing in your presence. I smile at the thought of how you protect me so easily and that you are mine for the night—as I am yours to use as you please. A shiver runs down my nape as I try to picture what you are going to do to me with those long fingers, how you are going to use me for your pleasure.
I want to melt into the seat from the touch; I need you to slide your hand up my thigh, find my little erect button and help me relieve the pressure right now. Unconsciously, I squirm around on my seat, trying to get your touch to slide closer to my crotch, to show you how much heat radiates from it just for you.
The blood now rising into my cheeks in shame, a low moan escapes my lips when I feel your pinky brush close to my pussy. My eyes are half-closed in my quest for a more intense touch, my mouth slightly agape as I see the man lift his eyes from his phone to meet mine. I can’t help the urge to bite my bottom lip in pure lust as shivers run through my body from your touch. Quickly, he forces himself to focus on his phone again, bringing it closer to his face to escape your watchful eye.
Yet before you send me over the edge, my stop’s name comes garbling through the speakers. Trying in vain to suppress the frustrated sigh, I take your hand from my crotch and lead the way to my small two-room, still holding that hand in both of mine like a cherished treasure.
I chuckle abashedly as I remember the open pack of morning cereal with the childish mascot printed on it that’s still on the kitchen aisle along with the matching plastic bowl which exhibits my life-long obsession with it—yet too horny to really care. I see you smile understandingly as you see it and quickly move your focus back to me who guides you to the bedroom.
You kick open the half-ajar door and spin me around as it swings shut again. Harshly, you shove me against it, making the latch snap in place. I squirm from the excitement spreading through my belly as your raw strength runs through my wrists, pinning them against the thin wooden pane. Your hungry kisses devour my lips that eagerly welcome your caress. The knee that pries open my legs makes me grind my hips against your muscular thigh, seeking pressure on the right spots.
Soon, I crook my head to the side, granting your lips access to my sweaty neck. Your iron grip on my wrists makes me gasp as the trail of your kisses moves down towards my collarbone. I sense how the feeling of defenselessness your powerful hands evoke makes me melt from your touch. I squirm in unmet desire as you release my wrists and fall to your knees.
With such delicate tenderness, you peel the sticky shirt from my stomach, the rough touch of your virile hands depraving me. You lean forward to kiss my wet stomach. For a brief instant, I fear that the pungent smell from my unwashed, crotch drenched in a curious mixture will rise into your nose and yet you don’t flinch. I can’t help pulling your head against my body to show you how I want you to ravish me and use my little body for both of our pleasure.
As you lift my shirt, peeling it off my skin inch by inch, your lips wander up my belly, to my girlish breasts, before you finally pull it over my head. You discard it on the floor and it meets the ground with a heavy smack, testifying of the hardly bearable climatic conditions in the crowded club.
Your intense gaze staring straight back at me makes me blush a deeper shade of red as your hands slide up my side, tickling me slightly. In anticipation, I arch my back to present my nipples to you. You pinch them with such delicious violence that I can’t help throwing my head back and moan into the silence of my bedroom.
I grunt in frustration as your hands release me again. You silence me with a kiss and appease my frustration with one of your manly hands slowly sliding down my belly. The button only offers very little resistance to your apt fingers and the rocking of my hips only helps you slide your hand into my pants. You gasp in delighted surprise as you realize I am not wearing panties either.
Guided by instinct, I grind against your hand, seeking friction with your coarse skin to send me over the edge. Unfortunately, the angle is too awkward to allow you to find my little button. Before long, the growing frustration in my moans makes you let go of me, leaving me afraid I might have turned you off in my overzealous need for you.
Instead, I feel your hands on my hips, grabbing me gruffly. I laugh in playful delight as you lift me up and yank me onto my bed so effortlessly I get reminded how easily it would be for you to just ravage me and use me as you see fit—a thought that lifts me to a whole new level of arousal.
Landing on the bed, my legs spread and I lie there, ready for you, face flushed in the anticipation of having you ravish me. Sheepishly and not wanting to appear like a cheap slut, I avoid your gaze.
Your shirt falls next to mine and I hear the rattling of a belt buckle being opened. As I look at you undoing your pants, I see that you produce a condom from the pocket before letting them slide on the floor, underwear with them, freeing an erection that is just as impressive and respect-inducing as your hands.
The way you roll the rubber film over as if it was the most normal thing and without the habitual infuriating discussion eases the faint doubt I had in myself. With my fingers, I spread my glistening labia, showing you how much I need to have you inside me.
You impale me, scratching that itch I’ve felt deep inside me since the moment my eyes fell on you just hours before. I squirm as your hands slide over my midriff and my boobs, the tickling roughness of your skin and your delicate touch amplifying the sensations you trigger deep within me.
As your hand slides over my neck, I arch my back in your thrusts, offering you my body to touch with your hands, for you to use and bruise, to subdue... Teasingly, you let your fingers entwine with my hair and scratch my scalp while your free hand squeezes my boob. I whimper in lustful agony as you caress the side of my neck and kiss me softly.
Slowly, you move in and out of me deeply, touching places no one has ever reached. When I feel your thumb on my throat, gently pressing on my windpipe, you look into my eyes, waiting for approval. I nod hungrily, needing to be overwhelmed by your superior strength through your hand, needing to lose myself in the sense of helplessness.
I scratch your back when the constriction on my airways makes my eyes water. The contrast between your gentle kisses and the sense of controlled panic induced by your hands fires conflicting emotions in my mind, heightening my sexual hunger for you. Slowly, I let myself sink deeper into the feeling of being at your mercy.
You loosen the grip on my neck to cup my cheek and feed me your thumb which I all too eagerly suck between my lips. Hoping we’re having the same idea, my mind anticipating my orgasm—looking forward to it—I let go of your back, ready to dig my fingers into the bedsheets.
And yet, I sense how your body tenses, hear your moans abruptly interrupting in sync with the convulsions of your body and the throbs of your cock shooting its essence into the rubber protection before I can even come close to something resembling sexual bliss.
I fail to see an apologetic glance begging for forgiveness in your eyes; you can’t be that oblivious, can you? A sense of frustration washes over me, a sense of shame. Renewed tears swell in my eyes but this time, out of the fear of having given myself to you too easily. But I am not that kind of girl, my mind keeps reminding me like a delusional mantra.
Yet before I even find the determination to swallow my bruised ego, your hands softly begin to roam over my belly, tickling me again. Surprised, I look you in the eyes where I see acknowledgement of your shortcomings and the determination to make it up to me.
A faint yet reassured smile comes across my lips as I allow myself to relax in your touch and melt in your hands. One of them cups my breast while I feel the backside of the fingers of the other run over my waist downward. You gently squeeze my thigh very close to my crotch, setting my loins ablaze again, making me forget my worries. Your fingers close around my breast as the other hand moves between my legs that I readily part for you again, overtly inviting you to touch me.
You gently place your hand on my pubic mound, letting the little tufts of pubic hair I purposefully didn’t remove slide between your fingers. Pressing them together, tightly, you slightly pull on the small patch while pressing the tip of your fingers against my clitoral hood.
I can’t help grinding my hips at the sensation, in search of a coarser touch, yearning for my turn to reach my climax. While your fingers slowly sink into my drenched folds with each of my movements, your lips enclose my nipple, playing with it, sucking on it. You keep firmly squeezing the base of my boob as your teeth rake over the erect nub.
I start writhing with my entire body as your fingers part my pussy lips, exposing my clit to the cool air in my room. You scoop the copious effluence to spread it over my petals, turning my entire vulva into a glistening, attention-aching mess. Your other hand finds my neck again, and my gasps turn into moans. The sweet nothings you whisper in my ear pass unrecognized but don’t miss their purpose as you use your oversized palm to gently choke me anew.
The fingers between my legs plunge into the source of my nectar, the heel of the hand pressing against my clit, making me ride your fingers to make them penetrate me deep. I whine as they slide out of my hungry pussy but purr when they part my lips and make the cool draft blow on my most delicate parts.
As they dive back into me, your other hand wanders in a tickling trail from my neck over my sternum, a circle around each of my boobs... five fingers scraping over my slender stomach, exploring the bow of my ribcage, tickle my belly button while the other hand pumps in and out of me, seeking to stimulate all of my sensitive nerve endings in turns.
Nearly brushing past the point of unbearable frustration, your finger, at last, lands on my clit while you still frig my dripping hole with the other hand. Very lightly, you touch me, get me used to the combined sensation of having my button played with while your fingers deep within me massage the spongy spot that brings me so close to the edge.
With every flick, the pressure on my nub increases and intensifies the waves that surge deep within my bowels. Each stroke shortens the fuse that soon detonates an explosion that rolls over my body like the tremendous tide of a tsunami. I can’t hold back from screaming with each of my convulsions. I lose control over my body as it tosses and thrashes from your touch.
Still in the middle of my climax, I pull you into a tight embrace to relieve the touch of your hands that is passing the verge of being unpleasant. I lie buried underneath you while my orgasm slowly abates. As the last spasms wear out, you look into my face, finding the expression of amazement you’ve been seeking. An amazement over your overcoming of the typical male lock-and-key-centricness with your talented hands.
Lying like this, the exhaustion washes over both of us and we slowly drift into a deep, satisfied sleep.
