"You don't want to do that."
But I did. Thick sweat coated the clear, glass bottle. When I pressed the icy bottle of water against the side of Kristen's neck, moisture dribbled onto her skin, running a short distance down her back just under the collar. I turned the bottle and pressed again, this time staying long enough to leave a red mark, like a soft hickey.
"I told you," she said. "You don't want to do that." Kristen faced the crowd of dancers, standing just to the left and in front of me. It was crowded. The music was loud. Our conversation limited.
Again, I touched her with the bottle; the glass still cold and wet as it glided across the nape of her neck.
"Ok. That's it!" She turned to face me, eyes glaring. "Come with me," she ordered. She grabbed my hand, as I set my drink down, leading me towards an unknown destination, weaving between the other patrons, making for a difficult journey.
I met Kristen a few days earlier when I had first worn my new black leather biker jacket. She had invited me to stay with her that night. That one night stand turned into something more. What, exactly, I was not sure. Nevertheless, we continued to see each other. I did not realize that wearing such attire would appeal to certain communities.
Apparently she did.
Kristen had explained that my jacket was a symbol to the leather community. People, who were into S/M, bondage, and the like, recognized the wearing of any kind of leather. Kind of an unspoken law, I guess.
Well, I thought, what the hell. I would be interested in trying something once, twice if I liked it.
When we arrived at the door leading to the women's bathroom, I could only imagine what was in store. Forging ahead, Kristen straight-armed the door open, with me in tow. Walking into the middle of the room, she went towards an empty stall and pulled me into it.
"I warned you."
