The Plague Dance

I'm finally ready for the Gen Con dance.

I rinsed off in the shower after the vendor hall closed, slid into my mermaid leggings (opalescent and glimmering, always pulling everyone's eyes to my legs and ass,) and threw on my favorite crop-top. You know, the little black one with the turtleneck that cuts off at the shoulders? Anyways, I did all that, and now I am ready to

go

!

Out of every con I go to, Gen Con has my very favorite dance. The Union Station's grand hall is enormous, filled with flashing lights and pulsing music, and seeing a room usually filled with board game prototypes and industry professionals replaced with a mass of heated, nerdy gyrating is... exciting to say the least. Also, the cosplay in that particular setting is absolutely hilarious. Watching Hipster Aquaman twerk against an especially cruel-looking Kerrigan? Never gets old. I wait for this night every year.

Bouncy and eager, I meet up with my friends outside the ballroom and practically drag them into the building. I chat with them while we wait in line for a drink, catching up with what they bought that day and how my booth is doing, but my eyes stray constantly to the dance floor, impatient to get over there. I can already spot a couple cuties I wouldn't mind dancing with; some adorable gal with yellow and pink hair keeps catching my eye from the outskirts, bobbing her head and shifting her hips to the music but never entering the crowd, and some burly ginger dressed as Tormund looks like he'd be fun to climb and bully.

Finally

, my flock of friends is ready to hit the dance floor. We shimmy and sway our way into the crowd, some of us immediately taken by the rhythm, others embracing the absurd surroundings and breaking into goofy dances. "El, look at this!" my buddy Nate shouts, and I glance over to see him doing one of those eye-rolling 90's white people moves, like the sprinkler or something.

"Find a new joke, dude!" I mouth back, about to turn away until I see something over his shoulder.

I see you.

Well, I don't see

you

per se. I see your plague doctor mask, black and gleaming, the nose long and menacing enough to keep the small area in front of you empty while you dance. Your outfit, entirely black, almost makes you feel like a void on the ballroom floor, a black hole radiating in the center of color and flash. A chill runs down my spine.

It looks like you're staring straight at me.

I mean, but like, who knows. It's impossible to see past the eyes of your mask, and this place is

packed

, so I'm not sweatin' it. I turn back to the rest of my crew, all of us dancing with abandon. This is the perfect place for me to turn my brain off for a while, to forget about the 16 hour work days and how awful booth teardown is gonna be tomorrow. This is worriless, sweaty, noisy fun. This is release.

And honestly, I'd basically be in a trance if it weren't for you. Instead, as my friends and I all dance around, you occasionally make it into my line of sight, a tower of black that's impossible to overlook. Every time, I feel a jolt up the back of my neck.

Every time, it feels like your eyes are locked on mine.

I try my best to ignore the sensation. After all, if I feel like you're staring a lot, doesn't that mean I'm staring just as much? And honestly, you could be looking at

anything

behind that mask, so isn't it a little cocky to assume I'm the only thing in your line of site that matters? I just need to chill out. I need to ignore the heat that's running from the peak of my neck to the tip of my toes, ignore the static I feel from your Schroedinger's cat-like gaze, ignore you entirely.

I try to close my eyes, but in the center of that darkness is you. For a beat, I almost keep them shut.

Thankfully, the music and crowd work their magic, and with time, I'm too distracted to worry about some mask in a sea of hundreds of people. Every part of me rocks alongside friends and strangers alike, everyone grinning wide and laughing together in some unified, nerdy need to let loose. My legs are gonna be so sore tomorrow, but all I can think about now is how good it feels to let the bass control my body, guide my hips through song, let me along for the ride.

A hand grazes my waist from behind, gently first, before resting itself there firmly. I don't hesitate to lean back a little, to meet this new partner half-way, but instead they push gently, as though to guide me into a little spin. I take a dreamy breath and let the music and their hand move me.

I glance up from my half-spin with a smile, and it's... you. It's your hand on my waist, your mask hovering

just

above my head, your hips shifting forward to press against mine. That smile of mine sobers a touch as my eyes lock on the dark circles that're hiding yours, and my body

almost

halts to a full stop... but when your thighs move with the beat, mine follow suit.

Your other hand lands on my arm, fingers barely making contact. I brace for them to drift downward, to find a home at my waist as well, but I'm wrong. They trace their way up my arm, slowly following the curve of my shoulder before curling behind my neck. Once in place, your grip is firm, not quite digging into my skin but certainly keeping me right there, eyes still on you, unable to look away. This broken eye contact, where you can see every bit of me and I have literally

nothing

in return, is chilling. Electrifying. Suffocating.

Every time I try to escape that intensity and let my eyes stray, even for a second, your fingers tense around the back of my neck. I can't help but test how intentional it is, deliberately looking off to the side at a couple of my friends. The longer my gaze stays on them, the tighter your fingers get. Tighter and tighter, until I can feel your nails begin digging into my skin. Just a little tighter, and...

My eyes snap back to yours, and your grip immediately relaxes to its original firm hold. My breath rushes past my lips, hot against your chest, as I realize I'd been holding it the entire time. That's okay, though. I'm not the type who'll play a game without knowing the rules, and now I do. Everything's okay.

Your hand on my waist starts to shift suspiciously, teasing a couple inches up, a couple inches down, bobbing hypnotically before finally committing. There's zero hesitation in your touch as your hand runs its way along my hip and onto my ass, the tips of your fingers gripping greedily. Just from that palm full right there, you can tell there's nothing else beneath my leggings.

I

should

push you off. This is... so

not

okay. You can't just anonymously grab strangers by the neck and paw at their ass. This is the kinda shit I speak out against all the time, the precise behavior I try to protect people from. For me to stand silent and enable you goes against every ounce of what I believe in. You can probably see the fire in my eyes, maybe even decipher my urge to straight-up punch you. I wouldn't hesitate if your hands were on a friend right now instead of me.

So why can't I bring myself to move?

Your fingers dig tighter as you use my ass to pull me hard against you, my breath catching in my throat. Every inch of me is pressed to every inch of you, and I can feel my body absolutely buzzing from the contact. Each sway of your hips grinds into me, your unforgiving grip making sure I move with you even as my knees buckle for a split second. This is all way too much for me, too intense, too overwhelming. I've gotta get out, and all of me tenses, poised for flight.

Except your hand on my ass loosens, drifting upward, and my body breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing against you. I nearly melt into you, even, the rebound so intense.

It doesn't take long for those fingers of yours to start straying again, though. There's no dizzying tease of up, down, up, down this time; you make your intent known, your fingers pressing against my waistband before tracing the open skin left unprotected by my crop-top. They slide easily beneath the fabric of my top, and I don't think you're at all surprised to discover I'm bra-less as well. Hell, you were probably banking on it.

Your hand grabs my breast, able to palm all of it easily, and you can feel every inch of me shudder. My nipple, perk and sensitive, is trapped between two of your fingers, and you seem painfully aware. They clench together each time your hand kneads into me, pinching and pulling between them. It's taking every bit of my self-control to stay silent, to swallow the pathetic whine I feel building in the back of my throat, afraid and needy and conflicted.

There's no stopping it, though, not truly. Your hand shifts, and your thumb presses firm against my nipple, rolling circles

just

hard enough to feel unkind. My lips part, a desperate little cry bubbling out, and I press my mouth to your chest just long enough to muffle the sound. As if anyone would have heard it over the pulsing music.

Maybe I'm just ashamed for

you

to hear it.

Satisfied by my dwindling self control, your hand sneaks out from beneath my crop-top and travels up even further. Soon, your thumb is running along my jaw, using that same just-too-hard pressure you used to torment my nipple. That pressure stays as your thumb presses along my cheek, my expression just a little pained, but there's no way to escape the onslaught with your other hand still gripping my neck.

Finally, your thumb forces its way to my lips. Part of me wants to bite the damn thing, but apparently that part is small; instead, I find my mouth parting, timid but obedient. You don't miss a beat, dragging that thumb across the inside of my bottom lip before pressing it deeper against my tongue. I make sure to keep open wide enough for you.

Your grip around the back of my neck tightens, and I realize you expect more.

No, not expect.

Demand.

My lips close around you, almost meek, a sensation I find deeply unfamiliar. How in the world have you turned me, a boisterous and bossy nightmare, into a goddamn mouse? I might be furious with myself, but that doesn't stop my tongue from swirling around your thumb, and there's a desperation to my sucking that neither of us can deny. Can you see the desire sinking into my eyes? Have you noticed how my hips move eagerly with yours now, no extra guidance needed? Are you even half as excited as I am right now? Do you need me too?

The sound of your thumb popping out of my mouth rings in my ears, and as much as I'm afraid of where your fingers will visit next, part of me is almost... giddy? I don't have to wait long to find out; your hand settles on my throat, the two of them making a full circle around my neck together. Your fingers are tucked underneath my hair, mostly covered from view but not entirely. It's... an interesting dance pose, and my eyes flash with confusion.

Your hands answer my question, fingers tightening around my throat. My body locks for a second, failing to follow your lead, and you shake your head twice, somehow the cruelest threat you've offered me so far. My hips press back against yours and fall into the rhythm once more, but there's an added layer of fear that didn't used to feel so thick. If I'm so afraid, though, why can we both feel my dampness on your thigh?

Slowly, your fingers begin to tighten again, and when I say slowly, I mean

slowly

. Every second, I pull in less and less air, and my mind claws at the fact that it's just getting worse. How tightly will I let you go? How tightly do you

intend

to go? This game of choking chicken somehow strokes my competitive streak, and my lips curl into a defiant smile. I can almost make out my expression in the reflection on your mask's dark lenses, see the mischief in myself.

Who knows if you're smiling, but you're certainly provoked. Your hands clench cruelly, cutting off all access, and you can feel my throat twitch desperately under your grip. My gaze starts as icy steel, determined to show no submission, but willpower and constitution aren't always the same. I can feel my eyes a-flutter as your hands stay locked, feel myself struggling even as our hips and thighs and heat rock against each other. As the song starts to fade, I do too, and...

The new song starts at top volume, a crowd favorite that has everyone but us jumping and cheering from the get-go. Someone jostles into us both, and your hands release before the little fumble can hurt me. The chaos breaks me out of my needy trance for a second, long enough to look around quickly, make sure I'm still near my people, make sure I haven't died and been sent to Hell's most exquisite torture chamber. Grounded, I reach back out to you, but you're already gone?

What?

I shake my head, clearing a bit more of my lustful fog (and taking in a bit more oxygen doesn't hurt,) but you really are gone. Poof. Nothing there. I spin in a circle a couple times, straining on my tip-toes, searching in every direction, but I've got nothing. No sight of you.

"El! Your face is so red; do you need some water?!" one of my friends shouts from a few feet away, pulling me out of the haze just a tiny bit. Enough to make words, at least.

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, water sounds good," I mumble like a space cadet, and she nods, grabbing me by the arm to lead me out of the crowd. She's excited and rambly as we walk, riding a much different high from the dance floor than I am. Again and again, I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, searching the dance floor for any hint of you. My body is on the fire from the inside out, and I don't think anyone else could possibly put it out.