The problem with twerking

The bass rattles my ribcage, a relentless thump-thump-thump that’s been living inside my body for the last forty minutes. I’m already glossy with sweat, hair sticking to the nape of my neck. I’m facing away from the crowd, facing the mirrored wall so I can watch myself—watch the way the black thong disappears between oiled cheeks, watch how the short skirt flips up every time I bounce. I know they’re watching too. I can feel the eyes like heat lamps on my skin. That’s the point tonight: to be looked at until someone brave (or reckless) enough decides to do more than look. I arch deeper, palms braced on my thighs, ass rolling in slow, deliberate circles before I speed up—sharp, nasty little pops that make the skirt flare and the chain jingle. A few approving whistles cut through the music. I smirk at my reflection and throw it back harder. Then I feel it. Big hands clamp my hips—not tentative, not asking. Just claiming. My breath snags. I don’t turn around yet; I want to feel him first. No words. No warning. Just the blunt, thick head of him nudging right where I’m still clenching from the tease I’ve been giving the room. My mouth drops open on a silent gasp. He doesn’t push in slow. He sinks—steady, inexorable—stretching me open inch by fat inch while the bassline swallows the tiny, choked sound I make. It burns so good my knees nearly buckle. I brace harder against my own thighs, trying to keep the rhythm of my twerk even as he fills me deeper than should be possible standing up like this. “Fuck,” I mouth at my reflection. He starts to move. Not gentle. Not sweet. Just deep, punishing strokes that match the tempo of the song—every time the kick drum hits, he bottoms out, balls slapping wetly against me. I try to keep twerking—try to keep giving the crowd the show they paid cover for—but it’s ruined in the best way. I’m close—dangerously close—and he knows it. My whole body locks. I come so hard my knees give and he has to catch me, arm banding around my waist, keeping me upright while he keeps fucking through the spasms. Wave after wave rips through me; I can feel myself pulsing around him, milking him, and that must be what finally tips him over. He buries himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound I feel more than hear. Heat floods me—pulse after heavy pulse—until it’s leaking out around him, slicking my inner thighs. He stays deep, grinding lazily while we both pant, letting me feel every twitch. Only when the song changes does he finally ease out, slow, letting me feel the gape he left behind. Then he’s gone—melted back into the crowd like smoke. I’m still trembling when I straighten up, skirt falling back down (barely). I smile, slow and filthy. And then I start twerking again.