The way she moved, stood out in the crowd. Behind the bar at a dance club, I saw more than my fair share of dancing. A few showed off the moves on their way to becoming a pop stars backup dancer or heading off to be on a televised dance competition show. But most simple college students or twenty-somethings out for a fun night with friends, maybe on the prowl for a member of the opposite sex.
She fell into the later category, but she didn’t dance like them. Most swayed side to side, they were good they did it to the beat of the song. Others rubbed their bodies against their dance partner, grinding against each other as their hands explored each other and lips sometimes came together. I fall into that category, so I’m not one to talk.
She didn’t dance like that. Her dress simple, plain and modest. Not slutty, not overly sexy because it clung too tight or revealed too much. Her looks girl next door, yet she was the sexiest woman in the club. Guys starred, even men with girlfriends there. I found myself watching her more than I should have.
She moved like the music had taken over her. She didn’t stop moving, her arms, her legs, her head, her whole body, kept moving to the beat. She danced like Chenault in the Rum Diary. The music controlled her.
Her college boyfriend swayed, moved from side behind her. She moved in front of him, at times pushing her ass against him like she was riding his cock like a wild animal. He may have been the luckiest guy in there. If she danced like this here, moved like that, how was she in bed, between the sheets. I imagined not many men could keep up with her.
I didn’t see when she left last night, but the whole mood in the club changed after she disappeared with her lover. It fell back to normal.