It's around the dance floor that I stalked you, arriving separately despite knowing we'd be leaving together. Your blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail (handy later) contrasts nicely with the bright red dress that comes to your knees; my sandy brown locks complement piercing cerulean eyes that gaze out from behind my glasses.

The first flirting's a rhumba, feet moving quick, quick, slow - quick, quick, slow as arms hold bodies a small distance apart, smoldering gazes locked on each other; hormones and lust playing peek-a-boo in the midst of the act. One dance is the physical; the other us acting our foreordained parts for the evening. I ask for your name; you ask for mine - and we each lie, but know that we lie having done this before.

The tempo picks up as a jitterbug starts. Breaths become ragged for keeping the pace, sweat starts to carry pheromones as we compliment each other's skills on the dance floor, pretending to wonder if good dancers vertically make good dancers horizontally. We both know the answer, but the chicanery makes for part of the fun as you get slid down between my legs and back out again, heels kicking in the air before I put you back down on the floor.

Third time's the charm at the end of the night, a slow waltz that gives bodies ample time to press together with fabric between. And whispered in the romance as we 1-2-3, 1-2-3 in circling spirals is the invitation to come back to my house for a coffee or nightcap, which I smoothly assert I've not done before.

So drinks lead to making out, which leads to a bed. We pretend it's a first as your lips wrap my cock with your head hanging off the side of the bed. Your tongue and your cheeks work magic that leaves me harder than I've been since the last time that we played this game (that time as a traveling businesswoman and fresh divorce).

Your lingual magic above leads to lingual magic below, both sets of lips having, in turn, gripped my slippery cock as we slide back and forth, breathing uneven in the heat of our desire.

A rare re-post from me - I normally give it one shot and let it go for at least a month. But I also normally give things a second shot here if it seems like it would appeal, and this one does.

It often seems like my best writing comes not from my own inspirations, but from things I write in response to others' prompts. This response appears to have not been picked up, which means to me that it's no longer private.

So this time, I get to make the rules. Here's how the story ends. What happened before this? Whatever you write needs to lead into what I just wrote. And my response will lead into yours. And so on, until we think we have (most of) a story.

When we think we've got most of a story, we can discuss moving forward from where the prompt ends.

At the end, we'll [Share].

About me: the physical description I use in the post is a decent approximation of me. Maybe more to the point for the "dirty" part of DSW, I tend toward the "spicy vanilla" side - in part because I don't have enough real-world experience with what I shall refer to as serious kink to be able to write it convincingly.

My kids will be underfoot most of the day, and I'm taking a remarkably rare few minutes to squeak this in. I likely won't be able to respond in more than a sentence or two until they're in bed. (let's just say I'm older than most of the folks that I see choose to identify their ages). But I would adore opening up a lovely orange envelope or three when I do get to sit down tonight.