“It starts,” she said, her lips achingly close to my ear, “Right here.” She snaked her arms around me from behind and her palms pressed into my solar plexis. She began to slowly stamp her foot, tapping my abdomen to the beat, the tempo increasing, an undercurrent of Spanish guitar conjured up by imagination.

dun dun dun dun-dun dun dun dun

And so we danced, stomping and turning, like a bull in a ring, we, a beast with two backs, clung together in the still desert night, dancing to ancient rhythms only we could hear. Her cheek was damp against my temple as her hips directed mine pushing me around the dance floor, one hand sliding up until her palm was on my sternum pushing me back into her chest.

Her mouth was warm on my shoulder, my neck, my earlobes, and I didn’t turn to finally face her until my dress was in her hands. She looked so small, suddenly, so fragile, confronted by my nakedness and profoundly adoring gaze. So I stepped naked into her arms and let her lead, this time pulling me around the dance floor, pulling me into her, pulling my heart strings in that same old, familiar rhythm, dun dun dun dun-dun dun dun dun.


Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.