Written for tamingthemuse prompt: Swank
Itís all in the hip movement. Got to let them roll. Got to let them have a mind of their own. Oh yeah, once youíve got the hip action right, youíre most of the way there. The marks canít resist the lure of something provocative - something with an edge. Something they donít understand, but it gets them right at the base of their spine and theyíre so busy wondering how to duplicate the move that they donít see the predator until itís farÖ tooÖ late. Sweet.
It helps when the hips are clad in black leather. It helps when the hips lead the eye to a hard bulge thatís just screaming to be touched. Thatís another thing that keeps the prey hypnotized. They either want a piece of the action, or theyíre so damn scared of the implications that they forget to run. I can never decide which group is more fun. Choices, choices, so many choices. Sometimes it sucks to be me. Or is that an inappropriate choice of phrase? Some days itís fun to indulge them Ė just wallow and enjoy a long, hard, hot fuck before eating. Pheromones Ė make any snack that bit tastier. But even better than pheromones is the control. Thatís the real head rush - knowing theyíd run a mile if they could, but theyíre too fucking terrified to move, until itís far, too late. Dominance, thatís the game and itís the only one in town.
Thatís what Tony understood. Looking back, I can almost admire his M.O. He wasnít exactly subtle, not like me, but credit where creditís due. Heíd shout and scream and make like a tough guy, until everyone was convinced he had the moves to back up his mouth. He didnít, of course, but he had me fooled for a long time. He had a lot of people fooled and that was the way he liked it. Even when I went calling and started to show him the error of his ways, he kept on shouting. So Iíve got to give him points for consistency. The shouts turned into screams, turned into pleading, but the noise level never varied. See what I mean? Consistency.
Itís funny how Iíve come to appreciate Tony, now that Iím all grown up. Things learned at a daddyís knee tend to stick, as you get older, though Iím not sure he intended the lessons to take, in quite the way they did. He liked to mind fuck Ė to do the big bad routine and then be the father figure, so you never quite knew which incarnation you were going to get when you got home. A toy truck one day, a smack in the mouth the next Ė doesnít matter if itís calculated or not, itís the balance that counts Ė thatís how he kept control.
Now itís my turn for control. Itís my turn to have the power. See, itís all in the hip action and the attitude, thatís what makes the difference. The Master can have his day, Willow can play with her puppy, but Iím the one they look at. Iím the one that they canít take their eyes off. Finally, itís my time and Iím going to make Tony proud.
Written for tamingthemuse prompt: Cavort
Character: Xander/guess who *g*
Warnings: boy/boy, vamp Xander
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own all. I own nothing
Summary: Xander remembers and bides his time
Word Count: 690
Beta extraordinaire: thismaz
It funny how you get what you need, right when you need it most. Itís funny how you donít even know that you needed something, until itís right there under your nose. Then you wonder how the hell you ever survived without it.
Boredom, thatís my problem. Who would have thought that after only one year as a vampire, even a favoured one, Iíd be bored? But there are only so many matches you can burn. Only so many humans you can torture. Only so many minions you can bully. So I was bored and hungry and horny, and I wanted something new, something that would break the tedium. Something that wouldnít come so easily. And thatís when it happened.
He was standing under a streetlight, smoking, looking like an advertiserís wet dream. It was the attitude that got me. He looked me up and down, like I was centrepiece at a buffet, and Iím hard just thinking about the moment Ė just like I was then.
He pitched his cigarette into the gutter, straightened up and grinned wolfishly, and I watched him, hypnotised, as he bent one leg, bracing himself as he leaned back against the metal column. Grinning again, he crooked his finger, just once. I stood for a moment, considering the scene, waiting for the next move, but he was still, like a celluloid frame in a black and white movie Ė blonde hair, black jeans and black leather duster, under the harsh glare of the street light.
I never could resist a challenge, so walking forward slowly, I channelled every ounce of experience that twelve months could give me and thinking back, that was a lot, and I enjoyed every damn second. Maybe damned would be more appropriate, but thatís a thought for another time. I could tell from the way his eyes followed every hip roll that he appreciated the show. Itís nice to feel appreciated. I paused for a moment in front of him, and watched as the pink tip of his tongue flicked out and away, so quickly I wasnít sure if Iíd imagined it. Then he did it again.
I was so busy watching his face, waiting for that tongue to take another bow, that I missed the next move, as his right hand shot out and palmed over my erection. His eyes never left my face, but his focus was there in the pressure on my cock Ė sweet, sweet pressure and I pushed my hips forward, searching for more. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head like he was considering his strategy and then, all at once, the pressure was gone and I was sucking in an un-needed breath. Bastard! Sexy, fucking bastard.
The eyebrow went a little higher, like he was reading my thoughts, then he pushed off the streetlight and closed the inches between us, until you couldnít get a razor blade in the gap. I could feel the hard bulge at his crotch pressing against mine and I knew what was coming next and started calculating how to take the advantage. The tongue flicked again and then he stepped back and smiled. Not grinned, not smirked, but smiled and I was caught. I stood there under the harsh glare of the light, oblivious to the sounds of the night around me and watched him as he pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes and a silver Zippo. Lighting up, he raked his eyes back down my body, and then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows.
I can still hear the faint whisper of his voice coming back on the wind. ďThat was the trailer, pet. Look out for the main feature, coming soon.Ē
So now Iím waiting. Every night Iím here under the street light, waiting. Sometimes, I think heís watching. Sometimes, I know he is. I could have anyone I want in this god forsaken town. I watch them posture and play and cavort, and it bores me. I know what I want. I can be patient. In the end heíll come out of the shadows and Iíll hold him to his promise.
Character: Vamp Xan
Warnings: boy/boy and general nastiness
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own all. I own nothing
Summary: When youíre courting, you send gifts Ė itís only polite
Word Count: 968
Beta extraordinaire: thismaz
Itís been six nights now. Six nights of waiting like a horny teenager. Six nights of scanning the darkness and listening to the silence, and the sound of a stray, soft chuckle floating on a night breeze.
Heís playing games and thatís okay. Iím good at playing games. I bet we could play some great games together. Gamesmanship needs subtlety and strategy. A good game needs planning and a head for taking risks. Heís a very good player. So am I.
Itís like I said: everyone likes to be appreciated, and heís no different. That little show, six nights ago, showed me that. He gave me a taste of the appetiser and promised me the entrťe and I canít wait to see whatís for dessert. But a great meal needs a little something to whet the appetite. Something to get the juices flowing, as it were. So, I went out and found the very thing.
Warm cheerleader has a taste all of its own - sweet and perfumed, with just a hint of spice at the back of the throat. Although itís funny, after all the years of her throwing out barbs and insults, I almost expected her to taste kind of sour. But itís amazing how the meat tenderises, when you let it hang for a while.
I never thought Iíd live to see the day when she was speechless, but the screaming and the pleading were getting a little tedious and itís not like she really needed her tongue. Itís amazing how much blood can come from one small muscle, but thereís a reason I carry matches. I never understand why most vamps are afraid of fire, in the right hands it has all sorts of uses. Now she looks every inch the queen, in her sky blue cocktail dress. I was really careful not to get it soiled, because my grandma always told me that the wrapping on a gift is nearly as important as whatís inside. The ropes at her wrists and ankles, and looped round the upright of the streetlight, keep her from spoiling the package and Iím kind of proud of the way the bows at the end of each knot finish the whole thing off.
So Iím waiting again, but now Iím the one in the shadows, watching for the next round of the game. Iím not worried about a no show. A real player knows when things are getting serious and they make their call. Iíve just upped the stakes and thereís no way heís going to back down.
Itís so nice to be right.
I smell the mixture of smoke and leather, long before he strides into view and stops, just outside the pool of light. Iím watching the girlís eyes as she scans the shadows, desperate to find the source of the footsteps. Desperate to find a knight in shining armour. Sheís going to be disappointed, but Iím not and thatís all that matters. There he is, just as I remembered him - shock of white hair, black jeans that could have been painted on, wearing his leather like itís an attitude in its own right. I guess it is. He slinks forward and begins to circle the streetlight, and the girl, looking over every inch of her, inspecting but not touching, not yet, and I realise Iím holding an unneeded breath. Finally, he comes back round to the front and stands in front of her, raises one long, white finger and caresses her tear stained cheek, before leaning forward and kissing her softly on the forehead. Itís a benediction, a blessing, and the acceptance of a gift. I smile in the darkness.
He stands for a moment, then with one fluid movement drags his hand downwards, across her breasts and her belly, and down over the soft curves of her hips. I can see her tremble in terror and anticipation and I imagine his hands with the same intent on my cooler flesh. He shudders slightly, perhaps having the same thoughts, and then starts to carefully untie the knots, taking his time with each one. Thereís a part of me thatís so damn happy that he didnít just cut through the ropes. He appreciates the time, and the patience, Iíve put into his present and returns the courtesy. I could have got him something shiny, like the stupid ring that Willow took off her puppy, but I donít want friendship. My appetites lie in other directions and I suspect his do as well.
She starts to struggle slightly as the ropes loosen, but thereís nowhere to go as his hands tighten their grip and I shiver as I remember that strong hand pressing against my cock. He sweeps her up into his arms, arranging her like a bride waiting to be carried over the threshold. Her struggles continue for a moment and then, suddenly, she stops and lies docile in his arms; prey realising that the fight is over. Now thatís a surprise; the girl I knew would never give in, but then I realise that sheís playing possum, waiting for her moment and I have to give her credit for her strategy.
But looking at his eyes I realise that heís wise to her game and inwardly applaud. He looks in my direction, his gaze piercing the shadows. He smiles, his eyes full of promise, like heís aware of my appreciation. Then just as quickly as he appeared, heís gone, and I step out into the circle of light. My gift has been accepted and the rules of the game dictate that itís his move now. So Iíll bide my time and Iíll plan, and I'll be ready when it comes. Iím playing in the big league and I canít wait for him to show his hand.
Prompt: Written for tamingthemuse prompt:Mortal Coil
Character: Vamp Xan, Vamp Willow, Spike
Warnings: het (eek!)
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own all. I own nothing
Summary: Xander find a way to pass the time
Word Count: 657
Beta extraordinaire: thismaz
A fuck is a fuck is a fuck. And Willow sure knows how to fuck. Funny, Iíd never have pegged (and isnít that the little insider joke) her as being so in to the sex stuff, but it seems like still waters run deep, or some other shit, and little Willow has blossomed in a way that would have made her parents come running, to document the phenomenon.
The Master likes to drone on, about how weíve both grown up since we were turned. How proud he is of the way weíve become so much more than he hoped, since we Ďcast off the shackles of our mortal coilí. Pretentious old bastard!
Itís funny, despite the obvious differences, I donít think sheís changed that much. Sure thereís the leather and the torture and the sex, but thatís the demon stretching itself, taking the merchandise for an extended test drive. But underneath, I can see kindergarten Willow, junior high Willow, so, so eager to learn, so desperate to be top of the class. Just like my demonís building on Tonyís tutoring, when it comes right down to it, Willowís always going to Sheila and Iraís daughter, just with a little more bite. Itís taken me a while to have the revelation, and up until then I was right there with her, revelling in the sensation and the rush, but then it hit me - that sheís playing the same old tune, just on a shinier instrument. Thatís when I got bored.
See, thatís the trouble with Willow. I know her. Sheís predictable. Itís kind of comforting, from a strategic perspective. I know how sheís going to try to manipulate old bat face, before the thoughtís even fully formed in her mind. I know how sheís going to torture her puppy, as her handís still hovering over a pile of rusty implements. Sheís got patterns, routines, habits, and thatís why sheíll never get right to the top. Oh, I know sheís got ambitions, sheís always had ambition, but she doesnít have the skills to make it happen. Not in this world. Not like me.
This Willow has other skills and watching her, crouched between my thighs like a predatory bird as she licks at the tip of my cock like itís some kind of popsicle I feel like Iím doing her a favour, giving her something to practice on. Practice makes perfect, and no one could ever say Willow didnít like doing her homework.
I lie back and let her work her magic, feeling the sensations ebb and flow as she sucks and plays and teases, her hand rolling my balls, squeezing and kneading as she swallows me down. Oh yeah, thatís nice. Closing my eyes, I ride the sensation, picturing her, red hair curtaining her face as she enjoys her treat. Then the picture morphs and the hair is shorter and blonder and the baby voiced crooning slides into something darker and smokier, laced with whisky and promises of pleasure beyond imagining.
The siren voice in my head is whispering, insidious as it slides and slithers over my skin. Willowís mouth and tongue root me in this reality, but my headís somewhere else Ė twisting and turning, ebbing and flowing, with the voice, and the tone, and the tantalising tease of things just out of reach.
Thereís a hard suck and the flick of a tongue and suddenly, Iím coming, and coming, and coming, and it feels like the first time I took blood. I shudder and feel the tremors reverberate through me and I hear Willow purring in contentment as she nurses her reward.
A slight breeze drifts through a high broken window, set at street level, and as I lie back, wallowing in the haze, picturing pale skin and black leather, I smell a whiff of cigarette smoke wafting on the wind and hear the hard thump of boots on concrete, moving away into the night.
Summary: Spike returns the compliment
Word Count: 793
Beta extraordinaire: thismaz
She looks so beautiful in the moonlight: luminous; glowing; radiant. Her skin translucent under the streetlamp, pale flesh illuminated and shadowed as the failing bulb buzzes, surges and fades.
Her head is tipped against the old, iron upright of the lamp, red hair and white skin framed by rust and dirty grey metal. Her eyes are closed, like sheís sleeping or perhaps just lost in thoughts that no one else can touch, her mouth stained red, like sheís glutted on strawberries, or raspberries, or blood.
My eyes wander down, taking in her posture, leaning against the upright at just the right angle Ė half supplicant, half provocateur, the silver chain nestled round her throat, glinting and glistening invitingly. Her hands are wrapped around the back of the pole, pushing her chest up and out, showing off the goods to their best advantage. I picture a hundred other nights when sheís played similar games, luring her prey, dulling their senses, until all they can think about is their need and their lust and their dicks.
Her breasts, cream against black leather, are high and firm, nipples just peeking out of the top of her corset, promises of the bounty constrained and confined underneath. The lacings criss-cross, tight, tighter, tightest, and her nipped-in waist would make most women weep.
Itís such a beautiful scene. I wish I was a painter, or a sculptor, so I could capture the moment and examine each detail, uncovering every secret and nuance so carefully executed.
My gaze shifts, this time starting at the bottom, travelling up over high boots adorned with more silver chains and on over long, bare legs. I linger for a moment on the soft curves of her thighs as they reach delicate hip bones, her belly chain framing each peak. The ginger curls of her hair nestle at the bottom of the black leather bodice Ė red and black, two of my favourite colours and she wears them so well. But even better is the hand of the artist who has created this beautiful scene.
He stands next to her, focused, and intent on finishing his creation. One soft, white hand drags a railroad spike down across her collar bone and slides it down under the corset, teasing a nipple into a hard peak before withdrawing. Iím mesmerised by the action as he toys and touches, wielding the weapon like a maestro with a baton. Heís drawing such pretty sounds from her - whimpers and moans, as his other hand dips and dives between her legs playing such a delicious, dangerous game of hide and seek
Sheís trembling now, arching into the touch, desperate for the contact even as the spike settles over her breast. Her eyes fly open as her hips start to buck and I know she sees me, standing on the edge of the pool of light. She opens her mouth, trying to say my name, but thereís just blood and I realise that imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery.
He pushes his hand in again and sheís shaking, only the pretty silver chains keeping her upright. As her orgasm rips through her, he turns his head and smiles at me and I can only smile back. He drives the spike down.
Thereís an impression, like an x-ray, as she hovers halfway between substance and dust, then the image shatters, leaving an unvoiced scream and the smell of lust and the taste of something intangible on the night breeze.
I think I should probably feel something, anything Ė sadness, anger, pain, something to mark the passing of a childhood friend. But thereís nothing, the word has no meaning, thereís just void, like Iíve been hollowed out, like Iím waiting to be redefined. I watch as he pulls out a handkerchief and carefully wipes down the spike before stowing it in a pocket, cleans off his fingers and throws the soiled cloth to the ground, as if he doesnít want to be sullied by the stain. His fingers are so delicate, so fastidious and I canít help staring at them, as he pulls out a cigarette and his Zippo, taking a moment to light and take a long pull.
Finally, he looks up at me and his eyes are sapphires. Iím caught for a moment, before I drag my gaze downwards, watching his mouth as he starts to speak. ďThe Gospel according to Spike - I donít share, pet. Here endeth the lesson. Weíll work on the rest of the commandments next time round, yeah?Ē
I want to say something, to respond, to demand, but heís gone as quickly as Willowís dust on the wind, and I finally realise that this could be a game I might not win.
Iím not sure that I care.
Prompt: Written for tamingthemuse prompt: Window
Character: Vamp Xan/Spike
Warnings: boy/boy stuff
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own all. I own nothing
Summary: Spike comes back to continue the lesson
Word Count: 1776
Beta extraordinaire: thismaz
How can moments feel like days? How can hours feel like eternity? I close my eyes and picture that last instant Ė sheís frozen, in transition between unlife and death, and she looks so damn shocked and betrayed. Now thereís a word to conjure with - betrayal - I think I know a bit about that. Willow, she didnít have a clue.
She didnít have someone telling her she was a mistake. She didnít have someone telling her she was stupid, or didnít work hard enough, or wasnít worth attention. But when allís said and done, her life was still a pile of shit Ė she just didnít realise it, because nothing bad could possibly happen to sweet, little Willow. She had me and that was all that mattered. Living, unliving, she didnít have anyone but me. I watched her get turned and I watched her rise. A year later, I watched her fall. Do I feel guilty? Now thatís the sixty-four thousand dollar question. The answer is simple Ė no, I donít feel a thing. Not for her.
I do have feelings, donít get me wrong. But none of them are for Willow. Somewhere in the back of my head thereís a human voice tutting and scratching, whispering about Barbieís and crayons and other stupid shit, but itís so faint now and I realise itís just an echo of the other faint voices over the years Ė the ones that whispered about conscience, and compassion, and compliance. Now the only word that comes to mind is Ďcrapí. Humanity - itís highly over-rated.
So, Iím not dwelling on the past. Itís done, itís over, Iím moving on. Almost. But I canít help replaying the scene in my head, picturing his fingers, caressing her, drawing out her final moments, making her love the torture, and I wonder what it would feel like to be under those hands.
Now Iím here, back under the streetlight. I feel like itís somehow real, like itís the secondary character in a play, thatís suddenly getting the better reviews. So itís time to take back the limelight. Time to take my bow. Iím standing, back to the dirty grey metal, bathed in the light of the failing bulb, and I imagine what I must look like, fading in and out of the shadows as the harsh light strobes in the darkness - dangerous, mysterious, intriguing Ė no one can say I donít know how to set a scene.
I know heís coming and thatís why Iím waiting. There wonít be any more nights of teasing and spinning things out. He knows that Iíll be here and I have no problem with that. I know that Iím hard and aching. But I know heís hard too. Even though heís not here, right now, I know that heís hard. I just know. Thatís been the fun of the game - knowing the board, watching the strategy, anticipating the play. Weíve sacrificed our pawns and planned our moves, carefully, and now itís time for the end game.
The hairs on the back on my neck stand up and the night air seeps into my bones. Shivering, I realise that heís standing behind me. I didnít hear him approach, but I guess he didnít want me to. This is a new part to the game. Itís about stealth, and surprise, and control, and thereís a spot right at the base of my spine thatís quivering with excitement and anticipation. A tantalising tease of smoke and leather drifts on the wind, curling round my senses like a loverís embrace, and I breathe in deeply, savouring the scent, almost tasting it on the back of my tongue.
A deep, dirty chuckle resonates in my ear and then his voice whispers, ďWhat do you want, pet? Will you tell me what you need? Whatís been going on in that pretty head of yours, since last night? Did you lie awake thinking about her last moments? Did you wonder what she felt as she came and shattered, all in one glorious moment? Did you wonder, love?Ē I try to keep still, to not react, but heís so close, his breath cold against my ear as the words tumble and roll in my head. Itís like heís been reading my mind, like heís got his own personal window into my thoughts, and I realise that all the new sensations Iíve revelled in over the past year are dust in the wind compared to the age and experience standing at my back. I shiver again as his arm slips round my waist, pulling me hard against the streetlamp. His hand dances downwards, until itís framing my crotch and my mind jumps back to the first night we met, and the sweet pressure, and the tease, and the promise of things to come.
I feel like I should say something, do something, try to take back control, but itís like Iím outside the experience, looking in, being an observer of my own seduction, and itís as scary as hell and twice as exhilarating. I shudder as he unbuttons my fly and pulls me out. Looking down, I see his pale hand wrapped around my cock and the sight is enough to make me groan. He squeezes once, his grip like iron, and the voice is back. ďEyes up now. Look out beyond the light. Look into the darkness and let yourself feel. Just let yourself feel.Ē I take a deep breath, needed or not, and spread my legs wider, letting the metal take my weight, feeling it hard against my back, just like Iím hard in his hand. I relax and look out at the darkness and sink into his voice. I let myself feel.
ďNow youíre getting it.Ē I can feel his fingers, playing me like an instrument. Adagio Ė just a slow glide and twist of his hand Ė up down, down up, his thumb moving slowly across my slit, rubbing gently, before he digs in hard with his nail. ďDid you enjoy the show, pet? Watching me fucking her with my fingers while I played with my spike.Ē He chuckles again at the obvious innuendo, but his hand never stops moving. Slip and slide, slide and slip, rubbing with agonising slowness along the thick vein. ďDo you want to play that game? Feel the metal gliding down your back, sliding along your crease? Do you want to feel it, cold and heavy, resting over your balls?Ē I use every sliver of control Iíve mastered over these twelve short months, not to look down, to keep watching the darkness as he speeds up his movements. Allegro Ė his fingers are dancing now, twisting and scraping, pulling and tugging, but his voice is slower, syrupy, and Iím lost in the middle, struggling to find my own cadence. ďShould I have fucked her with the spike, do you think, pet? Would she have liked that? Would you have liked that? Would you like that?Ē I hiss at the image, at the need building inside, but he pushes on, remorseless, relentless, regardless. ďPicture it...imagine it....feel it...the hard iron pushing inside you...stretching you...impaling you.Ē His voice is almost non-existent, just a faint whisper on the wind. ďMaking you beg, making you scream, wishing Iíd do it again, and again, and again.Ē He pulls down sharply, his nails dragging on delicate skin. ďDo you want that? I can give you that. I can give you anything you want.Ē Crescendo - itís too much, the voice, and the touch, and the tease, and sensation building on sensation. The world feels like itís ending as I spasm, and shudder, and jerk in his grip.
ďAnything you want, pet.Ē The words echo in my head as I start to come down slowly. The possibilities make me dizzy and, for a moment, I hang there, his arm and the solid metal of the streetlamp the only things keeping me upright.
My thoughts are spinning, working out what comes next, working out what I want to happen. The boy I was would have been grateful for the attention and never stopped to ask why. But thatís not me. Not anymore. I might not like the answer, but I have to ask the question. I have to know. ďWhy?Ē Iím surprised to hear my voice is low and rough, like Iíve smoked a hundred cigarettes, but Iím pleased that itís steady, that I have control. At least I still have a little control.
Heís still behind me as I ask the question and for a moment he doesnít answer, just starts to push my cock back into the confines of my pants and carefully does up the fly. His finger caresses up the length of my crotch and then itís gone, but before I can speak, heís in front of me, licking at his fingers like a kid with candy on a Sunday afternoon. He watches me for a moment, and I wonder what exactly he sees, but then he smiles at me and winks. ďThatís easy, pet - because I can.Ē
There is it is, so simple, so straightforward. So easy to understand. Tony used to tell me that there was no point to school. That I was too dumb to learn. I used to think he was right, but as I take in blonde hair and black leather and blue, blue eyes, I realise that Iíve finally found the right tutor and thereís only one way for this to end. ďTeach me?Ē
His smile is predatory, but I refuse to be prey. I know we arenít equal, but Iíll stand my ground. Iím already hard again as he replies. ďAlready started.Ē
He turns on his heel and strides away, and for a moment I stand there, not sure of my cue, but then he turns round and starts to walk backwards. ďWhat you waiting for, pet? Are you coming or not?Ē
Okay, challenge, I can do challenge. Standing for a moment longer, making him wait, I watch his graceful moves as he continues backwards, his eyes never leaving mine. Leaving the sanctuary of the streetlight, I put every scrap of experience I can draw on, into the walk, just like I did that first night. Itís all in the hip action, making them roll, feeling the leather stretch, and mould, and move, as I slink towards him.
Thereís a look half way between amusement and appreciation on his face as I get closer, and finally get in his personal space. ďVery, nice, love. Youíve got the hips working for you just fine. Got all the time in the world to teach you the rest of the moves.Ē
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