She sings the last chorus still on her haunches, still leering up and tonguing at me between lines as I theatrically grind into her face. I feel f*****g sexy, f*****g dirty. I feel free and brilliant. The music rises and I don’t want it to stop but it is going to anyway, heading toward its big finish with her lapping upwards over my body, slowly up my belly and between my breasts, up my neck and chin, timing it expertly so that as the last note is struck she is kissing me with open-mouthed passion.
The speakers screech and reverb and the cheers rise to herald the song’s end, hissing in my dulled eardrums. Sindee has pulled away from me, not staying longer than the performance demands. I want her back, even in front of these people. I want more of everything. She is shouting my name into
