Chapter 9

Jamal is sharing a few words with his pals as I lever myself out of the booth, but I’m too preoccupied by the clumsiness of my muscles to catch them. Once upright, I find myself taking each step carefully, deliberately, to avoid a spill. For some reason, the room is tilting at a strange angle from the horizontal, and I keep swerving off to the left. Fortunately, the boys catch up both my arms, and escort me safely into the heart of the jostling throng.

I begin shuffling my feet—and before I know it, I’m dancing more spontaneously and unabashedly than I ever have before. Just being me, you know? Not caring how I look, or what anyone thinks. It’s thrilling, and a little unhinged, to let myself go this way. To simply allow my body to respond freely to the music.

There’s an aura about the scene that’s primal, almost atavistic. As if you could trace a straight line from the percussive, orgiastic rituals of prehistoric cavemen, directly to me, at this inexplicable moment. And in a way, it feels like all of us here on the dance floor tonight are really just parts of a single solitary organism. All moving and breathing and experiencing together, as we rock and writhe to the pounding, resounding beat.

Directly in front of me is Jamal, undulating with a smooth grace. Despite his size, his bearing is agile, expressive, finely tuned to the rhythm. His three buddies, meanwhile, have shifted to encircle me on all sides. I’m grateful for this, because they’re keeping the crowd back a little, giving me a hint of space and air. And if I stumble, as happens occasionally, there’s always one of them there to catch me.

Soon, Jamal moves in closer, pressing his solidity against me, grinding his pelvis into my abdomen. And, Lord, he’s very hard. Instinctively, I match the pressure, cohering myself onto him, feeding on his excitement. Then, taking hold of my shoulders, he twirls me neatly around—running his hands down to my hipbones, and crushing my backside up against him.

This has turned into the dirtiest of dirty dances, and we’re drawing more and more eyeballs from the crowd. Shamelessly he mashes his erection up between my ass-cheeks, gropes and fondles my teats, kisses my neck. My heart is racing and I feel light-headed. I let him take charge, content simply to yield my body over to him. Welded together, we sway and gyrate without the slightest inhibition.

But the man’s not content to stop there, and begins taking things too far. Sinuously, his fingertips glide down to my mound, and then sneak in-between my legs. Ice-water courses through my veins. Jamal knows I’m not wearing any underwear. If he’s not careful, he’ll expose my pussy!

Urgently, I turn my head back toward him. “No, people will see.”

Confident, amused by my panic, he purrs in my ear. “Let them. I thought you wanted to do something bad.” And I sense his fingers hooking under the edge of my dress.

My breath catches. Heads have started to swivel in my direction from all corners. “No! We’ll get arrested.”

He chuckles. “I know the guy that owns the place. He’ll be thrilled. No one’s calling the cops.” Feeling trapped, feeling helpless, I simply freeze there, petrified, incapable of movement, as the camisole slithers upward. Past my mons ... across my stomach ... and over my tits.

The garment snags on my chin. Briefly, I’m standing there with my body exposed, while my head is shrouded in fabric. The entire pack of onlookers is feasting on my nakedness, without me even being able to see them doing it. I must appear ludicrous, pitiable.

Then, for better or worse, Jamal works it loose—scattering hair all over my face, and leaving me stripped utterly bare.

Oh my God. I am naked in a public place. With hundreds of strangers ogling me. I’m going to die. This is the end. I’ve had this nightmare before—but always when I woke up afterward, it wasn’t true. This time, I’m never going to wake up.

Almost at once, a startled, half-crazed buzz goes up from the crowd. Clearly, everyone with a sightline has a reaction.

Some of the gals present make no effort to hide their disgust. Probably think I’m ruining it for women everywhere. Well, who’d want to have to compete for attention with a whore who’s willing to give it all up in public? I know I wouldn’t. On the flip-side, however, not one of the men appears to be complaining. Very much the contrary.

The throng presses in on me from all directions, propelled by a spring-tide of sweaty males. I have an instinctive urge to run, to cover myself. But it’s hardly possible to even move amidst that crush. And honestly, between the alcohol I’ve drunk, the depravity of what I’m doing, the ravenous energy of the crowd, and the scrumptious heft of Jamal jammed up behind me ... I’m not so sure I actually do want to run. I should want to. But do I?

Paralyzed by uncertainty, I rapidly dither away whatever chance there might be to escape. And strangely, as the seconds tick by and the raucous babble grows steadily louder, the thing that overshadows all the other emotions roiling in my mind is the need to try to salvage my dignity. To somehow save face before all these people. Stiffly, therefore, mechanically, I make an effort to look like I intended this to happen. Like I wanted it to happen. Like I’m in control and know what the goddamn hell I’m doing.

The DJ has kept the music humming this whole time, in spite of the commotion. So now, I push myself to start dancing again. As if partying naked in the middle of a packed nightclub is just a normal Friday night for me. It’s hard to recover the rhythm. I feel objectified, self-conscious, terribly vulnerable. Still, I keep moving, unwilling to let humiliation and awkwardness get the better of me. And gradually, I make some progress—tuning out the distractions, and settling into a groove.

Not that it’s easy in this madhouse environment. The crowd is just too stirred up by my reckless indecency to conduct themselves properly. Oh, most of them are fine. Probably there are just a few bad apples. But enough. They pounce on my helplessness, seizing the golden opportunity to take a run at a pretty, naked woman. A flurry of brazen hands dart in to cup my bare buttocks, or tweak my protruding nipples, or even cop a feel, squarely between my legs...