And he was...an American boy

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Moving and pulsating to the rhythm and sounds of the band on stage, my body is filled with the sensations and essence of the music.  Sweaty bodys rub up against me.  Hands slide down my raised arms.  With my legs spread, I press into the body behind me.  Anonymously trusting their movements and touch.  My head rolls back meeting the breath and stubble.  It is a man.  He grabs my hips and matches my motions.  I moan and my body loses its posture for a moment, enough to let in the possibility for more. I hear his voice faintly in my ear.  I have no idea what he is saying, but it is steady, rhythmic and relaxed.

The end of the song is muddled with the beginning of another.  Allowance for unbroken contact.

I push my hips back into his and feel his cock, huge and hard in his pants.  Swaying my hips to get him harder. My shoulders move opposite my hips, like a fish languidly swimming through the music.  His hands run up my sides, then around to my tits.  Grabbing, caressing, pushing into me.

I turn my head to meet his and grab a quick pass of the tongue. Wet.  Salty.

His hands up my short skirt, feeling my garter belt.  Grabbing my ass.  He slips his cock out of his pants and just between my sweaty ass cheeks. With one arm around my middle and another across my chest, we press and rub into each other more.  The proximity to fucking is absolutely there.  This will have to do.  Friends are on the dance floor.  No matter how much I want to feel his cock inside my pussy or my mouth, this tease is what I get tonight.

Every move of my hips and thrust of his gives a new world of sensations.  The music is driving the dance.    The song is heavy but sexy.  Slow.  Not pounding fast.  We are sliding.  His hands grip my body as his rams himself in between my flesh.  Hot spurts of ejaculate run down the inside of my ass and legs.

I turn around and we share a kiss, deep and obvious. 

The song is over and the crowd cheers and claps for more.