It would be narcissistic to think that this white haired man has been trying to get your attention all night, but you’re just so, so aware of him. He’s not leaning on the back walls playing hard to get. He’s not that coy or cool, with enthusiastic, raucous dancing betraying his pure enjoyment of the music. But he’s been here, leaning across the bar two people between you when ordering drinks, dancing just behind the circle you’ve made with your friends, and it seems like his face is always angled towards yours. You just can’t tell if he’s trying to catch your eye, because…
Who wears sunglasses inside a club?
You ask your friends, casually leaning into the circle, and they can’t give much help either way – flush with drink and sweat, eyes rolling over their own chosen conquests – “Yeah he’s cute” without much of a glance. It’s when you reflect, taking a last sip from the crumpled plastic cup, that you might be on your own in more ways than one.
He’s right behind you now. He shouts something. It could be enthusiasm, it could be singing along with the thudding music, it could be - to you?
Or is that narcissistic?
Whatever the situation is, you decide, not for the first time, to just ignore him as long as you can. You raise your arms in the air, one hand still grasping the cup, and close your eyes to dance. The atmosphere is thick, the club is hot, and the man with the white hair – well, he can make his interest clearer if he has it.
And that’s when a weight settles in right behind you with one hand locking on your hip.
“Oh,” you say, in a sudden shock, and your voice is lost to the music. A hand slides up to yours, plucking the cup from you and tossing it carelessly to the floor somewhere, before lacing between your fingers to bring you down. The fingers squeeze between yours before sliding out to push down on the top of your hand, holding onto you right over your hips.
You glance back, and through the neon lights cutting through the club, see that shock of floppy white hair, your own face reflected in black sunglasses, and he grins.
The grin is what does you in – so cheeky, so relaxed and assured, saying without words took you long enough - and you fall more into it. You turn your head back around and lean your head back into his shoulder as you grind down against him to the beat. His hands tighten on you and he pushes back harder, knees against the back of yours. You can feel him, something hard under your thigh, something rubbing against the curving side of your panties even through your skirt, and you dance on.
His head nestles up against yours, back arching over you. It brings his lips to the top of your ear, barely brushing against your skin, but then his tongue comes to follow, and it seems he almost chuckles. His hips keep rolling forwards, thighs coming under yours to rub against you, and you’re arching, bending further forward with every sway of his body into yours.
The longer you dance, the better it feels. It feels needed. For him too, whoever he is.
His one hand is still clenching over yours. The other is sweeping down towards your thigh. It’s slow, giving you a chance to swipe him away, but you let him with hitched breath. He’s searching under the hem of your skirt, skimming your skin with fingers ghosting so light it almost feels like he isn’t actually making contact with you at all. It’s teasing, and you squirm, swinging your hips back perhaps harder than he expected. In return, the other hand unlocks from your fingers to slide back, almost gripping your ass.
You want to kiss him. More than that. You’d be bending over already if your friends weren’t there with mouths to mock the next morning, if the dance floor wasn’t just a little too sparse to let completely loose. You might be drawing attention already.
The thoughts roll and collide into each other in your half-drunk mind. Everyone’s wasted. Everyone else is a stranger. Does it matter what they say? Should we give a fuck?
But you can’t quite bring yourself to move, to turn and meet the white haired man fully. You turn your face just slightly towards his leaning over your shoulder, to see if he takes the bait.
“You want me making all the first moves?” he says, low with an edge of naughtiness that still carries under the booming music, and before you have time to get embarrassed, he captures your lips in his.
You respond immediately, and he deepens the kiss with parted lips, and his hand brushes further up, almost flashing your skirt to the crowd before he seems to think better of it. The pull of fabric comes against your legs as he tugs it over you, a flash of sober decency through both of you, and your lips hesitate in distraction. He kisses you harder, bringing you back when his teeth catch your bottom lip and gently pull it away.
The kiss breaks with the song change, an adjust in rhythm with his fingers digging into your hips, and you look forward again.
Your friends have dispersed, perhaps on their own, perhaps in the company of another, leaving you and the white-haired man dancing alone in the sea of strangers. It’s what gives you the boldness to latch your hands onto his, urging him off you, but grab his wrists in return to pull him off the floor. He follows.
You let go as you weave through the club, but he comes back, hand wrapped around your waist and shoulder pressed into yours. The dark hallway, narrow between metal lockers, smells of spilled beer and cold smoke, and the floor is tacky beneath your shoes. It takes a moment to realize this isn’t leading to the exit.
“I think this is just to the bathrooms,” you say slowly.
“Fine, that’s fine,” he says, and his voice is light, sending a shiver straight down your back.
The bathroom door locks behind you, and he spins you to face him with hands gripping over your ass. You stare for a moment at yourself, reflected in those black sunglasses sweaty and disheveled, and then your eyes skate over the rest of his frame. He’s slender, though the muscles you felt dancing against you were strong, the cut of his collarbones standing out from under the neckline of his shirt. And his face, what you can see of it, is attractive, with a smile curving at the side of his lips before he leans in and kisses you again.
You press him into you, arms looping up around his neck. The kiss becomes hot and messy, his hips grinding into you more directly than on the dance floor. Your body trembles against his, the sensitivity moving through you at his touch, and you moan into his mouth. His hands move down, coming under the hem of your skirt again, more brash than before. No audience to hide from here as he slides the fabric up your thighs to hook a finger into the waistband of your panties.
His movements are teasing, gathering the slick just barely dripping out of you and spreading it up to your clit. He presses, and you gasp now, your knees almost buckling.
His grin widens against your mouth, teeth pressing into your lips, and his knee pushes into your thigh. You’re still swaying, even with the music only a distant reverberation through the walls, practically rutting over his bent leg. Your kisses become greedy when he slides one, then two, fingers in, and curls, pressing right against a sensitive spot that makes your legs shake harder. You’re clinging to him, the muscles strong beneath that thin shirt, your hips rolling over his hand and against his leg.
“Fuck me,” you breathe, before you realize you’re saying it. “Fuck me…”
“Satoru,” he whispers.
You repeat. “Satoru.” It rolls off your tongue in a moan.
But you don’t need to tell him again, his hand pulling out of you and curving up to grab at your panties and force them down. He gets them half down your thighs before you take over, tugging them down and stepping out with one foot, letting them pool around the top of your shoe. When you straighten back up, his fingers are nimble at the button of his pants, and when the zipper is loose you help him drop them to his knees.
“This,” he – Satoru – pants, running a hand through the wild white hair, “will be easier if you turn around.”
You nod and watch yourself in the mirror as you face it, kicking your foot up onto the counter. Your panties slide down your shoe, almost touching the edge of the sink as they sway. Satoru’s behind you again, hands on your hips as your skirt hikes up, kissing the side of your neck – nipping, biting with a lusty hunger almost to the point of immediate bruising. Your hips rock back when his mouth trails to your collarbone.
Satoru’s hand slides down your hip, squeezing your ass before he lets go, reaches even further down to his pockets. When he withdraws, his hands lean over your shoulders, and you watch his fingers, his real fingers, rip open the silver package of a condom. They withdraw, and you see his shoulders shake in the mirror, feel his knuckles against the back of your thigh and then the heavy, smooth weight of rubber as his cock comes searching, guiding up against your folds. You gasp again, watching your lips curve into an “oh,” before your eyes flutter at the sensation of him sliding right inside you.
He groans in your ear, hands anchoring around your waist as yours fly forward and grip the edge of the sink, thumbs hard against the smooth counter. Satoru thrusts at a satisfying pace, something that turns your legs to jelly. His fingers splay down across your side, pinning you to the counter. The slickness rushing from you coats his cock, and he throbs inside you even through the with rubber coating each pause of his strokes.
“Fuck,” he says, guttural, and he moves his hips faster.
It forces your hands further up the sink, every thrust of him into you. Satoru presses his body fully into yours as he goes deeper and deeper. He sets a face pace, fingers moving into you so hard, harder than his grip was on the dance floor, as if he’s suddenly letting something lose control totally. You might bruise tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. You buck your hips back into his, feeling him slam into you, leaving you dripping with arousal down your thigh. It shines in the mirror when your legs shake with the force of him.
The distant music is punctuated now by the sounds of the two of you. Panting, grunting, moaning, a different, wild dance against the bathroom sink, out of rhythm with the club outside the door. Satoru pulls your hips back to him as he kisses down your throat again, lips lingering right where your neck meets your shoulder, hands traveling up to grope at your chest over your shirt. You groan his name, a shuddering, “Satoru” as his fingers find your nipples even through the fabric, a muffled pinch that still makes your melt back against his chest.
Satoru’s thrusts become faster and reckless, his moans louder, and he’s almost crying out when he comes. Even in the condom you feel it, hot and rushing, and it makes your knees shake, foot sliding further down the counter and making your thigh ache. You sigh and adjust your grip, preparing for him to pull out now that he reached gratification, but his hips keep shaking into yours even as the throbbing of his cock begins to fade under your clenching muscles.
“Come, come on, you can come,” Satoru whispers. His voice is hoarse, suddenly low, intimate right in your ear, and it makes you shudder. His hands scoop down, one bracing your outstretched leg, the other finding your clit again. The sensation is almost overwhelming, your cunt swollen and oversensitive and still stuffed with him. You search for his eyes in the mirror, but all you can see is your own open mouth, wild gaze, and his head pushing into your shoulder. Satoru kisses your neck again, moaning into your skin, and you feel yourself tighten harder over his stilled cock.
“Satoru – fuck!:”
You’re writhing when you come over his fingers, nerves frayed and head tossed back as he nestles in the hollow of your shoulder, coaxing you there to that explosive orgasm. He rubs you through it even with the tightening of your walls over him. It’s so hard that you almost slump under his body, panting with an open mouth as it peaks and then subsides in waves. The electricity is hot, cracking through you even when his fingers finally smear away from your clit. Your body is trembling even as he pulls completely out of you.
You turn away from the mirror, some post-orgasm clarity leaving you a little too aware to face yourself, and peel your damp panties back up your legs. It makes you wince, everything slowly becoming more and more clear. You hear Satoru throw the condom in a trash can, and you close your eyes, feeling your heart beat in time with the heat between your thighs.
“Here,” he says, and you look up to see him handing you a wad of paper towels.
“Thanks,” you say, your voice suddenly sounding sober and quiet and strange in your own ears. You force a nervous laugh. “Kinda gross, isn’t it, having sex in a club bathroom?”
“It’s probably not much dirtier than how we found it,” Satoru says, and something about the absurd truth of it makes you laugh genuinely as you dab between your legs.
“Well,” you say as he jostles his pants, “I’m glad you finally approached me.”
“Oh?” Satoru says, leaning into you with a grin, fastening the button. “From what I recall, you were following me.”
“You were behind me all night!”
“You were in front of me,” he says, looking at himself in the mirror and fussing with strands of hair.
Again, something absurd to it that makes you laugh. He turns away from you, from the mirror, the curve of black disappearing over his ears and his shirt suddenly tight against his back as he wipes at the lenses. He puts them back on before stepping back, smile streaking across his face, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses.
“The night isn’t over yet, though. And I didn’t get your name.”
He’s right. And the night isn’t over. Whoever this man is, this Satoru, you have a moment of gleeful satisfaction, of joy that it’s him. That you chose him. Or he chose you. Whichever, whatever.