Faith Dances

The crowd is hot under the lights, sweating as they dance. The air seems to pulse with the weight of the sound waves beating against the walls, and the crowd and the lights pulse with it. There's so many bodies, pressed together until their scent is one, dancing a sybaritic, ecstatic dance of lust and joy and the carelessness that comes with youth. They're an anonymous mass of bodies and hormones, moving in steps they think are new and hot and hip, but actually are as old as time. They're a nameless, faceless horde, a seething mass.

And then there's Faith.

Faith dances, moves, strokes and spins. Faith gyrates, grinds, dips and sways. The rest of the crowd dances for their partners, but Faith dances for all of them, and for herself alone.

You watch her and you don't waste effort pretending that you aren't. Faith isn't afraid of the effect she has on others.

Faith dances with one partner after another, pulling boys and girls in turn away from their safe, secure pairings and into her space. Faith's space is intense, a magnification of the pulse of light and music. Faith's space is dangerous. Drawn to it like moths, people always fall back out of it again, escaping before their wings get too singed. Escaping because Faith allows it.

Faith dances, her dark hair swinging out and back behind her, her arms moving in time to the beat, her hips circling and dipping, her legs, strong and long, moving with surety and rhythm. Faith does everything with surety and rhythm. She has strength and grace and power to spare, and it seeps out of her, curls around the unsuspecting like a scent, draws them in and then scares them off.

Faith dances, looking like a stripper with a young girl's face. But her eyes aren't young.

Those eyes see you across the floor, sitting in your chair, and she smirks at the steadiness of your gaze. The little girl disappears, and Faith challenges you with her hard eyes.

"Want some a' this?"

The question isn't spoken, but you can hear it in those eyes. You meet her gaze unafraid and give a smirk of your own. She throws back her head and laughs, delighted, and spins with arms flung wide.

And Faith dances.

The stripper takes over, and the fun begins in earnest. Faith isn't subtle, ever, and she's not even pretending now. She's grinding, stroking herself, hands moving over her hips, in between her legs, over her breasts, through her hair. You wish she had a pole to dance around; you think she'd be good at that. But as it is, she's fucking herself on the dance floor and the crowd, feeling the heat turn up, move their flammable wings out Faith's way. They want to be near her, but they can't get too close without being marked.

Faith's dance isn't a dance of seduction -- it's a dance of predation. She's staking out her territory, claiming her place, setting the bar. It's her game; it's always her game.

You can't help but wonder if Ishtar danced like that -- or would Ishtar have been so crude? But there's no denying that she's feeding off the energy of the crowd around her. Whether they want her or hate her or both, she soaks up the attention like a lustful goddess. Or like a vampire lapping up blood. It's her due, her tithe. Her reward and her punishment for being Faith.

The beer is surprisingly cold in your mouth and throat compared to the hot, hot lights and the fiery weight of Faith's stare. She's looking to see if you'll move, but you wait. She'll move in her own time, in her own way. She always does.

And she does.

Faith dances to you, scattering the innocent and fragile in a wave around her, repelling them by the force of her personality and her scandalous moves. You feel your heart thrumming in time to the driving beat of the music. The band on the stage seems incidental, a prop, and the music seems to come from Faith as she moves. She's guiding it, not the other way around, guiding the beat of your heart and the pulse of the blood through your veins. Guiding, driving, controlling. With Faith it's always about control.

Faith dances to you, straddles your left leg, and begins to grind. It's a lap dance, and no one's got the guts to tell her she's stepping over the line. No one's ever got the guts. She bends backwards, her hair pouring down like a thick curtain, damp with sweat. Her arms out for balance, her breasts high, her long throat pale in the colored lights, she stays back for several beats, grinding against your leg.

Her nipples are hard under the thin halter top she's wearing.

When she pulls back up you take another cold drink of beer and she laughs, pulls the bottle from your fingers, takes a drink and then deep throats it. Reaching to put it back on the table, she presses into you, bumps, grinds hard, and then harder.

The stripper's face slips away now, and the predator moves to the front. The smile she gives you is feral and hot, blazing with passions burning her up from the inside. Burning anyone foolish enough to get close. She grinds her pelvis into your leg again, rolls forward until her chest presses against yours and she begins to rock. Her tongue scalds a line over your throat, and her hand presses into your crotch.

There's her rhythm and surety again; the strength and balance and the smell of Faith, close. So close. Teeth, sharp against your throat, almost break the skin then there's a low moan in your ear. The band, exhausted, falls silent and Faith pulls back.

Her eyes are still dancing behind weighted lids, and her hand still cups your cock.

She's smiling at you, a smile all the more dangerous for its sated indifference. The air seems to still pulse, as though the drums hadn't ceased, but there's a pounding silence in their place. The air is heavy now only with the heat of the lights and the smell of sweat. But it's Faith's sweat you can smell the most, a scent you can almost taste.

Faith's smile grows playful, daring again, cocky and sure and mocking. Her fingers glide up from your hard length to the zipper pull and she begins to tug at it. You grab her wrist, pulling her hand away, and look into her eyes.

"No. Not here."

She laughs triumphantly. "Feelin' shy, baby?" She starts to pull her hand away, but you keep your grip. Her expression goes dark for a second, then she laughs again. She stands up and steps back, pulling harder, and you let go. She gives you a hot, bright grin over her shoulder, an invitation to follow, then she's moving through the crowd, parting them like a profane Moses parting the sea.

There's darkness first, as you move out of the dance area and into the back rooms, then blue moonlight as Faith leads you into the alleyway.

"Now or never, baby." Faith says cheerfully, and pushes you against the hard bricks. There's nothing soft about her smile, nothing seductive or romantic, and you want it all the more for what she's not offering.

The night air is cool when she works the zipper of your jeans down, and you moan a little when her hand returns to its former place, but without the hindrance of the denim. She's cupping your balls, maybe a little too hard, but the scent of her is filling your every breath and her tongue is rough-soft against the tender flesh of your throat.

Faith tugs down your underwear, her nails scraping your skin, and you struggle to help her loosen your clothing. Your dick loves the feel of her hard supple body pressed into you, and when you close your eyes, you can still see her dancing on the back of your eyelids. There's the feel of a hand running in your hair, and the dull pain of a hard pull when she takes a handful. You wonder idly if you had wings if they'd be singed, or burned off by now. Not that it matters.

You get the restricting mass of jeans and underwear pushed down and Faith is chuckling. Maybe she's been doing that all along, it's hard to tell. Time flows around you, dancing on its own instead of proceeding in a steady flow. You think perhaps you've been standing here forever in this alley -- you'd be sure of it, if you didn't remember Faith dancing.

She drops to her knees before you and the Alpha Bitch of the pack settles down to play with her food. She nips and tugs and licks and pulls and she laughs when you growl. There's the sensation of her hot, wet tongue against your skin, the feel of hard teeth against your flesh, and under your fingertips the brick and concrete wall is cold and rough. You flex your hands against it as though to find purchase, desperate to find something to hold as Faith's suction pulls out your soul through your skin.

Your flexing fingers find their way forward of their own volition, and bury themselves in the dark mass of hair moving rhythmically before you. Faith pulls back, the cold air hits your hot, wet skin like a slap, and she grabs your wrists.

"Uh-uh, baby," she warns with a shake of her finger. She keeps a hold of your wrists as she pushes them back against the wall. She grins up at you, meeting your eyes, and for a terrible, dizzying moment you think she won't continue. Then the mouth descends upon you again, and reason escapes for a more hospitable environment. You lock your knees, and lean backward into the bricks.

There's no finesse to her motions but there's no gag reflex, either, and you can feel the muscles in her throat working around the sensitive head. You wonder, briefly, if all slayers are blessed with that sort of muscle control, or if it's a gift unique to Faith. You wonder that, and then you fall as the last wall breaks and the world disappears, boiled away under the all-consuming flood of sensation.

Shaking with release, you blink and flex your fingers to find they've gone a little numb. Faith stands, wiping her mouth on your shirt as she rises, then steps back to study you with her triumphant, mocking smile.

"I knew a girl once that said she didn't give head. Said it was 'demeaning'." Faith laughs. "Know what I said?"

You shake your head, still catching your breath, and fumble with your jeans and underwear. Faith laughs again.

"I said, 'If it feels demeaning, then you aren't doin' it right'."

Clothes back in place, you run newly-steady hands through your hair while Faith takes a few steps backwards.

"I'm going to go kill somethin' now. Funny, ain't it? Sex always makes me want to slay; slayin' makes me wanna have sex. It's a vicious, vicious circle." She graces you with one last laugh, then turns, arms wide, her face upturned to the stars. "Catch ya later, baby."

She waves, and she leaves. Her walk is a strut, and you breath night air and watch the tight jeans sway away from you until Faith is gone.

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