Dance

The moon is bright tonight, and it makes me want to dance. All of the dance clubs, with their neon siren calls, they don't understand this. They don't understand the call of the moon, the way that her light sings to my blood and makes it surge in responsive desire.
I have this image of a dance floor, in the middle of a meadow, the light from the stars turning the pale wood almsot glowingly white. There, there I will dance. There I will dip, and turn, and twirl, and laugh with the joy of movement. There my feet will light but fleetingly on the moon-washed wood.

It's not sexual, although the energy can be turned to sex. It's not blood, although the energy can be turned to blood. It's a primitive wildness, a surging need that thrums in my very bones. I want to run the moonlit path into oblivion, dance beneath crying stars and gather their light on my skin.

I want to stretch him out beneath me and rake my nails over his skin. I want to watch the blood well black beneath the silver moonlight. I want to leave him there bleeding while I dance my ecstasy beneath the crystal stars.

I want to lean down and press my lips to his and share the power welling in my veins. I want to give this ecstasy to him through my fingertips, my lips, through my touch on his skin, and the pain I will give him.

I want to hurt him, and use that pain to share my pleasure, my power, my ecstasy.
I want to dance with him in the silvery moonlight, beneath the crystal starlight, his pain and our pleasure mingling and rising higher and higher into whimpering, sighing ecstasy.