The dull thud of the music, the flashing light rattled her brain. Far too many bodies coming in and out of her field of vision, like so many snow flakes falling silently onto the windshield of her consciousness on that lonely, deserted road. The blizzard of flesh continued to cascade onto her body through her lonely headlights, dissolving like crushed ice on her warm, rosy tongue. His hand, first barely audible above the roar of the throbbing masses, became something like a scream at the unclear place between her thigh and the round curve of her ass. A shiver took hold of her. Had she never photographed her own body, she would have been completely unaware of the presence nestled there between her legs, seen from behind. As a child, she had imagined a simple absence, a void, yet now she was well aware of the swollen mass of her own sexuality, throbbing rhythmically, a swollen echo of the multitude of desires around her.
His strong hand pulled her near him. His fingers brushed furtively over that space, both empty and full, making her silently ache. A soft sound rose up in her throat and spewed out from between her lips, unheard by the anonymous dancers surrounding her, unheard by him as well. She reveled in the solitude one can find in a crowd, lost in the mute chaos of need, even in close proximity to another human being. He lingered there at the junction between her ass and what lied between for an unquantifiable amount of time, between one second and one thousand desperate years. She yearned for him to stop and to continue, to advance and to back up all at once. His hand touched her, as if his action was somewhat of an accident, without intent or purpose. Then his fingers slid gently under the elastic band of her panties.