It has been an interesting few days.

Friday night, SFPlayboy came down. I took him to a club I knew he'd enjoy, one with a high percentage of extremely attractive, scantily clad women, and good music. It was packed, parking lot full, we ended up parking a little under a mile away.

Darkeyes was there. I was violating club custody, but he had violated it last December, so I wasn't feeling guilty. They were mine to begin with, I was the one who introduced him to the right people, the DJs, the security, taught him how to dance, how to dress.

I knew he would be there, so I took a few quick steps, making sure that some social pillars who enjoy my company would be there, and was surprised by the presence of those I wasn't even expecting. I looked good, SFPlayboy, well... he's gorgeous.

Showing up with this on my arm, it's beautiful:



(No, I'm not the girl. This was a shot from one of his photoshoots.)

But I did what I always do when I go to a club with a man... I toured him around, showed him what dancefloor/bar area I thought he'd be happiest at, and left for the dancefloor of my choosing.

I felt my brain shift when I started dancing, someplace new. Someplace strange. A photographer who had asked me out repeatedly late last year, while I was seeing GV8, was there with a beautiful, friendly girl. We caught up between dancing, and my brain started... clicking things into place.

I lost my self-consciousness. Enough so to notice.

I realized that all of the people around me, the other dancers, those at the bar, none of them had any impact on me. None of them could touch me. Dancing suddenly stopped being this mix of paying attention to my movements, of wondering how it all came together, of how it looked, of if any of the others who dance in the same form and style I do were around... it all stopped. I knew, without a doubt, that I was good. That whatever I did, I was golden.

I went up the the DJ booth around 1AM, sweating and tired, leaned my chin onto the DJ's shoulder, whimpering and whining for a song that was too old school for the room, cute and flirty, until he promised to play it, teasing me that I hadn't been around enough, that absence makes the heart fonder or forgetful, and I should hope for fonder, as otherwise he wouldn't play my song.

When he did, though, I was there. In front of speakers a couple feet taller than myself, body vibrating with the bass, as others that have been clubbing as long as I have and longer shouted, applauded, and joined me on the floor.

The club shut down at 3AM, Playboy and I walked through the cold, me burrowed in his hoodie, lost in the back neighborhoods looking for my car, eventually finding it and turning on the heated seats full blast, letting the warming leather soothe sore muscles.

Back at my place, nearing 4AM, I stepped into the shower.

He joined me.

I wasn't worried. I had warned him before he came down that I would not be touching him, would not allow him to touch me, that I just wished for his company. He agreed.

But hot water and slick skin cause hands to roam.

He went for my chest, and I knocked his hands off me. I turned to get under the water and his fingers slid over my hipbones, parting my legs. I tugged him free, told him to stop. He grabbed my hands, grinning at me, with that cocky male grin when a man is so certain he'll break down resistance. I've seen it often.

Guided my hands towards his cock.

He wouldn't let me get out of his hold. Too strong. Krav and crossfit gave him a killer body, and that body could lay mine flat in an instant.

I twisted my wrists, dodging him under the hot water, through the steam, dark hair clinging to my shoulders, I locked his gaze.

"Stop. Stop now or you will not like what will happen."

Another tug towards, I continued to stare.

Then he dropped my hands, tilted his head back to let the water run down his scalp, his face, eyes closed.

"I will eat you if you try that again," I told him. Listening to my voice, my mood, perfectly calm, perfectly centered, confident.

My definition of "eat" in this, is a sort of sexual/psychological breakdown. I am able to get inside men's heads, especially when it comes to sex and vunerability. I've spoken on the whys and the hows of this before. It's rare when I am unable to do so, usually shocks the hell of me to the point where I feel unsettled for days when I am unable to crack someone.

This means I see, and get to interact with, a lot of the internal workings of men. Which is why I emphasize with them so strongly, especially compared to my own sex.

I realized, when he got into the shower, I was not worried. It wasn't a concern, this man, a few inches taller than I, significantly stronger, one I had seen lay into a hanging bag with a brutal force that I still remember so vividly. He couldn't do anything to me. He wouldn't be able to. Since the last time we saw him, before GV8 and I started dating, I had changed so much that I had become the dominant one in our relationship.

I knew, without a doubt, without even thinking, I could get inside his head. I could manipulate his desire for me into whatever I chose and neutralize it.

He did not touch me with aggressive intent the rest of the weekend, only the occasional light probe, testing the boundaries, before he was shut down once again.

More later... sleep summons.