Eurasia Dances

Dances to the surging techno beat as simmering spotlights wash over her, blue- white and yellow-pink shining on her skin dark as our species's african womb. She is visible only in flashes of pulsing light and must be assimilated in pieces: camoflauge tank top, orange and green capris, stone-shaped shaved head, huge smile and eyes shut tight.

Arms gyrating and bare feet pounding the floor, she creates the illusion that it is she who is producing the music, that the music is merely dancing to her rhythm, struggling to keep up with her movements in the center of the dance floor.

Is it the center, or is that another illusion?

It is the center, Aly thinks to herself, for in a circle with no perimeter every point is the center. There are other dancers drifting through that space, but Eurasia is the glowing center from which the rest of them spread to darkness.

It is that darkness, the darkness outside of the circle where the spotlights do not touch, the darkness which gives the circle its lack of perimeter, it is that darkness in which Aly hides, watching the beacon shine in the center of the floor.

Sinuous, Eurasia undulates in the ice-hot glow of flourescent lighting. She is something strange and glorious, and none of the girls will dare to come near her.

Aly dares. She steps into the light, entering a round spiral that will take her into Eurasia's orbit. A prisoner of her gravity, she spins around dumpy white dykes and lipstick-sporting femmes to move in close to the girl in the center. She keeps a safe distance, a satellite dancing in the light that reflects from her.

Eurasia's eyes open. "Come here, stud," she says, and opens her arms wide to beckon Aly forward. Eurasia's hands slide over her dyke-shaved head, and they dance close together in the warmth of each other's bodies.

They dance for a long time in the darkness and fire-light in the center of it all, alone but for each other, silent but for the music. Finally Aly speaks, leaning in low over Eurasia's shoulders to shout into her ear. "Where's your shoes?"

"Left `em at home," she answers.

"Where's home?"

"Don't got one."

Aly licks her lips, running wet palms down Eurasia's sweat-slicked shoulders. "Then I'm taking you home with me."

Eurasia lies belly-down on Aly's bed, arms tucked beneath her sides and body entirely still. Her feet hang over the edge, heels and toes of her yellow soles the black of dogs in moonlight. The bed is in an already-dark nook of Aly's apartment, and under the low light of evening she is almost invisible.

Motionless in the darkness, she blends in completely, Aly's eyes swimming over her as she glances around the room, her body tuned out as if a longtime fixture of the apartment. Could be the camoflauge, Aly thinks, standing at her kitchen-counter sipping milky coffee. As she does so she watches for the gentle waxing of Eurasia's form that will reveal she is still breathing. The room is silent as the earth.

Aly sets her coffee on the table and walks over, sitting on the side of the bed above the still form. Eurasia suddenly rouses, curling up on her side. "I want to eat your pussy," she says.

Aly stares, taken off-guard. "Uh, hmm?"

Eurasia rolls into a sitting position. "Your pussy," she says, "here," pointing to her mouth.

She stares at Aly with a low, commanding stare, the kind of stare with which a mouse could make a cat its bitch, and under that intense gaze she hurridly unbuttons her jeans, kicking off her shoes as she hustles herself into bed.

Eurasia topples her instantly, pulling up her shirt to reveal a slope of smooth skin the color of melting chocolate. She runs her hands down Aly's stomach to the neon-orange panties that cover her crotch.

One finger curls under the waist at each side, pulling her panties out and down from her hips. Beneath a small patch of thick hair like a black forest, her vulva spreads like an exotic plant, anthurium pink and white with tiny green veins.

Eurasia does not waste time but begins to feast, tongue suddenly inside and wailing at her walls. "Uhuhuh-huh, uhuhuhaa!" Aly groans, disarmed again. Eyes bulging, she wraps her hands around Eurasia's head, fingers spreading like rivers around her ears, and pulls the relentless tongue from her crotch before she climaxes.

Eurasia's eyes glare up at her, fierce and hungry. Fires fan in those eyes, and Aly shivers, her own pupils shrinking as she releases her lover's head, hands backing away in quivering fear.

"Oh, no," Eurasia says, fires quieting to hearths, "come here, dear."

She puts her arms around Aly softly, easing her shirt up and over her head. Her breasts slip out from under the fabric, dark things soft and sensuous like the night. Eurasia runs her hands over them, thumbing her nipples softly. Then she pulls Aly's pants and panties from her legs, leaving her body naked but for her socks, her nude form suddenly lithe and lean.

Eurasia pulls her own tank top from her arms, exposing her own breasts, ebony slopes running down to dark knolls. She shifts, her backside gaining light and turning her to a silhouette. Streaks of shine detail the curves of her arms, her head, her breasts.

With barely a sound the shadow before Aly plunges from sight, and then there is that strong tongue lashing inside her. Her moans almost gurgles, she wrests Eurasia's head from her groin again.

"Now what?" she asks.

"I want to see your cunt," Aly says. She looks into Eurasia's eyes, firm, rising from shadow.

Eurasia stands on the bed, crouching beneath the low ceiling. Her capris cling to her legs, military-green with patches of thin orange material. Her hands glide over the taut landscape of her stomach, running towards the waist of her pants. They seem to dance around her navel, a sensuously dark hollow in the slope of her belly.

Unable to resist, Aly jumps forward, wrapping her hands around Eurasia's ass and curling her tongue into that dark, mysterious navel. Cheek pressed to Eurasia's slick, warm belly, she explores the tight enclave with the wet softness of her tongue.

"Mmmmm," Eurasia growls.