Freya pivoted back and forth in dance, shaking her ass side to side, pumping her fists up and down. Benjamin danced in rhythm with her. Both of them slowly walking their way across the dance floor. A light machine swept zones of red, green, purple, yellow, across them; Benjamin admired the way they shone on Freya's white skin, and in the darkness, when Freya's eyes were closed, the blacklight made her eyelashes and smiling lips glow.
He danced towards her, she sashayed away, the room seemed to tilt, then spin vertically around Freya's dance. Benjamin could see her pulling away, but it felt like he was inside her, thrusting, enjoying her moans. Then he was on top of her. On the ceiling, as the checkerboard on the dance floor below alternately illuminating them in colored squares.
He thrust into her, her hands around his neck, head arched off the ceiling, her body meeting each thrust with a squeeze. They came together, but the thrusting and squeezing continued, even as her body melted away into splatters of paint, covering him as he drifted through space.
Benjamin started to cough, as some of Freya got stuck in his throat. He twisted and turned, and woke up in his bed. But in a not to dissimilar position. He was laying in bed, but in bed with him was a layer of pink paste. He tried to move his hand, pulling a clump from the bed, connecting with the rest of the pace via thick strands of goo. His hand shook; it looked red, inflammed, and he screamed as he felt the paste bubble over his lower body, covering him further.
He struggled to reach the side of the bed, but was unable to reach beyond the mat of paste holding him in place. The paste tightened like rubber, pulling his arms tight to his chest, and then top layer collapsed down on top of him. He squirmed, his voice muffled by the paste, but he was unable to do more than wiggle and scream.