The music has a funny effect on me. The way the beat pulses through my body makes my cock get hard. But it’s mostly you who has that effect — the way you writhe under the flashing strobe lights, the way you grind up against me, reaching back to brush my hard cock through my leather pants, the way you lock eyes with me as your body undulates in the rhythm.
And the slutty way you dress when we go out dancing: short skirt, halter top, high lace-up boots. Your usually close-cropped dark hair tucked under a blonde wig ratted out like some nightmare vision of a 1980s porn star. I know you’re not wearing much under that skirt. Just a thong that doesn’t hide a thing. I saw you put it on when your body was fresh and pink from the shower, but now all I want is to slide my hands under your skirt and slip the thong down your legs.
I put my arms around you, lean close and shout in your ear over the pulse of the music: “Let’s go upstairs and get a drink.”
There are three bars in this club, but the one upstairs in the back is always empty. The bartender knows us, and when I signal for her she pours our drinks — a Jack and ginger for you, a beer for me. I throw her a twenty and tell her to keep the change.
The chill-out room is crowded, but we manage to find a tight spot over in the corner. You have to sit in my lap, and I wrap my arms around you and let them rest just under your tits as you sip your drink. The soundproof room has slower music, electronic trance that relaxes rather than invigorates. The crowd is made up mostly of bridge-and-tunnel college kids on a trip to the city; some of them are making out.
I slip my hands under your halter.
I feel your body stiffen, feel you squirm a bit, lift your hands like you’re going to pull mine away. But as I feel your nipples harden under my fingers, you glance around and see that no one is paying attention. You wriggle more fully into my grasp and take a sip of your drink as I caress your tits. You turn your head and I kiss you, tasting Jack and ginger. I pinch your nipples harder and you whimper into my mouth, your tongue squirming against mine and your ass rubbing against my hardening cock.
I ease one hand out of your halter and get it under your skirt. You look like you’re going to tell me to stop, but you don’t. I slip my hand down your tiny thong and feel how wet you are. That’s when I know there’s no hope for me, no hope at all. I tuck your breasts back into your halter and get my other hand under your skirt. Your eyes widen as you lean back, looking into my face from an inch away. But you don’t move to stop me.
I pull your thong down to your knees. It’s so soaked that it’s cold and clammy despite your body heat. I let go of it and it drops to your ankles; you step out of it. Now people are starting to watch us, but still you don’t tell me to stop.
My hand trails up the inside of your thigh. You rub your ass against my cock, making me want you even more. Your legs are slightly spread — just enough to give me access. I touch your cunt and feel that it’s even wetter than it was a moment ago, that your pierced clit is swollen and hard. I slip two fingers inside you, and now it feels like everyone’s watching. You arch your back and writhe against me. I put my free hand under your halter and pinch your nipple, hard this time, making you moan into the soft trance music.
I lift you from your thighs and ease you off of me. I set you back down on the couch. Now I don’t care if everyone is watching, and neither do you — you’re spreading your legs, letting me lift your skirt and tuck it up close to your waist. I kneel in front of you and watch as you nonchalantly sip your drink, glancing around to see the eyes fixed on us. Then my face descends between your thighs, my eyes turned up at you so I can appreciate the sight of you succumbing. Your own eyes go shut in the instant that I touch your clit, your mouth dropping open wide. You almost spill your drink but as my tongue caresses your pierced clit, you manage to take a sip, your hands shaking a little. It becomes a game, to see if you can keep enjoying your drink while I gently suckle your clit into my mouth and work my tongue rhythmically against it. One hand rests on my head and I feel you gripping my hair. I hear you over the music: “Don’t… stop…”
Your halter is pulled to the side, and one breast is hanging, bare, from the dark fabric. Your nipple stands pink and hard for everyone to see. You spread your legs wider to give me better access to your pussy. I slip two fingers into you and feel your body twist and shiver as I start to fuck you. I tongue your clit harder, feeling the hardness of your ring, and when I look up your eyes are glazed, your cup tipped at a rakish angle, Jack and ginger spilled across your belly and breasts in droplets and streaks that shimmer in the disco lighting, a single cube of ice tucked between your tits in the elastic of your halter. I lick your clit faster and feel that familiar tension grab your body, the tension that tells me you’re going to come. Your back arches in a great paroxysm of sensation, and your ass lifts off the couch as you shove yourself forward onto my face. You don’t even try to muffle your cry of orgasm; the room is filled with the sounds of you coming, drowning out the electric drumbeats as you gasp in syncopated rhythm.
There are a few scattered bursts of applause, a few scandalized sounds from our impromptu audience. When I glance around, I see that more than a few of the college couples have descended into their own erotic trysts, hands and mouths finding places they really shouldn’t find in the chillout room of a dance club. It seems our performance had an effect on people, but I couldn’t care less. The second I felt how wet your pussy was, I knew I was doomed; I knew I’d eat your pussy right then even if they hauled me off to jail.
I lick my way out from under your skirt, teasing my tongue around the sickly-sweet, whiskey-sharp taste of Jack and ginger dribbled across your belly and tits. Your halter is soaked with it, and I lick your tits clean before I tuck your exposed breast away. You put your arms around my shoulder and kiss me, deeply, tasting your pussy like it makes you hungry for more. When our lips part, you look into my eyes and hold them for a long while. Then you tell me: “Time to dance.”
I lick the last of the Jack and ginger off of your neck, take your hand, and help you off of the crowded couch. Behind us I hear little moans as we leave the room and head out to the dance floor.
About the author:
Thomas Roche is a widely-published writer and editor of erotica, horror, and crime fiction. His bio is too long to include here… Just visit his website for the latest from this insanely prolific, talented man.