Carol Ch. 11

When she felt the first tongue, a look of faint surprise crossed her face, and then she got a crafty expression. After that, she got more liquor on her than in her, by closing her mouth or turning her head suddenly. Unreproved, her friends held her more tightly, and dove in to give long licks on her cheek, chin, neck, and even chest.

Body Shots

Yes, even her chest. In every group of men, there's always one poor guy who is worth feeling a little sorry for. One guy with a reversed baseball cap, a little short and a little too thin, had positioned himself in front of her. He stared into her face from six inches away with a moony expression, lost and dreamy -- he was completely drunk.

When the next shot went down her front, I craned my head to see what he was doing. He had two hands under her arms, and he pushed in with the heels of his palms, mashing her chest together. Then his head bobbed down and he was bodily licking the tops of her breasts.

Carol ignored this heavy-duty attention. She was still shouting and accepting congratulations, still with her arms above her head. Everybody else noticed, though. In the group-grab, her dress meant little. Her breasts flashed in and out from under the small silk triangles over her chest, and the straps were sliding all over her shoulders. "The drunk girl is letting him lick her tits!"

They all wanted a turn. So did I. I shouted, "Body shots! Let's do body shots off Easy!"

Suddenly I was a genius. Without even consulting her, they swept Carol off her feet and back to the bar. She was laughing at their frenzy. A wild, uncontrolled laughter that she couldn't stop, even as they lifted her to sit on the bar.

Everybody was yelling, "Body shots!" and the bartenders quickly complied. They swept the clutter off the bar top, and even kindly ran a towel over the surface before they pulled her down.

We lifted her legs up to the bar, and then pivoted her around so she was lying on the length. Her clogs fell off, and were ignored. Her knees were bent and her bare feet dug into the wood, giving purchase. It was a foregone conclusion -- her panties were on display under her thighs.

Her ass was hard on the counter, and the backs of her thighs, with the curves of her ass, all made a sunken little cove where the panties covered her snatch. The panties were lit brightly, and some lucky guy cupped her ass, his fingers on the delicate skin where her inner thigh met her torso.

I was mesmerized by the hand so close to her sex. I didn't see when the rest of it happened. As Carol was laughing and shouting things that went unheard in the throng, the brooch on her hip was undone. Carol didn't undo it -- her hands were crossed behind her head, cradling it so she could look down at herself. The dress was flipped open, and there she was: reclined on the bar covered in nothing but her panties. She was naked, except for two little straps over her hips and some thin fabric that was, for all intents and purposes, sheer.

I gathered from the bartenders that this was not an uncommon occurrence. They had a procedure -- they were putting bottles of vodka out, and one of them was already standing on a box beside Carol and running an ice cube down her stomach to her belly button.

We were all standing over her, she was chest-level with us. The pressure of the crowd was intense, as everybody pushed forward to see what was going on. Now that Carol was bare, with her breasts pointed at the ceiling, she seemed to have some sort of shield up -- nobody wanted to grab her, or, nobody wanted to be seen groping the girl. Us guys can be just that civilized.

(And I may disparage guys in general, but really the guys in our group were funny, handsome, and very nice. It's just that I don't think anybody is good enough for Carol.)

"Who's first?" yelled the senior bartender. He took a bottle, and aimed it at her sternum. The liquor glugged out of the nozzle, and ran down the sunken causeway of her stomach to her belly button, where it pooled.

The guy with the reversed baseball cap was first. He didn't give anybody else a chance. He layed his ear on her lower stomach, below her belly button. He just let his head lie on her lap, and he sucked the vodka off of her stomach. His eyes were fixed on the two high mounds of her chest, or on Carol's green-brown eyes -- she stared down at him through her tits as he tongued the liquor out of her belly button. To her, it mostly seemed ticklish -- her stomach crunched (muscles rippling), her breasts shook, and she kicked her little feet on the counter and screamed with laughter.

Much encouraged, the next guy drank his body shot from her belly button, and then licked his way up to her sternum. There was always a bartender ready with a rag, to wipe off her body -- even where she didn't exactly need it. I watched them more closely -- yep. They had that "professional" thing going for them, like a masseuse or personal trainer; their hands were everywhere on Carol and it seemed fine, their touches weren't lecherous, but they certainly weren't clinical either.

By now, Carol had another bartender serving drinks off her. He let his bottle drizzle alcohol off the inner sides of her chest, where it ran down and pooled in the nape of her neck. The shot-taker nuzzled her neck as he drank the alcohol, his cheek rubbing against the tops of her breasts.

Carol had pairs of men drinking off her, their heads down like pigs at a trough. She kept her hands behind her head, even as hands, rags, faces, lips and tongues ranged up and down her naked torso. The crowd was hooting and cheering, Carol shouting along with them. No sooner was one guy done, than he was jostled aside and replaced by another.

"Put whipped cream on my nipples!" she yelled.

They poured shots off her everywhere: neck shots, belly button shots, stomach shots, mouth shots with nipple chasers. Then one guy, done emptying the liquor from her belly button, turned his head and planted a long, sucking kiss on the mound of her vagina.

Carol screamed, "I was wondering when you guys would think of that!"

The guy on her neck had his hand wrapped around her nearest breast, seemingly casual, with his thumb sliding over her nipple. The next guy mostly ignored the vodka, instead scooping her body up in two arms and rubbing his face up and down her stomach. The audience was starting to get out of hand.

She was only up there for about ten minutes. I guessed most girls giving body-shots only stayed for one or two, but Carol could have stayed up there all night, until she was plastered from the alcohol soaking through her skin.

Finally, the senior bartender whispered in her ear, and she nodded. The bartenders lovingly buffed her dry and she got to her feet -- to the groans of everybody who had lined up for a body shot. The lights went on full power, and she danced to another song. Her dress hung from its straps off her elbows, so she was twisting, turning, and squatting on top of the bar in nothing but her soaked panties.

She played the crowd. Barefoot, she traveled short distances up and down the bar. The hands caught at her feet, her calves. When she squatted and shook her chest at the crowd, the hands palmed the round rocks of her calves, or roamed up her thighs.

The music cut off, and the lights went down again. Carol, waving at the pandemonium, walked back to her group and slid off the bar. I grabbed her clogs for her. By the time I'd turned back, it was a repeat of her earlier bar-dancing episode.

She was dripping with guys, getting pulled between embraces like a tug of war. The straps of her dress were back on her shoulders, but in the tight press, she had her arms up again. It was useless to try and close it. More shots were being proffered to her, and a few were upended over her in the throng. Her hair, once so carefully coiffed, was wet with liquor and perspiration.

I pressed through and got close to her. She was shouting something at one guy. On the other side of her, another guy was working on her neck with his mouth. Hands were wrapped all up and down her torso, with errant, anonymous fingers reaching out to flick her nipples, or cup her chest momentarily. No less than three hands were on her ass.

The most amazing thing was -- hidden in the massive confusion, there was a hand down the front of her panties. A whole hand, the knuckles covered by the fabric, was down her panties, the fingers working in her snatch.

I looked closely at her delicate skin in the uncertain light, and I could see the full-body blush that went over her breasts, up her neck, down her back. Her whole body was a sensory zone, sending information about hands and fingers on her skin. Whoever it was -- and I never discovered who -- was getting an epic feel of her pussy. She was subtly complicit, she had her legs were splayed wide, for balance.

I came up behind her. Her view of life: dozens of male faces floating in and out of focus. Arms and hands reaching towards her over other people's shoulders. Drinks getting pressed to her lips, or being poured down her front. It was chaos.

I shouted, "Do you want to go home with someone?"

"Fuck yeah!" she shouted, past all caring. "I want to go home with someone and fuck them silly! I want to fuck them so hard, their daddies feel it! And then I'll do the daddies! And then I'll hand-hump their daddies' bosses! During an important conference call! Fuck yeah I want to go home with someone!"

"How about me?" I shouted.

"Okay! Sure! Bye everybody!"

The faces on the guys around us were classic. Surprise, shock, despair, I couldn't help but laugh. But I knew I had to get her out of there.

I brought her arms down. Rather than covering herself, she put her arms behind her back, which lifted her chest and brought her breasts up to full magnitude. With her clogs in one hand, I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her off her feet. Before anybody could organize a general objection, or even collect her digits, I turned and carried her to the door.

She was still uncovered, her bare feet kicking the air, as I pushed her through the crowd tits-first. I know for a fact that people were copping feels -- hands everywhere. Her head was leaned back on my shoulder, she was laughing at the ceiling.

Outside, it was still crowded on the sidewalk. I put her on the pavement, and turned her towards me. I gave her a deep kiss, which she returned with her incredibly wet mouth. Then I held her at arm's length as she composed herself.

When I'd carried her out, the hand down her panties had been forcibly removed. Her panties now hung low off her hips, quite low, the top of her pubic bone two inches above the elastic. She looked delectable -- and she was already drawing a new crowd of admirers.

"Drop your panties," I whispered to her.

She was breathing hard and looking around wildly, but she understood me well enough. She hooked her thumbs over the straps of her underwear, and pushed them down her thighs. They slid to her feet and she left them on the sidewalk. Then she got into the clogs and refastened the brooch on her dress. She was still soaked, reeking of liquor, but she now looked more presentable.

She put her arms up and said, "Ta-da!"

"You're incredible," I told her.

"I'm a treat for the crowds," she agreed. "Some night we should just stay there, and see what happens. Think I can go an hour in just my undies?"

I dragged her to the sidewalk and signaled for a cab. It was easy to get one, with Carol on my arm. We slid in, and I told him to take us to 42nd Street.

"Some guy was in me, baby," she told me breathlessly. The lights of the city reflected in her wide eyes. She was a bundle in my arms, vibrating with energy. "Up to the knuckle. Right on my g-spot. I hope we find him again. Him, or any number of other guys."

She looked up at me. "Was that slutty enough for you? Because it wasn't slutty enough for me."

"Just hold on," I told her.

Because for Part 3 of our night, we would be visiting what was then the sex-capital of NYC. Our big night was still just beginning.