Two Turntables and a Microphone

I stand there, watching the dance floor, writing stories in my head as people interact the way I always do. This one is looking for a piece of ass because he's bored with his girlfriend. Those two are newlyweds who are looking for some excitement, so they're pretending to be strangers picking each other up. That group is a bunch of girlfriends laughing and dancing with each other while they mock the loser guys trying to get in their pants.

The club is dark as sin, the way these places are, as if being dark and visually confusing is the perfect cover and the perfect permission to do what we won't allow ourselves to do in the daytime, when we have to face our suit-clad civic-minded fellows in mundane practical conversation. Walk through the doors, though, and the sweet, safe, following-the-rules light of day vanishes in the face of some cheap lighting effects, a fog machine, and the mindless pounding of the beat, leaving just that other truth, the one that doesn't get out much.

Standing there, I feel a hand insinuate itself up the inside of my thigh, up my skirt, just high enough to be more than personal, but not quite high enough to be a violation. Before I even have time for an intake of breath or a moment of surprise, I feel her stiff nipples on my back and her tongue on the edge of my ear with a throaty, "Don't turn around. If it really mattered who I was or what clever line I had, my hand wouldn't have even gotten this far. Just stay put, shut up, and like it."

She slips her other hand inside my button-down shirt, in a way barely hidden by the bar rail I'm leaning against. The only reason we're not being caught for some kind of obscenity is the fact that, really, what else are these places for? We're certainly not the first, last, or only ones getting a quick, easy, public grope while Nine Inch Nails wants to fuck us like an animal. Her nails graze my nipple, while her tongue keeps up its persistent dance across my neck and ears. The fingertips of the hand on my leg barely brush my underwear, but the pull of the fabric under that faint touch sends her touch to every molecule of my pussy and ass at once.

The hand on the peaks of my tits, overridden by its compatriot's speedy assault on the valley below, begins a new tack with a quick, sharp good-bye pinch to my nipple before roughly working its way into my hair and yanking my head to the side so that she can get her mouth right to my ear. She growls, "Be a good girl and lead us somewhere out-of-the-way." She claims that I'm leading, but we both know that with her grip on my hair, she's steering. As we walk, she assumes a posture slightly behind me that I guess looks like two tipsy friends stumbling toward either a bathroom or a barstool.

We follow the curve of the club's back wall. I don't look back. It would spoil the effect, and really, she's right. It doesn't matter who she is, how she makes her money, or whether her favorite color is blue or red. She's been good enough at this game so far to get my attention. Her opening move was precise and exact. This moment took some arrangement; this is subtle, ballsy.

I sink guiltily into the thought that she's obviously one of my close friends; I don't advertise the direct connection between my earlobes and pussy, and her teeth have been insistently tugging and teasing for minutes now. She's showing off in the face of my ignorance, placing emphasis on my vulnerability in this arrangement. This worry slips from my mind, like the last moments before sleep, as the effect of her mouth is a narcotic, heady, spreading pool of heat...cool...heat...cool...heat...heat...heat as her lips and tongue ebb and flow down the coastline of my neck. As the tide of her playful little mouth recedes down a shoulder and becomes more fit for public, the movement of the air in the club gives me chills on the damp path she's left, not only from the temperature, but because the breeze on my collarbone confirms my creeping realization that my shirt is completely open. Still clubwear, at worst, but exposed.

On the few spots at which our bodies are still connected as we make our stumbling way across the room, almost every one a spot guaranteed to make me melt, I can actually feel the waves of heat coming off her skin, through our clothing, and into me. And there's that tiny promise of her brushing fingertips; so far, they are skilled. In return for her skill, I'm more than happy to play along.

We nearly fall into a tucked-away corner hiding a fire exit. Surprised by our luck, I am suddenly hit with the reality of what's happening. Just as the first second thought rears its ugly head, she wriggles her delightfully nimble fingers into my bra and pulls my tits free, still standing behind me, but now, far more insistent with the brazen abandon afforded by the privacy of our little nook. She grabs my wrists, holds them above my head, and flattens my body between hers and the carpeted wall. She moves and puts both my wrists in one hand, freeing one of her own, the better to violate me with. I feel the soft, rough carpet on my straining-with-arousal nipples. They crave the sandpapery burn of the nylon against which I'm pressed. She has my face turned to one side, her own still hidden.

She slides one finger, two fingers, three fingers into my mouth, partially to mimic the pre-penetration sucking that seems to be a requirement where men are concerned and partially to lubricate them for what's coming. She whispers, "Oh, honey, I know we don't need this. If I had to guess, you've already soaked through those panties that you'll be giving me as a trophy later, and you're dripping down your legs at this point, but we can't bypass tradition, can we?" She's right. I can feel the moisture slowly rolling down the inside of my left thigh as I struggle to process all this.

I greedily suck at her fingers, purely for the sake of tradition, of course. I'm not trying desperately to get every taste, smell, feel, sound of her that I can, to replay over and over when I fuck myself later tonight and for the next week, of course, because as a Good Girl, I don't do those things. I can taste my own sweat on her fingers, and I get the distinct scent of another pussy, and I wonder just how long she's been preparing herself for this little scene. As if reading my thoughts, I hear, "Sweetie, you didn't think you'd get to go first, did you? And just to spoil the surprise, you don't get to go last, either. You do get to go NOW, though."

With that, her glorious, crafty, spry little hand is out of my mouth and between my legs. She presses her full tits into my back. She presses her knee into my ass. She presses my half-naked body into the wall. She presses her fingers into my pussy. She pulls one of my hands down, roughly behind my back and jaggedly barks, "Follow the leader, darlin'." She's wearing pants; I find them open.

She doesn't bother to put my hands in her panties, but quickly yanks them to the side, accidentally showing what we both know: that she's as hot and hungry for this release as I am. She circles my clit with her finger, slowly...quickly...slowly...quickly... constantly keeping me just on the edge. I do the same for her...slowly...quickly. She slips just the tip of one finger inside me. I slip just the tip into her. With the heel of her hand, she flattens my lips against the pubic bone, getting clumsier as she gets closer to her own peak, but no less effective. I can't help sloppily, greedily, wantonly grinding on her hand, and she presses further, fully fucking me with her fingers now while her palm keeps up the unrelenting rhythm on my rigid clit.

She starts to clamp down on my hand, trapping me inside her with her vice-like legs, groaning her pleasure into my ear. She's stopped giving verbal orders, just devolved into pet names and obscenities, "Oh, fuck, honey," she drawls, "My clit, bitch....mmmMMM...fuck ME, sweet darlin'...harder...more...SHIT...OH, honey..."

I want to speak, to match each and every bit of sweet and salty that she grinds into my ear, but I know without being told that it's against the rules. I can't finish until she tells me to, so I let her keep up her teasing long after her first O. Finally, she starts to build me up, and her whisper promises, "You beg well enough, and you make me believe you really want it, and I'll reward you for your performance." So I start to beg. I writhe. I fuck her hand as if there is nothing else in the world that exists in that moment, because, ultimately nothing does. There is just her hand and my pussy and wave after wave of knee-sweeping orgasm. I even forget that my fingers are still inside her until I feel the crush of her pussy muscles as she comes a second time. She falls on me, pressing me still further into the wall and into her hand, while we both come down from the high.

Out of breath, just before this phenomenon leaves me to sort out what has become a very educational night, not to mention the visibly damp skirt and the now missing knickers, her lips brush the side of my neck for a few, last moments, "Very nice, sweet pea. You get a second date. Don't worry. I'll come find you when I'm ready." She chuckles my name and a good-bye as she walks away, knowing that every moment for the immediate future will be spent taking a second look at every woman I know, examining the slightest glance and barest sigh, seeking the ah-HA! of sudden recognition.