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Pink Elephant is only the hottest fucking nightclub in New York City right now. Situated in the Meatpacking District, it's got a vibe that gets the girls fucking wet.
I mean, you can just see from looking around. They're turned around, looking at the players. They're licking their lips, touching their breasts. They're bending over. They're turning around..
In short, their doing everything that
you would expect these women to do for football players.
I'm not going to say I've never indulged.
Fuck, actually the opposite. I think I've probably fucked most of the girls in this line. But you know what? I never told them that I wanted to fucking marry them, or put a baby in their belly. Never even told them that I wanted to go steady or anything of the sort. Hell, I really never even told them that I would see them past the weekend. But that didn't stop them from dropping their clothes and getting on their knees. From taking my cock into their mouths and then climbing on top of me after they've gotten me good and fucking hard. From turning over and getting on all fours as I amorally shucked into them and gave it to them doggie.
By the morning, they were fucking forgotten, having been taken home by my limo.
But they still held hope. That one day ...
"Hey Danny," a random female from the pack yells. And all of a sudden, like a wave, they all seem to turn.
I pause for a second as I think about what's going to happen.
I'm going to go into the club. I'll probably pick up two or three of these women along the way. Take them out of line. Put my arms around them. Get some bottle service. Wine the women. As they're drinking run my hands along their bodies. Feel their legs. Squeeze their ass. Rub my hand under their skirt. Move that thong to one side. Stick a finger in that puss. Pull it out. Have them lick it. Lean back, let their hands unbuckle my belt. Let their fingers wrap around my cock. Watch them as they stroke my cock. Lean back as they lick it with their tongues.
And eventually, if we don't do it in the club, then I take them back to my limo where they hike up their dress and climb onto my massive schlong, and then they ride it till they fucking come hard. And then I let them out of the car, and never have to see them again.
But none of that makes sense anymore … not after today's game.
After seeing Fiona.
Her blonde hair, her perfectly gorgeous face with those wide, innocent looking eyes and sexy lips.
Those fucking tits. So fucking perky. That slender body. That fantastic ass.
No.
It's not happening tonight.
Not till I find out more about her. About Fiona.
Ignoring the looks of disappointment from the ladies in line, I turn around, and with a sigh, get back into the limo. I tell the driver to take me home.
25
Fiona
“You lucky girl,” Becca cries out so loudly that I have to push the cellphone away from my ear. “Danny Manning! I’m so jealous!”
It’s a quarter to eight, and I’m already on my way to the restaurant. I was such a nervous wreck that I grabbed my phone and called Becca, for moral support. She saw it all happen on live TV, and we already talked about it the moment I got home from the game, but every time Danny Manning comes up she acts like it’s the first time she’s hearing about it. I guess it isn't every day that a world famous athlete asks a regular girl out.
“Don’t be so jealous,” I tell her, looking out at the street through the windows of the car. “He’s a football player… It’s not like he’s going to have the manners of a prince or a billionaire,” I say, trying not to get my hopes up. I mean, I have to be realistic about the whole thing.
Manning is rich and famous, but he’s known because of his athletic prowess … not because of his manners, about which I know nothing. As far as I know, he might just be an asshole who wants to get inside my pants, and then I’ll never hear from him again. And that’s if I’m lucky. Nothing guarantees that he even remembers about our date. I wouldn’t be that surprised to find an empty table when I get to Per Se. Which would be a shame, since I spent almost two hours with Becca, picking the perfect dress, and another hour putting on the perfect makeup.
I might not be a top model, but I think that I’m up to the challenge. I’m wearing a classy black dress, and it hugs my curves like the hands from a caring lover. It ends right above my knee, and I’m hoping it’s the perfect combination of sexy and classy.
“C’mon, Fee, don’t act all depressed like you’re on death row. You’re about to have the time of your life!” She continues in that excited tone of voice, so loud that my Uber driver can probably hear the whole conversation. In fact, I notice that he has eyed me once or twice through the rearview mirror, and I’m pretty sure that he has already recognized me as the girl from the Nailers/MILFs game.
After the game ended, a lot of news stations had a field day. They started with the crushing defeat the MILFs suffered at the hands of the Nailers, and then highlighted Danny’s amazing performance throughout the whole game (I think they replayed his touchdown a gazillion times). To wrap it all up in a neat little bow, it seems that every segment about the game ended with the “lucky girl by the 50-yard-line.” That’s me, by the way.
If Danny’s touchdown got to be played on an almost endless loop, what's to say about the way he asked for my number? 2 million views on YouTube and counting, and it’s only been 24 hours. So far, though, I don’t think anyone has discovered who that “lucky girl” really was, or I’d suspect my cell phone would be ringing every single minute.
