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The deeper I go into the club, the more foam there is.
And this isn’t the kind of white stuff I prefer having in my mouth—though it is just as salty. From out of nowhere, I feel a pair of hands on my waist and a hard body—of the male persuasion—against my back.
Their hips move in a sexy, harmonic way with the beat that makes the music tolerable.
His hands move over my stomach and up over my chest. They grab my tits firmly, and I feel a nudge against my ass from a growing cock.
I should be pushing off and continuing my hunt. I have the skittles catalog of wristbands right now, but this guy can fucking dance.
He’s got all the right moves. And in all the right places.
And—for the sake of honesty and transparency—I’m curious about just how big his cock can get if I grind my ass up on it enough.
My hips and ass move along with his, as if we’ve done this dance a thousand times before. Which— let’s face it—isn’t far from the truth for me.
The number of hard bodies—both men and women—I’ve grinded up on has likely reached the five-digit range at this point. But to this guy’s credit, he’s easily in the top one percent of people who know what the fuck they’re doing.
I reach behind to run my fingers through his hair on the back of his head.
“So do you dance like this with all the ladies or am I just special?” I ask as I give my ass a wiggle against his growing cock.
“Do you really care?” he growls in this brassy, husky voice that reminds me of a young Clint Eastwood.
If I had been wearing panties right now they would be soaked. As it is, I’m dripping down the inside of my thigh.
“Should I?”
“Well, you never know what kind of people you’ll find in a club like this.”
A normal person would probably just walk away—or at least check the fucker out—but not me.Not knowing who this guy is—or what he looks like—is part of the thrill.
It’s like glory hole dance floor. Don’t know whose cock I’m playing with, but it’s a nice one, and I don’t give a fuck.
“You should be careful—I’m a married woman,” I say as I let a hand drop to rub over the shaft of his cock through his pants.
“That’s okay,” his teeth pull gently on my earlobe. “I’m a married man.”
He slips a hand down from my tits to the bottom of my skirt.
I can feel my lips turn upward into a beaming smile when I feel the front of my skirt being lifted up.
I should totally put a stop to this.
But then that just wouldn’t be fun.
And his cock is like a magnet to my ass.
The man is about as big and thick as a French baguette, and if my ass could speak—which I’m thankful it doesn’t, given the shit it would say on a regular basis—it would be calling him “daddy” in French.
His fingers graze up along the bare flesh of my exposed pussy.
My eyes shift from side to side to see if anyone is watching. I’m disappointed that nobody is catching a glimpse of the show.
He runs his fingers through my bush and gives it’s a short tug.
“Ooooohh fuck yes,” I moan.
Whoever this guy is, he knows just how to work it—in more ways than one.
