The club was dark and smoky, strewn randomly with small round tables where men reclined in various states of arousal. The writhing bodies on stage moved frantically to the driving beat pouring from the sound system. I smiled at the realization that aside from the dancers, I was the only woman present.
The old Abercrombie & Fitch hat I wore kept my hair away from my face as well as shadowed my striking emerald eyes. Low-slung blue jeans hugged my hips suggestively and my 38D breasts were barely contained in a scant, white baby tee. My entire body was tanned and toned to perfection, thanks to hours a week at the gym.
Let me digress for a moment. I’ve been married for nearly five years to a wonderful, loving man, but for the last year, our sex life has seriously waned. Love-making is nearly non-existent, and I’d already worn out two impossibly expensive vibrators. And, as of late, fantasies of being with someone else, man or woman, have crowded my thoughts. Perhaps I could seduce an older man, wiser in the arts of pleasure, or a beautiful, confidant woman who would willingly plunge her face into my sex; tantalizingly tender, yet insatiable. In any case, to say the least, I needed a good fucking. Thus the trip to the club.
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