I kept telling myself the fantasy was wrong. No sane woman wants to be wildly gang-fucked by half a dozen well-hung men. But I did. Every night I would lay awake and caress my nipples while thinking about their cocks sliding up inside me. Then I would spend half the night fucking myself with a giant, purple dildo I keep in the bottom of my lingerie drawer. This went on for months and it was beginning to affect my work. I just couldn't concentrate on anything but my carnal desires. I was left with no choice: I had to live out the fantasy so I could satisfy my curiosity and get my life back in order.
On a Friday night, after work, I went home and slipped into a tight black dress barely long enough to cover my ass. I'm a 36c-24-36, so I filled it out well. After teasing up my blonde bangs and painting on some cherry lipstick, I headed for Club Dingo.
It was a seedy place about a mile from my house. A neon sign in the front blinked nervously. The C and D were burnt out. The o was about to go. I stood near the entrance and looked inside. Shadowy figures danced, drank and blew smoke from their mouths. Hip-hop music boomed from the speakers. I knew what I was about to do was dangerous, could maybe get me killed. But it had to be done, so I took a deep breath and strutted forth.
Inside, half-naked women bounced their tits on the dance floor as their Latin lovers grinded into them from behind. A few shady characters sipped beer at the bar, occasionally yelling into each other's ears. The whole scene was a bit overwhelming, and I needed something to calm my nerves. I asked a white-haired bartender with a patch over his eye for a martini.
"A what?" he asked.
"A martini," I said. "A dry one, please."
"We don't serve those here," he growled.
"Oh, what do you serve?"
"Beer and booze. You haven't been in here before, have you?"
"Um, no. How 'bout a whiskey sour?"
I took my drink and tried to slip unnoticed into a dark corner. The bartender made me shakier than I had been when I first walked into the bar. As I stood in the corner, sipping my drink, a fight broke out on the dance floor. A black kid and Hispanic kid wildly swung fists at each other. The black one landed a right to the Hispanic guy's chin. The Hispanic guy fell on his back. Just as the black kid was about to pounce, the Hispanic kid pulled a knife. He picked himself up and waved around the blade, taunting the black kid in Spanish, daring him to attack. The black kid took the bait and lunged. He would've gotten stabbed in the stomach, but a bouncer appeared from nowhere and snatched him back. He threw the black kid into the corner, then seized the Hispanic kid's wrist. Before the Hispanic kid knew what was happening, the bouncer had pried the knife from his fingers. A few other bouncers, none as muscular and handsome as the first, came to throw the troublemakers out. Just before the big bouncer disappeared back into the crowd, I caught a glimpse of his tight ass, wrapped in a pair of blue jeans. I sighed.
As the mop-up bouncers heaved the two thugs out the front door, a guy with slicked hair leaned against the wall next to me. He wore a ridiculous shiny gray shirt and black jeans. His cologne reeked like bug spray.
"Hi, babe," he said. "You look lonely over here."
"I'm doing just fine, thanks," I said.
He moved closer.
"Ya know, I haven't seen you in here before."
I had to get rid of this creep so I could meet a real man. I said, "Yeah, I'm meeting my boyfriend here."
He moved closer. I could feel his breath on my ear. His cologne made me want to gag.
