Getting Over It Ch 02

Dear Reader, I would strongly urge you to read the first part of this story before you read this current installment. The first part doesn't have any sex in it, but is not too long and I guarantee you will enjoy this part more having read the prequel. Thanks a lot, hope you enjoy!

Jailbreak II

I'm in a room; it looks almost square, probably a hundred yards deep and a hundred yards wide. Its dark, the floor and walls and ceiling are painted black but there are powerful little lights jutting out all over the place, like little car headlights in the darkness. These lights are few enough that they are punctuation marks in the darkness' sentence rather than the other way round.

More light comes to reinforce however, from a strip of metal grating on the floor from the middle of the near wall to the middle of the back wall and there are strobes underneath the grating. No, I tell a lie, it's a lower level to the club, the grating ends at the near end and there is a fireman's pole there that someone has just slid down. Time must definitely be moving

obscenely

fast as I could swear that the strobing coming out of the floor is almost a blanket across the middle of the room that I could reach out and touch. My eyes are playing tricks on me as Club Vampyros wrestles with my senses. I'm trying to take it all in but the electric atmosphere has made something fuse in my brain.

I'm telling myself to get it together as a girl with no top on passes me from right to left. I only have a tantalising view of her back as this blonde waitress strides toward the bar with her tray. The waitresses at Vampyros don't wear tops. The bar staff of Vampyros don't wear tops either. The staff of Vampyros, like the clientele of Vampyros, are all women. There are a shitload of lesbians in the same room as me and I'm going to have sex with at least one of them, you just see if I don't.

The DJs put the specials on by some groovy coincidence but Terry Hall is definitely singing about some other nightclub because this place is starting to look like a place that Muslims should face towards seven times a day. For appearances sake I head toward the bar because in London one must

never

on any account look likea rabbit caught in headlights. The bar is lit by loads and loads and loads of tiny little red lights so that it looks like a cross section of a Hollywood nuclear submarine stretching out the length of the wall on my left.

I have to go through loads and loads and loads of circular zinc tables fixed to bright floor to ceiling lap dance poles, and loads and loads and loads of women sat at said tables, and oh, upon my soul, its another topless waitress. This time I have a view of the young lady's mouth-watering front. This topless waitress has deep dark dyed red hair just like mine but hers is shorter, just down to the bottoms of her ears. Her face is just fucking divine with sharp Teutonic bone structure that some fucker has chiselled in heaven and I'm truly sorry but that face was just made for me to sit on but she doesn't agree, doesn't notice in fact as she keeps walking. She's of slim build and her body is just as sharp perfectly proportioned as the exquisite bone structure of her face and I just cannot come anywhere near explaining why none of the ladies around me have grabbed her, thrown her on the floor and taken her because her tits are uniformly flawless and if only one three-wheeler is to get a vorsprungdeuchtechnik orgasm off this girl tonight then let it be me because God knows my day didn't start this fucking good...

I'm at the bar, I've got to wait a while to get served and I squeeze up against the back of the girl in front. She doesn't turn around but she can feel my body up against her, she stiffens at first, then relaxes and I'm telling myself to settle down because the night is still young, or youngish.

Whoever's managing this place has an eye for talent because the barmaid is even sexier, if that's possible, than the waitress I just saw. She's a bigger girl but her weight is exactly right for her frame and her chest is quite simply marvellous. I can only see her upper body but its got that healthy 3D succulence that you can only get by taking really good care of yourself, the body I'm looking at is a thing of beauty that you just want to snatch at and lose yourself in but the face is main attraction. She has a bob that has grown out a bit, her hair isn't quite blonde, isn't quite fair, nor peroxide, its

golden.

Her face is angelic, exquisite. I hope Florence Nightingale had a face like this because her looks could cure anything a Russian cannonball did to you. There's a curious vulnerability in her blue eyes, she's conscious of her nakedness and, it would seem, inexplicably insecure about it. A few awestruck home-truths somewhere quiet could turn this girl into all your dreams come true but she doesn't realise how spellbindingly desirable she is just yet. It takes me a second to concentrate and realise that the barmaid I've fallen in love with is asking for my order. I'm embarrassed for a moment and I can feel my face going red, but I'm asking for archers because its fifty pence a go on peaches night and a girl simply has to watch her pennies these days.

There's a commotion behind me and I look round, about ten feet away there is yet another blonde Amazon, only this one is wearing a jet black SS uniform and she even looks German. She must be six two at least with fucking D-cups, I won't fall in love with her because she's a fucking machine made for one thing and there's no room for a heart in their with all the mechanics, but I'd love for Frau Auschwitz to use me for her own vile ends for the rest of the evening. She has a surgical glove on her left hand and she's stroking the hair of a young lady as she whispers into her ear.

I think the SS maiden works for the club because this young girl has an eighteen today badge on her tight white shirt and the barmaid is forgotten because now I've been and gone and fallen in love with the birthday girl who cannot possibly be a day over fifteen years old. She's tiny and whippet thin and cute and embarrassed and innocent and her sex appeal just reaches out and hits you like fucking Bruce Lee or someone and she's a naughty little rich girl in her designer clothes and she could be Angelina's baby sister. I want to kneel down in front of her and put a ring on her finger but I can't because Eva Braun's taken her by the hand and is leading her away as her mates laugh and clap. As I gulp the last of my drink I watch my little countess' immaculate tiny little ass with the peaches night sticker on her tiny little black Gucci skirt as the Amazon SS women leads her to the fireman's pole. Down they go and I'm jealous but I'll get over it...

Heidi Fleiss would give my barmaid fifteen out of ten but the jailbait countess has completely stolen my heart. Another shot of archers and I fear sobriety's perimeter is about to be overrun by an alcoholic armoured division in the very near future but I'm together enough to go to an empty zinc table and try to take in more of Vampyros' viciously sexual ambience.

There are some fucking gorgeous women in this place. THE BIG PROBLEM IN MINE AND ANGELINE'S RELATIONSHIP has left in me right now in the approximate state of a twelve year old Beatles fan in the audience of the Ed Sullivan show. These are my favourite trousers and I'd rather not make a mess of them but I'm only human after all. Vampyros has little TV monitors mounted on the walls and ceiling. Some of them are playing are playing "Barbarella", some are playing "And God Created Women" and some of them seem to be playing footage of the moon landing, but instead of watching telly I think I'll watch the two real live women having real live sex over by the dance floor. Fucking hell they are shameless. The one girl has her back to me, she's sat on the chest high table, her delicious model's legs are spread wide open whilst her friend fingers her violently. The other girl is sucking her left nipple whilst she pumps her forearm in and out. The girl on the receiving end is wearing what remains of a school uniform, black woollen stockings to half way up her thighs, a little grey school skirt that's round her waste as she gets fucked, a white shirt that's open so I can see the erect nipple of her left breast as it goes in and out of her friend's hungry mouth. Her hair's dark and straight, shoulder length. It swings behind her head. Her face is turned back to her left, she's got those cold, unattainable sort of good looks, a brown haired vixen, born out of everyone's league, she's looking up at the ceiling with an "I've got my cake and I'm eating it" expression. She's rubbing her head against the pole because she's being fucked and she's loving every second of it. She's caressing her lucky friend's head as the forearm still pumps back and forth. Her friend's bigger but she's fit and she's having a lot of fun, her tan shows against her white boob tube and her eyes are closed as she munches on that nipple. Her right arm is punching that finger in and out of her St. Trinians delinquent and they're both moving rhythmically, faster and faster. Schoolgirl wraps her arms round her friend's shoulders and she's pulling hard, pulling her in and her hips are bucking against that finger. She's got her friends face buried in her chest and she tilts her head back and her mouth's open and she's screaming but Debby Harry is drowning her out so it's a Rod Steiger silent scream and this looks fucking marvellous as the orgasm stiffens her whole thoroughbred body and she closes her eyes as they wind down, back to planet earth. Her eyes open and they're sparkling as she leans down to kiss her obliging companion, then the eyes close again and it's a slow, tender kiss and there's emotion there and If I wasn't suddenly reminded of Angeline and what I lost today I might very well feel like I was intruding.

Little miss naughty gets off the table, pushes the skirt back down to just above her stockings, does up her shirt. They're looking round sheepishly, realising they had a large audience, all the women stood round enjoyed the show, there's even some applause. A waitress strides past, giving them a knowing look. The schoolgirl is red faced now, but she had a good time by the look on her face. Her friend's flustered and a tiny bit sweaty but she's gorgeous like a healthy version of Victoria Beckham. She's licking her fingers and putting a proprietary arm around schoolgirl's waist as they hug. Her expression suggests that part of her wants to thank fucking Jesus she got the chance to fuck this sexy lady but she's restrained and I'm jealous as fuck but I'm happy for her as their cheeks brush together. I'm looking away because it's all made me think about Angeline and what the fuck she's put on my answering machine. I'm off to the bar again because voyeurism is fucking thirsty work.

I'm back at my table and I'm starting to feel a little bit lonely all by myself. I'm scanning around women I want to be fucked by. Bridget Bardo is on the monitor screen; my God she was just fucking wonderful. Imagine being in bed with her and looking up into that face. Imagine licking her all over and hearing her purr. Fuck. I need to concentrate on now. I can see a girl about ten metres away with Bardot like red hair, but it looks like a dye job. She's snorting coke off of the table. She's pretty. She's chubby, but light enough to be a curvy, buxom bundle of fun rather than a heifer. She's all in black pinstripes but her top is showing some serious cleavage and that is a pair of lungs to die for. She leans forward to powder her nose and the view just gets better. Someone walks between me and her, interrupting the view. Now, there we are again. Those tits are luscious. There's a girl, no sorry a women, pressed up against her from behind, squeezing her pelvis up against the redhead's arse. She's old enough to be her young companion's mother must she's in good nick, I'd fuck her, she's kept her figure really well, the princess Di haircut does her no harm. I hope I'm in that shape at her age. Maybe she's reliving her lost youth; it certainly looks like at as she slides her hands down from redhead's shoulders and into her top to fondle those fantastic tits. There's a flicker of distaste in redhead's eyes but I've got a strong feeling that mother paid for the Charlie because she lets the hands stay there. Mummy's eyes know who has the power in this budding relationship. I really hope that the redhead isn't a heterosexual cokehead because that would be just a tiny bit sad. I give her the benefit of the doubt and switch my gaze to Jane Fonda trying to fend off Anita Pallenburg's prying hands on one of the monitors. I down the rest of my drink and its time to hit the dance floor suddenly as "Search and Destroy" comes on. Every good girl has an obligation to go buck wild for music of this lofty quality. I'm bouncing up and down as the rock chicks take over the dance floor.

The song's finished. My deodorant has, thankfully, stood up well against my exertions. I'm back at my table with yet another archers but I can't stay too long because I need a wee. Where the fuck are the toilets? There are three women at the next table to my right. They're deep in conversation, about football, but I'm not going to be judgemental because these three amigos are all rather easy on the eye.

They're all probably twenty something; I'd say late twenties. The first one I noticed is slim, tall, built like a model but not anorexic looking. She's got class but there's a warmth in her eyes that says she doesn't blame people for not being as great looking as her. That warmth is rare in central London and I suspect she has some character and I'm interested. She's got a trendy little pair of specs on and I think her hair is probably natural red but she's reinforced it with a bit of Kurt Cobain dye. Her toned body is fine and dandy but her pert rear end is the top of the proverbial bill. I want to grab it but I'm not drunk enough yet. She flashes that warm smile again at a bit of jest and I've a suspicion that if you're lucky enough, this is one of those girls where the morning after is even better than the night before and it almost pains me to wrench my eyes away from her in order to scrutinise her friends.

One of her mates is drinking a bottle of German lager. She looks Jewish, she's not saying much, but listening to the other two and smiling. Her skin is dark, she's either just this minute back from holiday or she's foreign. Her skin is a gorgeous colour that must make a lot of people green with envy. . She's got honey blond straight hair in a little ponytail and really, really blue eyes. Its hard to describe her figure, she's in really spiffing shape, she's too heavy to be a waif but she's

fit

. She looks powerful, strong, solid and wholesome but at the same time conclusively feminine. Maybe she's been on a kibbutz in Zion for a couple of years. I'm getting a kind of Angeline feeling, like I could hero-worship this girl. She's good looking and she's sure of herself, there's a hint of security and safety about her. Maybe she's the golden haired, Jewish, lesbian answer to Lee Marvin. There's a thought. Can I be your Angie Dickinson miss Marvin? Normally I'd expect someone with her looks to be stuck up and superior but she's got pensive, intelligent eyes.

The third amigo is the best looking, which is saying something when you consider her comely companions, God knows the other two are really nice to look at but this one is something else. How the fuck do I describe that face. How can I adequately get across to you the magnificence I'm looking at? Her features are cut glass, if that's any help. She's got brown eyes, deep fucking brown eyes that you could just stare and stare at. Her features are

sharp

. I don't know if this is making any sense, but her features are just... freeze-dried perfection. God has sculptured that face with a diamond to tempt the rest of humanity. Her hair is straight, dark brown or black like Monica in the earlier episodes of "friends". Her figure, when taken in conjunction with her face, is sickeningly flawless. If I were straight I would despise this young lady. I would not allow Eddie Vedder (who I

would

be married to) to be in the same room as her. The third amigo is entirely mesmerising enough to sober me up fast.

The last time I saw a girl beautiful enough to make me want to cry was when I met Angeline and that little thought has hit me like the right hand of "Smoking" Joe Frazier. All the way from Paris Angeline has managed to throw a spanner in the works. I feel like I've fallen down a manhole. One time, the Stone Roses were playing on "The late Show" and the power cut out. Ian Brown was stood on stage shouting "AMATEURS!". That's what it feels like...

I have to look away as her eyes flick towards mine. Thinking about Angeline has knocked me off my stride. The toilets must be downstairs and I just feel compelled to be on the move Vampyros is a blur around me, I'm dancing like Ali circa Madison Square Garden 1971 to get through the crowds of three-wheeled revellers. I've got to slide down the fireman's pole to get down to the lower level, the pole seems like a bit of an irritating gimmick when actually have to use it, and the soles of my poor little feet bang on the floor.

The strobing's mental down here, it's like a little acid house canal under the grating. There's women just stood looking up at the floor above, because there's more women upstairs stood on the grating intentionally giving gusset shots to those below. To my left at this end there's women looking into peepholes five feet up on the wall, God alone knows what's going on behind there, I keep moving because I want to be on my own for a little bit, to shake Angeline out of my head before the evening is ruined. Midway along on both sides are the toilet doors, ladies on the left, men on the right. I'm through the door of the ladies and there's plenty of people up to no good at all in here but I just want my own little cubicle to hide in so I keep my eyes on the floor. There's screaming and shouting and panting from all sides as I shut the door to my little sanctum in the bowels of Vampyros.

Angeline's left me. I've lost her. Unless the message on my answering machine is her taking me back then I've lost her. I love her. Losing her isn't an option. I can't lose her because I'm not sure I can carry on without her because she was just fucking everything. She defied Mr Makepeace Thackeray and his "Vanity Fair" rules because when I got what I wanted I

was

happy and I

was

satisfied and it could have lasted forever and been perfect. I took on "Vanity Fair" and beat the house. You can't just

lose that

and survive the experience. I can't just go off thinking, oh well, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger and all that bollocks because I never even liked Gloria Gaynor anyway and the memories will fucking eat me up like fucking cancer. I felt like I'd won. I felt like the rest of my life was just going to be the credits rolling as we both walked off into the sunset, when you've had your cake and eaten it you can't let it go like an old pair of jeans and I won't let go of it. I won't let go of Angeline. Angeline is mine. She's my property and we're together for life. You

can

get what you want

and

what you need, the footloose man can fuck off, and Mr. Jimmy can stick his soda right up his fucking arse. You

can

have Cleopatra without the asp, I know because that's what I had, no sorry, what I

have

, and its not getting on the fucking Euro star to fucking Paris and leaving me because no matter how many times some fucking pragmatic scumbag tells you that life isn't fair, deep down you know that life really

is

fair. Cinderella

will

go to the ball. I'm not always this upset so you'll have to give me some leeway on the italics. I'm banging my hands on the wall but I'm not going to cry. You can try to defy Mr Makepeace Thackeray all you want, but running mascara wouldn't have looked at all becoming on Becky Sharp, and it won't do for me either.