NOTE TO ALL: As always, this story was dick-tated by me to my husband, who's a much better typist than I am. So any typos are Mike's fault, not mine. Also as always, this really happened entirely as described; sorry, I don't do fiction.
When Mike first suggested, out of the clear blue sky, that we take a ride to a jazz club in a fancy hotel lobby downtown, the type of place we wouldn't ordinarily be interested in in a locale we never bothered about, I was puzzled at first. But then I caught him ogling me with that sort of hungry, burning intensity that I'd caught so many men throwing my way, so many times. It spelled one thing, and one thing only: somehow, some way, this was about SEX, really--about ME, being roundly fucked. Suddenly, I wasn't puzzled anymore; I was excited!
As I started to get myself dressed and put together, he gave the game away completely by insisting that I make myself look, and I quote, "as hot and sexy as possible." Still a little confused, though; Mike had insisted on it being just the two of us, without either of our newfound MMF group-sex, Hotwife-swinging partners, Tom or Zach, along to help us, ummm, more fully enjoy the outing. So what exactly did my dirty-minded man have in mind for me tonight, anyway?
But never mind, no matter; I let my thick, curly locks fall loose and wild across my shoulders the way he likes, and slipped into a VERY scanty and revealing little dress, with my favorite black stripper-pumps completing my little cum-hither, cum-one, cum-all ensemble. I was eager to see what developed, just brimming with raw lust and anticipation.
We went into the cocktail lounge in the Radisson lobby, walking past a jazz trio sawing away at something completely incomprehensible to me, being careful to keep several feet distant to maintain the pretense that we weren't together as a couple, making me more approachable. As we reached the bar, though, the staid lobby atmosphere seemed to have changed radically, provoking me to swing and swivel my wide, curvy hips quite outrageously under the thin fabric covering them--a display of sexual fireworks I wasn't even aware I was setting off at first. We took seats at the end of the bar, which was nearly elbow-to-elbow with well-put-together, obviously on-the-prowl men so horny you could practically see the pheromones coming off them in waves.
Yep, looked like this WAS my kind of place after all!
As I looked our surroundings over a little more closely, I started to feel that familiar, swoopy little tingle in my stomach and between my legs that signaled the ramping-up of my own incurable, insatiable horniness. I had already scoped out several likely prospects who might be worthy of admission into Christiana's (Not) Secret Garden of Carnal Delight tonight. The lust I felt grew quickly, making my head swim and my face flush. Unbeknownst to me just then, Mike had booked a room for us while I was getting (somewhat) dressed, well aware of how this was likely to end up, according to his Slutwife's well-known proclivities. I was beginning to plot the practical aspects of how tonight's hot sex scenario might unfold. I was confident that my naughty husband had definite ideas himself on that already, so I was content to just sit back and follow his lead.
For now. But if you'd told me how quickly my sit-back-follow-lead interlude was going to come to its abrupt end, I would never have believed it.
I had just downed a big swig of my first cocktail, amounting to fully half of it; struggling to choke it all down, I looked up through watering eyes to see the bartender watching me, throwing me a coy smile and a suggestive wink, making me blush even harder than I already was. Maybe my interpretation of that wink as suggestive was no more than wishful thinking on my part; Lord knows, I desperately wanted to believe he'd sussed out what I was here for. He was an attractive man, young and virile and nicely built, leading me to assess him as a primo anony-fuck candidate before I'd even checked out anyone else. As an incorrigible natural-born exhibitionist, the thought of him knowing all about what kind of cock-whore I really am was a tremendous turn-on for me, however unlikely a fantasy it may have been.
On the other hand, though, how could he NOT know? Here I was, sitting at the bar guzzling whiskey on the rocks like water; wearing a clingy, tight-fitting, nearly transparent little dress and stripper-heels; I was to all appearances unburdened by any male companions; I had given him an unmistakably flirtatious smile when I ordered my drink, even going so far as to lean waaaay over the bar when he came back with it so he couldn't help but catch himself a bodacious eyeful of the enormous, braless boobs veritably falling out of my sweet nothing of a dress. I might possibly even have batted my eyes at him; in fact, now that I thought about it, I KNEW I had, several times. I believe I licked my lips in a lewd and lascivious manner for him also.
Ideally, this hot barkeep was hip and learned enough to know what a '20s Flapper Girl was. Whether he did or not, he had just observed a note-perfect recreation of the 21st-century version, with especial emphasis on the wanton, hedonistic penchant for sexual profligacy the originals had been notorious for.
As I was turning all this over in my dirty little mind, that's when I felt a strong, male hand take hold of my upper arm. I spun the stool around all set to chew some poor fool out for grabbing me unawares, thereby interrupting my absorbing rumination on bartenders being transformed into random fuck-buddies, stopped short by the sudden realization that I was face to face with one of the most handsome, bedazzling smiles I ever had the pleasure to behold. Thick, wavy black hair, cut short but not too short; clear blue eyes that seemed to dance as he made a production of looking me over from head to toe, sloooowly; tall, lean but not skinny, quite obviously bedazzled his own self by the vision of lovely, scantily-clad Hotwifeliness returning his bright smile with interest.
