"Hi, how are you?"
I turned and saw a slightly overweight, not-very-attractive man looking back at me.
"Fine."
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"Fine."
My eyes refocused on the dance floor. Why did I even come to this club any more? Lately there seemed to be a shortage of good looking guys, and in the vacuum I'd been hit on constantly by men too old, ugly, boring, or stupid (or all of the above) to be worth even a short conversation.
Not that I blame them; I'm 24 and a good looking girl. At 5'7" and 120 lbs, I've been told I should be a model. And while I fill out a 34C, have a washboard stomach, heart-shaped ass, and (so I'm told) beautiful legs, I'm busily pursuing a career in finance, and I have more than enough people appreciating my appearance without it being my job.
I smiled to myself as I thought of the skimpy top I was wearing. It was backless except for a small clasp at the bottom, tied around the neck, and scooped low. I couldn't wear a bra with it, but my breasts were more than firm enough to create some very healthy cleavage on their own. Along with a low-cut skirt that revealed my slender hips and the long, toned legs that extended beyond it, I attracted a lot of stares as I entered the club that evening.
"Here you go. My name's John."
Oh right, the guy. I took the drink and had a sip. Screwdriver. Figures the guy would think I'd want something like that.
"What do you do?" he asked, trying to get some return on his investment.
"Financial analyst," I said, dismissively. Assistant really.
He started to talk about himself and what he did for a living, but I wasn't really listening. As I surveyed the club and sipped my drink, I wondered why this guy thought he had a chance. He was at least 40, but his age wasn't the problem. He was simply the least sexy person I could imagine. He was about my height, and had slim shoulders, but also a bit of a belly and a posture that revealed a distinct lack of athleticism. He was slightly balding, his face sort of pudgy and mis-proportioned. He wore slacks that were too short, a white short-sleeved button-down, and a mismatched tie. He was also completely uncharismatic and oblivious to the fact that I was bored out of my mind as he continued to drone on about his work, something about pharmaceutical research.
I was about to make my escape when I sipped the last bit of screwdriver from the glass. John noticed immediately and ordered another (as guys usually do), and as he did, I realized he didn't look quite so bad as before. "Leave it to the alcohol," I thought. But as I looked at him standing there awkwardly, I became aware of a small but pleasant tingling in my breasts, and another in my loins. "Geez, I need to get out more," I said to myself as I turned back towards the crowd.
While John waited for the drinks, I watched people grind against each other on the dance floor. One man's hand was working its way up a girl's skirt; another's shirt was being unbuttoned by his partner. I began to moisten down below as seductive thoughts filled my mind. The tingling in my breasts grew more intense, and spread to my shoulders, back, stomach, and hips. I felt a little flushed; my vagina was aching, not painfully so, but in a way that made it yearn to be filled; and my clitoris was feeling so sensitive that just shifting my legs led to a large dose of stimulation.
About 3 minutes had passed when John cleared his throat to get my attention again. My eyes were closed, my breath short, and I'd started to have small involuntary convulsions as my body became overwhelmed with sexual arousal.
I turned to look at him. He was holding another drink, with a wide crooked smile on his face. Ordinarily I might have described it as creepy, but my thought just then was that it was kind of cute.
"Oh-," I squeaked out as my body flinched with another convulsion. I glanced down at his pants, suddenly curious as to what was underneath.
"Maybe you don't need another drink after all," John said has he smiled even wider and indiscreetly looked me up and down. "There's a hotel next door if you'd like to get a room with me."
In that moment, it sounded like the best suggestion I had ever heard. I nodded quickly and took his hand, leading him out of the club. The hotel was only 30 yards away, but as we entered the lobby and approached the desk, I was frantic, barely able to keep my hands off him. "We need a room," I told the clerk as I pulled out my credit card.
He checked his computer. "We only have a suite. It's $375," he replied curiously, looking from my face to my chest, then over at John, then back.
"Fine," I said without thinking and quickly signed the slip. I looked over at John and felt a rush run through me. Somehow he looked incredibly good. And I was going to have him. Now.
The doors of the elevator were still closing as I took John's head in both hands and started kissing him with a passion I'd never felt before. His lips weren't soft, and his technique was a bit awkward, but it didn't matter; every time my tongue entered his mouth I felt a surge of pleasure. My breasts felt so good pressed against his body, and he had put his arms around me, one hand low on my bare back, the other grabbing my perfectly shaped ass under the skirt.
When the doors opened I was able to stop long enough to make it down the hall, but I fumbled with the key. John calmly took it from me, smiling, and opened the door. The suite was huge, but I was interested in the size of only one thing.