Eric Fyord had been a track athlete in high school, and he had continued the sport during his freshman and sophomore years in college. His upperclassman years, though, he was a little too busy with his business degree internships, projects, and fraternity work to pole vault and toss discus. He still kept a rigorous gym routine and jogged in the park, and that coupled with protein heavy diet allowed him to a sculpt a toned body that would be fit for an underwear model.
His thick blond hair and vibrant blue eyes were also befitting a striking model, too, and he consistently seduced coeds with bouncy breasts, spank-worthy asses, and plump lips--all the better to wrap around his tool. He ended his high school years a virgin, but the summer of his senior year, he had several romps with girl on a different school's track team. He was actually pretty infatuated with her at the time and had thought of her as a long term girlfriend (maybe even 'wife' one day?), but she put that idea down towards the end of the summer when she laughed off his tentative words about seeing each other when they both went off to their respective universities. She was heading off for a pre-med/biomed engineering program, and she said that he was too stupid to be a boyfriend. He was certainly bruised by that, and maybe that was part of why he had become such a Lothario in his college days, spurting cum down freshman girls' throats, on sophomore girls' asses, and across junior ladies' tits.
Tonight, he had his 6 foot model bod at The Fox Den, one of the sleazier bars with a wide dance floor and solid Djs, and tonight was the Friday before Halloween. That meant a costume dance party, and that meant every college gal--and some tasty milfs--were slutting it up in miniskirts like wet dream Catholic schoolgirls in league with the Devil and skin-tight leotards pretending to be Samus or some character from Overwatch. Eric loved it. It was his favorite season for hook-ups. He got to pretend to be some demon or hero, and he got to strip down slutty witches and princesses and feel like he was truly deflowering them while licking their soaked clits and plowing them doggy style in a dorm under T Swizzle posters.
Sidling up to a table projecting out from the bar with a vodka soda in hand, Eric caught his reflection in the mirror: a set of spray-painted laurels wrapped his tossled and sweaty hair. A toga draped over one shoulder with the other bare. The muscles of his shoulder and one pec stuck out. He had tanned a little the previous weeks and made sure to hit his chest group hard at the gym since he knew that 'sexy Greek' was going to be the costume this year. Strappy sandals wrapped around his calves, and his legs were bare--scandalously bare--all the way up past mid thigh. The bottom of his toga was scarcely longer than some of the slut's miniskirts and eye-catchingly draped over his pert butt, the product of hours and hours and years of squats and stairs. He grinned at his reflection behind the bar and winked. Oh yeah, he was gonna fuck tonight. (Indeed, he was but not exactly how he thought...)
Dancing had been fun. He had caught the eye of a couple women out there on the floor, did some grinding, even did something of a salsa to a Shakira tune with a witch wearing a tantalizing garter and a distracting cleavage through her open robe. After grabbing his drink, he had lost sight of her pointed hat, unfortunately. She seemed fun, and his head had been swimming with images of her dark lipstick painting rings around his cock and planting black kisses on his balls. His cock twitched at the thought; it had been at least a week since he had an orgasm. Eric didn't really jack off all that much, not when he could find some willing slot to pump into or at the very least give him a handjob in the library.
He scratched under the belt around his waist and flexed his knees. Looking down, he could see the white toga had become somewhat see-through in several places from his own sweat and likely many others from the close dancing. That included the toga draping over his hip, and even as the lights went a little dimmer as the clock hit 11pm, he could see the tiny straplike side of his special underwear he had worn with the costume. The scandalously skimpy bikini brief let his equipment sort of dangle with a bit of gentle cupping to give his some bulge under the toga. Definitely a good choice, he thought, over the trunks he had been considering. Those were more conventional, but they wouldn't have given him the sort of free-swinging (and free-feeling) bounce he wanted to tempt the women tonight. The coeds on the dance floor seemed to have appreciated it.
Now, now, who is this to his left? Eric prowled a hungry eye up and down her form: wavy auburn hair, thick eyelashes, bright pink lipstick, a decent little rack, and long legs with a pert--if small--butt. Oh, he recognized that butt; this was Delilah Jenson who was a dance major with a business minor. They shared some classes over the years--and had made out a couple times but been stopped short of going further at some frat parties. He also knew that that rack was the product of a pushup bra and some padding. He enjoyed tweaking her nipples when they had made out, and he predicted he could suck her entire tit into his mouth to tongue and to bite, but he suspected he would find trying to tittyfuck her an exercise in frustration.
They met each other's eyes, and Eric winked.
"Eric!" She squealed. "Eric, look at you! I ought to call you 'Perseus.' How many times have you been hit on tonight? And how many of them were guy dance majors?" She laughed and took a long pull on the tall beer she was guarding.
"Oh just a few," Eric said, "And none."
"Yet."
