I remember I couldn't decide which shoes to wear. The beige heels where comfortable, soft soles you know; the practical sort that I could dance in for hours. But the black heels, those said "look at me". No, they begged "fuck me". So in the end, the black heels won. The skirt may as well have been painted on, black like the heels and a sharp contrast against my ivory thighs. I wasn't one of those girls who spent a fortune to lie in some tanning salon and bake my way into a tan. My skin was porcelain, and I liked it that way. I looked at my panties, still sitting on the bed. Biting my lip, I gave a wicked little smile. I was already wet, just the thought of being on the dance floor, feeling my warm juices flow as each guys moved next to me.
So I left them there, those safe and comfortable beige heels and the thong. I left the good girl back in the apartment. It was cold that night, but that only seemed to flare the fire burning inside me. I knew that everyone who saw me could tell what I was there for. I was fresh meat, served up to a hungry crowd.
When I got to the club, the music was so loud I had to be asked twice for my ID before I put together what he was saying. You know the type, all muscle and no brain. Check the ID, stamp the hand, rinse and repeat. I dropped my coat at the door with some girl who'd never make it past the door man if she wasn't being paid. I'd bet you anything she was wearing panties...and yup...look at that....beige flats.
The floor was a sea of gyrating bodies. Sweaty flesh barely clothed swaying and bouncing with the rhythm of the music. Lights flashed and streamed and hypnotized these sensual souls. The air was hot and sticky and sweet with wanton lust. I let it consume me, pull me in and drown me. Hands slid onto my waist, I couldn't tell from where. One set, two...who bothered to count. They pulled me closer, my body just one more thing to press against. Whispering. People where whispering in my ear, these low guttural promises that I couldn't make out over the bass. It didn't matter. The tone said it all. Those hands moved lower, down my thighs and then back up, sliding between my parting legs. I arched back and let my body lean against whoever happened to be behind me. He held me up, on display for those in front of me. The music was like a heartbeat, faster it pulsed as those greedy fingers moved over my slick skin and brushed the bare folds of my pussy. I moaned, rolled my head and my fingers reached up to tangle in his hair. More hands, his friend in front. My eyes opened long enough to see him smiling, not at me, but to the man whose fingers now pressed deep inside me. The man in front reached towards me with a hand, grabbing my hair and kissing me hard, his mouth hungrily invading mine. I let him fuck my mouth while my hips moved wantonly against his friend probing fingers.
Then they where gone. In painful synch they pulled free of me. His warm mouth left mine starved and those fingers left my cunt and I felt cold and empty. Then warm slick fingers brushed my lips and I sucked gently until every trace of my sweet sex was licked clean.
A hand in mine...pulling me...and I didn't care where.
When the door opened and I found us outside, the first stab of fear shuddered through me. Though as in most cases, by the time you realize you're in over your head, it's usually too late. The door shut and a pair of hands ripped my shirt open, right down the center. The flimsy material was made for nights of dancing and didn't stand a chance. He flipped me around and shoved me against the wall, one hand curled into my hair and pressing my face to the cold, brutal brick. I was starting to cry and breathlessly panting but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to say stop.
His voice spoke in hearty baritone, and behind him I could hear the laughter of his friend.
