(With respect to the genius of Mr. Rod Serling and Mr. Charles Beaumont...)
"A pretty thing like you shouldn't be sitting here drinking alone. What are we having?" The line couldn't have been delivered more poorly or less seductively if it had been read off of a note card by a fifth-grade boy vying for the attention of his first crush in the elementary school cafeteria. Amanda Ghent had heard it uttered so many times before that her lips silently mouthed along with his as the moderately inebriated and clearly horny business traveler reached way out of his league in a feeble attempt to get into her pants before the night was over. Amanda's eyes conveyed a mixture of disgust and contempt for him, and a single tear trickling down the side of her cheek subtly exposed her inner pain, even though the wetness developing between her legs was already signaling to her that, in spite of all of her mental efforts to the contrary, he would be inside of her before the next drink had been downed. Amanda pursed her lips tightly in some subconscious attempt to resist replying, but her right hand ultimately betrayed her as she rattled the remaining ice cubes in the empty glass, tacitly signaling her acceptance of the offered round and her willingness to spend the next few minutes socializing with the man whose attention her mind didn't want but her sex clearly did.
+++
"Amanda Ghent, a woman somewhat past her prime but certainly still sexually desirable, out on the town and looking for something or someone to fill a void in her life. Like every other person searching for Mr. or Ms. Right to provide them with desperately needed release, she's simultaneously excited and scared, right down to the marrow of her bones. But it isn't the fear of who the lucky one will be tonight, the grand unveiling of intimate flesh, the revelation of sexual adequacy or exposure of inadequacy, or even the fear of being caught in the act on top of the hood of some car in the alleyway behind the bar. It's something else that holds Amanda Ghent in its hot, sweaty grip, something worse than any frustration this world has to offer, something found only in -- The Erotic Zone."
+++
There was nothing special about this bar in this place or at this time. It was nothing more than a shadowy, non-descript watering hole in the town of Anywhere, USA, frequented nightly by the lonely element of society whose sole objective was to find another's warm body to exploit for a few lustful moments in some twisted carnal tryst rather than to spend yet another night alone with their masturbatory fantasies, inducing sexual release solely by their own efforts. Little had been done to add any element of uniqueness to the establishment's décor. The bar plain, the walls bare. Not one nickel had been spent to provide any memorable character to the joint, and yet, there Amanda found herself, propped once again on a familiar bar stool in a dark corner, about to give her most private intimacies to yet another undeserving lothario who just happened to muster enough alcohol-induced confidence to approach her.
Perhaps the only feature of this particular bar that was noteworthy was Holly -- the hotpants and halter-top adorned waitress who, for all intents and purposes, effectively lived there each hour that the bar was open, and who with the bartender, Bill, brought some modicum of security to the women who would almost certainly be the targets of various rigid phalluses before the night was over. On multiple occasions, Holly had interceded on behalf of some poor unsuspecting young woman who had mistaken this location as a place where dignity and decorum still existed. Holly knew how to disarm, knew how to distract, and if necessary was more than willing to take a random out-of-control dick into her mouth and provide the surrogacy needed to protect her customer and earn perhaps two much-valued tips for her efforts. Holly and Amanda were good friends and had been for a very long time.
A few tables away to her left, Amanda's eyes were drawn to an amorous couple who forgot or simply didn't care that they were in a public location, and who clearly had no need for Holly's intervention. As their tongues sloppily intertwined above the high-top table, his hand found its way under her short skirt below, his fingers clearly finding their mark as her hips gyrated to the pleasure that he was offering to her as she unabashedly fucked his fingers. His erection protruded from the front of his opened trousers and her hand deftly stroked him without any concern about legality, propriety, or who might be watching them. And Amanda was watching, as were most of the others in that corner of the bar.
Soon, the finale to their show was reached and he erupted from her efforts, his seed spraying onto her bare leg and dribbling onto the sticky floor below the table. Her pleasure no longer his concern, he abruptly stood from the table, tucked his deflating cock back into his trousers, and left her alone without so much as a backwards glance as she wiped the remains of his climax from her fingers onto the paper napkins supporting their drinks. "A real class act," Amanda thought as she watched the degradation of the woman before her. She had almost forgotten about the suitor to her right. He had also been viewing the live porn on display before them and was hopeful to soon have his turn in the spotlight. "So, what's your name?" she asked.
