The one thing I can say about Fantasies nightclub is that they have very nice washrooms.
The walls of the stall is shiny black, so shiny that I can see my reflection; bent over with my hands braced against the wall, blonde curls bouncing, cleavage that has swallowed grown men threatening to pop out of my top.
The boobs are the reason I’m here.
When I was dancing with him—him whose name I can’t remember but who is now thrusting inside me with a cock of more than adequate length and girth—I timed a full four minutes before his eyes drifts to my cleavage. I give him kudos for willpower because the girls look mighty fine in my sparkly, black, sleeveless top.
I got the top here, when it used to be a Winners department store. I doubt the washrooms were this nice back then.
A particularly enthusiastic thrust pitches me forward, and I wince as one of my hands slide along the wall, a little too close for comfort. There’s no way I’m touching this toilet seat. I’ll have to thoroughly sanitize when I’m out of here, but still—
Another thrust hits the spot. “Oohh,” I purr. “Like that.”
I had planned to blow the life out of him when we disappeared into the men’s room, but once I got my hands on his cock, I knew I had to have it inside me.
And he had been in no position to argue.
I’ve been told more than a few times that I have a voracious sexual appetite. Insatiable. The truth of the matter is that I like sex. I enjoy having it, talking about it, reading about it.
This is the reason I’m frequenting the men’s room at Fantasies night club; the book club I am I proud member of—coincidentally called Fantasies Book Club—made an executive decision that we needed a field trip, to get us out of our books for the evening.
At least that was the reason I gave when I suggested the outing. The truth was that I wanted to hit the club and needed someone to go with me.
I like my book club. They’re fun. Nia, my former sister-in-law, is the one who got me involved, but in the months since we started reading steamy romance novels—
With a name like Fantasies Book Club, what else would we read?
—the others, Gemma, Emmy, and Malcolm, have become good friends.
I like to think reading books about swingers, ménage à trois, and reverse harems, with the odd BDSM story thrown in, would help improve everyone’s sex lives.
Not that I need any help, but the others have admitted they’d like a little more spice. So I do what I can to help.
I’ll report back on my little bathroom visit during our next meeting. Or maybe when I join them back on the dance floor with them, depending on how it goes.
It’s not the best time to be thinking about bathrooms and I really wish the topic isn’t forefront in my mind since I should enjoy this. Sex is truly one of my favorite things to do in the world. If I can concentrate on the in-and-out of his cock; the length, the girth… something about the way he’s fucking me…
He’s kind of loud.
It wouldn’t be a problem if we were alone at my place, but neither one of us wanted to wait and so here we are in the men’s room, going at it like a couple of teenagers.
He actually might be a teenager. Definitely legal, though. It might explain his—
“Oh! Uh… aahhh…”
He’s got to be kidding me.
His hands tighten on my hips, then relax. His whole body seems to relax, sagging into me, and a sound like a deflating tire fills the stall.
And then he pulls out.
“That’s it?” I demand.
“Well, yeah.” Still bent over, I glare over my shoulder at him, watching as he shucks off the condom, and pulls up his jeans like he’s got another appointment. “You came,” he says. “Didn’t you?”
“If you have to ask, there’s clearly a problem.” As gracefully as I can, which isn’t graceful at all, I stand up and pull up my pants.
“What do you mean? You…” He moans in a poor imitation of female pleasure.
“I don’t know what—” I do a much better imitation—“Is, but it is not the sound of a female in the throes of orgasm. At least it’s not any noise I make.”
“How am I supposed to tell something like that?”
“My breathing, the way my body—inside and out—tightens. I make this sound in the back of my throat.” I demonstrate and he stares at me like I’ve sprouted another head.
Or a second vagina.
“How am I supposed to know that?” he cries. “I just met you.”
And that, I think, is the problem.
When I push past him to open the door, I’m not surprised to see a small crowd of men gathered, including one at the urinal. I’m pretty sure he pees on the wall as he cranes his head to look at me.
I really want to pull a “He was magnificent,” a la Kelly McGillis in Top Gun, but I can’t. He wasn’t.
He was okay.
My unfulfilled lady parts say differently, so we’ll compromise with a meh. I don’t give a review as I sweep out of the men’s room.