Sex Stories Guide

One Night at the Faraway Club - Part 1

Robin White’s evening was definitely starting to look up now. Until the handsome stranger had bought her that first drink at 10:30, she had been starting to think she was losing her touch. It was Saturday night, the party night, on a warm summer’s evening and, for the first time in nearly a year now, no one, not a single male, had asked her to accompany him to the Faraway Club for a night of drinking, dancing, and, as was well known among the public servants of Marshall County, fornication after it was all over.Not one paramedic, EMT, firefighter, cop, or ER tech had wanted to experience her charms that night, this despite her well-earned reputation as the woman who willingly gave it up for the price of a night out. What was wrong with her? Was she losing her looks? Her charms? Had they all experienced her enough now that they didn’t want her anymore? She had fretted over these questions for most of the previous week, stressing more about her lack of a date than she ever had about her unpaid bills, or her deteriorating relationship with her roommate, or any of the other hundred and five things she should have been worried about.

Still, date or no date, she simply could not stay away from the Faraway Club that night. The popular dance club in downtown Heritage-a place with an almost infamous reputation-was her weekend home. She never missed a Saturday there, not even the time she’d had the flu. She had even gone the week her father had died, accompanying John Mallet, one of the day watch Sheriff Deputies, the night before the funeral. And she had fucked him well afterwards, too. Just because no one happened to ask her out for this particular Saturday night, she was damned if she was going to sit home and watch her roommate study.

And so, feeling depressed, dejected, old and used up, the 25-year-old registration clerk from Valley Medical Center had driven her own vehicle downtown to Faraway, had walked alone to the front entrance of the club, and had paid her own cover charge for the first time in forever. She was dressed to kill, as was the usual case on weekends, sporting a strapless black mini-skirt that showed off her bulging boobs on the top and her slightly chunky, though well-muscled dancer’s legs on the bottom.

The club was its usual loud, semi-chaotic self as she entered. Modern dance music boomed from the sound system while men and women, most between the ages of 21 and 30, most dressed in the latest trendy clothes, bumped and grinded out on the floor. The bartenders behind the large bar at the front of the room worked frantically to keep up with the endless stream of customers. Every cocktail table was filled, many with other regulars like her, men and women she knew well from running into them twice every week.Many of the men had experienced her sexual charms at one time or another.She saw John Mallet out there dancing with Jana Hansen. She even saw Jim Hartman, the divorced, reclusive paramedic whom she had initiated to this place not so very long before and who had taken her on return trips three times since. He was rubbing chests with Darlene Sandringham, one of the young nurses from the VMC-ER’s swing shift. Robin, just two weeks before,had been the one to suggest they might have a little something in common in the first place. How ironic that Jim the hermit was now here with a date while she was going stag.

Since she did have many friends among the Faraway crowd it didn’t take her long to find a table to sit at and some friendly conversation. All of her friends expressed disbelief at her inability to find a date and seemed to take a perverse delight in mentioning it to her again and again. A few of the regulars asked her to dance and she went willingly with them out onto the floor, displaying her usual tireless grace, but without an official date it just wasn’t the same. The regulars she danced with all knew the peculiar set of rules she had established long ago. They could be friendly with her out on the floor, even overly friendly to a degree, but she would only leave the club with her date, would only sleep with her date when the evening was over. As such, her prospects for getting laid tonight seemed dim since all of the men who danced with her kept a respectful distance. Another rule was that she would allow only her date to buy drinks for her. Since no one else in here qualified as her date and since all were well conditioned to this rule, she found herself forced to spend her own money for her Long Island iced teas, and, as such, she drank very little since the fucking things cost seven bucks apiece.

In truth she had been just about to leave in despair, to make the long drive home alone, almost completely sober and with no prospect for sexual relief except the vibrator in her nightstand drawer. That was when a hand tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she would like to dance. It was a man she had never seen here before.

She didn’t think too much of him at first. He was tall and reasonably good-looking, though obviously a bit squarer than what she was used to. He was dressed nicely, in a pair of navy blue slacks and a yellow shirt, and he was a little older than the majority of the crowd, seemingly in his mid-thirties. His brown hair was cut short and styled in a corporate professional sort of way. On his left ring finger was an expensive looking gold band.

She accepted the dance, since she accepted almost any dance on general principals, and, much to her surprise and delight, he danced rather well,much better than she would have thought based on first impressions. He moved his body perfectly in time to the beat, always seeming to put his hands in exactly the right spot. They stayed on the floor through three different songs, until both of them had a slight sheen of sweat on their foreheads.They didn’t talk during this time, just enjoyed the motion and the rhythm.After that third song faded away her opinion of him went up considerably when he said the words she had been waiting all night to hear: “Can I buy you a drink?”

Of course she gave the appearance of playing hard to get. “You sure your wife won’t mind?” she asked slyly, pointing to the ring on his finger.

He chuckled a little. “She doesn’t seem to be making any objections, does she?”

Robin had to agree that she wasn’t, and so, with the token protestation of flirting with a married man out of the way, she told him that she would love a drink.

She accompanied him to the bar, of course, never letting her drink pass through his hands. That was just a common sense safety precaution in these days of date-rape drugs. He either didn’t notice her diligence in this or pretended not to. They found two empty chairs to sit at while she sipped at her fresh Long Island and he sipped from a rum and coke.

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” she told him.

“I’m from Seattle,” he said. “I’m only in Heritage for a few days on business. I fly out tomorrow morning.”

“How’d you end up in the Faraway?”

“My hotel is right across the street,” he said. “Since all my business has been done I thought I’d slip over here and check out a little of the nightlife.”

“I see. So you’re staying at the Stovington Suites then?”

“That’s right.”

The Stovington Suites was a four-star hotel, arguably the nicest in the Heritage metropolitan area. Standing 36 stories tall and overlooking the riverfront, it was the hotel that visiting dignitaries usually stayed in,including the President of the United States on those rare occasions he visited the Northern California area. The cheapest rooms there ran 150 dollars a night for weekday rates. “Nice place,” she said, impressed.

He shrugged, disinterested. “It’s all right,” he told her. “The view is the best thing about it. My room is up on the 33rd floor.”

“Thirty-three, huh?” she said, even more impressed now. Though she was not quite a member of high society she was savvy enough to know that the cheap rooms would not be located on the 33rd floor. She was also savvy enough to know just why he was mentioning his room across the street and his view. He was a married man, far from home on a business trip, and he had hopes of luring her up there to check it out in person. She was not exactly opposed to this idea. As a rule she stayed away from married men-there were just too many single men around who were willing to fulfill her considerable sexual appetite-but, like many other rules in life, she had been known to break it on occasion. If it turned out that he was a nice guy and if he continued to buy her Long Island iced teas at seven bucks a pop… well, why shouldn’t she accompany him up to his room for a little fun? It wasn’t like she was ever going to see him again. And there was one thing she had learned about sex from her many encounters-another general rule so to speak. Men who either were married or once had been tended to be much better in bed than men who had always been single, probably from the regular practice they got with a steady partner.

They finished their drinks and hit the dance floor once more, heading out there by unspoken consent. He wasted little time in letting her know he was interested in her body. His hands began to touch her a little longer, in more strategic places. His fingertips would glide down her flanks and onto the top of her ass, giving gentle strokes from time to time as they moved to the music. His legs would brush frequently against hers, the material of his slacks whispering against her bare thighs. His chest would bump gently into hers, allowing him to feel her large boobs against his body. She encouraged these touches the best she could, silently sending him the message they were not unwanted.

It was a message he received very well it seemed. Soon he was even closer to her, unabashedly rubbing himself against her, his hands now straying down onto her ass, giving it quick squeezes, even dipping down to the back of her thighs on occasion and stroking the skin there. She began to get turned on,feeling the familiar dampness in her panties, and she knew that if he asked her to go back to his room with him she would say yes. But he didn’t ask. He simply kept dancing with her, kept rubbing his body on hers, and kept buying her fresh Long Islands every third or fourth dance. All of this was fine with her, however. She was getting both drunk and horny and her prospects of having the latter condition taken care of for her at some point during the night seemed assured.

It was during a slow dance that things really started to heat up between them. They held each other closely as they swayed slowly, sensuously to the soft rhythm. He held his face close to hers and she could feel his breath on her ears. His chest he kept firmly pressed against her breasts. His crotch he pushed slowly, purposefully into her stomach. There was absolutely no mistaking the feel of a turgid cock beneath those pants.

“You’re a very sexy woman,” he whispered softly into her ear.

“Thank you,” she said coyly, cooing a little as his hands slid over her ass and onto the back of her thighs once more. She let her own hands drop down to his ass, touching it for the first time. It was a nice one, firm beneath her fingers, as if he regularly worked out. “You’re kinda sexy yourself.”

“Just kind of?” he asked playfully, giving another little grind against her.

“Okay,” she amended. “Very sexy.”

“Mmmm,” he said. “That’s nice to know.” His lips slid down just a little and touched her skin just below her ear, planting a light kiss there. She felt the tip of his tongue reach out just for a second and then withdraw, leaving a small wet spot. The touch was electric, sending tingles through her.

“I just love the way you dance,” she sighed, giving his ass one more squeeze and then moving her hands up to his back again, so she could pull him tighter against her.

“Do you?” he asked. “Do you like the feel of my hard cock pushing into you?”

“Oooh,” she cooed, “you’re talking dirty to me. And on such short notice too.”

“Don’t you like it when a man talks dirty to you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I love it.”

“You’re just a nasty little girl, aren’t you?” he asked, his lips touching her earlobe this time.

She could feel herself getting flushed with excitement now. “Yes,” she told him. “I’m a nasty little girl.”

“And you love the feel of my cock pushing into you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, her lips going to his neck now. She licked at the slight dampness of his sweat, inhaling the scent of his cologne.

“You want to feel this cock sliding into your wet pussy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Because you’re nothing but a little slut, aren’t you?”

She trembled a little, feeling a pleasant sort of shame at his words. What he was saying was insulting, yet blackly exciting at the same time. Very rarely did anyone talk to her like this, especially on such short acquaintance. She groaned at his words, but didn’t answer. He was insistent however.

“Aren’t you?” he repeated, grinding into her again. “A little slut who wants me to fuck her like a bitch until you’re begging me for more?”

“Yes,” she admitted, feeling a gush of moisture flooding from her pussy as the word left her mouth.

“Say it,” he told her.

“I’m a little slut.”

“And what do you want me to do to you?”

“Fuck me,” she said. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Like a bitch?”

“Yes,” she said, almost moaned. She was so very turned on now. “Like a bitch.”He put his lips gently against hers and kissed her, the tip of his tongue licking the underside of her mouth, gliding across her teeth, and then pulling back. She refused to allow him to break the kiss though. Her hands went to the back of his head and she pulled him back, thrusting her own tongue out and swirling it against his, sucking lightly on it. God, how she wanted this man, how she wanted him to treat her like the slut she was. No one had ever made her feel the way she was feeling now.

And then, just when she thought they were going to leave, the unexpected occurred. A woman appeared beside them. She was tall and solidly built, not fat, but somewhat Amazonian in stature. Her hair was a rich brunette, her breasts large and well rounded. She was wearing a conservative blue dress,the hem knee-length, the top showing only a small amount of cleavage, her well-muscled legs bare of nylons. She, like Robin’s dancing partner, looked to be in her mid-thirties. Overall, she gave an impression of a well-manicured, professional woman. She looked at the two of them for a moment, a slight smile on her face, and then she said, “May I cut in?”

Robin shot her a look of annoyance. How dare she try to cut in on her dance now, when she was as worked up as she was likely to get without removing her clothes. “No,” she told her coldly. “I don’t think so.”

The woman’s smile turned into a smirk. The look in her eyes became slightly dangerous. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she answered. “I was talking to him.”

“Huh?” she said numbly, not quite understanding.

It quickly became clear what she meant, however. Before she really realized it was happening, the man was gone and the woman had her arms around her,pulling her close, dancing with her. Another woman! What in the hell? And it was a woman who towered over her. Robin was barely five feet, four inches tall. This woman was damn near six feet. Her arms held her tightly around the waist, so that getting away from her would be a chore.

“Uh… what exactly is going on here?” Robin asked, her voice tough to mask the sudden nervousness she felt.

“I’m dancing with you,” she said simply. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Robin looked at her, trying to read the expression in her face. It was impossible. “Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t usually dance with other women. I don’t really… you know… swing that way.”

“Oh no?” she asked, pulling her a little tighter. “You don’t like the way my boobs feel against you? The way my hands feel, squeezing you?”

Robin swallowed, feeling herself tremble just a little. “No,” she said. “I really don’t.” But even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was lying.Though it was hard to admit to herself, she did kind of like the way this woman’s body felt against her. It was strong, like the man she had just been dancing with, but it was also soft, a stark contrast to his.

“You don’t sound so convincing,” the woman said with another smirk. “Have you been with a woman before?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I told you, I don’t swing that way.”

The woman looked directly into her eyes, as if she was probing into her very soul. “You’re lying to me,” she said. “I can tell.”

She trembled again, turning her eyes away from that gaze. How did this woman know? How could she know? It had only happened once, back when she was in high school, something she rarely even thought about anymore. She had been working in a hair-cutting salon, running the cash register and sweeping up the hair from the floor between customers. The manager had been an athletic woman in her thirties, pretty, well-built, divorced. She had invited her to stay after work one night for a free hair cut and style. While doing the job she had produced a bottle of rum and a six-pack of cola, offering some to her young charge. By the time the cut and style was finished Robin had been half-drunk, a relatively new experience for her back then. The talk had turned to intimacies she had shared with her various boyfriends. And before she knew what was happening, the talk had turned to kissing, to sliding their tongues in and out of each other’s mouths. Her shirt had gone to the floor, then her bra. She had wanted to stop the woman from going any further but her mouth on her nipples had just felt too good. That led to her jeans being slid off and a wet, knowing mouth between her legs, bringing her to a series of sharp orgasms unlike anything she had experienced to that point in her life. And then it had been over, never to be repeated or offered again.She had worked another month there and then moved on to different pastures,burying the incident as deeply as possible. At least until now. What was happening here? Who was this woman? And what had happened to the man she’d been dancing with? Why wasn’t he stopping this from happening?