Mona seems to have a never-ending assortment of bodycon dresses and very tall high heels. That is basically her work uniform. I don’t really have anything like that, but I do have a couple of simple dresses. Maybe one of those will work?
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror holding this pink frilly thing in front of me, I realize there is no way in hell this church dress is seeing the inside of a bar. Absolutely not. That just ain’t right.
But I know I have to have something. I mean, this is my chance to cut loose, right? This is my opportunity. What do I want to wear? Surrounded by a roomful of strangers, what do I want them to think of me?
I have no idea.
But what I do have is Google. Okay… and Pornhub. Biting my lip, I stare at the screen of my laptop for a few seconds and then finally type in “lingerie models Sweeney nightclub” and hope to get a few video hits.
And… there they are. I guess everybody uploads videos about everything these days. There are clips from twenty seconds to several minutes, dark and taken from weird angles, but still, I get the gist.
Though the image is totally pixelated, I can hear the bass music thumping underneath the chatter of the crowd as the videographer moves through the bar, narrating the whole experience. He sounds pretty excited. I guess the event is pretty popular.
After a few seconds, the crowd parts, and a young woman in a purple, transparent negligée floats by. She pauses to blow a kiss at the person who is holding the cell phone. The camera tips down to catch her Lucite heels, then slides back up to her fluffy blonde hairdo before she glides back out of frame.
Then the camera sweeps around, focusing on the grinning face of the person taking the video. I recognize him, though I have only ever seen him from far away. That’s Ty, the club owner. He inherited Sweeney’s from his uncle or something, and by all accounts he’s doing his best to turn it into the sort of place his uncle would’ve been mortified about.
So, okay… I guess it really is what I thought it was. After clicking on a few more videos, I see the same thing. Guys acting like drunken primates, girls wandering around in their underwear looking like silent movie stars.
That’s not too bad, is it? I mean, there really are bartenders and beer girls there too. It’s just a little rambunctious. It’s not the end of the world.
Actually, it sounds kind of… hot, really. Kind of dark, kind of forbidden, definitely different than the evening I would have had in store at the Krazy Mart.
But my stomach twists. Will I fit in there? I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb. I’m going to stick out like a sore, scabby-kneed tomboy, to be more precise.
I shift my weight and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror again. My tan lines mark out glowing white triangles on all the important bits, enveloped in golden skin. Really, not too bad. I mean, obj
ectively, I guess I look okay? Not like Mona. But also not like the adolescent that I always picture in my head.
Straightening, I put my hands on my hips and force myself to look right at myself.
“Liberty Jane,” I say out loud in a stern voice, “you look fine. Don’t be such a wimp. Hike up your panties and go play with the big girls.”
That little pep talk almost does it, but then I still feel a little shy. I know just what I need. Some inspiration. Just a bit. Just a little encouragement.
Opening a private tab on my browser, I search for the keywords that I know will bring up the video I like the best. It’s pretty naughty. In fact, I don’t think I would even tell Mona about it, but ever since the first time I saw it, it has been my hands-down favorite.
Slowly I settle into the chair, only barely acknowledging the cool vinyl on the backs of my thighs as the video flickers to life. I leave the volume on low, mostly out of habit. I like to hear a little something, at least. But I don’t want it blasting out full-throated groaning.
Even though I know what’s going to happen, I watch the tiny screen with rapt attention. Some brunette walks into what looks like a college dormitory. She is expecting to find her boyfriend, I suppose, but he is not alone. His high school best friend is there to visit. The best friend is wearing a baseball jersey. I guess the idea is that they were on the same baseball team. The boyfriend is not wearing a shirt.
When the girlfriend walks in, you can see it in her eyes immediately. She wants them both. There is no discussion. She doesn’t even ask. And the guys never even seem to negotiate between themselves. It’s just known, psychically or something. Easy as you like.
As soon as she takes that first step toward them, it is all understood. The events are set in motion, and there is no turning back.
She actually goes to the best friend first, which I thought was shocking the first time I saw it. She doesn’t even ask her boyfriend for permission. She walks right up to the best friend and kisses him, her mouth open, her long fingers kneading the back of his neck while he kisses her.
Immediately the boyfriend is behind her, biting her shoulders, pulling her flimsy tank top down to her waist. Her breasts overflow from his hands, bulging out between his splayed fingers. She arches her back, writhing between them, sandwiched immediately. Overwhelmed. Embraced.
Even though I have seen this video dozens of times, it still trips a switch inside me. My belly is flooded with warmth. My fingers drift up my thighs, instinctively finding that warm seam that so desperately needs to be touched.
Rocking against my fingers, I am careful not to touch myself too vigorously. I am still a little tender from the waxing, and every sensation is magnified a hundred times. I am lit up like a string of Christmas lights. I am vibrating, slippery and hot, holding myself back as my fingers tease my lips, trying to time myself to the best parts of the video.
Here it comes. They’ve all undressed and now kiss and wrestle with each other, slippery as seals, beautiful molded flesh twisting in a complicated choreography. It takes my breath away to watch them trying to balance and satisfy each other at the same time. Trying to negotiate how they take turns, to make sure everybody gets off a fair amount.
And here, the amazing apex. I spread my thighs, rocking forward so that my fingers are pinned underneath me. I can slide back and forth, varying the pressure as I ride myself, urging closer and closer to climax.
The woman feigns surprise as her boyfriend spreads her ass cheeks. He squirts out a generous handful of lube that slides down the tanned channel of her spine and streaks around her dark entrance.