I may not recognize the club, but my body fucking does.

As we walk through the entryway, my nipples get hard and my pussy wet. I feel like Pavlov’s fucking dog, only instead of steaks and whistles—it’s a club floor wreaking of alcohol, and my pussy that wants feeding.

The place doesn’t hold that much appeal to me. It’s not the look—the club is swanky as fuck—but it’s the DJ’s choice in music.

I hate fucking techno Eurotrash music. Give me something you can really fuck to—like a bitching 80s Hair Metal band. Like fucking Mötley Crüe.

Now that’s a band you can get down and fuck to.

I know this because I’ve done it, sometimes even behind closed doors.

The club’s music has a good beat—I could totally get into a blowjob listening to it—but it lacks soul that you get with hair metal. But that was the beauty of the 80s. They sang just as much from the heart as they did from the hair.

“Hey Sam—”

I turn, expecting to see Sammi beside me, only she isn’t there.

Then I turn the other direction hoping to see Mysti May, but she’s gone too.

Fucking bitches.

The sound of Mysti’s giggle from behind me makes me spin around.

I can’t help but scoff when I see them.

Mysti and Becky are throwing foam around at each other like they’re giddy little school girls.

Sammi looks like she’s trying to make a foam party shark—which she’ll probably want to save later since it’ll be the only one of its kind.

Between them, a tiny bear-wearing toddler—with enough foam around his face that he looks like a rabid cub—is chasing bubbles like a bubble junkie.

When Becky and Sammi get into this shit, it’s all hands on deck. But when it’s me in the driver seat, it’s fucking party central.

“Hello? A little help here?” I yell above the music.

The only one who pays any attention to me is the toddler. But he just waves at me before wandering off for another bubble fix.

Fucking hell.

Evidently, the girls aren’t going to be all that useful for the time being, which means I’m on my own.

Leaving them behind, I venture deeper into the club.

As much as I’d like to have some fun with them—because foam parties are a fucking blast—I am on a fucking mission.

I’ve got more fucking multicolored wrist bands on than the colors the rainbow has.

Someone here has to know what the fuck they mean and why the fuck I have them all.

The problem is that it’s next to impossible to find a single person who works here. There’s so much foam everywhere that it’s hard to tell if I’m standing beside Brad Pitt, an employee, or some random nobody.

“Fucking foam, stay the fuck out of my mouth,” I spit foam from my lips in frustration.

The deeper I go into the club, the more foam there is.

And this isn’t the kind of white stuff I prefer having in my mouth—though it is just as salty. From out of nowhere, I feel a pair of hands on my waist and a hard body—of the male persuasion—against my back.

Their hips move in a sexy, harmonic way with the beat that makes the music tolerable.

His hands move over my stomach and up over my chest. They grab my tits firmly, and I feel a nudge against my ass from a growing cock.

I should be pushing off and continuing my hunt. I have the skittles catalog of wristbands right now, but this guy can fucking dance.

He’s got all the right moves. And in all the right places.

And—for the sake of honesty and transparency—I’m curious about just how big his cock can get if I grind my ass up on it enough.

My hips and ass move along with his, as if we’ve done this dance a thousand times before. Which— let’s face it—isn’t far from the truth for me.

The number of hard bodies—both men and women—I’ve grinded up on has likely reached the five-digit range at this point. But to this guy’s credit, he’s easily in the top one percent of people who know what the fuck they’re doing.

I reach behind to run my fingers through his hair on the back of his head.

“So do you dance like this with all the ladies or am I just special?” I ask as I give my ass a wiggle against his growing cock.

“Do you really care?” he growls in this brassy, husky voice that reminds me of a young Clint Eastwood.

If I had been wearing panties right now they would be soaked. As it is, I’m dripping down the inside of my thigh.

“Should I?”

“Well, you never know what kind of people you’ll find in a club like this.”

A normal person would probably just walk away—or at least check the fucker out—but not me. Not knowing who this guy is—or what he looks like—is part of the thrill.

It’s like glory hole dance floor. Don’t know whose cock I’m playing with, but it’s a nice one, and I don’t give a fuck.

“You should be careful—I’m a married woman,” I say as I let a hand drop to rub over the shaft of his cock through his pants.

“That’s okay,” his teeth pull gently on my earlobe. “I’m a married man.”

He slips a hand down from my tits to the bottom of my skirt.

I can feel my lips turn upward into a beaming smile when I feel the front of my skirt being lifted up.

I should totally put a stop to this.

But then that just wouldn’t be fun.

And his cock is like a magnet to my ass.

The man is about as big and thick as a French baguette, and if my ass could speak—which I’m thankful it doesn’t, given the shit it would say on a regular basis—it would be calling him “daddy” in French.

His fingers graze up along the bare flesh of my exposed pussy.

My eyes shift from side to side to see if anyone is watching. I’m disappointed that nobody is catching a glimpse of the show.

He runs his fingers through my bush and gives it’s a short tug.

“Ooooohh fuck yes,” I moan.

Whoever this guy is, he knows just how to work it—in more ways than one.

His fingers move back down to my wet pussy, and I feel him slide a finger in between my lips. A fresh stream of juices spills out and down the side of my leg. I’m so fucking wet that I’m going to form my own Great Lake on the dance floor: Lake Sexy Bitch.

I’ve always been a sexy bitch—that’s never been a question—but even I have to admit I look good enough to make the Devil rise up from Hell and ask for my number.

Fuck—if the Devil looked like Viggo Mortensen or Elizabeth Hurley, you can best believe they’d be getting my number, too.

I shudder as his teeth drag across my neck.

The feeling of my clit being massaged between two fingers sends a jolt up my spine.

This guy is hitting all my good spots.

I reach down and grab his shaft through his pants as his reward, while his finger flicks at my clit.

A moan hisses between my teeth.

Suddenly, his finger slides up inside me, and I lean my head back against him.

It’s shit like this that keeps me—or kept me—from getting married. You don’t have this kind of fun with a husband.

A big ball of foam flies by my face, making me feel like I’ve been slapped in the face with a leather glove.

I hear music ringing through my ears, but it isn’t what’s being played right now. It’s still Eurotrash music mind you, but that’s beside the point.

It is the music that was being played when we were all here last night.

Music that played while...