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This happened a few years ago, when Alicia and I were still engaged. We like to go out and party, it was a Friday night, and we decided to head downtown. Our city had a popping nightlife scene, and we took our time bar hopping. By the time we hit our fourth stop, we were happily and truly drunk, heading to a lounge that specialized in serving CBD-spiked drinks.
There was a security team at the door, led by an older bouncer in a cowboy hat. He was probably in his early fifties: Muscular, talkative, charming, wearing a cowboy hat. As soon as my ID got checked, the other bouncers took me aside to run me through the metal detector. That’s when the lead Bouncer pulled my then-fiancé aside.
I very clearly remember what Alicia was wearing that night. She was in a cropped, neon green tank top that showed off her tanned shoulders and exposed her flat, tight tummy. Meanwhile, she was wearing a pair of low-rise, black, ripped baggy jeans. The kicker is that when we’re really out partying, Alicia does’t mind showing off: her black thong straps were hiked up, and she had neglected to wear a bra. That whole night, her nipples were clearly straining through the neon fabric of her cotton tank.
Alicia and the guard were both behind me, so I had to kind of angle my head back to see what was going on. The bouncer was quietly saying something to her, and she was giggling along with him. He had placed his hand on her bare waist.
After the guards finished checking me, he gently ushered Alicia over to them. I watched them wand her with the metal detector, before clearing her for entry. The lead bouncer called out to her, “Be good now!” and Alicia called back, “No promises.”
For the record — Alicia has always been openly flirty, especially when she’s drinking. I didn’t mind it. In some ways, I relished the residual jealousy that came along with it. She knew it, and she knew how to exploit it mercilessly. At the bar, we got drinks and I asked Alicia what he had whispered to her:
“He told me not to poke anybody’s eyes out,” She told me cooly. Sure enough, the outline of her braless tits were more than visible under the goddamn, might-as-well-be-sheer crop top she was wearing. I asked her what she said back.
“I don’t know. I just laughed. It was funny,” She told me. She was fucking killing me. We finished our drinks, said goodbye to the security guards as we left, and I took her home. When we climbed into bed, we started dirty-talking about what happened — how brazen the older man had been in his touch, how he had openly commented on her erect nipples. It turned us both on.
Alicia rode my cock slowly and passionately, whispering to me.
“You know, if we weren’t engaged? If I was still the slutty party girl I used to be? I’d probably have let him go further,”
“Tell me.”
“I’d let him take me into the alleyway, baby. I’d let him play with my tits. I’d down on my knees….”
“Fuck baby, don’t stop…”
“And I’d suck his fat fucking cock…and let him make a cummy fucking mess. All over my fucking top….”
The dirty talk and that image — that fucking image of his hand grazing her hip, right over her exposed, hiked-up panty strap — was enough to send me over the edge. I finished inside Alicia, and she kept grinding against my softening cock, my cum still inside her, my hands squeezing her bare ass, until she came just moments later.
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