“Oh, shit!” I sang, nearing my peak. He lifted my ass cheeks to take some of the weight off his dick. Then, just when I thought it was almost over, he eased one finger inside my virgin anus. I could no longer hold it and, before I knew it, I was cumming all over his dick. I could hear Leo reaching her orgasm as well, but our dear friend was still going with the same stamina as earlier. Still fucking me double-dutch style. I was being jumped by his dick and his finger. Yes, my pussy was being hijacked.
Leo got back on her knees. I could feel her warm breath blowing over my pussy. She took his nuts back into her mouth. Doing that fancy thing she had done earlier.
“That’s right, baby,” he praised. She began tugging on his balls. My head drifted back and that’s when I noticed the mirrored ceiling, the mirrored walls, all for the first time. I watched him fuck me hard … fast … just like I liked it. Shortly after, he and I exploded all over each other.
As I was leaving the Champagne Room to get cleaned up, I walked past a half-opened door. The soft jazz music playing was what lured me in. Following the concoction of cigars and perfumes, I stood frozen as my eyes feasted themselves on a room full of mostly women, watching, imitating, and enjoying every single activity taking place next door. What I had mistaken for wall mirrors had instead been a showcase window. On the other side of it was the Voyeur Closet. I was stunned as I realized they had been watching me. I tried to leave before anyone could notice, but not before peeping behind the red velvet curtain on my left.
The club owner’s hand was sliding up and down his banana-shaped dick as he held one of the several folders piled on his desk. The folder had the name Jade written on it. I strained my eyes, trying hard to see exactly what it was that he was looking at. I took another step. And then another, being as quiet as I could possibly be. He began chanting something. “Horny … desperate.”
The closer I got, the more was revealed. Five-Four was masturbating to something in that folder. His breath quickened. My heart raced and my skin crawled as I broke out in a hot sweat. “Horny … desperate.” Thick and creamy cum erupted from his dick, filling his hand. The folder fell out of his hands, landing faceup. As he reached to pick it up, a picture … my picture … slipped out.
Tight Jeans
Giselle Renarde
The moment she slid them up her thighs, she was sixteen all over again.
Ryan laughed as he joined her in the bedroom. “Did you ever think the eighties would come back to haunt you?”
“Oh, it’ll be fun. You’ll see.” Zipping up her acid-washed jeans, Angelique let the denim close in around her hips. They were tight. Oh, God, were they tight! The seam between her legs rode her clit hard. The crotch was already wet against her bare flesh. It wasn’t normally her style, but tonight she was going commando. Without meaning to, she writhed against her wonderfully tight jeans. This was high school all over again. This was adolescence in all its nymphomaniacal glory. This was ecstasy in pants.
But Ryan didn’t seem to notice the full extent of her rapture. “Chaperoning a gym full of horny kids … in costume! Yeah, sounds like a blast.”
His sarcasm couldn’t put her off entirely, but their joint laughter doused a touch of her arousal. “An eighties-themed high school dance sounds like the perfect way to spend a Thursday night.”
Picking the sleeveless denim vest off the bed, Ryan held it against his naked chest. He wrinkled his nose. “You said you were going to buy me a Miami Vice outfit. I wanted to look like Don Johnson.”
Angelique gave him a good once-over and tried to conceal her smirk. He was scrawny, pale, baby-blond, and cute as a button. She crossed the room to kiss her husband’s bare shoulder. Her thighs brushed each other with every step, driving the seam of her jeans deeper into her wet slit. “Thrift Store was all out of white suits,” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t want to be your Philip Michael Thomas.”
Grabbing her fluorescent green, paint-splatter, bat wing T-shirt from the shopping bag, she pulled it over her head and clipped it at the side with a vintage plastic ring. “Just be happy I didn’t put you in bicycle shorts.”
He slipped his ripped jeans on over blue boxers. “Or MC Hammer pants.”
“I bet if we brush all your hair to the front, we can get a Flock of Seagulls look going on.”
Ryan laughed. “Break out the hair spray, babe. We’re gonna do this thang!” Strutting into the bathroom, he reached for a comb and his precious products. “Hey, who did you idolize back in the day? I thought David Bowie was God. But I was a science club geek, so that probably doesn’t say much.”
“Oh, I wanted to be Vanessa Williams—first black girl to win Miss America. I begged my mom to let me straighten my hair, but no. I was just ten years old. I had to suffer all those little braids, the click-clacking beads … well, you’ve seen the pictures.”
“You looked adorable,” he said, combing his hair to the front and gelling the hell out of it.
Angelique joined him in the bathroom and pushed her kinky hair back with a headband. Rolling on her plastic jelly bracelets, she looked at the pair of them in the mirror: grown-ups attiring themselves in the costumes of their forgotten youth. Still, they were a good-looking couple.
Maybe she was just seeking reassurance when she asked, “We’re going to look ridiculous, aren’t we?”
“Oh, Angie …” Ryan chuckled. “My students look at least this ridiculous every day.”
How comforting.
The school gymnasium was hot, even before the lights went out and bodies flowed in. Like a Virgin—the first cassette tape she’d bought with her own money—echoed off the painted concrete walls. Until mere months ago, this music relived its former glory only in gay clubs. Now the eighties were back and better than ever.
The girls had gone all out in their Cyndi Lauper–esque outfits, while the boys put on baggy jeans and Metallica T-shirts and called it a day. The girls didn’t seem to care, though. Angelique knew very well that dressing up was a form of masturbation for teenage girls, anyway. They didn’t need the guys to participate. Not until they got out on the dance floor.
God, it made her head spin, the way these kids danced—bumping and grinding, stroking and groping, riding each other’s thighs to bliss. Had she danced like that when she was young? Her only school dance memory involved standing about five inches away from Andy Twyford and setting her hands on his shoulders while he set his fingertips on her hips. Awkward—especially since Andy was shorter than she was and the music was too loud for them to hear each other talk.
&nb
sp; Angelique found herself tapping her authentic eighties jelly shoes to the beat of “Material Girl” before realizing she found the lyrics mildly offensive. Was she getting old, or what? Compared to these wild creatures of flesh, she would have been old ten years ago. At thirty-six, she was ancient.