College Girl’s One Night Stand

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Author’s Note: I wrote this for a blog when I was a freshman in college. It’s an awkward blend of fantasy and reality, though in hindsight the more mundane parts got the most creative license. I’ve spell checked and edited a bit, though it’s pretty obvious I didn’t do either when I wrote it. Accept my upfront apologies for shifting verb tenses if any have slipped past me.

As always, reader feedback is much appreciated. Seriously. It’d be fantastic to hear from anyone. Pretty please?

Also if you’re under 18 or living in a repressive state, don’t read this.


The well-to-do, out-of-town guys are easy to spot. They wear cufflinks, and expensive shoes with well pressed slacks. They’re hyped up, away from home and spending the company’s money like drunken sailors.

They’re also obnoxious, I noted as the man with the grey streaked hair and the wedding band ever-so-casually slid his hand up my skirt to paw at my ass. “Tequila shots,” he ordered, surprisingly absolutely no one (tequilla shots are standard issue for this sort), “and maybe some sex on the beach?” he giggled as he snapped my thong with his thumb and slapped my butt. His people laughed heartily (in their defense, they were drunk when they came in, and the ass slapper was clearly their boss. I refuse to believe anyone thinks the sex on the beach joke–which I hear 4 times a shift, minimum–is that funny).

The night went on like that. Lots of shots, lots of drinks. Strippers were hanging off the table, two even three at a time, cuddling up to arms and wiggling in laps. They seemed to take particular delight in toying with me…slyly groping beneath my panties or lifting my skirt as I took orders, patting my ass, even snapping my bra and once even honking (yes, honking) my breast.

Now, my tolerance for obnoxiousness is pretty high. I won’t begrudge a man a copped feel or a slap on the ass, and I suppose a snapped bra, however annoying and needless it may be, isn’t that big a deal. Some guys just don’t know when to quit, though, and these were those guys. As time wound down, strippers were actively avoiding the table, and even other customers were ducking away. Glasses were getting broken, drinks were getting spilled and the volume kept going up.

In the back, my manager was happily stoned (normally, I like him for this exact reason–he really doesn’t give half a shit. Dress codes, no touching rules, no drinking on the job rules– all out the window when he’s on). The bouncers were a little on edge, but sort of waiting on a signal that I didn’t really think was necessary.

“Can I get you guys a last round?” I asked, not actually saying it was last call (which it wasn’t).

“No, thank you,” said a quiet man wedged in the back of the booth. He hadn’t talked much all night, seemingly embarrassed by the spectacle. I felt bad for him. “We were just getting set to leave,” he added.

“Nonsense!” shouted the boss, his fingers already canlı bahis tugging my panties aside and tickling across my labia. “More tequila!” He demanded, as I tried, unsuccessfully to bat his hand away.

The bartender heard him shout his order, and just shook her head “No” from across the room.

“Um, we’re out of tequila…” I said, trying to spin away from his groping without causing a fuss. He fumbled a bit, then took hold of the crotch of the thong, essentially trapping me in place.

“No tequila?” He asked, shocked with drunken rage as he tugged me ever-so-slightly closer by my panties.

“We’re fine,” said the quiet man, “a check is fine.”

I handed the already-printed check back to him to find a credit card in his waiting hand. He didn’t even want to look at the bill, which was fine by me as his boss curled a finger into my snatch.

“No way…” he almost drooled, incoherent, “You feel soo hot,” he mumbled, “show us your pussy!” The quiet man dove to pull him off as his coworkers laughed.

With bouncers encircling like vultures, I smiled politely and tried to turn away. Unfortunately the creepy bastard caught hold of my thong, and literally tore the fabric away as I stumbled and flailed backwards on the floor.

The bouncers took it from there, thankfully.

A bit ticked about my panties, but no real worse for wear, I took a shower, changed back into my street clothes, and punched out for the night. Metro was already closed, so, relegated to a cab home no matter what, I sat down at the bar to have me a drink. It meant staying late, but it also meant drinking free in a bar that didn’t care that I was 19.

I’d gotten just about through my vodka and soda, chit chatting with coworkers, when the Nice Guy from the group approached me, looking quite bashful and sheepish.

“I just wanted to apologize,” he said, “I told the bouncer, my boss, he’s really not a bad guy. He, well, I’m very sorry.” He pulled out a fifty and tried to hand it to me.

I smiled and refused. He’d already left a 25% tip on his company card (rumor had it that 26% was the point at which American Express’ fraud department raised alarms, so 25% was always the goal). “No, it’s ok,” I said, “You already tipped me. But thank you!”

“Please,” he begged, “It was a company card, I couldn’t leave enough.”

I just laughed. He was endearing in a lot of ways, if only because he was the first customer to ever come apologize for bad behavior. “It’s ok,” I said again, smiling in as friendly a way as I could muster to make it clear I wasn’t just being polite. “If you want, you can sit and buy me a drink.”

There was an awkward pause as he tossed the idea around in his head, and an equally awkward smile as mumbled a quiet, “well, ok, I guess I could.”

The bouncer, who’d no doubt let him back in after much begging, shot me a questioning look, probably confused. I waved him off with a quick thumbs up and the old man and me bahis siteleri had our drink. His name was Jim, a 46 year old lawyer in from Chicago on some manner of corporate legal thing. Whatever the legal thing was that they were doing had, he explained, gone well (you can tell I was enthused about the details) and he and the rest of the boys from Chicago were just celebrating. Apparently it had been a hard won victory, which obviously didn’t excuse the panty tearing incident, but it put it in context.

Jim hadn’t been home in three weeks, which was ok with him because he’d just been through the final stages of a very messy divorce (wife cheated with a marriage counselor, if you can believe it) and, he said, the long hours and strange bed were kind of comforting. Writing it down, it all sounds like a pick up line, but the way he talked was very genuine–if he was trying to be slick he failed entirely. We talked about his kids (21 year old son, and a 19 year old daughter—“just about your age,” he described them, and then blushed a very deep shade of red. It was very cute) He even showed me pictures (they were both nice looking). You could tell he was on the brink of crying in his beer, and was really happy to be able to talk to somebody. I suspect 3 weeks of hanging out with his Neanderthal coworkers hadn’t been the best way to cure a broken heart.

He had a pair of beers, and I finished my vodka (just two total, for those of you who will e-mail me to lecture on my alcohol abuse and bad behavior. For the record, I wasn’t more than a little buzzed) as we talked. By two, the chairs were turned over and the lights were up, and my boss threatened to fire me if I didn’t leave.

Jim walked me out (under the careful watch of bouncers, who never let me leave without keeping a keen eye on me, ’cause they’re awesome like that).

“It’s late,” He says, “Can I at least get you a cab?”

I checked my watch, as though I didn’t know the time. “It’s not that late,” I told him, smiling seductively, “did you want another drink?”

He blushed again, which, though normally not a sexy quality in a man, almost made me swoon. “I don’t think any place is going to still be open,” he said.

“I know a place,” I said, as I hailed a passing cab. “Come on.”

In the back of the cab, I snuggled up close, resting my head on his shoulder as we talked, every now and again brushing my fingers along his thigh. He was caught a bit off guard, gulping and stuttering now and again, very cautiously moving to put an arm around me as we rode.

“So where are we going?” he finally asked as the cab snaked out of downtown towards the suburbs.

“My place,” I whispered in his ear as I very boldly squeeze his cock through his pants. “The bars are all closed, I hope you don’t mind.”

He laughed nervously, “No,” he said a little breathlessly, “I-I don’t mind.”

He was a little incredulous as the cab pulls up in front of my dorm. “You…” he paused, “you bahis şirketleri live here?”

I laughed. Obviously he’s shocked. Girls at the nudie bar aren’t really supposed to be working their way through school. They’re just supposed to say that. I knew what he was thinking. “Well,” I joked, “I have the summer place in the Hamptons, but, you know, I like to come here so I don’t lose touch with the little people.” He took the ribbing well and paid the cab driver.

It was well past two in the morning, but it’s college so lots of people were awake. I could see his eyes bugging out of his head as we walked by girls walking around shamelessly in pajamas and towels and other various states of undress that may well be things he’s only fantasized about. That they didn’t bat an eyelash at him blew his mind. Co-ed dorms are the sort of thing, he explained, that he could only dream about when he was in college.

“My roommate is out of town,” I told him as we walk into my unkempt cell. His hand was on my hip as I closed the door, and with courage that it took him all night to work up he kissed me. It was the long passionate sort of kiss that makes you weak in the knees; the sort that make even a jaded party girl like me moist for all sorts of cuddly romantic reasons. He earned big points for suave timing.

We slid onto the fouton, making out the way I don’t think I’ve gone at it since I was in junior high–every move so intense, so deliciously sexual. I got goose bumps when he stroked my breast, and had to bite my lip to keep from screaming when his fingers first passed into my panties. For whatever reason, and I still can’t put my finger on it, something about it all seemed so fresh and new and strangely forbidden. He took his time, seeming to savor every stroke and every feel, peeling my clothes off slowly and meticulously. The foreplay was fantastic.

The sex, in my top bunk, was long and slow. It wasn’t the intense sort of violent sex I’m used to–just a long slow cuddle, like the sex was an end unto itself, not just a means to an orgasm. I confess, I never came, but the sex was no worse for it. I know my male readership is baffled by that concept, but trust me, it makes sense.

After he came, I went to shower and wash up, only to come back and find him waiting erect and ready for another romp. We fucked doggy style on the futon, rolling and switching positions until he came again a marathon or so later. We both fell asleep on that futon—completely exhausted.

At 6:30 or so, the sun was coming up and his flight was looming. I sucked him awake and even made a valiant attempt at swallowing (which I failed at, but the effort was worth something.)

I stood in my pajamas as he waited for his cab.

“Good luck with everything,” I said, hugging myself against the morning chill, “be sure to give me a call next time you’re in town.”

“I will,” he promised. “Thanks for everything, Jenna,” he said as he got in the cab, and kissed me goodbye.

I never even told him my real name, I realized. I wondered if he’d even told me his. For all I knew he was on his way back to a wife in someplace that wasn’t even Chicago. I’m not sure it really even mattered.

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