When the dance finished, Terry walked off and, I'll admit, I was excited. I was so fucking hot. Of course, I knew that I did not have a choice, but the problem was at that moment I was very glad I did not have to make that choice. Right now the way I was craving that feeling again, if I did have the choice, I knew I would make the wrong one. This way I can get what I want so bad and not feel guilty about Terry fucking me or, worse yet, my wanting to feel him inside of me again.I found Peter, who was feeling no pain, and said, "Hi, honey, all this dancing has made me hot (I wasn't lying; I was fucking hot and horny, so I was telling him the truth. But he took it the way I wanted him to). "I'm going to see if there is someplace in here that I can cool off. I won't be long." Peter said, "OK, honey, I'll see you when you come back. We still have to cut the cake and throw the garter and your bouquet." I said, "I won't be gone long." I made my way out and up to room 618. The door was open. And what a crowd it was; the place was heaving. Every chair seemed occupied, every table littered with bottles and glasses, every inch of dance floor, with its swirling colours and strobing lights, crowded with partygoers.A waitress nudged past me, breasts brushing my arm. I gaped. Topless waitresses? I wasn’t surprised per se; this was a strip club. But, somehow, I’d expected topless staff to be in a cordoned-off VIP area, not on the floor mingling with the general populous. I counted four swaggering, semi-naked girls delivering drinks to lusty men who ogled their breasts and bellies, drinking in the tanned flesh with the same greedy thirst they unleashed on hastily-quaffed beers.There were scantily dressed waiters too: bow ties, aprons, Doc Marten boots, and tiny thongs leaving taut, tanned backsides on display. The targeted pockets of Hens squealed girlishly when placing their drink orders and gawped like teenagers at bulging biceps and buttocks.There were a surprising number of.
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