Page 7 of Santa's Baby

What’s your name, where are you from, who are you here with? Dull as fuck.What I want him to ask is whether he can fuck the tits he’s staring at, screw the niceties. I want him to ask if I like being throat jammed like a slut when I’m on my knees, and how much of a pounding I can take in my asshole.

He’s midway through another boring question when I finish up my second glass of fizz and walk away with athanks for the drink.My flirting is done with him, no explanation necessary.

I weave my way onto the dancefloor, finding the beat as I sway my hips and lose myself in the groove. The people around me make it hot in here. The stickiness of drunk sweat is welcome as I shimmy my dress up, then pump my hands in the air. I dance, I spin, I jump and groove, and people notice me. Of course they do. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet or one of the bland brigade.

I love the heat of the eyes on me, a blur of people staring as I dance in my own filthy world – knowing full well the dark game lying ahead of me. A stinking alleyway and a dirty fucker who’s going to treat me like a piece of trash. That’s what I want. I want to be trash tonight.

I hitch my dress higher, twerking my bouncy butt like I’m desperate for action. I’ve been in this game long enough to send out the right signals, and it works. I feel people shifting. Grooving men getting closer, so thinly veiled, it’s ridiculous.

I back into one of them to make it easy for him, grinding my ass against his crotch as his hands come around for some action, but he’s shit. This guy isn’t my client, I can tell by the way his friends are cheering him on, but he’s an easy target for my slut show. I turn to face him and pull him against me, pressing my tits to his chest. He grabs my ass, and some half decent grindingstarts. I spread my legs wide enough that his thigh finds my pussy, but it’s too early to be getting serious, and nah, he’s crap at it. Average, tops.

I pull away and leave him behind, sashaying through the revellers until I get some wolf whistles off to the right. Two guys wanting a piece of me. These two are idiots, dancing with the kind of laid-back groove reserved for Z-listers, but I milk it for all it’s worth. Maybe they were on some reality TV show a decade ago and still think they’re in it to win it. I act like a girl who thinks they’re superstars, fawning as I dance along with them, one after the other.

One of them kisses me, and he’s like a wet fish with his tongue, but I don’t give a toss. I eat his face like I’m as keen as he is, running my hand down to the bulge in his pants to scope out his hard-on.

Hardly a donkey.

Again. Boring.

Boring, boring, boring.

The idiots protest when I leave them behind, but I carry on regardless, grooving my way into another crowd. This little cluster is hotter. A couple of the guys are tall and imposing. Some girls grip their boyfriends tighter, staking claim, but one of the tall guys is blatantly on the lookout for pussy. His eyes are on my tits from the off, and he knows he’s fit. I like that kind of confidence.

I dance closer, giving him the eye as I twist and twirl, and he’s straight on it. Coming in close.

This guy has more heat than the others. His moves are more mature. His stature more demanding.

His hands are firm, fingers harsh as they squeeze my ass.

I’d be happy to spread my legs and have him explore my juicy cunt right here on the dancefloor. I’d tug down my dress and set my tits free to let him slaver. But no. Not yet.

More kisses, but these aren’t sloppy – just fierce. He wraps a hand around the back of my neck to pull me close, and I figure that this could maybe be User 2906 getting me ready. I’d like that. But no.

“Want to leave, get a cab back to mine?” he asks. “I don’t live too far from here. We could… hang out.”

I keep up my flirting game.

“That depends…” I smile, my mouth close to his ear. “What would you want to do to me when we got there?”

“Nothing crazy. I’m no psycho, don’t worry.”

I laugh at that. “Shame.”

“Shame?”

“Yeah, shame. Girls like me like it filthy.”

He’s a decent looking guy. Tall and muscular, with a neat beard and dark eyes. He’s in a shirt that fits nicely, and looks like he’s packing a hulky dick in his pants.

“How filthy do you like it?” he asks.

“As filthy as it gets.”

His smirk is alright. Not an award winner. He’s confident, but not a super-ego.

“Shall I at least get you a drink first?”

“Sure. Prosecco, thanks. I’ll wait here.”