Ticket Girls - Raving Horny - Sex Stories

Ticket Girls - Raving Horny

If you think ticket girls sell vouchers for sightseeing tours or admission slips, you’re on the wrong track, though you’re not really to blame. No, ticket girls, that’s what we secretly used to call ourselves, we being Mona and me, Christy. It sounded a lot better than girls who spread their legs for drugs, but that’s basically what we did. Not that we had a problem with that. From Thursday to Saturday, the local raves were our playground. We’d dance through the night, lost in the hypnotizing beats of trance music thumping from the speakers and setting our blood boiling, so high on ecstasy and trips that our feet never touched the ground, floating on waves of pleasure and intensity. But seeing that both of us were notoriously broke and, I at seventeen and she a year younger, not really able to earn enough with side jobs to afford all that we craved, getting our fingers on all that fun stuff came with a different and slutty price. To pay that price, we had to be in the right mood - but mood, on rave nights, was much better with some of these tiny, saturated snippets of colorful paper and equally small pills. We had quickly convinced Tony, who ran our favorite Thursday club, that helping us get into that mood was a clever marketing decision by dressing our flimsiest and flirting like maniacs on the dancefloor. It was a win-win situation, for we got our stuff and Tony’s club a sexy reputation. It was in the middle of the summer when we entered the club at our usual time, both ...

... of us a grin on our lips when we looked up at the two letters above the entrance. ‘XS’ it read, and what a fitting name it was. Mona was wearing that white, skin-tight dress with red seams and a heart-shaped cut-out on the front through which her navel piercing shimmered, together with these knee-high, gleaming slut boots. She was two inches smaller than me and I always envied her the incredibly slim figure, and with her red curls, thousands of speckles and her huge, sea-green eyes, she was the epitome of innocent seduction. I, for my part, had let myself get talked into wearing the black, pleated dress whose upper part was just a wide loop of stretchy fabric that I had to twist once and slip over my head, leaving my back completely bare and, if I bent forward too much, would expose all of my naked, B-cup sized glory to the world. “You’re such a slut,” she had whispered when I had slipped it on, and I had returned the compliment. Now we were stepping down the worn steps to the club. The soft thumping was already audible, and we had our fingers interlocked and were giddy with anticipation. Tony was behind the bar and waved in greeting. A few early birds in unfitting street clothes were crowded around one of the cocktail tables in the far corner and slamming down crash accelerators, that’s what we called these tiny bottles with sweet liquor. We made a straight beeline for Tony. “Hey, beautifuls!” “Hey, Papa Tony.” He liked to feel like a wise old patron of the arts, and despite ...