Holiday Girl - Chapters 1 & 2 - Sex Stories

Holiday Girl - Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter 1 -------------------------------------- It’s Friday night. The night club is loud and dense and sweaty and the crowd flickers in and out of existence as the lights strobe around them. I can feel the fast-paced rumble of rap lyrics in my bones as the speakers rhythmically thunder with bass. LESS is the name of the club. It’s the kind of place where half the girls aren’t wearing panties and half the boys have perpetual erections. I’m at the club with my boyfriend, Jason Thompson – he’s the perpetual erection type. Jason is sitting next to me in a big, circular, corner booth, but he’s ignored me all night – instead he’s leaning over me, having a conversation with a pretty, young girl on the other side of me. I don’t know this girl, but I immediately dislike her. They talk about inane subjects, such as the schools they’ve attended and the cars they’ve driven. I use the word ‘they’, but in reality the conversation is obnoxiously one-side – the pretty girl is yammering a mile-a-minute while my boyfriend simply stares down into her aggravatingly perfect crease of tan cleavage. I notice him staring as the girl’s breasts jiggle slightly with each hand gesture she makes. I’m a pretty understanding girl, though, and would never chide my boyfriend for such a simple faux pas. Instead I sit there between them awkwardly nursing my Vodka-tonic. I don’t like this girl. I don’t like her hair. It’s blonde and wavy and perfect and it seems to spring and bounce with her chattering head ...

... as she talks. She seems bouncy. Her breasts are bouncy and her hair is bouncy and her head is bobbling from side-to-side. Bobbling is similar to bouncing. I study her. I also don’t like her dress. It’s red and short and slutty and it seems tailored to her – it seems to fit her as if she were designed for it. She stands up to ask my boyfriend to dance. She’s perky and flirty -- like she’s 18 years old – like she’s a cheerleader. I hate her. Ok, I admit it. I’m jealous. My boyfriend looks frozen by the offer to dance. Stunned, like he’s immobile, like a mannequin with a giant hard-on. I don’t blame him, I guess, so I say nothing as they get up to dance. I smile, insisting that I don’t mind. Why would I mind? That sounds like something a prude would do. I’m certainly not a prude, so I watch my boyfriend grab this pretty young girl’s hand and drag her into the sea of people on the dance floor. They disappear as I drink another vodka-tonic… and then another… and another. The drinks are $10 a piece, but they seem like a good value, considering the circumstances. I’m on drink 6 by the time they get back. They’ve been gone for what seems like an eternity, and they’re hot, drunk, and sweaty by the time they return. My boyfriend’s t-shirt is tight, wet, and clinging to him – coincidentally the pretty girl is clinging to him too, and I imagine that’s she’s equally tight and wet. I don’t like her. Her hair is now glistening and beads of sweat seem to be sizzling off her chest. He has his ...