Erica, Luca & The Legend - Sex Stories

Erica, Luca & The Legend

It was a Friday night—three weeks since I’d parted ways with my boyfriend. I’d woken up that morning horny and knowing I needed something better than my silicon dildo that night. That’s how I ended up at the Orange Buffalo after work. Nobody seemed to know where the name arose from, but it was one of the best Friday-night hookup bars in the city.

I’d brought my big, knock-off, YSL purse that morning. It contained, among other things, a top different than the sedate, white poly number that work almost demanded. A quick change in the Ladies turned me out in a multi-colored silk blouse, hanging loose at my waist, unbuttoned to just boob bottom. Bra into my purse along with my panties. They’d been replaced by a string thong—feeling sexy radiates sexy. Rolling up my skirt’s waist brought it several inches above my knees.

I’d lucked out at the bar. There was an unoccupied high-top table for two—I grabbed it. Slowly sipping a vodka Gibson rocks, extra onions, guys stopped by, chatted hopefully, and left after it became clear we were not doing it that night. My Mr. Right had not yet appeared. But soon “he” pulled out the empty stool and sat.

My eyes locked with his. They were a mix of browns with flecks of gold. His hair was medium brown, a bit curly and tousled. I caught a whiff of his cologne, Tom Ford Oud Wood—wonderful. Already things were looking quite promising.

Somehow feeling bewitched, I couldn’t look away. He said, ”Hi, I’m Luca. I just couldn’t let such a ...

... beautiful woman sit alone. If it’s not a crime it should be.”

Feeling almost mesmerized, my brain told me,Okay Erica, this is where you say hi and talk to him. You know you’re easily an eight. You look hot. Just do it! He’s not even staring at your tits.

I prayed my mouth wasn’t hanging open. After a second or two, which seemed an eternity, I finally smiled and said, “Hey, I’m Erica. Nice to meet you.” Then laughingly added, “Feel free to sit down.” I was getting it back together. But his eyes still kept drawing me in.

The waitress came by, somewhat saving me. “I’ll have what she’s having and bring her another. So, what are we drinking?”

As I replied, “Vodka Gibsons,” his eyes finally moved to my boobs. Subtly pulling my shoulders back and twisting a strand of hair, I felt my nips harden. I was already in major lust while trying to discern what must be wrong with him, there had to be something.

We made the usual getting acquainted small talk: the city, where we lived, the weather, work, favorite foods, strayed into politics briefly—we shared common views. Still nothing wrong. By then, we’d finished half our drinks, my second, his first.

Just as there was a short lull in our conversation, the jukebox began playing “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” He stood, extending his hand, no words needed. Starting in the traditional slow dance style, in less than a minute his hands were around my waist, my arms around his neck. He partly hummed, partly softly sang the words in my ...