Bimbette Goes Dancing

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As soon as Bimbette walked out of the night and through the front door, she knew she had found the place she was looking for. It was a small, dark, run-down taproom, in a questionable part of town, population: nine, including the bartender – all male, mostly black with a few white guys.

The worn, dark, wooden bar with its seven stools was straight ahead as she entered. The room was L-shaped, and the long leg, with a half dozen circular tables, ran from side to side. There was a juke box and a tiny dance floor to her right. Behind that, the short leg, with three booths, the rest rooms, a wall-mounted pay phone and the fire exit, formed a back section, extending toward the rear of the building.

The phone was apparently out of service as the receiver was off the hook and dangling limply a foot or two above the floor. The four small windows were badly in need of washing.

There were three men at one table, another table with two guys talking light-heartedly, a couple of young studs perched on stools at the bar and one lone, handsome black fellow, sitting at a table next to the dance floor. They were drinking more from boredom that from compulsion, except for the table of two; they weren’t drinking at all. A baseball game flickered on the television mounted above the bar, but no one was watching. All eyes were, of course, on Bimbette.

She was used to it. Bimbette was a drool-inducing, cock-stiffening redhead. She was big-breasted and long-legged and knew exactly what men liked best. Her plan for the evening was to get seriously and repeatedly fucked and she was dressed accordingly.

Her white halter-top dress was dotted with bright pink hearts. The long, narrow triangles of the top section barely covered her nipples, leaving her dark areolae peeking out at the sides. Below her breasts, a large heart-shaped cut-out with pink piping exposed her stomach down to her navel and beyond. The pleated skirt was so short that it left the lower half of her ass cheeks uncovered and gave the men glimpses of her sheer pink panties as the lacy hem swung and danced with her undulating walk. Her shiny fuchsia pumps with their five-inch stiletto heels screamed ‘HOT WET PUSSY’ so loudly she might as well have been handing out extra-strength viagra to every guy in the place. Hanging from her shoulder was a small white handbag with pink trim.

She sauntered slowly across the room, making eye contact with each of the customers as she went. She began to feel a warm tingling grow in her crotch and her nipples hardened. The men sat speechless, their eyes feasting on Bimbette as if they had never seen a woman before. She chose an empty table near the dance floor, turned a chair sideways to the table and sat, crossing her legs flirtatiously. It seemed the boys liked her dress. She had bought it just today at Samantha’s Sexy Slut Salon, where she worked as a sales clerk. She got a 25% employee discount.

The bartender eyed her suspiciously, but the other men continued to ogle Bimbette in spellbound silence until the dark-skinned man sitting by himself at the next table finally spoke up: “Don’t expect him to come over and ask what you want. It’s pretty much self-service here.” He stood and said: I’m Terrance. Can I get you anything?”

Bimbette let her eyes linger on the growing bulge in his trousers, no more than two feet from her hungry mouth. Her clit and nipples were now beginning to throb with pleasure. She looked up into his face and smiled, then purred, “Oh, you mean something to drink? Sure, thanks. I’d love a vodka martini.”

She wanted the men to have something to watch while Terrance went for her drink, so she pulled out her compact and pretended to study her makeup. It was every bit as slutty as her outfit. Her glossy, blood-red lips and nails matched the color of her hair. Her enormous blue eyes were outlined with dark mascara, highlighted with purple eye shadow and fringed with extra long false eyelashes. She wore huge pink plastic hoop earrings and a matching bead choker. Her thick, teased-up hair flowed to her shoulders in a loose, tousled mass. A few random strands had been woven into long, thin braids and decorated with tiny bows in a variety of colors.

Although she didn’t need to, she reapplied lipstick to her bee-stung lips, just because men find it so sexy to watch. Then, as Terrance waited at the bar, she went over to the juke box and, with her back to the room, leaned over, resting her elbows on the glass, to read the song list. At first, she was just doing it to give the men a show, but then she decided a little music might be a good thing. She fed some money into the machine and selected a few romantic ballads before returning to her seat.

Just as Terrance returned with the martini, the first song came on. It was, of course, not one of the ones Bimbette had chosen. It wasn’t even on the song list. But it was a slow, country-western serenade and perfect for her purposes anyway.

“Oh,” she güvenilir bahis gasped. “My favorite song,” she lied. “And just right for dancing,” she hinted.

Not that Terrance needed the encouragement. All the motivation he needed was straining against the tight fabric of his pants, threatening to burst out of his zipper. He put the glass on the table and extended his hand. “Care to join me?” he offered. “I’m a little out of practice. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bet a handsome guy like you has plenty of practice at the stuff that matters most to a girl like me,” she replied, looking down in feigned modesty, as she gracefully stood up.

Bimbette was of average height but, even in her spike heels, Terrance was a half a head taller. She wasted no time and pressed her body tightly against his, left arm wrapped around his waist, right arm under his left, grasping the back of his neck, hand in his short hair. Her head snuggled against his muscular chest. As they moved slowly in time to the music, she could feel his stiff cock squeezed against her. She made sure to constantly rub firmly against it with her body.

We’ll snuggle in my truck right soon Beneath the big, bright country moon,

crooned the cowboy on the juke box.

“Don’t get many women in here,” Terrance commented. “Mostly this is the kind of place guys come to hang out with other guys, have a drink, watch a game. You know, guy stuff.”

“My kind of bar,” answered Bimbette, looking up at him. “There’s nothing I like better than having a roomful of men all to myself. Having other women around just makes everything too complicated. Would you be dancing with me like this if you had your girlfriend with you?”

“There’d sure be hell to pay, but I’m not sure I could resist,” he answered with a sly grin.

She returned his smile. It faded slowly as they stared into each other’s eyes for long seconds. Then Bimbette parted her lips almost imperceptibly, inviting a kiss. He accepted eagerly, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. She responded in kind. She grabbed his butt firmly with her left hand to hold him even tighter and straddled his right leg, grinding her aching clit against his thigh. At the same time she pushed her body harder against his swollen prick. Erotic passion was welling up in her like a stewpot about to boil over.

She withdrew her mouth from his and pulled his head down so she could whisper in his ear. “I’m going to cum now, Honey Bunch. Very quietly. No one needs to know but you.”

Turning his back to the bar and the rest of the room, so that no one could see what he was doing, Terrance reached under her skirt and grabbed her ass cheeks with both hands. Then, holding the thong panties aside with one hand, he probed between her cheeks with the middle finger of the other. Quickly he found her sweet little sphincter and gently circled it with his finger tip. She groaned softly in his ear, but the music prevented anyone else from hearing.

“Stick it in,” Bimbette pleaded in a breathless murmur.

Slowly, teasingly, Terrance inserted his finger into Bimbette’s rectum, working it in to the second knuckle.

“Please….use two fingers. Two……please…..two,” she begged quietly. So he carefully pushed his index finger into her rectum next to the middle finger.

“Uuuuugggggggghhhhnnnn, Oh God, I need this,” she groaned softly. “All the way,” she whispered desperately. And he pushed both fingers into her as far as they would go. Then, as they kissed sweetly and she writhed slowly on his thigh, he finger-fucked her ass hole in time to the languid beat of the music.

Before the song ended, they had both cum and done a pretty bad job of hiding the fact. Bimbette almost bit through Terrance’s lower lip. Her climax was deliciously intense, but just a taste of the bone crushing bliss she expected later. Still, it was a good start to the evening and enough to satisfy her for a while.

When the music stopped and they separated, Terrance asked, “So, do you frequently dance this kind of dance without even introducing yourself?”

Bimbette realized with surprise that she’d been too horny to take the time to even tell him her name. “Bimbette,” she said, with just the slightest hint of a blush. Then, noticing a wetness spreading across the front of his pants, she nodded at it and suggested, “You might want to go to the men’s room to clean up a bit.”

As Terrance headed toward the rest rooms, the next song started. It was another one she hadn’t chosen. Bimbette picked up her drink and took a big sip as a handsome young blonde-haired stud slid down from his barstool and walked over.

“Looks like your dance partner has deserted you,” he observed. “I’m Stu Bradley,” he said holding out his hand. “Need a new partner?”

“Bimbette,” she answered and took his hand. But, rather than shake it, she pulled him against her, hugged him firmly and began to sway to the music. Not surprisingly, she could feel his rigid türkçe bahis manhood pressed solidly against her abdomen.

From the juke box, a blues-tinged girl’s voice complained:

If I cain’t get my man to come runnin’ to woo me, I know he’s with Tammy, or some other floozy.

“Bimbette?” Stu asked. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“Just Bimbette,” she answered. “An only name.”

As they talked, Bimbette’s hands were exploring his body, and his hands were all over her. Soon, they fell silent and began to nibble on each others’ lips, rocking slightly to the slow music. Then their tongues began a slow dance, mirroring their movements on the dance floor. Stu wasn’t quite as tall as Terrance and that made him a lot easier to kiss. Over his shoulder, Bimbette could see the bartender scowling and the other six men watching in drooling fascination. They were all, of course, rock hard. One by one, she returned their stares as if to say: Line up boys; your turns are coming.

Bimbette turned Stu so that his back was to the bar, then slowly, surreptitiously, pulled down his fly and slipped her hand into his pants and through the opening in his shorts to find his stiff love stick. It was bigger than she imagined and a shiver of delight ran down her spine as she gripped it firmly. She began to pump it slowly up and down in time with the music and he moaned and held her a little tighter.

“Come with me, baby,” she whispered and began to gradually slow-dance toward the back section of the room. Before long, they were around the corner, out of the bartender’s sight. Quickly, she dragged him over to the pay phone, pulled his cock out through his open zipper and turned him to face the wall. Then, positioning herself behind him and reaching around him with both arms, she clutched his throbbing hard-on with a two-handed grip and began to stroke it lovingly. “Try to keep it down so the bartender can’t hear,” she breathed in his ear.

Stu was so aroused and needed to cum so badly, he felt like his prick was going to explode. He bent forward and put one hand against the phone’s coin box to support his weight. Within a matter of seconds, giant gobs of semen erupted powerfully from his engorged cock and spattered against the wall with such force that much of it sprayed back over his pants and shoes. The rest drooled thickly down the wall and onto the floor.

As the song ended, Terrance ambled out of the men’s room, saw Stu and commented in his best falsetto, “You might want to go to the men’s room to clean up a bit.”

Bimbette giggled, kissed Stu warmly, then took Terrance’s arm and strolled back around the corner to the main part of the room, grabbing her martini as she passed the table. The bartender, who seemed momentarily confused that Bimbette had gone around the corner with one guy and come back with another, scowled some more. But he was busy drawing a pitcher of beer, and didn’t come out from behind the bar to investigate.

“Let me introduce you to a few of these other guys,” offered Terrance, escorting her toward a table occupied by three large black men. Another song, also not one of Bimbette’s selections, started. “This is Freddy,” said Terrance, indicating an older, balding fellow. “And Winslow,” nodding toward a lean, younger man with a wild afro. “And this is Kevin,” another young guy, but broad-shouldered, with a neat goatee. “Boys, this gorgeous piece of girl-flesh, this heavenly vision of earthly pleasure, this wet-dream come true, is Bimbette.”

“Glad to meet you, Miss Bimbette,” said Freddy. “Join us. Have a seat.”

“That’s kind of you. I’d love to,” answered Bimbette and sat daintily across Freddy’s lap, her arm draped around his thick neck. She could feel his stiff pecker pressed against the side of her ass. She wiggled a little, and he winced, drew a sharp breath and then closed his eyes and smiled a small smile. He slid his hand under her almost non-existent dress and into her damp panties. She spread her legs eagerly and he quickly located her stiff clit, rolling it gently between his nimble fingers. She leaned toward him and, taking his head in both hands began to smooch desperately.

After a few seconds she suddenly stood up, stepped over his thighs and sat back down facing him and straddling his lap with her pink pumps planted firmly on the floor. She ground her crotch against his in time to the rhythm of the new song, which was more up-tempo than the first two.

The singer, a guy with a good voice and a redneck drawl, whined:

My baby’s a tramp, A cheap, cheatin’ vamp. Kept a list of her boyfriends, But got writer’s cramp.

Bimbette wrapped both arms around Freddy’s broad chest and they began kissing again. Her tiny skirt flew up each time she slid down along the hard cock trapped inside his pants. He grabbed her ass cheeks to ensure that she continued her enthusiastic lap dance. Her rigid clitoris sang in thrilling throbbing harmony with the thumping tune.

Just güvenilir bahis siteleri as Freddy and Bimbette were about to enjoy the consummation of their new-found love, the bartender grabbed her left arm, not roughly, but solidly, and said, “I don’t think we can let you do that, Miss. You see, we have a girl who comes in five nights a week and does the lap dancing. It’s sort of an exclusive relationship we have with her and I don’t think she’d like another girl come in here, stealing her customers and taking money that ought to go to her.”

Bimbette was actually flattered when people took her for a professional. After all it meant that they thought she was attractive enough that men would pay to have sex with her. And why should she be ashamed of her particular expertise? But she decided this would be a good time to act insulted.

“Money?” she fumed. “You think I take money for making guys feel good? What kind of girl do you take me for? I’m just having a little fun, and I never take money when I’m having fun. And I’m never not having fun when I’m making a man feel good.”

“Still, Miss,” he answered adamantly “I’m going to have to ask you to keep your hands off of these guys. Brandi wouldn’t like it. Come on boys, tell her what Brandi’s like when she’s pissed.”

At first no one said anything. Then Winslow spoke up, “No offense. We like Brandi. She’s really sexy and all, but she’s not here tonight.”

To her right, Bimbette could just make out Terrance’s whisper to Kevin, “Brandi couldn’t carry this girl’s lipstick.” The bartender, on her other side, was too far away to hear the remark over the music.

After another brief, but awkward silence, Bimbette offered, “You know, darling, I think if we could talk privately, I could get you to see that I mean no harm.” She stood up, took both of the bartender’s hands in hers, pursed her bright red lips into a heart-melting, prick-hardening pout and asked, “Isn’t there someplace we can talk quietly?”

“There’s the stock room, behind the bar,” he replied cautiously.

“Great idea,” Bimbette enthused and gently tugged him in the direction of the bar. As they walked, she placed his arm around her waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Running a public establishment like this is such a responsibility. But I don’t even know your name. Tell me your name, Sweetie.”

“Sebastian,” he answered reluctantly, “but everyone calls me ‘Biff’.”

“Well, I’m going to call you ‘Sebastian’,” she insisted. “Biff is not a responsible person’s name. Sebastian is. Like Johan Sebastian Bach, or, or…Sebastian Cabot, or… John Sebastian.

You must work very hard, Sebastian,” she said admiringly. Then, turning her head to look at Freddy and his friends as she and Sebastian passed behind the bar and into the stock room, “You sweet boys stay where you are. Don’t you be wandering off now.”

The stock room was a dark, grimy, spider-infested space, lit by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling on a fraying cord. It was crowded with a shambles of ancient advertising posters, heaps of empty beer bottles, broken glass and unidentifiable refuse. In one corner was a pile of splintered furniture, probably busted up in a long-ago brawl. Distributed randomly throughout the chaos Bimbette could see aluminum kegs, cases of beer and liquor, cartons of cigarettes and other supplies. Thank God they don’t serve food, she thought.

They closed the door behind them and stood in a small relatively uncluttered area nearby. Bimbette turned to face Sebastian, no more than a foot away, and clasped her hands behind her back, thrusting her breasts out seductively. They were perfectly round, like a cantaloupe cut in half and placed high and proud on her chest. And they never sagged, not even slightly.

As she stood in front of Sebastian, her rock-hard nipples made clearly visible lumps in the flimsy fabric of her dress, as if they were little cadets standing stiffly to attention while awaiting inspection. He couldn’t have pried his eyes loose from those nipples if the bar were on fire.

“I’m just trying to bring a little comfort and happiness to those lonely boys out there. You don’t want to stand in the way of that, do you Sebastian…..Honeybunch?” Bimbette murmured. She looked up into his face, lowered her lids slightly, made a couple of little kissing motions with her pretty mouth and began to eye-fuck him. He fell into the bright blue of her large eyes and almost drowned there. His big pussy probe became painfully bloated and began to demand its release from his pants-prison.

Bimbette slowly sank to a crouch and stated to nibble delicately on his iron rod right through the cloth of his pants, being careful not to smear them with her glossy lipstick. He groaned loudly, went a little weak at the knees and grabbed the back of her head with both hands. Knowing how urgent his need had become, she unzipped his fly in a coy, unhurried tease.

But his cock make a sudden break for freedom, sprang out and smacked her hard, just beside her nose and stood straight up, at least twelve inches tall and disproportionately thick, swaying slightly back and forth before her widening eyes. She gasped at its magnificent size and suddenly began to share his urgency.

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