Date Night

by Frank Jackson

Copyright© 2012 by Frank Jackson

Erotica Sex Story: Two women conspire to secuce men only to have the tables turn on themselves. An accidental climax at their favorite club opened a new horizon, but exploring it would not be without consequences.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa   Reluctant   Lesbian   Masturbation   Exhibitionism   Public Sex   .

I met Tara while out clubbing. We became regulars at this one spot and sort of hit it off. You might say our favorite game became looking for a "hard" man. It was fun joking about it, and taking turns dancing with any guy willing to ask. Then, during an intermission between sets one Friday night, I noticed my friend Tara squirming in her seat. When questioned, just said she can't wait. I didn't know what she meant by that, not until I watched her arrange herself in her chair, slips a hand between her thighs and allow her orgasm burst.

I never said anything, not then at least. Tara, having relieved herself, seemed to have lost all interest in pursuing men. We stayed until closing, but I did not succeed in finding a male companion worthy of taking home with me.

Normally we parted in the cab when it reached my apartment building. That night I invited my companion up for another drink. Without any discussion of how the rest of the night might go, Tara agreed. We went up to the apartment, kicked off our shoes and opened a bottle of wine.

"Well, here's to another busted evening."

"Seems to becoming a pattern."

"Yeah," she shrugged. "Perhaps for the best. Men do tend to complicate things."

"Can't argue with that. I mean by now we would be trying to find a way to get rid of them."

"And then it's the whole 'will he call?' bit. Then, 'how do we let them down easy?' hassle."

"Or, we liked it and how do we get another shot?"

"Thank-god for dildos!"


After a pause in the conversation, I just had to ask; "So, about that thing earlier? Does that happen often?"


"You know. That spontaneous climax thing."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that."

"You're supposed to take care of that before you go out."

"Yeah, well I usually do. And usually I end up alone. I started wondering if that made me less hungry, if you know what I mean. Today I abstained. I, um, abstained all week, in fact. Dancing got me going pretty much the way I planned it, but when I felt that one guy's erection nudging me ... I guess that's all it took."

"Jeez, Tara, I'm sorry," I said.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know, but, I mean it must have been embarrassing to, you know, orgasm in public like that."

My friend declined to comment at that, and I used the silent moment to refill our glasses. I began wishing I hadn't invited Tara in. I was in the mood to masturbate, and not for the first time that night. I thought it a bit strange the way she glanced at me while I poured. It was as if she were trying to sent me a telepathic message.

Then I realized that was exactly what she was not trying to do. The tingle and perspiration that comes with such pregnant pauses hit me. I sat heavily on the sofa, sipping my wine, hoping the sensation would pass, or that Tara would change the subject.

She did, finally, by apologizing for putting me in the position of being there as it happened. All I could do was shrug my shoulders. Suddenly I realized I no more wanted to change the topic of conversation anymore than I wanted Tara to go home. I had to be truthful with myself; Tara's public orgasm turned me on, and I did not want to be turned off.

"It didn't bother me." I said, looking into my glass. "I wasn't the one on display."

"Do you think anyone else knew what has happening?"

"No." I could not help looking at Tara from foot to face, like a guy might, and back down, contemplating the swell of her bosom, the flair of her hips, legs tucked up under her bottom, lifting the hem of her skirt enough to show the black panties she wore.

Tara was older than I, but not by much. Slender and thin faced, she was neither tall nor petite. Her face was pretty, but not in a soft way; not my round baby face. The silk blouses she normally wore neither hid nor accentuated her breasts. They were evident without being flaunted. Never showing cleavage, the way I try to. Its hard to display what you don't have, if you know what I mean. And whether she wore skirts or pants, she never showed too much leg. That night she wore thigh-high stockings, black, so that only a few inches of her milky thighs were visible. In that moment I thought she never looked sexier.

"Just me," I whispered into my glass, as if it were a secret. Then I shot my mouth off. "It was quite the show."

Tara snickered under her breath. "Well, I'm okay now. I think I can control myself, for a few minutes anyway."

"Oh, sure," I said, hoping it went over as friend joshing friend, "You've had your fun., but what about me?"

Tara drained her glass. "I suppose it would serve me right to have to endure the sight of your enjoyment."

"I might need another glass of wine if you expect me to perform." The very fact I entertained the idea was enough to tell me the spirits were already working their magic. Having to open another bottle should have been a warning sign, but I was curious about the track the evening was taking. I could always blame any next-day regrets on the wine.

That rationale gave me power, I guess. I filled our glasses too full, and asked Tara if she minded my changing into more comfortable attire. Jeans may be cool and all, but they are a bit too heavy for pleasing one's own libido. She said no, and without thinking about it I made a show of pealing my pants off.

Even as I did it, I had no idea where I was going with it. Yes, I was horny. Yes, I was drunk. And, yes, Tara shifting positions egged me on. She turned more directly facing me, opening her bent legs so that now I could see the crotch of her panties, and the stray pubic hair escaping the confines of their crotch. She leaned back against her end of the sofa's arm to be more comfortable. I copied her pose on my end of the couch, at least long enough to stroke my thighs in what I hoped was an alluring manner.

To my surprise, the excitement I felt in my chest spread to my loins. Suddenly my pussy tingled with that familiar desire usually reserved for intimate moments alone. Apparently I had become comfortable enough with Tara's friendship to allow this to happen.

And, yes, I was drunk. But so was Tara. Perhaps neither of us would remember this moment the next day.

I was sure that if I so much as touched a finger to my clit the show would be over. I'd be satisfied and would have made the night an even-steven event, but I did not want it to be over so quickly. I was not in a hurry for Tara to drink up and leave. Something had made time with her precious.

Besides, I wanted her to feel the arousal I felt when she climaxed in that bar.

So I worked my bare legs; scissoring, stretching, grinding my hips. Arousal grew in the core of me, driving the need for more direct labial contact. I held off. Or tried to. My breathing deepened. Twinges signaled the onset of orgasm, yet I delayed. I looked to Tara for some sign of encouragement. Her intent gaze, focused on my crotch, was all it took to flip my switch.

That's when I splayed my legs, holding them apart with my hands. My belly tightened in a painful knot, and my hips twitched spastically. I threw my head back, unwilling to look Tara in the eye at that moment of weakness and vulnerability. It was enough to have to admit to myself that I had succumbed to the unthinkable; allowing another female to witness my orgasm.

I could feel the discharge leaking from my vulva, running down the crack of my ass, and that brought reality back to my world. Sitting up I gathered my legs and my senses, giggled pitifully and gave Tara a shrug. Her teeth held her lower lip for a moment before she mouthed "wow" and toasted me with her wine glass.

"Yeah," I said, raising my glass in response. "I've never done that before."

Tara proved speechless. Her eyes looked me over as if seeing me anew. We drank in silence. I didn't bother dressing again. It was my place, after all. Tara leaned forward enough to slide a hand over my bare knee before emptying the bottle in our glasses. I don't know what that meant, but when she finished her wine she stood to leave.

After calling a cab, she said; "Well, tonight was fun. We should do it again sometime. Soon."

I wasn't sure what that meant, either. Without acknowledging it to my self, I guess I hoped she meant what she said, and I did not delve into deciphering which part of the night she referred to. I was left to wonder. Would Tara prove special, or did our friendship arrive at the beginning of the end?

I suspected sleep to elude me that night, but the wine saved me from hours of circumspection, and daily routine kept me from dwelling on the details and emotions of that night. As the week wore on the matter evaporated from my mind. Friday came as it always did, I automatically drifted to the club Tara and I frequented. Still, I was puzzled to see her there. She was chatting up the bartender, as usual, and gave me her usual wave. We ordered a first round and found a table, waiting for the band to start.

Our normal topic of conversation revolved around adventures at our separate work places, and so it was this night. Until the subject was exhausted. Then an awkward silence replaced the witty observations of other patrons that seem to be our forte. We have seen some strange things at that bar, but at that moment I guess we were the odd-balls; at least in our own minds.

I leaned back in my chair and looked around - not really seeing anything. It was my way of telling my companion that if there needed airing of whatever happened between us, it was up to her as "big sister." She didn't take the hint, and her silence continued even after the band played its opening set. I knew something was up, though, when Tara turned down an invitation to dance.

I shot her the palms up, mouth agape "what's up" mime. My brunette friend looked away from me, then back into my eyes. She leaned on the table and toyed with her drink. Finally she shook her head and started talking.

"I guess neither of us can deny something happened last week. I don't know about you, but I haven't been able to get it out of my mind."

I felt sorry for her, because I had. I was ready to let it all go.

"I know it was all an accident. You know, and one thing leads to another. But, and I hope you don't find this repulsive, and I couldn't blame you if you did, I actually enjoyed it all. All this chasing guys seems bland now. Sure, it's fun to turn them on and see how far we can take it, but last time I just got such a rush getting hot myself, and letting it happen right here, with everyone around. God damn, Cher, I think that might have been the best orgasm I've ever had."

I'd sat up by then. The waitress came by and we reordered. I wanted to hear more, but not so the whole place could hear.

"So? What are you saying?"

"I don't know." Tara threw her hands up. "I think I want to do it again. Maybe ramp it up a little. And believe me, I would never involve you. I mean, I don't expect you to have to witness that again." She threw it out with a shake of the head and a spit of air, then got seriously gloomy again.

"It's just, well, you kind of hinted that it turned you on. And then later at your place, my heart ached when I watched you get off. I felt bad that I might have instigated that, but got totally turned on by it at the same time."

"No, really," she said when my jaw dropped. "Swear-to-god. I had to masturbate after I left. I'm not gay or anything, but just knowing how wonderful you were feeling right at that moment made me horny all over again."

"You masturbated again when you got home?" My disbelief was fake; the shock of it being over me made my head spin.

"I couldn't actually wait that long," Tara admitted. "But what I'm trying to say, Cher, is that I don't want to get you involved in my perversity - if that's even a word. I mean, maybe I should find another table or something. That way you can find another friend, a normal one, or even a guy. I'll finish my drink first, of course."

So we sat there sipping fresh drinks in silence. A guy did come over and ask for a dance, but we both blew him off. Then, as Tara drained her glass, I reached for her hand.

"Stay," I told her. "I can chase men anytime." I was afraid that if she left now I might never see her again. "What you want to do sounds like fun, if a bit perverted," I told her. "I might have to try it myself. You'll have to give me some pointers, but if what you say is true, then why not?"

"Hey, I don't have any pointers. I just let nature take its course. Thanks, Cher, for understanding. Order us some more drinks. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" I asked innocently.

"To take my panties off," she said.

I felt the color drain from my face as I watched her stand and walk off, that short, black skirt, so tight around her thighs. In the spirit of the moment I slid a hand into the crotch of my slacks. I would have kept it up until her return but a dance invite interrupted my fun. Somewhat aroused, I accepted.

Tara returned to the table while I danced. She did not sit, but stood at the railing behind her seat to watch me. Her gaze set me afire, and my moves took on a seductive aspect my partner clearly appreciated. I hoped showing my midriff and underarms had the same effect on Tara. I didn't do it as a gay move, simply my contribution to her mood.

The way she pressed her hips to the rail, making barely noticeable pelvic hitches against it, told me I had accomplished my mission.

After turning down my partner's offer of another dance, I returned to the table, sat sipping my drink and watching Tara's antics. Careful not to face me directly, my friend turned her back to the dance floor. Leaning against the railing she posed for customers at tables beyond us. Head down, her slightly curled black hair hung in her face, like bee's legs. The way she fidgeted was telling.

Every woman in the place, and perhaps half the men, would recognize it for what it was if they cared to notice. My inside knowledge not withstanding, it was clear that Tara manipulated her humming loins with her thighs. Now her skirt seemed shorter than it had been, its hem not six inches from the naked prize within. Her blouse, I noticed, was held closed by one less button, the lapels laid back to show the swells of her 36B boobs.

I knew the size of her breasts only through casual girl-talk. While not large, the way her top lay over them made them quite evident. A surreptitious glance over the crowd told me she did, indeed, have an audience. Whether Tara actually knew that eyes were on her, I cannot say, but the tenor of her body was the tip-off as to what happened next.

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