Butterfly Book 2: Sherry and Crissy
Chapter 2: Dear Diary - Wilder Night Out

Copyright© 2013 by Sweet Sherry

True Story Sex Story: Chapter 2: Dear Diary - Wilder Night Out - The continuing story of a young woman finding out who she really is and what she really wants. A darker sequel to Butterfly Book I.

Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   ft/ft   Consensual   Coercion   Lesbian   BiSexual   True Story   Cheating   Sister   FemaleDom   Light Bond   Humiliation   Group Sex   Masturbation   Petting   Sex Toys   Squirting   Cream Pie   Exhibitionism   Public Sex  

I'm typing this on my laptop in a busy airport terminal, waiting for a flight that will bring me to DC and Jen and, hopefully, to some measure of peace for my troubled mind. In the meantime, I've got to try and sort out everything that's happened over the last 7 days, try to make sense of it all, try to convince myself that I haven't gone completely crazy.

I can't believe what happened to me, or rather what I let happen to me. And I really can't believe what I actively did. I don't know if Kyle could ever forgive me, IF I can ever bring myself to tell him what happened. Heck, it's hard for me to admit it to myself. But confession is supposed to be good for the soul, so I'll try...

I knew Kyle didn't believe me the Thursday before last when I called to cancel our Friday night plans. I told him that a client needed entertaining on very short notice. It seemed like a reasonable excuse – Crissy is kind of like a client, I guess. Weak attempt at rationalization, I know.

Kyle knew something was wrong. While we talked, his tone went from the usual playful banter to short and serious statements. I tried to act normal and suggested that he take the opportunity to hang out with his buddies and play video games or something. He wasn't buying it, and sounded downright suspicious by the time we hung up.

How can I possibly earn his trust back now? What a dumbass I am! But I was so craving Crissy all day, I just wasn't thinking straight (pardon the pun).

When I got to the office that Friday morning (was it only a week ago???), the first thing I did was check my email to see if Crissy had replied to my RSVP for the evening. To my disappointment, she had not.

As much as I wanted to hear back from her, I really needed to catch up on the accounts I'd been ignoring all week, so I decided not to check my personal email from the office again during the day. But before I closed the browser, I copied all of the photos of Crissy flashing and orgasming in the university library down to my computer's hard drive, looking them over one more time in the process.

I was actually able to get some work done after that. However, my dirty mind was still churning so persistently that I had to be careful not to accidently say anything inappropriate during my sales calls.

Most of my department goes out for lunch on Fridays. I stopped by the lady's room on the way out. There was nobody else in there, so in another burst of naughty, I removed my panties and stuffed them into my purse, tingling to go out without them. Then I realized that if I brought them along in my purse, I'd be able to change my mind and put them back on at the restaurant. That wasn't daring enough. So before meeting Amy and Camille in the parking lot, I stopped by my office and stashed my panties in the desk drawer.

My lack of undies was all I could think about while chatting with everyone at lunch. Of course, I was wearing a calf-length skirt and nobody could see anything unless they looked closely at my backside and noticed that my panty lines had disappeared. But the important thing was that I knew, and the freedom under my clothes felt deliciously naughty. Nothing compared to what I'd done at Vecino Beach, but naughty nonetheless.

My email prohibition ended when I walked out of the office at the end of the day. I checked for a reply from Crissy as soon as I got home, and sure enough, Crissy had emailed to say that she'd meet me at an alternative club that night at 11PM. This was disappointing, as it was still only 5-something.

I considered calling Kyle and saying my entertaining duties had been cancelled, figuring that I could relieve some sexual tension with a little quickie and still make my late appointment with Crissy. But I didn't – Kyle just knows me too well. He'd be even more suspicious and ask me what was really going on, and I wouldn't have been able to keep lying.

Knowing what I know now, I wish I would have picked up the phone, gone out with Kyle, and forgotten about the whole Crissy thing. If so, I wouldn't be sitting red-eyed in the airport right now, wondering how I'm going to put my life back together. But, of course, I didn't.

I warmed up some leftovers and ate like a hungry wolf. It was still only 5:45. Then I cleaned the kitchen. 6:22. Next I dusted and vacuumed the whole apartment. 7:17. Time was just crawling.

There was more cleaning I could have done, but I didn't want to tire myself out, so I sat down and dialed up a few old friends I've been meaning to call. I reached two voice mails before getting stuck listening to a high school acquaintance's husband's spiel about how he could "get (me) into a new hot tub for less than $50 a month." I bet he'd like to try.

As soon as I disengaged the shyster from my ear, my fingers automatically flew across the keypad to call the someone whose voice I really wanted to hear in my near-manic condition: Jennie.

She was out to dinner with a "friend from work". In my wired state, I suspected that she was trying to hide the fact that she was on a hot date. "Is he cute?" I asked, whispering conspiratorially for no apparent reason. "Use code words if you don't wanna talk in front of him."

Jen shushed me, saying it was "nothing like that", but I still didn't believe her.

I wished her "good lick, I mean, good luck," and she laughed and asked why I was being such a "hyper horndog". Man, I was tempted to spill the beans about Crissy, but I copied her response, saying only that it was "nothing like that".

We laughed again, I admitted that I really miss her, she said, "My casa is su casa, come up any time", I giggled at Jennie's mangled Spanglish, and we said goodbye. I looked at the clock: 9:01. I couldn't wait any longer to start getting ready.

A nice long shower is supposed to be relaxing, but not last night. I scrubbed myself a little more then necessary and was pleased to note that the Brazilian wax job was holding up very well. Inspecting down there led to a little rubbing, but I stopped myself, careful not to rub too much, as I wanted to save that for later. So when I dried off, I was still wet, in a way.

Opening my closet released a swirl of doubts about my adventure. Crissy is a college freshman, maybe 6 or 7 years younger than me. My college clothes still fit quite nicely, thank you, but they're not quite in-style among the MTV crowd. Heck, I don't even think they still watch MTV.

That made me pause; what was I getting myself into? Maybe I was playing the fool, trying to act younger than I was, trying to be hip among alt.trendy college kids but setting myself up to look pathetic. Come to think of it, maybe that's exactly what happened. But I pushed my doubts aside and carefully combed through my wardrobe.

I considered wearing the teeny black dress I'd worn out with Kyle to Beach Bunnies and Wendy's that fateful night, but decided against it - it's too formal and too desperate, all at the same time. Besides, it reminded me too much of Kyle. Too many reminders and I wouldn't have been able to go through with the rendezvous.

Figuring that simple was better, I ended up going with a pair of low-cut jeans and a white button-down long sleeve blouse, which I tied off to show just a hint of skin above the belt (no love handles, I'm still happy to report). I'm usually not a big fan of boots, but I recently bought a pair that aren't too high and are comfy for walking or dancing, so I thought what the hell. Underneath, I went with a plain white bra and my "good luck charm": the micro-g bottoms.

By 9:45, I was practically bursting with anticipation. So, telling myself that it'd be best to leave early to find a parking spot, I was out the door. Once outside, tho, I found myself looking around for Kyle. This rendezvous with Crissy was borderline cheating (ok, more than borderline) and guilt threatened to ruin the fun. So I tried to shove my misgivings aside and focus on the wicked anticipation building in my chest. I worked – as I pulled my car onto the main road, the tires squealed with eagerness. Once again, I was STUPID!

Crissy had set up our meeting for a club in the Warehouse District, that section of town where a bunch of old brick buildings have been converted into bars and clubs and restaurants. Kyle and I used to hang out pretty frequently in the "WD" when we first moved back from college, but not so much recently. A few of our friends still head down there occasionally, tho. I found a place to park (not difficult, but expensive) and hurried down the loud and bustling sidewalk, hoping not to see anyone that I know and generally avoiding eye contact.

I was supposed to meet Crissy at a place called Eon, which even I know is that weird club in an old castle-esque building where the goth kids hang out. It seemed to be just opening when I peeked inside around 10:30. While the heavy bass of throbbing techno music rumbled the old bricks, the place looked practically empty. Crissy hardly seemed like the type of person to be early, so instead of paying the cover charge and waiting alone in uncomfortable surroundings, I decided to station myself in the alcove of a vacant storefront across the street. This gave me a perfect view of Eon's imposing wooden portico while I remained tucked away, mostly out of sight.

Like the song says, "the waiting is the hardest part". I distracted myself with some people watching to pass the time. There were certainly plenty of people to watch in the passing pageant, with all manner of styles and lifestyles on display. But pretty much everybody was under 30, with the majority probably around 21 – just past the drinking age, of course.

There were also plenty of teenagers hanging out in packs. I guess they thought it was cool to be seen in such grown-up surroundings, especially if they could get one of those passing "grown-ups" to buy them a beer. My mother never let me hang out in the WD (or any place like it) when I was their age, and never let me even think about leaving my room wearing clothes similar to the trashy "hoochie-mama" outfits most of the girls were wearing. Heck, she wouldn't have let me wear those clothes in my room.

Those girls had it going on – short miniskirts or super-tight jeans, high heels or platform shoes, big hoop earrings, and lots of finger-wagging, hip-swinging attitude. They hung out in packs, leaning against walls and railings, talking loud and snapping gum or smoking cigarettes. They had the attention of most of the males in the area, whether or not they were in the same age category. And, I must admit, they had my attention as well.

Watching them also brought that relentless "I'm too old for this" fear back to the front burner of my mind. What was I doing there? Sure, there were lots of people my own age around, but none of them were heading into the goth palace across the way. I wouldn't guess that too many twenty-something proper professionals were anxiously awaiting their college freshman lesbian hookup, either.

And as the old clock tower struck eleven, and then a quarter after, with no sign of my "hookup" anywhere, I began to feel like an idiot. The rational side of me figured I'd been stood up and wanted to go home right away; the irrational side wanted to wait some more. So the sides made a deal: I stepped out of my hiding spot into the flow of walkers and decided that I'd leave when the first guy delivered a cheesy pick-up line.

It looked like my adventure was about to come to a close when a drunken middle-aged loser paused across the street, looked me over lecherously, and stumbled in my direction. But then my heart leapt – Crissy had come around the corner. (In hindsight, that loser should have stumbled faster.)

Crissy was at the head of a pack of a half dozen goth-y college kids. Her companions (2 guys, 3 girls) wore black tops with either laughably wide-legged and raggedy black jeans or long lacey black skirts, all with unnecessary metal chains and things and clunky black boots. Boys and girls alike were done up with black fingernails and eyeliner and a variety of spiky, oily, and/or oddly dyed hair-dos. They also had more metal poking out of piercings through various body parts than I kept in my jewelry box – must be lots of fun for them to go through airport security. They looked ridiculous, like overdressed extras from a Marilyn Manson video.

But Crissy's outfit wasn't quite as out there. While the others were pretty much covered from neck to calf (at least), Crissy was wearing a tight black multi-layered miniskirt raggedly cut to a couple inches above the knee. She paired that with a black lacey half-sleeve top that clung tight to her skinny torso like a second skin and was just short enough to let her single bellybutton piercing glitter in the streetlights. While she wore black boots like her friends, they were very similar to mine - stylish and sexy rather than the clunky combat variety. And her hair was a (relatively) conservative shade of dark purple, cut boyishly short as always to show off a reasonable number of extra piercings up and around her ears. And a new (I think) but tasteful little diamond glittered on the left side of her nose.

One look at the confidently assertive way she carried herself among her grubby posse and I could tell Crissy was in charge. It was like she was winning a game that the others didn't even know they were playing. God, that chick turned me on.

I practically skipped across the street calling her name like an idiot. While the others looked over like I was somebody's mom trying to break up their fun, Crissy gave me a big grin, threw her arms around me and locked her lips to mine. I wasn't expecting that, but reflexively opened my mouth to let in her probing tongue. We played tonsil-hockey on the crowded sidewalk for what seemed like forever, an island of lust in a flowing stream of humanity. The stream paused to watch, tho, and I think I heard a little hooted encouragement. At that moment, I wasn't worried about who might be passing by.

Finally we disconnected and I almost fell backwards with lightheadedness. She laughed and grabbed my hand and I guess she paid my cover charge because next thing I knew, we were all sitting at a teeny round table inside of Eon's loud and black-lit interior.

Crissy's friends ordered drinks and started puffing odd-smelling little cigarettes. Crissy handed me a glass but didn't introduce me to anyone. I sat nursing the unidentified beverage for a few minutes, feeling ignored and uncomfortable as they chatted about common friends and art classes and other stuff that I couldn't decipher. I didn't fit in with those weirdoes at all, and the rational side of my brain was once again suggesting that I head on home. I was about to tell Crissy that I'd see her another time when she grabbed my hand and got everyone's attention.

"Forgot to mention," she almost shouted to be heard over the music, "this is Sherry. She's my new cuntlicker!"

My face must have turned beet red, but the others just nodded in my direction and went back to their conversation, acting like they'd just been told I was Crissy's new neighbor or something.

Despite their lack of response, Crissy grinned wickedly at me, watching for my reaction, daring me to contradict her. I didn't know what to do, so I just stuck out my tongue, trying to play it off. "Yeah, that's her cuntlicker right there!" she countered. I smiled weakly and gulped the rest of my drink, shocked and offended but with a warm tingle beginning to glow between my thighs.

As their conversation resumed, Crissy casually referred to me as her "cuntlicker" a few more times, each time glancing over to check for my reaction. My face burned in silence as I felt her friends appraising me with covert looks. I was quietly getting hornier by the minute.

Eventually, one of the girls commented to Crissy that "your new cuntlicker is cuter than the last one".

I didn't have time to decipher that statement before Crissy replied. "Yeah, and this slut looks even better with my cunt juice all over her face."

"Ooo, I'd like to see that!" one of the guys responded. They were talking like I wasn't even there.

Now that she had them interested, Crissy kept talking about me and my supposed "fetishes". She shared the fact that I "had a thing" for flashing in public and that I "had totally gotten off in front of a bunch of kids at the beach." That drew a laugh, and a girl in Crissy's entourage asked what she meant.

Crissy eagerly jumped right into the story of how she'd exposed and molested me on the beach last weekend for a young audience, using the words "frigged" and "slut" at least a dozen times each by the time she'd gotten to the part when my "pussy gushed all over the sand". I braced for her to tell them how I'd gone back to kiss that girl and get stripped by those two boys. I was both relived and oddly disappointed she didn't mention that part at all; I guess she really hadn't seen me do that. She did, however, tell her friends all about the great job I did licking her pussy back at the beach house, tho I noticed that she didn't mention Kyle at all, either.

It was pretty clear why Crissy had invited these gothy tag-alongs to our rendezvous. Once again, she was "molesting" me in front of an audience, tho this time it was storytime instead of live performance art. And I couldn't argue, because everything she was saying was the truth.

What I don't fully understand is why I didn't leave in a huff during her lengthy and humiliating retelling of my shameful behavior. On the contrary, I sat glued to the chair, silently listening and feeling warmer and warmer deep inside. I even wanted to prove that she was right about me being a "slut", prove it right then and there; I wanted her to "frig" me again in front of everyone, I wanted her to make me scream and squirt right there in that dingy club.

Crissy must've known it, too. She knew exactly which buttons to press, that manipulative bitch. Right after repeating to her friends that "this slut's quim squirts like a fucking fountain", she grabbed me by the back of the head and mashed my mouth into hers. I liked it that her friends were watching us make out, I loved it that she groped my tits; first through my blouse and then inside of it after she'd unfastened some buttons, then into my bra as her hand wedged beneath the underwire.

I felt the bra straps go slack right before Crissy sat back, waving a hand in my direction like those models showing off merchandise on the "Price is Right" game show. "Not bad, huh?" she asked her friends as I realized that she'd managed to open my blouse and pop my boobs completely out of my bra, putting them on display below the empty cups. My open white top and empty bra glowed brightly in the black lights, framing my bare skin in the middle. For the first time, her friends actually looked kinda shocked.

Of course, I didn't cover up, even as I felt my nipples stiffen under their gaze. Actually, if Crissy would have asked me to at that moment, I would crawled under the table and let her companions watch my tongue do its job on her slit, then sit contentedly topless at her side to let them judge exactly how "cute" I really was with her wet on my face.

But she didn't. Crissy suddenly told her friends that she'd see them later ("I've got some fucking to do!") and led me by the hand out the door and onto the sidewalk as I frantically tried to fix my clothes. "We've gotta sexy up your outfit," she declared, guiding me into a clubwear boutique a few storefronts down the block.

The place was stocked with all kinds of outfits from gothy gear to slinky club dresses, most of them exotically naughty. Crissy flew through the racks like a whirling dervish, quickly browsing through lots of barely-there items, rejecting each one before I could do so myself.

Then she found a white micro-miniskirt and held it up in triumph. It was multi-layered and lacey and stretchy and had thin lace panels running up the sides. "This is perfect!" she declared. I said it was two sizes too small but she ignored me, holding it up against my waist. The thing didn't even reach the bottom of the pockets of my jeans. Plus, with the lace up the sides, it would show off a wide swatch of skin up my outer thighs to my waist.

I told her no again but she's so damn persistent. So we made a deal; I'd buy them, but I wouldn't put them on ... yet. At the cash register, she also placed a package of some kind of paint on the counter (for me to pay for, of course). She wouldn't say what it was for, just grinned like a Cheshire cat. I whipped out my plastic without asking any more questions. In another minute, I left the store with a small shopping bag, a lighter pocket, and my dignity still mostly intact. For the moment, anyway...

Crissy was ready to hit more clubs, but I wanted to put the shopping bag in my car so I wouldn't have to carry it around. She didn't like that idea, I could tell by the way she trudged along to the parking lot. When she realized I was really going to dump the skirt, she started ranting that I needed to loosen up, that I was being a "fuckin' baby" and that maybe I should "just go home".

Now if anybody else talked to me like that, I'd tell them to shut up or stick it up their ass or both. But like I said, she knows how to push my buttons. Instead of driving home and forgetting about this whole crazy evening, I found myself apologizing. She suggested that I take off my bra instead – a test, I guess. I don't know why, I can't explain it, but I wiggled out of the bra, pulled it off through my sleeve, and threw it into the car. Call it thinking with my clit if you want; all I know is, that's what I did.

And not only did I leave my bra, I accepted Crissy's offer to fold my new skirt into her little handbag for safekeeping "just in case" I wanted it later. (The teeny thing fit easily in there.) I even let her unbutton the top two buttons of my blouse, revealing a good bit of cleavage. I know, I know; what the fuck was I thinking? I wish I could explain it...

Anyway, Crissy suggested we go to Civilixation, a nearby club that was "more my style." The place is a converted movie theater with the old-fashion movie marquee and everything. There was a long line of your typical beautiful people waiting out front, but the place is so big that the line moved fast. We were at the front when I realized that Crissy was probably not yet 21 and therefore not old enough to get in. But either she's got a good fake ID or the beefy guy at the door liked our looks because he raised an eyebrow in approval and waved us on in.

Crissy was right; Civilixation really is the kind of club I'm used to: Top-40 and pop/dance remixes on the thumping sound system and neon beer signs on the walls, the crowd a homogenous mix of preppy college students and 20-somethings. It was the sort of place that me and Kyle used to frequent all the time while dating, and still do occasionally.

Paradoxically, the familiarity made me feel even naughtier. I was in my element, but I was there with Crissy, who had me dirty dancing braless among people I might actually know. It was almost like fooling around with Kyle in the car or in my parents' bedroom when they were away, or the craziness last week out on Vecino Beach – sexiness where it's not allowed is such a turn on.

I was still kinda nervous about being spotted, tho, and that's when I made my biggest mistake of the night, maybe of my entire life. I mentioned my concern to Crissy and she motioned me off the dance floor. In a dark corner, she produced a couple of small pills from her handbag which, she explained, would help me to "stop being so fucking uptight."

Being a good girl, the only drugs I'd ever taken were prescription medicines and basic stuff like Tylenol. I don't know for sure what Crissy offered but figured it was ecstasy, which I know is illegal and potentially dangerous. Blame it on nerves or horniness or stupidity; I popped one pill of the two she offered (still trying to be somewhat careful, I guess) and washed it down at a water fountain. She nodded with satisfaction and we resumed dancing without further comment.

I don't know if it was a placebo effect or what, but that stuff seemed to work really quickly. I suddenly felt tipsy and dangerously unfettered, kinda like I'd felt running down Vecino Beach naked. Crissy, of course, took advantage.

She pulled me close as we danced (to an extended remix version of "Love Shack") and fiddled with my blouse. When she backed off, only a single button was still fastened: the one right between my boobs. She flashed that wicked smile and I smiled back, shaking my body so that I almost bounced out of my top. A guy nearby noticed and stared until his girlfriend pulled him away. She gave me a vicious "you slut!" look before leaving. I can't believe how much that look turned me on, too.

So when Crissy grabbed my hand and pulled me up to one of the caged-in platforms in the middle of the dance floor, I didn't object at all. We danced for just a minute before she leaned in and we started to make out again. I heard the guys below hoot and cheer in response, but then Crissy's spectacular kissing pushed everything else aside until all I knew in the world were her lips and tongue.

When we stopped to breathe, my blouse was totally unbuttoned and the inner halves of my boobs were exposed, only the knot over my belly button keeping my top from flapping open. She laughed as I tightened the knot with a smirk. We dirty danced some more and the hoots returned.

I dunno if she untied the knot while I was distracted or if it came loose by itself. All I know is, somehow or another, there was nothing holding the front of my blouse closed, and my breasts regularly peeking out into the glare of the platform spotlights as the B-52s implored me to "Bang Bang!"

My heart skipped a beat, but I pretended not to know why the hoots got louder and kept right on dancing. I even pushed my breasts together between my biceps so that my nips plus plenty more was exposed when I froze for the "Tin Roof! Rusted" line, the lustful look in Crissy's eye growing even stronger. When the song ended, I pretended that I had finally noticed my indecent state of undress, quickly re-tied my top, and rushed down from the platform in mock embarrassment as the crowd around me clapped.

And wouldn't you know it, right when I stopped worrying about seeing somebody I knew, I ran into a coworker. And not just any coworker, but Trish, the sexy receptionist who'd starred in a number of naughty dreams.

I tried to put my head down and hurry after Crissy, but Trish grabbed my shoulder, knocking my blouse a bit askew again. Her eyes and smile were bloodshot and her breath smelled like a brewery as she leaned close. "Way to go, Shhherry!" she slurred in my ear. I was tempted to take advantage of her obvious inebriation, but I certainly didn't want her to meet Crissy or vis-versa. Blushing, I smiled weakly and scooted off the dance floor. Fortunately, Trish was too drunk to remember much, because she when I saw her in at work the next week, she didn't remember any details about our chance meeting. She was a little more friendly, but that's a story for later.

Anyway, back in the club, I desperately needed to pee. Crissy seemed happy to hear the news. "I thought you'd never ask," she grinned, grabbing my hand and leading the way through the crush of people to the ladies room.

There's only three stalls, so, predictably, there was a line. A half-dozen women waited impatiently beside the rust-stained sinks, trying to talk over the music that rattled the water-stained mirrors. As soon as we queued up, Crissy pulled me close and began to kiss me like crazy again.

Several heads turned to look as we made out surrounded by chicks washing their hands or fixing their makeup or gossiping with their girlfriends or just standing there waiting to pee. Crissy's incredible kissing zoned me out again until she started rubbing the crotch of my jeans. I felt that all right. Then her hand wandered north and popped loose the knot holding my blouse together.

Her ambidextrous skills are pretty amazing when you think about it. While her right hand caressed my denim-covered thighs, her left yanked my blouse back and down by the scruff of the neck, pulling it away from my chest and leaving it draped like a shawl across my lower back, just hanging on by my elbows.

I was going to push her away and put my top back on, I really was. But first, I couldn't resist a peek at my state of undress. Though of course my brain knew I was topless, seeing the reflection of my bare tits in the crowded bathroom mirror still hit me like a thunderbolt. All around, ladies were staring with looks ranging from unfeigned shock to unfeigned disgust. "Get a room, you ho's" one drunken 30-something spat angrily, but I ignored her and the others and just kept narcissistically staring at my torso, Crissy making eye contact in the mirror as she nibbled on my collar bone. My face shown with lust as I checked us out; it was definitely another out of body experience, and I thoroughly appreciating the show that the half-naked slut in the mirror and her goth girlfriend were putting on.

Even drugged and drunk, tho, I drew the line when Crissy started to unfasten my jeans. A woman came out of a stall and I dragged Crissy into it, my belt buckle hanging loose and jingling, slamming the stall door shut behind us and ignoring the furious complaints from those we'd skipped in line.

 
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