College Girl's One Night Stand

by Little Bree

Copyright© 2010 by Little Bree

Erotica Sex Story: After his colleagues grope and embarrass a young strip club waitress, a middle aged man goes back to apologize. She accepts his apology and then some. :)

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft   Consensual   .

Author's Note: I wrote this for a blog when I was a freshman in college. It's an awkward blend of fantasy and reality, though in hindsight the more mundane parts got the most creative license. I've spell checked and edited a bit, though it's pretty obvious I didn't do either when I wrote it. Accept my upfront apologies for shifting verb tenses if any have slipped past me.

As always, reader feedback is much appreciated. Seriously. It'd be fantastic to hear from anyone. Pretty please?

Also if you're under 18 or living in a repressive state, don't read this.

The well-to-do, out-of-town guys are easy to spot. They wear cufflinks, and expensive shoes with well pressed slacks. They're hyped up, away from home and spending the company's money like drunken sailors.

They're also obnoxious, I noted as the man with the grey streaked hair and the wedding band ever-so-casually slid his hand up my skirt to paw at my ass. "Tequila shots," he ordered, surprisingly absolutely no one (tequilla shots are standard issue for this sort), "and maybe some sex on the beach?" he giggled as he snapped my thong with his thumb and slapped my butt. His people laughed heartily (in their defense, they were drunk when they came in, and the ass slapper was clearly their boss. I refuse to believe anyone thinks the sex on the beach joke--which I hear 4 times a shift, minimum--is that funny).

The night went on like that. Lots of shots, lots of drinks. Strippers were hanging off the table, two even three at a time, cuddling up to arms and wiggling in laps. They seemed to take particular delight in toying with me ... slyly groping beneath my panties or lifting my skirt as I took orders, patting my ass, even snapping my bra and once even honking (yes, honking) my breast.

Now, my tolerance for obnoxiousness is pretty high. I won't begrudge a man a copped feel or a slap on the ass, and I suppose a snapped bra, however annoying and needless it may be, isn't that big a deal. Some guys just don't know when to quit, though, and these were those guys. As time wound down, strippers were actively avoiding the table, and even other customers were ducking away. Glasses were getting broken, drinks were getting spilled and the volume kept going up.

In the back, my manager was happily stoned (normally, I like him for this exact reason--he really doesn't give half a shit. Dress codes, no touching rules, no drinking on the job rules-- all out the window when he's on). The bouncers were a little on edge, but sort of waiting on a signal that I didn't really think was necessary.

"Can I get you guys a last round?" I asked, not actually saying it was last call (which it wasn't).

"No, thank you," said a quiet man wedged in the back of the booth. He hadn't talked much all night, seemingly embarrassed by the spectacle. I felt bad for him. "We were just getting set to leave," he added.

"Nonsense!" shouted the boss, his fingers already tugging my panties aside and tickling across my labia. "More tequila!" He demanded, as I tried, unsuccessfully to bat his hand away.

The bartender heard him shout his order, and just shook her head "No" from across the room.

"Um, we're out of tequila..." I said, trying to spin away from his groping without causing a fuss. He fumbled a bit, then took hold of the crotch of the thong, essentially trapping me in place.

"No tequila?" He asked, shocked with drunken rage as he tugged me ever-so-slightly closer by my panties.

"We're fine," said the quiet man, "a check is fine."

I handed the already-printed check back to him to find a credit card in his waiting hand. He didn't even want to look at the bill, which was fine by me as his boss curled a finger into my snatch.

"No way..." he almost drooled, incoherent, "You feel soo hot," he mumbled, "show us your pussy!" The quiet man dove to pull him off as his coworkers laughed.

With bouncers encircling like vultures, I smiled politely and tried to turn away. Unfortunately the creepy bastard caught hold of my thong, and literally tore the fabric away as I stumbled and flailed backwards on the floor.

The bouncers took it from there, thankfully.

A bit ticked about my panties, but no real worse for wear, I took a shower, changed back into my street clothes, and punched out for the night. Metro was already closed, so, relegated to a cab home no matter what, I sat down at the bar to have me a drink. It meant staying late, but it also meant drinking free in a bar that didn't care that I was 19.

I'd gotten just about through my vodka and soda, chit chatting with coworkers, when the Nice Guy from the group approached me, looking quite bashful and sheepish.

"I just wanted to apologize," he said, "I told the bouncer, my boss, he's really not a bad guy. He, well, I'm very sorry." He pulled out a fifty and tried to hand it to me.

I smiled and refused. He'd already left a 25% tip on his company card (rumor had it that 26% was the point at which American Express' fraud department raised alarms, so 25% was always the goal). "No, it's ok," I said, "You already tipped me. But thank you!"

"Please," he begged, "It was a company card, I couldn't leave enough."

I just laughed. He was endearing in a lot of ways, if only because he was the first customer to ever come apologize for bad behavior. "It's ok," I said again, smiling in as friendly a way as I could muster to make it clear I wasn't just being polite. "If you want, you can sit and buy me a drink."

There was an awkward pause as he tossed the idea around in his head, and an equally awkward smile as mumbled a quiet, "well, ok, I guess I could."

The bouncer, who'd no doubt let him back in after much begging, shot me a questioning look, probably confused. I waved him off with a quick thumbs up and the old man and me had our drink. His name was Jim, a 46 year old lawyer in from Chicago on some manner of corporate legal thing. Whatever the legal thing was that they were doing had, he explained, gone well (you can tell I was enthused about the details) and he and the rest of the boys from Chicago were just celebrating. Apparently it had been a hard won victory, which obviously didn't excuse the panty tearing incident, but it put it in context.

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