Amanda Pays The Price free porn video

Sitting in a bar.

I'm sitting in a bar.

I don't remember how long I've been here.

I don't remember coming to this bar.

I try to remember. I can't.

I try to remember why I came here. I can't.

I try to remember...

I don't remember anything.

I don't remember my own name. I don't remember what city this bar is in.

I don't remember.

I'm scared. I want to jump up, to look around. I want to shout out that I don't know who I am, does anyone know who I am, why I'm here.

I can't move. Inside my head, I want to shout, to struggle. I realise that, outwardly, no matter how panicky I am inside my head, I am sitting in a booth, smiling and nodding in response to whatever the man sitting next to me is saying.

I don't remember who he is, either.

I don't remember anything.

What is the matter with me?

I am acting as if everything is perfectly normal, as if I know this man, as if we are just a couple out on a date, perhaps, but I can't remember anything.

I realise that I cannot hear. Couples are dancing, people are talking -- I should hear the music, the buzz of conversation, the clink and clatter of glasses and bottles on the tables and bar, if nothing else. I hear nothing, not even the surf-like roaring of my own blood circulating that I should hear even if my ears were plugged.

I realise that I am not feeling anything; no sense if the bar is warm or cool, no sensation from my back or buttocks where they touch the seat and the back of the booth, no sensation from my clothing on my skin.

It's not even as if my body is numb; "numb" is a sensation of sorts. I feel nothing at all.

He says something -- at least his lips move -- and I nod, smile, and reply.

I do not hear what he has said, nor even what I said in reply.

Trapped inside my own head, trying to conceive what is happening, it seems to me that I should be afraid, or at least worried or a panicky. After all, even with apparent total amnesia, I know that this is not a normal situation.

I am not -- I feel a certain cool detachment, as if what is happening is of no concern to me, as if it is happening to someone else.

Suddenly, I realise that the man sitting next to me has placed one arm familiarly and apparently in a friendly manner around me, and though I still neither hear nor feel anything, I know, somehow, that his fingers are resting, lightly but possessively, on my breast, stroking gently.

He looks away from me for a moment, glances around the room, where no-one is paying us the slightest attention, off in our corner, then he turns back toward me.

He smiles at me, and suddenly I realise that his is not the smile of a lover or even of a friend or casual acquaintance; it is the lazy grin of a big cat as it closes in on helpless prey.

His hand closes around my breast, his fingers toying with the nipple, and suddenly feeling returns first to the nipple as it begins to respond to his skillful manipulations, then spreading outward until I have normal sensation in all parts of my body.

I try to thrust his hand away, to tell him to stop, but I discover that, though I can feel, I still cannot make a voluntary movement or speak at all. All that I can do is sit there, feeling the sensations of physical arousal beginning in my body as he caresses my breast, toying with the now fully-erect nipple.

Sitting there, now that sensation has returned to my body, I become aware that the rather lowcut dress made of some stretchy, clinging fabric is all that I am wearing; no undergarments of any sort, just the dress, which faithfully drapes and reveals every contour of my body. Just the dress, I realise, and thigh-high stockings, held up by an old-fashioned suspender belt.

His hand leaves my breast, leaving the erect nipple starkly outlined under the midnight-blue fabric. He puts his hand on my shoulder in a companionable manner, and pulls gently. My body, completely out of my control, leans toward him, looking, I'm sure, as if we have put our heads together to share some secret.

And his other hand reaches casually up, and begins to stroke and caress my other breast, bringing that nipple also to full erection, increasing the pleasurable sensations that my body, will I nil I, is experiencing.

His hand drops from my breast to gently caress my body; gently teasing and stroking my tummy as the other hand traces patterns on my back and side, occasionally giving a quick stroke or two to my breast if the nipple seems to be losing its stand.

Despite my desires, real warmth begins to glow in my body. I feel myself leaning closer to him, turning slightly to give that devilish hand more access.

Suddenly, with a surprise that would normally have made me jump nearly out of my skin, his tonguetip licks out and gently caresses my ear; then he nips gently at it with white, even teeth.

I hear a soft sigh; then I realise that it is I who sighed.

His hand has slipped from my midriff to rest on my hip, stroking gently at it, as his other hand on my shoulder turns me even more toward him.

I sense what is coming, and I try to resist -- to no avail. Not only do I not manage to resist his kiss, my traitor body actually desires it. My lips are already parting for him as his lips meet them; his tongue slips easily past them and touches mine. Totally against my will, my tongue moves, slips against his, and they dance between our mouths. The warmth in my belly increases and seems to slip downward a bit.

Under his hand, my hips move a bit as I feel myself turning slightly more toward him.

His hand slips from my hip to my leg, then slowly strokes to my knee and back. Again, I hear myself sigh a bit, and my traitor knees move a bit apart from each other.

Again and yet one more time that hand luxuriously strokes my leg through the thin, clinging fabric of the dress... but on the third time, instead of continuing back to my hip, it suddenly slips through the slit that runs from the ankle-length hem almost to the hip, and comes to rest on my stocking-covered knee.

He smiles at me. I feel my face smile back at him, even though inside my head I am raging. How dare he! I would never... Except that perhaps I would -- I realise that, just as much as I have forgotten my name and how I got where I am, I have no idea what my sexual limits or preferences are. The thought takes me aback. Perhaps this man is actually my lover -- or even my husband. Perhaps he has every right to do what he is doing, and it is only this strange fugue-like state that I am in that causes me to resent it. Perhaps...

His hand strokes my knee, warm through the silk of the stocking, then begins slowly -- ever so slowly -- to creep up my leg, his fingertips tickling the inside of my thigh as it goes as his other hand continues playing with my nipples and his mouth plays on mine. I begin to feel real heat between my legs; I hear myself give a small, purring moan, as I feel myself lean back a bit in my seat, thrusting my hips forward, and my legs open widely, in an unmistakable lewd invitation.

He draws back, smiles again, and then turns his oral attentions again to my ear.

But instead of kissing or licking or nibbling at it, he whispers into my ear, as his moving fingers come to the top of my thigh, just grazing the wet warmth with which my mindlessly-yearning body greets him...

"I'm going to use you right here in public, you prick-teasing bitch. And you're going to act as if you enjoy every second... you're going to come like a waterfall. People are going to see and hear, and everyone will think it was your idea."

His fingers play in my tangled curls, flicking occasionally, gently but possessively at the warm wet lips below and at the erect little nub above.

"You're going to wish you'd lived a different life, bitch, because I'm going to make sure that yousuffer fro every minute of what you've done."

As he delivers this bitter tirade, one fingertip slips between the lips of my pussy and strokes deeply with a maddening rhythm. Despite the horror I feel inwardly at what he has said, I can feel my hips roll to the rhythm of his strokes, and as a second finger joins the first and they plunge deeply into my wet cunt, I hear myself groan, feel my hips pumping, and realise that I am in the throes of a small but delicious orgasm that I definitely do not want.

My legs clench on his hand, my hips buck, and I can feel a deep flush spreading over my cheeks, neck and the tops of my breasts as a quick bolt of pleasure slams from my cunt through my body. I feel my back arch, pressing my breast and super-erect nipple more firmly into his palm. I hear the moan of my orgasm as his lips again close on mine, keeping me from alerting too many people in the bar of his intent and actions.

As my body untenses, as I drop back against the back of the booth, he again whispers in my ear "That was just the beginning, you cunt. You're going to beg me for more and more as if it was what you really wanted. And if I tell you to suck or fuck someone else, you're going to do that, too.

"And the best part is, I know that inside you, you don't want to do this, that it will disgust and humiliate you... And even better, that you don't have the faintest idea who I am or why I'm using you like a fuck toy. That you don't even know who you are, or what you did to make me so angry.

"And after it's all over, after I've used you in every way that I can think of or do, and strangers have used you as well... then, and only then, I'll let you remember who you are and why. But it will be too late for you then..."

Taking my hand, he sets it on his crotch. He has a rigid erection, even through his pants I can tell that his cock is very large, probably the largest I have ever encountered (deep inside, I wonder how I knew that... )

"Stroke that, whore. Get me ready..." and he rams three fingers roughly all the way into my dripping cunt under cover of the table, brutally squeezing and stroking my captive breast, dropping his mouth to the base of my neck, nipping and biting mercilessly at the flesh of my throat, leaving livid bitemarks.

As I scream incoherent silent protests inside my head, trying to force my unresponding body to push him away, to fight him, to escape, he begins again, expertly playing my flesh like a concert violinist, bringing me again to the brink -- the brink of an even larger and more devastating orgasm...

We continue like that for a time -- he bringing me to unwilling orgasm after orgasm, my hand stroking his cock under the table as if I enjoy it immensely.

Finally he pushes me away.

With no orders, I sit there, waiting quietly.

He says "Now you are going to..." And suddenly I can't hear what he says, but I know that he is giving me orders, telling me what he wants me to do.

And I know that I will do whatever it is.

Suddenly, I realise that I have stood, that I am walking across the floor towards an empty stool at the bar.

The extremely high heels I wear give an extra sway to my ass, shape my leg and cause me to walk slowly and carefully -- in a manner that, I am sure, seems a deliberate provocation to every man there.

I see the men in the bar watching me -- all of them, even the ones who have companions of their own -- as I cross the open space. I know that, with each stride I take, I am flashing a view to the tops of my stockings through the slits in the blue dress, that the men are tantalised by the glimpses of white flesh above the silk tops that they believe that they see. I feel my face taking on a smile -- almost a predatory smile, and I realise that I have thrown my shoulders back, thrusting my chest forward, and that I am walking with a deliberate strut, like a strip tease dancer just before she begins to remove her costume.

Arriving at the bar, I slip onto one of the empty stools, and gesture to the bartender.

He responds immediately, and I order a drink.

I realise that I have a small purse in one hand, and I begin to reach into it, to get the money to pay for the drink.

But a voice says "No -- let me get that," and I turn and smile to the man on my right who has spoken. He returns the smile, and, when the bartender arrives with my drink, he pays for it, and includes a generous tip for the barman.

"You get better service if you tip well on the first round," he says.

I smile and sip at my bloody mary, waiting for him to make a move. He sits in apparent silent content next to me for a while, as we sip at our drinks.

Suddenly he raises his head in a listening way and says "I love this song. Will you dance with me?"

I want to say no... but I know I cannot, that I will do whatever the man in the booth has told me to do. So I am not surprised to find myself standing, taking his hand, and walking to the small dance floor.

The song has a fairly fast beat, and we dance together, sometimes touching lightly, sometimes not, shaking our hips and shoulders, laughing like a pair of teenagers. I watch from behind the mask of joy that is my face, wondering what I will do next.

The song ends. I expect that we will sit back down and talk, but another begins; a slow song, in waltz time. He reaches out to me, and my face smiles again as I step forward into his arms and we begin to slowdance.

At first we dance quietly, his hand on my hip, a slight space between us. But gradually, his hand begins to slip from my hip, moving back and down, his fingers gently, as if by accident, coming to rest on the curve of my ass.

I want to push this stranger away, run from the dance floor, shout for help.

But I do none of those things.

I smile up at him, my eyes half-closed in a sultry expression, and I wriggle a bit under his hand. He takes this as a signal that I don't mind, and his fingers begin a gentle caressing motion on the swell of my cheek.

I turn a bit, tilt my hip, and his hand slips completely round, now cupping my cheek, squeezing and stroking. He presses a bit; I follow his pressure, moving forward toward him, thrusting my hips forward so that my body touches his, rolling my hips so that my mound gently grinds against his crotch.

I can feel his erection; feel it growing larger as I grind my hips against his.

His hand is frankly clutching at my ass now, his fingers beginning to explore the valley between my cheeks. I can tell that he has realised that, under the blue dress, I have no panties on.

I look up, smile in that sultry, langorous way again, and lick just the tip of my tongue along my pouting lower lip.

Moving close, I let my upper body touch his; we are pressed together from shoulders to groin. He glances downward, and I know that he can see my nipples through the clingy material of the dress, beginning to rise.

He looks into my eyes again, and I raise my face toward his, lips slightly parted, eyes closing.

He accepts the invitation, and his lips meet mine.

Still we dance on the dimly-lit floor, surrounded by a few couples, all intent on their own affairs, most engaged in some variant of what we are doing.

The song ends; he is about to release me, to step back, when I reach downward, and cover his hand on my ass with my own, smiling at him again. I give one more slow grind of my hips against his -- the closest and hottest yet; it looks as if he may cum in his pants if I do much more of this.

Finally stepping back, but still holding his hand in mine, I smile at him again, and say "Come on over here -- there's someone I want you to meet."

He looks confused, but follows as I start back toward the table where my tormentor sits.

As we walk, I hold his hand tightly, and snuggle up to him; he feels my breast pressing against his arm.

We arrive at the table. I turn to my companion, and say "You know, I don't know your name..."

"William... ah... Bill," he says, somewhat confusedly.

"Bill, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Peter," I hear myself say. "Peter told me to invite you to join us, didn't you, Peter?"

Smiling in an apparently-friendly fashion, my tormentor agrees that he would like Bill to join us. I turn back to Bill, lean forward and give him a quick peck-on-the-cheek kiss, and then slide into the booth next to Peter, pulling Bill after me, guiding him so that I wind up between the two of them.

The seat in the booth is rather narrow, so the three of us are pressed together, hip to hip; I can feel the heat of each man's body against my thighs where my legs touch theirs.

"Bill seems a bit confused, Amanda," Peter says. "Why don't you explain what's happening to him?"

Sitting in a bar.

I'm sitting in a bar.

I don't remember how long I've been here.

I don't remember coming to this bar.

I try to remember. I can't.

I try to remember why I came here. I can't.

I try to remember...

I don't remember anything.

I don't remember my own name. I don't remember what city this bar is in.

I don't remember.

I'm scared. I want to jump up, to look around. I want to shout out that I don't know who I am, does anyone know who I am, why I'm here.

I can't move. Inside my head, I want to shout, to struggle. I realise that, outwardly, no matter how panicky I am inside my head, I am sitting in a booth, smiling and nodding in response to whatever the man sitting next to me is saying.

I don't remember who he is, either.

I don't remember anything.

What is the matter with me?

I am acting as if everything is perfectly normal, as if I know this man, as if we are just a couple out on a date, perhaps, but I can't remember anything.

I realise that I cannot hear. Couples are dancing, people are talking -- I should hear the music, the buzz of conversation, the clink and clatter of glasses and bottles on the tables and bar, if nothing else. I hear nothing, not even the surf-like roaring of my own blood circulating that I should hear even if my ears were plugged.

I realise that I am not feeling anything; no sense if the bar is warm or cool, no sensation from my back or buttocks where they touch the seat and the back of the booth, no sensation from my clothing on my skin.

It's not even as if my body is numb; "numb" is a sensation of sorts. I feel nothing at all.

He says something -- at least his lips move -- and I nod, smile, and reply.

I do not hear what he has said, nor even what I said in reply.

Trapped inside my own head, trying to conceive what is happening, it seems to me that I should be afraid, or at least worried or a panicky. After all, even with apparent total amnesia, I know that this is not a normal situation.

I am not -- I feel a certain cool detachment, as if what is happening is of no concern to me, as if it is happening to someone else.

Suddenly, I realise that the man sitting next to me has placed one arm familiarly and apparently in a friendly manner around me, and though I still neither hear nor feel anything, I know, somehow, that his fingers are resting, lightly but possessively, on my breast, stroking gently.

He looks away from me for a moment, glances around the room, where no-one is paying us the slightest attention, off in our corner, then he turns back toward me.

He smiles at me, and suddenly I realise that his is not the smile of a lover or even of a friend or casual acquaintance; it is the lazy grin of a big cat as it closes in on helpless prey.

His hand closes around my breast, his fingers toying with the nipple, and suddenly feeling returns first to the nipple as it begins to respond to his skillful manipulations, then spreading outward until I have normal sensation in all parts of my body.

I try to thrust his hand away, to tell him to stop, but I discover that, though I can feel, I still cannot make a voluntary movement or speak at all. All that I can do is sit there, feeling the sensations of physical arousal beginning in my body as he caresses my breast, toying with the now fully-erect nipple.

Sitting there, now that sensation has returned to my body, I become aware that the rather lowcut dress made of some stretchy, clinging fabric is all that I am wearing; no undergarments of any sort, just the dress, which faithfully drapes and reveals every contour of my body. Just the dress, I realise, and thigh-high stockings, held up by an old-fashioned suspender belt.

His hand leaves my breast, leaving the erect nipple starkly outlined under the midnight-blue fabric. He puts his hand on my shoulder in a companionable manner, and pulls gently. My body, completely out of my control, leans toward him, looking, I'm sure, as if we have put our heads together to share some secret.

And his other hand reaches casually up, and begins to stroke and caress my other breast, bringing that nipple also to full erection, increasing the pleasurable sensations that my body, will I nil I, is experiencing.

His hand drops from my breast to gently caress my body; gently teasing and stroking my tummy as the other hand traces patterns on my back and side, occasionally giving a quick stroke or two to my breast if the nipple seems to be losing its stand.

Despite my desires, real warmth begins to glow in my body. I feel myself leaning closer to him, turning slightly to give that devilish hand more access.

Suddenly, with a surprise that would normally have made me jump nearly out of my skin, his tonguetip licks out and gently caresses my ear; then he nips gently at it with white, even teeth.

I hear a soft sigh; then I realise that it is I who sighed.

His hand has slipped from my midriff to rest on my hip, stroking gently at it, as his other hand on my shoulder turns me even more toward him.

I sense what is coming, and I try to resist -- to no avail. Not only do I not manage to resist his kiss, my traitor body actually desires it. My lips are already parting for him as his lips meet them; his tongue slips easily past them and touches mine. Totally against my will, my tongue moves, slips against his, and they dance between our mouths. The warmth in my belly increases and seems to slip downward a bit.

Under his hand, my hips move a bit as I feel myself turning slightly more toward him.

His hand slips from my hip to my leg, then slowly strokes to my knee and back. Again, I hear myself sigh a bit, and my traitor knees move a bit apart from each other.

Again and yet one more time that hand luxuriously strokes my leg through the thin, clinging fabric of the dress... but on the third time, instead of continuing back to my hip, it suddenly slips through the slit that runs from the ankle-length hem almost to the hip, and comes to rest on my stocking-covered knee.

He smiles at me. I feel my face smile back at him, even though inside my head I am raging. How dare he! I would never... Except that perhaps I would -- I realise that, just as much as I have forgotten my name and how I got where I am, I have no idea what my sexual limits or preferences are. The thought takes me aback. Perhaps this man is actually my lover -- or even my husband. Perhaps he has every right to do what he is doing, and it is only this strange fugue-like state that I am in that causes me to resent it. Perhaps...

His hand strokes my knee, warm through the silk of the stocking, then begins slowly -- ever so slowly -- to creep up my leg, his fingertips tickling the inside of my thigh as it goes as his other hand continues playing with my nipples and his mouth plays on mine. I begin to feel real heat between my legs; I hear myself give a small, purring moan, as I feel myself lean back a bit in my seat, thrusting my hips forward, and my legs open widely, in an unmistakable lewd invitation.

He draws back, smiles again, and then turns his oral attentions again to my ear.

But instead of kissing or licking or nibbling at it, he whispers into my ear, as his moving fingers come to the top of my thigh, just grazing the wet warmth with which my mindlessly-yearning body greets him...

"I'm going to use you right here in public, you prick-teasing bitch. And you're going to act as if you enjoy every second... you're going to come like a waterfall. People are going to see and hear, and everyone will think it was your idea."

His fingers play in my tangled curls, flicking occasionally, gently but possessively at the warm wet lips below and at the erect little nub above.

"You're going to wish you'd lived a different life, bitch, because I'm going to make sure that yousuffer fro every minute of what you've done."

As he delivers this bitter tirade, one fingertip slips between the lips of my pussy and strokes deeply with a maddening rhythm. Despite the horror I feel inwardly at what he has said, I can feel my hips roll to the rhythm of his strokes, and as a second finger joins the first and they plunge deeply into my wet cunt, I hear myself groan, feel my hips pumping, and realise that I am in the throes of a small but delicious orgasm that I definitely do not want.

My legs clench on his hand, my hips buck, and I can feel a deep flush spreading over my cheeks, neck and the tops of my breasts as a quick bolt of pleasure slams from my cunt through my body. I feel my back arch, pressing my breast and super-erect nipple more firmly into his palm. I hear the moan of my orgasm as his lips again close on mine, keeping me from alerting too many people in the bar of his intent and actions.

As my body untenses, as I drop back against the back of the booth, he again whispers in my ear "That was just the beginning, you cunt. You're going to beg me for more and more as if it was what you really wanted. And if I tell you to suck or fuck someone else, you're going to do that, too.

"And the best part is, I know that inside you, you don't want to do this, that it will disgust and humiliate you... And even better, that you don't have the faintest idea who I am or why I'm using you like a fuck toy. That you don't even know who you are, or what you did to make me so angry.

"And after it's all over, after I've used you in every way that I can think of or do, and strangers have used you as well... then, and only then, I'll let you remember who you are and why. But it will be too late for you then..."

Taking my hand, he sets it on his crotch. He has a rigid erection, even through his pants I can tell that his cock is very large, probably the largest I have ever encountered (deep inside, I wonder how I knew that... )

"Stroke that, whore. Get me ready..." and he rams three fingers roughly all the way into my dripping cunt under cover of the table, brutally squeezing and stroking my captive breast, dropping his mouth to the base of my neck, nipping and biting mercilessly at the flesh of my throat, leaving livid bitemarks.

As I scream incoherent silent protests inside my head, trying to force my unresponding body to push him away, to fight him, to escape, he begins again, expertly playing my flesh like a concert violinist, bringing me again to the brink -- the brink of an even larger and more devastating orgasm...

Chapter 2

We continue like that for a time -- he bringing me to unwilling orgasm after orgasm, my hand stroking his cock under the table as if I enjoy it immensely.

Finally he pushes me away.

With no orders, I sit there, waiting quietly.

He says "Now you are going to..." And suddenly I can't hear what he says, but I know that he is giving me orders, telling me what he wants me to do.

And I know that I will do whatever it is.

Suddenly, I realise that I have stood, that I am walking across the floor towards an empty stool at the bar.

The extremely high heels I wear give an extra sway to my ass, shape my leg and cause me to walk slowly and carefully -- in a manner that, I am sure, seems a deliberate provocation to every man there.

I see the men in the bar watching me -- all of them, even the ones who have companions of their own -- as I cross the open space. I know that, with each stride I take, I am flashing a view to the tops of my stockings through the slits in the blue dress, that the men are tantalised by the glimpses of white flesh above the silk tops that they believe that they see. I feel my face taking on a smile -- almost a predatory smile, and I realise that I have thrown my shoulders back, thrusting my chest forward, and that I am walking with a deliberate strut, like a strip tease dancer just before she begins to remove her costume.

Arriving at the bar, I slip onto one of the empty stools, and gesture to the bartender.

He responds immediately, and I order a drink.

I realise that I have a small purse in one hand, and I begin to reach into it, to get the money to pay for the drink.

But a voice says "No -- let me get that," and I turn and smile to the man on my right who has spoken. He returns the smile, and, when the bartender arrives with my drink, he pays for it, and includes a generous tip for the barman.

"You get better service if you tip well on the first round," he says.

I smile and sip at my bloody mary, waiting for him to make a move. He sits in apparent silent content next to me for a while, as we sip at our drinks.

Suddenly he raises his head in a listening way and says "I love this song. Will you dance with me?"

I want to say no... but I know I cannot, that I will do whatever the man in the booth has told me to do. So I am not surprised to find myself standing, taking his hand, and walking to the small dance floor.

The song has a fairly fast beat, and we dance together, sometimes touching lightly, sometimes not, shaking our hips and shoulders, laughing like a pair of teenagers. I watch from behind the mask of joy that is my face, wondering what I will do next.

The song ends. I expect that we will sit back down and talk, but another begins; a slow song, in waltz time. He reaches out to me, and my face smiles again as I step forward into his arms and we begin to slowdance.

At first we dance quietly, his hand on my hip, a slight space between us. But gradually, his hand begins to slip from my hip, moving back and down, his fingers gently, as if by accident, coming to rest on the curve of my ass.

I want to push this stranger away, run from the dance floor, shout for help.

But I do none of those things.

I smile up at him, my eyes half-closed in a sultry expression, and I wriggle a bit under his hand. He takes this as a signal that I don't mind, and his fingers begin a gentle caressing motion on the swell of my cheek.

I turn a bit, tilt my hip, and his hand slips completely round, now cupping my cheek, squeezing and stroking. He presses a bit; I follow his pressure, moving forward toward him, thrusting my hips forward so that my body touches his, rolling my hips so that my mound gently grinds against his crotch.

I can feel his erection; feel it growing larger as I grind my hips against his.

His hand is frankly clutching at my ass now, his fingers beginning to explore the valley between my cheeks. I can tell that he has realised that, under the blue dress, I have no panties on.

I look up, smile in that sultry, langorous way again, and lick just the tip of my tongue along my pouting lower lip.

Moving close, I let my upper body touch his; we are pressed together from shoulders to groin. He glances downward, and I know that he can see my nipples through the clingy material of the dress, beginning to rise.

He looks into my eyes again, and I raise my face toward his, lips slightly parted, eyes closing.

He accepts the invitation, and his lips meet mine.

Still we dance on the dimly-lit floor, surrounded by a few couples, all intent on their own affairs, most engaged in some variant of what we are doing.

The song ends; he is about to release me, to step back, when I reach downward, and cover his hand on my ass with my own, smiling at him again. I give one more slow grind of my hips against his -- the closest and hottest yet; it looks as if he may cum in his pants if I do much more of this.

Finally stepping back, but still holding his hand in mine, I smile at him again, and say "Come on over here -- there's someone I want you to meet."

He looks confused, but follows as I start back toward the table where my tormentor sits.

As we walk, I hold his hand tightly, and snuggle up to him; he feels my breast pressing against his arm.

We arrive at the table. I turn to my companion, and say "You know, I don't know your name..."

"William... ah... Bill," he says, somewhat confusedly.

"Bill, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Peter," I hear myself say. "Peter told me to invite you to join us, didn't you, Peter?"

Smiling in an apparently-friendly fashion, my tormentor agrees that he would like Bill to join us. I turn back to Bill, lean forward and give him a quick peck-on-the-cheek kiss, and then slide into the booth next to Peter, pulling Bill after me, guiding him so that I wind up between the two of them.

The seat in the booth is rather narrow, so the three of us are pressed together, hip to hip; I can feel the heat of each man's body against my thighs where my legs touch theirs.

"Bill seems a bit confused, Amanda," Peter says. "Why don't you explain what's happening to him?"