Lucy: PlaytimeMature

I'm not a slut, honestly, I'm not. Nor am I an attention whore either. I guess it's just a bit of a thrill sometimes, an ego boost to know that you're desirable. I walked down the street earlier, and without even brushing briefly into anyone, I was honked half a dozen times and wolf-whistled about the same. 
Even just popping into the shop on the corner, I went up to the counter, got what I needed and left. Waiting outside the shop was a guy who'd been served two customers ahead of me; a tall, quite fit, slightly older black dude, who was waiting there to tell me that he thought I was absolutely gorgeous, that he loved how athletic I clearly am, how I blew his mind, made him lose his train of thought. I can't exactly say it didn't give me a good feeling to have that effect on someone, but I don't do it intentionally. Sometimes, like when I'm clubbing, I like to have a partner to dance with, to play with, and if it's a different partner to the last time I'm out, then sure it might seem like I'm being a whore, but it's just harmless fun. I could always play people off against each other. In fact, I think I might.
There are always a couple of groups of friends around who will fight each other for my attentions, and the rivalry could always be kicked off before I encourage it. 
I head down to one of the countless clubs around campus, though not my usual. It's one of those "jock" hang-outs. Before I've even walked in the door I can see the guys checking me out and sizing each other up; typical guys. I pick out a pair stood by the bar, both gawking and puffing out their chests, standing taller than their prior slouches. They unconsciously mirror each other, the perfect targets.
I ignore them both, heading to the bar to get myself a drink, smiling at the bartender as I order a sex-on-the-beach. I glance around at the guys, both trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably, though they're not the only ones. "On the house," says the bartender as he sets it down on the bar. Not a bad way to start the evening. I sip it, leaning back and stretching out slightly, just as the closest guy - all lean muscle, tanned skin, strong jaw and blonde hair - gets up from his stool and asks for a dance. I look over his shoulder, smile at his friend and take his arm, letting him lead me to the dance floor. It's a fast track, so we quickly get close as he starts to grind into me. I turn, my back to him though still touching, and grin at his friend as I beckon him over with a finger. He knocks back the rest of his beer and comes to join us, dancing just slightly out of reach. I step forward, breaking contact with the first guy and really turn up the heat. The bodies all around us and the general heat of the club mean that there's plenty of moisture in the air for me to tap into. 
We dance, the two of them vying for my attention, along with a couple of others who had noticed me. It's intoxicating, the feeling of them dancing around me, for me. I step aside to sit down for a moment, and they follow, little lost puppies, or lambs to the slaughter. 
I move away from them and excuse myself to the little girl's room, though I stand outside it, beside the amps and watch as they start having a heated discussion about me. They each want me, and it soon escalates. I simply look on as the first punch is thrown and fight breaks out. 
As the bouncers wade in and separate them, I grab the hand of the closest dancer, kiss him and then get him to lead me out, straight down the street to the next club, straight past the guys as they realise they've been played. Oh, what a good feeling.

The End

2 comments about this exercise Feed