The club hall

The club checked my age at the door and I checked his. Trent showed the ID when I asked. Thirty-one. Sima is twenty-nine, and she was already in the hall with a drink she was not rushing. I am twenty-five. Nobody in that hallway knows my program, and I did not bring a professor, a classroom, or anyone who shares a grade sheet with me. I stood in the leather jacket and jeans, bob neat, and I looked like a woman who had already decided. I had. Back room, her fingers, his cock, and then I would suck him and swallow if I still wanted to. They both said yes in the hall before we went anywhere darker.

The booth was small and the music was a wall. Sima kissed me first, which I like, a woman who does not treat another woman as a warm-up. She got a hand in my jeans and fingered my cunt while Trent watched and stroked his cock. I told her two fingers, then told her to stay on my clit when he fucked me. She did. I turned, hands on the bench, and Trent pushed his cock into my cunt. The stretch made me swear. He fucked my cunt in long strokes while Sima stayed on my clit, and I told him not to rush the part where I get loud. I am twenty-five and I know what I want from a back room that already checked our ages. I wanted his cock in my cunt and her fingers clever and my own voice filling the booth. I said fuck me like that and stay. He stayed. Sima rubbed me through it, precise, and I fucked back onto him until the angle was mean and perfect.

I came with her fingers on my clit and his cock deep, a sharp orgasm that folded me toward the cushion. I said their names. I am bright after I cum, not shy. I told Trent out, told him my mouth, and I sucked his cock while Sima kissed my neck and kept a hand on my waist like a friend who had done her part and was staying for the view. He tasted like my cunt. I took him until his thighs tightened and I swallowed when he came, cum on my tongue, pulse after pulse, my eyes open. I showed him the empty mouth because I felt like showing off. Sima laughed and kissed me anyway.

We fixed clothes in the booth and parted in the hall. No numbers. No program talk. I walked out past the same door that had checked my age, jacket on, bob a little less neat, cunt satisfied and already thinking about the reading on my table at home. The night was a club night. It was not a campus. It was not a classroom. It was mine.