Female-Led Relationships: Ten Stories of Alpha Females Taking Charge by Andrea Martin

Author:Andrea Martin
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2019-01-31T05:00:00+00:00

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Hotwife Stories:

Have Fun

He notices my anklet first. I see – or rather, feel – him in my peripheral vision, along the bar from me, to my right. I see his head tilt as he looks me up and down. I pretend not to feel his gaze sweep my body, not to notice as he pauses once he reaches my feet. I point my foot, casually, coolly, as if by accident, making sure the little metal chain around my ankle catches the light, making sure that he gets a good look at it. I place my hand clearly on the counter, so my wedding ring is good and visible. No way he can’t see it. Between my wedding ring, and my anklet, he’s probably getting a good picture of me. I play it cool, acting as if I am unaware that he’s watching me. As if I don’t know he’s there. I deliberately keep my face turned away from him, ignorant to his presence. I glance at the chrome-backed bar in front of me, checking him out in the reflection. His body language slowly changes, from passive observer, to interested admirer. He stands a little more upright and looks me over again, slower this time, and I know that I’ve got his undivided attention. I don’t know who he is, or what he does. All I know for sure is that he’s looking at me… and he wants to fuck me.

Maybe I’ll let him.

The bar is pretty full tonight. It’s a Friday, a little after nine PM. The dancefloor is starting to fill up as the DJ gets into his groove. Music pounds through the speakers, making it almost impossible to talk to anyone else. The bar is a wide circular space in the centre of the room. To the right is the seating area. To the left is the dancefloor, a wide, open space with wooden panelling on the floor that’s easy to clean and impossible to damage. The tables and booths to my right are filled with Friday night revellers of all kinds. Single women sharing a cocktail pitcher, taking selfies on their phones and pouting for the camera. Guys in office attire, celebrating the end of another tough week. Groups of young women enjoying a bachelorette party, complete with matching shirts and sashes. A party of jock-looking frat boys, on the prowl for pussy and booze. The bar is just beginning to spring into life. It’s the perfect place for men and women to let their hair down and have fun. The perfect place to let loose. The perfect place to let a stranger admire you from across the bar.

I glance over at him now, pretending that I don’t notice him. Our eyes meet. He is a good-looking man, but not in the tall, dark and handsome sense. He is the kind of man who exudes power and authority. He is well-dressed and well-groomed, with neatly cropped dark blond hair and the barest hint of a five o’clock shadow on his strong, masculine jaw.

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