Pickup Artist

Pickup Artist

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I had met Donna and Mandy for drinks at the corner bar, like we always do at least once a month for our girls’ night out.

I often flirt with guys while I’m there — even though I’m married. Occasionally, I have a little make-out session in the parking lot with a hot stud. And even more rarely, I want more.

On this particular night, I wanted more, and I knew right away who I wanted it from: the six-foot-tall, dark-haired guy with broad shoulders and a handsome face who was sitting at the bar. I’d caught him looking at me once or twice and flashed him a smile.

It was hard to concentrate on my two best friends because I was staring at the guy’s hands on his beer bottle, wondering what his big mitts would look like on my thighs. I tried to imagine what they’d feel like holding me tight as he fucked me or what one of those thick fingers would feel like sliding into my cunt.

I was in no hurry to rush our hookup. My husband, Kenny, knew I was out with the girls, and there was a football game on. He wouldn’t care if I came home late.

When my friends wandered off to the dance floor, I stayed at the table trying to think of the best way to approach my target. Turned out I didn’t have to. I looked up to see the tall, handsome stranger standing near my table, extending a glass of red wine.

“I hope this is close to what you’re drinking,” he said.

I nodded. “It is. It’s red. It’s wine. It works.” I laughed softly, and he joined me.

“I’m Jeff.” He offered his hand, and I shook it.

“Hi, Jeff,” I responded. I never tell my name to bar pickups. Somehow that worked for me. “Would you like to get out of here?”

He blinked, but then smiled. “You don’t want your drink?”

“I’d rather have sex.”

He laughed softly and put his drink down, too. “Well, I love a woman who knows what she wants and says it.”

I took his hand, and we started toward the door.

“What about your friends?” he whispered in my ear.

“I’ll text them.”

And I did. I texted to say something had come up and I had to go. Then I followed Jeff to a nearby hotel in my Jeep.

He got us a room, and I accompanied him upstairs, entering first after he pushed the door open.

He flicked on the light as he began to say, “I don’t usually do stuff like th — ”

The words died on his lips as I pulled my sweater off and unbuttoned my jeans. I didn’t really care if he did this often. I didn’t do it often, but when I did, I went whole hog.

“Can I suck your dick, Jeff?” I asked.

His eyes went wide — I loved that — and then he nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Good.” I pulled my jeans off and then my panties. He watched, mesmerized, so much so I nearly laughed, but I managed to control myself and keep a straight face.

I crawled to him on the carpet, looking up at his big body and seeing the way his obviously erect dick tented his pants. When I reached him, I got up on my knees and popped the button on his waistband, then I drew his zipper open. With his help, I yanked down his jeans and his boxer briefs allowing his big dick to spring free. I licked my lips, and took his cockhead in my mouth sucking it like a lollipop.

His eyes drifted shut, and he moaned.

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