Call me Cake. My real name isn't important. I'm thirty-six, about five-four, I have long black hair, dark eyes, and I weigh about a hundred and four pounds. I've been told that my smile is infectious and that I make people happy just by being around them-everyone except my poor husband. He hasn't been getting much attention from me lately.
I guess I have a pretty good body, but I wish I had bigger boobs, because if I did I'd feel a little less perky and a little sexier. My husband is always pestering me to wear miniskirts because, according to him, I have great legs and a tight butt. I suppose, compared to most of the women I know, I do have great legs and my butt hasn't started to sag yet, but it takes a lot of running and a lot of tennis to keep that part of my body in shape.
Anyway, a week or so ago some of my girlfriends and I started playing tennis at three in the afternoon in the brutal Louisiana sun. I wore one of my favorite outfits: a short red tennis skirt, big red tennis panties, a sports bra, and a tight top that matched the skirt. I also wore cute little socks that had fluffy tennis balls dangling from the cuffs.
Anyway, after Becky, Tatiana, Samantha and I finished three sets, we sat around talking about nothing in particular, and we discovered that everyone's husband was out of town on business. Becky suggested that we all go out for a drink.
"I'm not really dressed for it," I said. I hate going somewhere with sweat clinging to me, and I especially hate sitting around in sweaty underwear. All I had with me was my normal "drive home after tennis" outfit, which was a change of underwear and one of my husband's old tank-top tee shirts. It was so big on me that it almost reached my knees, and I never thought that I'd be caught dead in public in it.
"Oh, come on, Cake," Sam whined.
"I won't go if you don't go," Tatiana said.
"It's a majority vote," Becky laughed.
"All right," I sighed. "Give me a minute." I went into the ladies' room, changed my big red panties for a pair of small white panties, pulled off my top, pulled off my sweaty sports bra, put on Charlie's tee shirt, and debated whether I should stuff it into my skirt. I decided that it looked stupid hanging over my skirt, and I thought that maybe I could take my skirt off and wear the tee shirt like a dress, but that was out of the question. Stuffing it in my skirt created a big bulge, so I decided to stuff it part of the way into my skirt and let the rest blouse up. That made it even looser on me than it had been before, which actually made it feel more comfortable. I looked in the mirror to make sure that my nipples didn't show through the fabric and they didn't so I felt okay. When I walked out of the locker room, Becky whistled.
"Sex-eeee," she laughed.
"Shut up," I snorted.
We all took separate cars to a waterfront bar just in case any of us wanted to leave early. It was Monday, so the place wasn't too crowded, and we managed to get a nice table outside on the deck, not far from the bar and not far from the water.
The evening was warm and pleasant as we sat and drank fancy drinks, ate bad food, laughed, and had a good time. We cursed a lot, making Tatiana blush, and got generally loud. Becky kept her elbows on the table, squeezed her arms against the sides of her body and pushed her boobs up and almost out of her top. After about an hour or so, I was aware of a constant parade of men-sometimes the same men-walking past me in one direction and then past me again in the other direction. It was then that I realized that, although my nipples didn't show through the fabric of my husband's tee shirt, the armpit holes hung down so far that anyone looking would have a perfect view of my boobs through the sides of it.
Now, you'd think that one of my friends would have said something, but maybe they were embarrassed, or maybe they thought I wore the shirt on purpose, or maybe they just didn't notice. You might also think that I would have been mortified, that I might have gotten up and excused myself and left, or that I might have gone to the bar and bought another tee shirt to wear.
No, instead I sat at the table, ordered another drink, and felt my nipples getting hard, so hard that they hurt. Mu juices started to soak my panties while guys continued to walk past me to stare at my tits. I was getting turned on, really turned on, so I did nothing to hide them. In fact, I maneuvered the shirt a bit so that one of my boobs was almost fully exposed.
The longer I sat there, the harder my nipples got and the hornier I got. Finally, when my drink came, I excused myself and practically ran to the ladies room. I locked myself into a stall, stuffed my hand down inside my panties and slid fingers into my pussy.
God, I was so wet. My panties were drenched and the sides of my thighs were slick. I let my fingers linger for a while on my clit, closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation. My heart raced so fast that it seemed like it was in my mouth trying to get out. I knew that if I stayed in the bathroom much longer, the girls would come looking for me, so I forced myself to stop touching myself, took a deep breath, and went back to the table.
"We thought you had fallen in," Becky said.
"I'm feeling a little light headed," I said. "After this, I think I should go."
"Yes, me too," Tatiana said. Sam and Becky shrugged, gulped down their drinks and got up to leave.
On the way out, I told the girls that I had to use the bathroom again. We all kissed each other on the cheek, and then I locked myself into a stall, put my fingers in my pussy again and waited a few minutes. When I was sure that the girls were all gone, I took another deep breath, walked out to the bar, eased onto a barstool, pulled my skirt up as high as I reasonably could, crossed my legs, and waited to see what would happen next.
I told myself that all I wanted to do was flirt a bit and feel good about myself. Men continued to parade past me, mostly older guys who I think were intimidated by me-not one of them even attempted to talk to me. It was only about eight in the evening, and the younger crowd probably hadn't arrived, but I was tired from the tennis and the alcohol, and just about to give up and leave. I reached for my glass when a pair of sunglasses slid onto the bar in front of me as a guy slid onto the stool next to me.
He was young, very young. It wouldn't surprise me if he had some sort of fake ID and he wasn't even twenty-one. But he was sexy as hell. His long dark hair hung to his shoulders, he had a deep tan, blue eyes, a wonderful smile, and lots of muscles. He wore cutoff jeans and flip-flops, and his black sleeveless tee shirt accentuated his biceps. His smirk showed that he was very sure of himself.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Rick, and you're incredibly sexy."
Hmmmm. I could have said the same to him I guess, but I couldn't seem to find the right words. I only know what I felt-a throbbing between my legs.
"You're taking a lot for granted," I murmured.
"What?" he said. "That I'm Rick, or that you're sexy?"
"That I'm interested."
"I'm not assuming that you're interested," he said. "But, yes, I am taking it for granted that you're sexy."
I laughed-I tittered like I was a little girl. Then I uncrossed and crossed my legs as slowly as I possibly could, making sure that Rick got a perfect view of my undies.
"Well," I said, batting my eyelids, "thank you. I'm Cake."
"Cake? That's an odd name."
"It's short for something. Let's just say it means I'm delicious. If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"
"I'm twenty six," he said. "How old are you?"
Twenty six my ass. "How old do you think?"
