And his lips were close to mine. So close.

I’d just need to move the merest fraction of a breath and...

No.

No. I have self control.

I pulled back, his hands unwrapping from my back as I did so.

Safe!

Except, his eyes were going wide, staring down at my...

Fuck! My breasts were showing! Why were my breasts showing?!? Was everyone in the club about to get a glimpse of them????

Luckily, he seems to be a quick thinker, and his hands were cupping the girls.

Oh, Christ that felt good. His hands were the first man’s to ever touch me there...

No, focus!

I grabbed the top of my dress, a backless halter bit that had a hook on the straps that met behind my neck, and pulled it back up, latching the hooks once more. He, more gentlemanly than I’d thought earlier, immediately released the girls once they were covered again.

Except, a second after we both breathed a sigh of relief...

Pop. Flop. And I was feeling a surprisingly cold breeze again.

This time we both froze in shock. My eyes glanced around wildly. His locked on my breasts, staring in shock ... and maybe (if it wasn’t my imagination) a bit of awe.

“Should I ... uh ... shield you again?” he finally asked. That was enough to get me moving.

“Please,” I begged. He, a lot more gently this time, cupped my breasts. I’m not sure if his care made the situation worse, or a lot better. As it felt REALLY good.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll keep you covered until you get it, uh, tied up correctly.”

“Thanks.” I nodded, and pulled it back up, and he kept his hands where they were. Which ... okay, his callused hands being pressed tighter to my breasts? Started pushing my libido back up.

But the worst part was, there was not enough room in the top for his hands along with my breasts. They sort of already had all the available space filled, all on their own.

Fuck you, Diana. This was all your fault.

Diana was my college BFF. Thick and thin. Ride or die. Hold back each other’s hair when vomiting.

We lost touch after graduation. She’d headed off to NYC, doing something all business woman-like.

I stayed around the little college town. Ended up becoming a Junior Adjunct Instructor. Basically, a step or two above a student, but a whole staircase under being a Tenured Professor.

Eventually I met my fiancé, Steve. We dated for a year before he proposed, and when we were planning our wedding I knew I had to get Diana back to be my maid of honor.

Which was fine! Great! Wonderful!

... except for one itty bitty tiny little thing that had slipped my mind since she’d been gone...

“Oh my god, girl! You’re STILL a fucking virgin???”

That.

She couldn’t believe I was planning to wait for marriage.

“Seriously, girl. It’s not the fucking NINETEEN-twenties! Ugh. We gotta get you some ‘strange’ before you get all ball-and-fucking-chained, bitch!”

It had been our biggest disagreement in college, and it didn’t look like me planning to ‘give it up’ in a week was enough to get her to let up.

“Listen, Diana, let it go. Steve and I are happy. Leave it to us.”

“‘Steve is happy’? Fuck, he’s probably eight jars of blue balls in a two-ball case.”

“What?”

She just shook her head. But then paused, and gave me an appraising look.

“What?” I asked again this time a bit worried.

Diana just smiled. “Fine. I’ll let it go, like you want.”

That smile was untrustworthy. That was the same smile she’d worn before I’d ended up drunk, in the campus bell tower, wearing a unicorn onesie.

“What do you want in return.”

“Nothing drastic...”

Turns out that ‘nothing drastic’ was by her definition, NOT mine.

Which was why, Friday night, I was wearing a clubbing dress I didn’t even realize I still owned. One which she’d bought for me back in second year, and I had never had the guts to wear.

Mostly because back then I’d found it was almost skin tight, the hem line barely below my booty, and the backless halter meant I couldn’t put on a bra.

And the five years since then? The ‘almost’ was gone from that ‘skintight’. It felt like my booty was emphasized a whole lot more. And ‘the girls’...? Well, the phrase ‘my cup runneth over’ came to mind.

I’d tried to protest, but she played her trump card.

Or, ‘cards’.

“Fuck, Diana! You actually kept those fucking things?”

She just gave me the biggest smirk. “I saved them for this long. Felt like the right time to cash them in.”

At some point in our tiny apartment we’d taken to trading favors for chores. Agreeing to get her a sparkly pink sugar bomb of a coffee later, if she’d do the dishes instead of me, so I could study. That sort of thing.

Eventually, we made actual Cards. So instead of remembering she owed me a replacement tube of lipstick, I could pull out the card, with exactly what was written down, and she couldn’t argue that she just owed a travel sized lotion instead.

And, as things tend to do, they’d piled up. And at the end, when she was moving away, I’d traded in all that I owed her, into two cards. Two fucking cards.

The first one being that I would wear whatever clothes she picked out for me, without complaint, for a night of clubbing. I’d thought she’d use it that last week, and we’d have one wild and crazy experience. But instead ... she’d saved it and here we were.

Or, rather, here I was. Wearing something designed to draw every eye in the place. In a dimly lit club I’d never even heard of before, but one that was half packed with gyrating bodies and half empty dark corners where couples were hiding and doing god-only-knows what.

And I was sitting at a booth, fruity drink on the table, wondering when the bomb would drop.

The. Other. Card.

The one that had eaten up the bulk of the other cards I’d owed her. (Because, well, I had owed her quite a lot, by the end).

Something she’d confessed wanting to do once, when drunk. Then, when sober, she’d admitted she DID really want to do it, but would never push.

Simply put, it gave her permission to get me off, one time.

Something else I thought we’d do that final week. Some ‘college experimentation’ with a close friend.

Again, something she’d held onto.

Fuck me.

As we sat there, nursing our drinks, I think we both realized that we were getting a bit too old for clubs like this.

Mostly because I kept pointing out that the ‘cute guys’ Diana kept saying I should dance (well, really, grind) with? I’d taught a class they were in, in the past couple years.

“Even tall, dark, and sexy there?” She pointed out a guy who did meet all that criteria. Dark brown skin, somewhere over six feet tall, and built as if he’d bought muscles like the store was having a two-for-one sale.

He was also ... well... “That’s, uh ... Trevor, I think. Freshman. Had him in my ‘Intro to Not Being an Idiot’ class last semester.”

“Fuck, really?” Diana shook her head. “They grow ‘em big wherever he comes from.” She elbowed me, “in probably more ways than one, if you guess my meaning.” And she waggled her eyebrows up and down for emphasis.

I snorted, and almost had some bright blue concoction come up my nose. “Oh, fuck off, bitch!” I told her.

Then waited until she’d taken a sip, before adding. “But yeah, probably. You should go take a peek.”

This time her drink did come out her nose. And she flipped me off while wiping it up. “Don’t make me smear my makeup, bitch.”

A sighed, and shook my head. “Think we should call it a night?”

She smirked at me again. “Why? Eager to head back to your apartment and cash in that last card?”

My face turned bright red, and I began to splutter. Finally slamming back the rest of my drink to cover it up.

Diana leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Besides, who says we have to leave for me to cash that in?”

Well, at that I froze. She winked at me, and sipped the last bit of her drink up. “I’m going to go buy us another round.” She leaned in close and whispered, “why don’t you put your panties in my purse while I’m gone?”

I’d like to say that I played it cool. But the truth was I’d slid out of whatever skimpy bits of cloth I was wearing and had it stuffed in her purse before she’d even reached the bar.

And immediately became extremely aware that I was now completely naked, under my dress.

Which doesn’t sound like much, but suddenly felt extremely important. Every girl who walked past, did they know? Every guy who glanced my way, were they trying to sneak a peek?