To the bar

You slide into the back seat of the Uber, the sheer dress riding high enough that the lace tops of your stockings flash as you settle. The cool air of the car makes the nylon feel even more present against your skin. Beth climbs in beside you, her own dress short and tight, and she immediately reaches over to rest a hand on your bare thigh, fingers tracing the edge of the stocking.

“Relax,” she murmurs, low enough that the driver probably can’t hear. “You look incredible. Just breathe. Smile when you want to. And if anything feels off, you tell me and we’re gone. Okay?”

You nod, still hyper-aware of how the g-string sits between your cheeks and how every small shift of your hips makes the lace brush against your still-sensitive pussy. The driver glances up again in the mirror. This time you catch his eye for a second longer than you mean to. He looks away quickly, but the heat that rushes up your neck is immediate. You cross your legs slowly, the split in the dress opening further, and watch his eyes flick back once more before he focuses on the road.

The bar is only ten minutes away. When you step out, the heels click on the pavement and your balance feels unsteady for the first few steps until you find the sway Beth showed you earlier. The night air is cool against your bare shoulders and the tops of your thighs. Inside, the lighting is low and warm, music thumping under the chatter. You feel eyes on you almost at once—some quick, some lingering. Your face heats under the blush Beth carefully applied, but the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant. Part of you wants to shrink; another part wants to straighten your spine and let them look.

Beth’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you toward a corner booth where a tall, broad-shouldered man is already standing. He’s in a fitted black shirt that stretches across his chest and arms, and the moment he sees the two of you his expression shifts—surprise, then open appreciation. He leans in to kiss Beth’s cheek, one hand settling possessively on her hip, before he turns fully to you.

“Beth said she was bringing someone,” he says, voice low and rough. His gaze travels down the length of you, slow enough that you feel it: the neckline of the dress, the shape of your breasts beneath the thin fabric, the long stretch of nylon-clad leg. “I’m Ben. You must be Amy.”

Beth’s fingers press lightly against your back, a quiet reminder that she’s right there. Ben extends a hand. When you take it, his palm is large and warm, calloused. He doesn’t let go immediately.

“Drink?” he asks, already glancing toward the bar. “Whatever you want. On me.”

You can feel the low throb still present between your legs, the way the lace of the g-string has stayed slightly damp since earlier. Beth’s thumb strokes once, slow, along your spine as she waits for your answer. Ben’s eyes stay on you, patient but unmistakably interested, the bulge in his jeans already noticeable even in the dim light.