The night you got wetter than ever

The week before we went out dancing, a drunk man got up on a table and put his cock through a Margaret Thatcher mask. I told you that the sight of the cock (not Thatcher) had turned me on, that I wanted to explore those things, with you. You weren't sure, as ever, and I thought you were upset, and said nothing more. A week later we were out in the blur of a club, slightly out of mind, the music intense and thick in the air. I noticed you moving with a guy behind you, his hands straying to your hips. You came over and asked if you could kiss this guy. Suddenly nervous, I said no as so many of our friends were around. You went back to dancing, I was right in front of you. Time was confused, and minutes later you took my hand and pushed it down your jeans. My fingers moved easily down where you'd shaved hours before, then wetness, then over your clit and suddenly I felt the sensation of someone else's finger, pushing into you urgently from behind. I felt dizzy, so crazy. I slid my finger into you too, felt his moving against mine inside you, so wet, wetter than I'd ever know you to be. Then, suddenly, another of our friends appeared, our hands withdrew from you and I think the guy, afraid, disappeared. Hours passed and we couldn't find him again until, leaving as a bright dawn dazzled our eyes, we saw him outside. We walked a little up the road. You asked if you should go and talk to him. I said it was up to you, and I could tell from your eyes that you did... and that you wanted him. But just as you walked away from me his friends appeared, and they vanished around the corner. I often wondered what it'd have been like if we had taken him home. You were extra turned on all the time for weeks afterwards, and said that it was because you'd had an encounter with someone new, that if you'd fucked him it could have been dangerous, creating a new connection that you might have wanted to explore. Now we're no longer together I wish I'd seen you lose yourself with him.