Desi Girl Dress Change

I was sitting at the bar chatting with the only other single guy I encountered. He told me he was Jack, a regular who attended the club as often as possible. I was listening to his story and watching the partiers when a short, plump woman in a tight red gown approached me. A low-cut neckline displayed her ample boobs. “Hey,” she said, smiling up at me. “You new? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.” “My first time,” I said. “I’m Dorothy, but call me Dot.” Five-foot two, eyes of blue, curly blond hair, she looked like she had been pretty hot before the years and pounds added up to now. She showed a wide smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She touched Jack’s shoulder and said, “Has Jack been telling you stories? You can’t believe anything he says.” They laughed together. Dot turned back to me. “You alone?” I nodded. “Why don’t you ask Beth to dance. She’s sitting by herself in the booth.” “Who’s Beth?” “She works the door, probably signed you in. You couldn’t miss her.” If it was. But the sort of money she was looking for was out of the question. They all said the same. And if that wasn’t enough, Thomas was heading out to one of London’s biggest charity dinners tonight, and hadn’t manoeuvred her an invite. It would have been a nice treat to get all dressed up and spend the night on his arm. But one thing she’d learned about him was that unless you were a client, Thomas could be pretty thick at times. Maybe when she made her success with her business, she could hire him for the express purpose of servicing her. And with those thoughts, her frustrations returned. She reacted in the only way she knew how: she pushed her class even more. In front of her, the tortured bodies twisted and strained as they fought for physical release. She had a spectrum of women, all intermingled. Boring gym-ware mixed with designer leotards, grubby sneakers working alongside expensive trainers, cheap haircuts and glamorous hairstyles both gone unkempt and sweat stained. They were all.
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