Karaoke Conquest
"A duet of 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' leads to breaking other things in a private booth"
Saturday night karaoke at the Dragon Palace—the Chinese restaurant that turned into a proper party after 10 PM. Four Tsingtaos deep, and I was convinced I could sing.
Then Stacey grabbed the other mic.
"Need a partner for this one," she said, waving the song menu. "Don't Go Breaking My Heart. You look like you know the words."
She was drunk, curvy, and absolutely gorgeous—big hair, bigger personality, tits that strained against her sparkly top. The kind of girl who owned every room she walked into.
"I know the words," I lied.
We murdered that song. Absolutely destroyed it. But she laughed through the whole thing, bumping hips with me, and by the end, I didn't care that I'd forgotten half the lyrics.
"You're shit," she said, still laughing.
"So are you."
"I know. That's why we're perfect." She grabbed my hand. "Private booth. Now."
The private booths were meant for parties—a table, some seats, a TV screen. Stacey had other plans.
"Lock the door," she said, already unzipping her top. "We've got an hour before anyone comes looking."
"What about singing?"
"Put something on. It'll cover the noise."
I scrolled to something long—Bohemian Rhapsody—and by the time Freddie hit the first note, her top was off.
"Like what you see?" She unhooked her bra, let her massive tits spill free. "Been wanting to do this since you walked in."
"Been wanting you to."
She pulled me down onto the seats, straddling me. Her body was soft, warm, pressing against me everywhere. We kissed messy—tasting of beer and Chinese food—while my hands explored everything.
"Fuck," she breathed as I squeezed her tits. "Been so long since anyone touched me proper."
"Let me fix that."
I pulled down her skirt, found damp knickers underneath. She moaned as I pushed them aside, fingers finding her wet and ready.
"Jesus—right there—"
She came fast—drunk orgasms were easy like that—shuddering against me while Freddie sang about Galileo.
"Need you inside me," she gasped. "Now."
I freed myself, and she sank down without hesitation. We both groaned—she was tight, hot, and started moving immediately.
"So good—fuck—harder—"
We fucked to Queen's greatest hits, the music drowning out most of her moans. She came twice more before I got close.
"Where—"
"Inside—don't care—need it—"
I came buried deep, feeling her pulse around me. We stayed like that through the final notes of Bohemian Rhapsody, both panting.
Someone knocked on the door.
"You two alive in there? It's been three songs!"
"Five more minutes!" Stacey shouted. Then, to me: "Quick round two?"
We stumbled out an hour later, her makeup ruined, my shirt buttoned wrong. Nobody said anything, but everyone knew.
"Same time next week?" she asked, fixing her hair.
"I'll practice the words this time."
"Don't bother. I don't plan on singing."
Best karaoke night of my life. And I never did learn those lyrics.