It was easy money.
If I said that was the only allure of the job, I would be lying, but that’s what I tell friends and family when they ask. Just the money, it’s all about the readies. I strip for drunken, baying women for big wads of cash and nothing more.
It’s a lie of course, I strip for many reasons and the money is just a small part of it. An almost insignificant part.
There’s the adoration of the women, the inescapable desire in their eyes as their drunken minds are overcome by lust: they want me. I know it, and they know it. I make their consciousness dance with carnal thoughts, their thighs tingle, their pussies moist. I make them into a mess of desperation as my clothes come off: maybe it’s the fireman’s uniform, the army captain or the policeman with his truncheon that they book. I’m always dressed to undress.
Sometimes, they keep their hands and wanton desires to themselves; I don’t like those gigs so much. Normally they can’t. Maybe the bride wants one last fling, the maid of honour sees something she can’t get from her respectable husband or a wild guest just wants a wilder time. By the time my thong gets tossed into the raunchy mob, the inhibitions are long gone.
The feel of a taken woman’s touch is exquisite: it’s naughty, it’s taboo, it’s wantonly filthy. She has no interest in me, just my erect cock aching to be played with. She will laugh, holler and squeal: encouraged by ribald vulgarities from her friends. Then her hands will plunge into my loins, gripping my erection and rubbing her hands along my shaft, waiting to see how far I will go.
Secretly she wants me to take it further; she doesn’t want me to be satisfied with a handjob, and I haul her to her feet. The kiss takes it up a notch, the hands under her short dress takes it up several more. No knickers, good: she’s come with intention of being naughty.
No underwear, no barrier. Nothing to stop my rubbing of her clit. Nothing to stop my erection pressing against her thigh. Nothing to stop a stray finger pushing against the entrance of her cunt.
And then, as she thinks she will get the satisfaction she craves, I will discard her, pushing her back down onto the sofa. I want her to really want it. I want her to need it; an insatiable, unquenchable thirst that won’t be dowsed until she is squealing bawdy profanities as she bounces off my cock. I need to see rampant desire in her eyes.
So I fumble with another woman: they’re all desperate for attention. They gaze on my bobbing cock and muscle-clad body. I could have any woman I want, but I’ve already chosen. She’s simmering, idly toying with herself as I’ve toyed with her mind. The bride comes under my touch, the maid of honour rubs up against my erection, squealing lewdly as her obscene dress presses against my cock.
But I want the first woman, and pull her back to her feet: there’s nothing but lust in her eyes, sex on her mind. She takes my cock in her mouth, sucking strongly as her party coo drunkenly.
Loving the debauchery and sin, she’s taking it up notches herself now. We separate, she grabs a condom from the table. I know what’s coming, and she rips it open with her teeth. She can’t wait to open it with her fingers, she has to tear the foil packet open before unfurling it impatiently down my shaft.
Some of her friends fidget: torn between worrying that their hen party has got “out of hand” and wanting a piece of the action. They all watch, they always do. Watching as I drive my cock deep into the married woman, thrusting deep into her cunt doggy-style.
The condoms desensitise me; she screeches on the first orgasm, yells on the second, completed sated by the third. This is a rodgering like none she’s had recently: this is no fuck for a respectable married woman but a primal explosion of satisfying urges amid gorged desperation.
“Wow!” That was the only reply I get, as we part sated and exhausted; sometimes, I have more fun, sometimes the first fuck is enough.
But always, when I get home, always, do I give my loving wife the money I’ve earned, for the housekeeping.
The money is hers.
The tips and sex, they’re all mine!
Featured image from Numbphoto and used under a Creative-Commons license.