[Note - this story has elements of raceplay in it. It's not meant to offend, but if that's the kind of thing that you don't like, then this is a good point to stop reading. And probably needless to say, but this is a fantasy, so for God's sake don't start putting tasers in sensitive places.]
*****
The limo worked its way through a mess of traffic downtown. Mike Stevens peered out through the tinted glass and watched as the city changed before his eyes from a centre of corporate commerce and competition to a different sort of hedonism, characterised by youth and augmented by all manner of controlled and uncontrolled substances. The inside of the limo was lit by gaudy purple neon lights which played across the dark suits of the six other men and one woman all spaced out territorially on the seats. One of the men passed Mike a bourbon and he nodded his appreciation, listening to the background chatter of international mergers and creative finance. His attention, however, was largely on Monique Jackson, the sole woman in the group, who sat with her legs together, angled to one side in a ladylike fashion that had the effect of turning her torso in such a way that he could see through the gaps between the buttons in her blouse.
The game of peekaboo her shirt played as she moved was certainly a nice pre-game before they reached the club, but it wasn't the first time Mike, or any of the other men in the car, had noticed Monique's chest. It was a running joke in the bathrooms, mail rooms, and golf courses that the star of several business magazine profiles had a very nice rack. Phil, the head of accounting who was currently sitting next to Monique had once said that: "Monique is such a bitch because she doesn't have enough modesty to cover her massive ego and her massive tits at the same time." Mike had always like Phil's description.
Monique wore a look of amused tolerance - it was one she'd had a lot of practise with over the years. She was well aware that they had deliberately decided on a 'boys night out' to try and marginalise her, assuming that she would bow out and make her excuses. Well, she had spent enough time among the big swinging dicks of high finance to hold her own in any environment, and it took a lot more than some naked titties dancing around to faze *this* bitch, thank you very much.
It was, of course, just symptomatic of the struggle Monique had had to fight all of her life. Being from a blue collar background in this environment was one strike against her. Being a woman was two. Being black - or at least mixed race, which basically seemed to count for the same thing on Wall Street - was three - if not more. And having an inconveniently large bosom just multiplied up the difficulty several times over. Monique had often cursed nature for the hand she had dealt her - no man looked much beyond her 40F breasts. She had had to fight for every ounce of respect that she had ever earned from her mind - men had been talking to her chest since she was 14. But she had climbed those mountains all the same, and felt justifiably proud of herself for doing so.
The trouble was, she knew it still counted for nothing as far as these limp-dicked WASPs were concerned. In spite of her achievements, against all the odds, the kind of struggle these boys born with a silver spoon in their mouth knew nothing about, they still looked down on her, still thought she ought by rights to be on her knees in the back of the limo, giving them a tit-job before they came over her face. And what she hated most of all was how wet that knowledge, that casual disdain made her feel. Monique had long since given up on trying to psychoanalyse why she felt the need to submit to rich, arrogant, or even down-at-heels white men. She could tell herself she had internalised centuries of oppression, that she was focusing self hate outwards, or any one of a half dozen other things. All she knew was that it made her horny as hell.
She had never crossed the streams, of course. For all of the times that she had fantasised about slinking off to the worst kind of truck stops and white trash titty bars, seeking the degradation and humiliation that somehow perversely turned her on, it had only ever been her secret fantasy - she had never done it for real, never let her work and out of work personas meet, never let her smart, slick office facade slip. To do that would be the end of her, she knew - the end of all of the money, the comfortable life, reduced to being nothing but a big titted plaything for the Masters of the Universe, the end of everything she had painstakingly built for herself over long hours in high school, college, her MBA and years with the company. Still, she could see Mike Stevens peering at her blouse as they rode along in the limo, and much as the workplace Monique had to look cool and disdainful of his pathetic slobbering, the out of office hours Monique was imagining kneeling in front of him, gagging on his cock.
The limo pulled up alongside an art-deco style club, trying to capture the charm of the burlesque days while pedalling something far seedier. The doors opened and the group filed out, like black suited corporate clowns. They had a table reserved between the two stages, but it was unnecessary. The club was far from full at 7:00 PM on a Friday night. Monique swung her legs, knees together, daintily out of the limo as they arrived, avoiding giving the assembled corporate dicks a glimpse of her stocking tops or panties, and planted her spike heels firmly on the sidewalk. Monique was tall - statuesque, even. At 5'7", with the addition of the 4" heels she routinely wore, she was virtually equal in height to any of the men, and taller than some. She had often found being physically intimidating to her advantage.
"This is it?" she asked, giving a slightly wry smile. "Classy joint, gentlemen... well, lead on. Mine's a gin sling."
The group settled in to the reserved tables. Mike ordered up an old fashioned. He paid with a $100 bill and looked approvingly at their waitress, dressed in a cliched but pleasingly ribald bunny costume as she laid the remainder of his change before him in singles. He took a sip of his drink and lost the pleased look. Even at the upper end, strip club bar tenders couldn't mix drinks worth shit.
He carefully measured up the girls in the club. There was a solid mix of "types" that might appeal to a variety of tastes. He fired a few singles onto the stage with each act but deflected the advances of the girls who sought to provide company. He bought a lap dance for Jim, who worked in legal. Like a good sport Jim declined to go to a back table and instead took his lap dance in the good company of the group. The short Latina in a slutty schoolgirl costume faced Jim and slid her body across his, the main point of contact being the silicone of her breasts. Straddling the man, she pressed his face between her breasts and kissed his bald head. The lap dance ended when Jim tried to slip a finger up the girl's ass. She jumped in surprise causing a round of laughter from the group which raised glasses to Jim in toast. The club bouncers took no notice of the group even as the dancer left flush with either anger or embarrassment. They were tipping and drinking and could get away with quite a bit.
Monique watched proceedings with a look of amused contempt. She finished her - presumably watered down - cocktail and ordered another. She was drinking perhaps a little more quickly than she usually would, but what the hell - it was a Friday night, and she was probably going to need several more of these get through this evening. She watched the girls go through their routines. Some of them were giving her quizzical glances - probably they didn't get many female customers in here - but Monique was determined not to feel intimidated by the surroundings. The men treated all of the women like objects, of course - bought and paid for - but the girls were pretty good at what they did too, Monique mused, which was separating horny middle-aged businessmen from their money, and no doubt in return regarded the men purely as ATMs. For a while Monique wondered exactly who was being exploited here. Maybe nobody.