Hi all,
I have a tale to tell that you may find interesting!
I can't say I wasn't warned.
I can't say she encouraged me.
I can't even say I didn't deserve it.
But damn it, it's unfair. We men are destined to fail, it's nature having a poke at our expense. We are built for sex, lust for all manner of perversions: it's our instinct and our hormones. We respond to sexual stimuli in a way that makes us lose control of our rational mind.
That's nature's fault, but everyone knows this. Not mine, nor an aberration by any man, but Nature's fault. And everyone, including The Pussycat Lounge on the main road out of town knows this. They know what highly stressed executives like me need after a hard day of firing people and shafting suppliers. It's tough work, but I just want to get down and dirty with some floosie before heading home to my frigid wife.
Megan was my favourite; she'd grind her pelvis into my lap as I stuffed money into her G-String, grabbing a peek at her bare slit as I did. She'd smile and push her bare breasts together, rubbing my face in her bosom as she sat astride me.
And I'd touch; no-one else let me, but if a couple of fifties had found her way into Megan's lingerie before she'd began, she'd happily let my hands wander. Not for long, mind, and nowhere covered by her underwear but I'd touch her as my cock strained it's cotton prison to snaffle a few moments with the sluttish whore.
But Megan was ill that fateful day, and a young lady I'd not seen before gave me the eye. Sure, she looked like Megan: tall, black-haired beauty with big bazookas and the same flimsy black G-String. She clearly knew the unspoken arrangement I had, and I beckoned her over. £50 for the dance, £100 for the fondle. It should have been plenty, but she flinched the moment my fingers caressed her thigh.
"No touching, Sir!"
I will admit to a degree of alcoholic consumption, at this point, but I'd paid for the right to touch her; she was mine, and as she resumed her dancing my fingers danced lightly over her rump.
"Sir, I've warned you. No touching. Or I will tell Madam."
Madam? I wonder what her boss would say if I told her that I'd paid for this little slut and all she wanted to do was to hold out on me. I wanted to slide my fingers along her thigh and I'd paid for the right. Everyone could be bought, and this little cunt had already named her price and taken the cash. I was collecting.
She squealed as my hands gripped her buttocks. "I want to touch," I interrupted, but was on the floor in seconds as the hired thugs pulled me away from the girls, before dragging me away from the action and into a chair in a side-room.
I threatened them with lawsuits, but they ignored me, holding me tightly until a middle-aged woman entered the windowless room. She oozed confidence, holding herself with dignity as she adjusted her pale blouse.
She held my wallet up, sliding out my driving license and throwing me the brown leather item. "You dropped it," she said emotionlessly, clicking her fingers that signified the thugs leaving the room and taking my driving license from her. "Put it on my desk."
"Oi," I cried, but I was ignored. I jumped up as the thugs closed the door behind them, but the Madam wasn't fazed, leaning against the white wall with a gleam in her eye.
"Sit down!" I hesitated. "Trouble following directions do you, sit down." I slumped in the chair, snarling at her. "You've upset one of my girls."
"I did not. I paid for a fondle and I wanted it. Little slut's taken my money and ..."
She interrupted with a cough. "That's a serious problem you have there. I will not have my girls upset by silly little boys," she ignored my interruption as she opened the door on the only cupboard and withdrew a wooden rattan cane, sliding it out in front of my nose. "Whoa!"
"Bend over," she demanded.
