A tall, glistening, brown wall of naked man comes closer and closer, until his toes nudge the points of her boots. Cathy draws back in alarm, hands clutching arms, knees pressed in tight. The alcohol warming her blood and slurring her speech can't quite obscure her fear of the stripped-bare stripper as he loomed over her. Not quite bare: he still wears his mirror shades, in which her startled expression shines back at her above her white blouse and unusually daring décolletage.
Her friends had complemented her on her sexy outfit, the sheer stockings and figure-hugging blouse, the calf-length, leather, high-heeled boots. She had told herself that it was alright to dress up, that they all had, that it didn't mean...anything. It was all just a bit of fun. But that had been before the show started, when the cocktails were flowing and beginning to suppress the nerves and sense of awkwardness. The sense that, somehow, this wasn't quite right: she didn't normally do this sort of thing, it wasn't her scene at all. But it was okay, once in a while, to go a bit wild, wasn't it? And it hadn't been her idea; she hadn't even wanted to go and had pulled a revolted face at the first suggestion. It was only because it was a birthday party...nobody likes a spoilsport. Don't be boring!
Such thoughts are gone. Thought in general is difficult under the pounding, relentless dance beat, but never mind that! Here in front of her is this utterly brazen, utterly naked masculine specimen. First the tricorn hat, then the frilly pirate jacket, then the three-quarter breeches: all tossed to the wings. And the piece-de-resistance, the leather jockstrap, folded down and tugged aside and finally removed altogether, to leave him, its erstwhile wearer, in the altogether. That was, traditionally, supposed to be it; but nowadays audiences expect more. The dancer carried on dancing, displaying his all. And even this was only a prelude.
The beat quickens, intensifies: throbbing against the sides of her head. To each side, her friends clap and whoop, but barely audibly. She tries to look away, tries to return the delighted grins with an embarrassed smile that wins her a pat on the hand from Nicola, but her eyes are wrenched back to rest on him alone. She gazes up at him, at the slabs of his chest and shield of his stomach, the tattoos writhing on his biceps, the light gleaming on the oil which is now his only coating. He gyrates, snakes, smiles down at her. He is...fit. In every sense. The thought is there, she cannot halt it! It leapt into her forebrain before she could escape. And lead by the thought, she looks down.
His cock is huge! It is not quite erect, but far from flaccid, an awakening monster. His pelvis swings at her, whipping his cock closer to the target, an open letter of unswerving physical reality. Like the rest of him, it is deeply tanned, as thick as a cudgel and very, very long. She wonders how long, when the blood has stretched and tightened it to steel. Another thought! She couldn't catch that one either! In her first, furtive peek, she takes in everything, the swelling rope net of veins, the creases on the hood, the heavy pendulum of his balls swinging along behind. She blinks away, but looks again.
And in that look she is caught. He is a professional, who needs no second invitation. Already thrusting hard at her, he lifts a foot onto the curving bench seat and leans in closer yet, bringing his cock to her face. She hears cackles and shrieks, far away where her friends are sitting next to her. His foot kicks away her protective arm and she does not resist, too frightened, too polite for that. He bends over her; and there is her reflection again as she gazes up in shock and awe. His pumping pelvis flops his mighty cock just above her cleavage. She smells the tang of oil and choking sweetness of deodorant and the faint salt-musk of sweat behind it.
Her heart jolts and fizzes and batters her ribcage. Her spine is wedged against the dense pad of the bench, one of a tier of curving arcs rising as Odeon steps from the stage. His ankle brushes her wrist and she shrinks in relflex, but feels his moisture on her skin. He plants his foot more firmly, kneels forwards and lifts the other foot to plant it on her other side. He squats over her. Again, the shrieks just pierce the fog of music.
His cock swings up to her mouth, bumps on her chin, slaps her cheek. She feels its solidity: even without complete tumescence, it pushes hard on her, with a brute, muscular power. She cranes her neck back until her head touches the bench seat behind them, screwing her lips up and shaking him off as best she can. Each slap is hot, with a slight sponginess, an animal heat from within and a smooth elasticity without. She feels its life, its lust for her, its contempt. He whips it across her lips. She will not do it! She hates that thing! She won't do it for anyone, let alone this stranger. Her lips stay shut, teeth clenched.
He persists for a while, seems to want her to yield, her resistance urging him to force her. But then a new approach. His buttocks, smooth and sweating and tight, clamp down on her chest, squashing her down on the bench; then slide from her bosom to drag her blouse down from her tits. On them, he leaves a smear of oil and sweat and the impression of burning heat. His cock drops to her cleavage, his balls grazing the swelling curves of each full, meaty breast. Each breast rises and falls as panting waves wash through her thorax. She is not wearing a bra! On a whim, to complete the risqué theme for the evening, she took it off and left it in the laundry pile, playing the wicked woman. But now, bereft of protection, his weight pulling down the thin blouse, her nipples must touch his skin! They do, each tingling nerve-ending sending wet, warm stimulation to her swimming brain. She knows they are stiffening against the soft skin of his thighs, knows he can feel her arousal as he shifts his weight against her.
He slides his cock back and forth in her deep cleavage, not fast or hard, but absolutely deliberate, implacable, masterly. Her tongue flicks over her drying lips and finds an acrid taste, the taste of his foreskin and glans, still on her. His hips work, driving the cock up to her taught throat and back again. His scrotum rubs on her nipples as his thighs squeeze her tits against each other. Her tits are slick with wetness, his sweat and now hers. Each breast feels swollen and heavy and tender, somehow bruised. Her breath is a hurricane in the roof of her mouth; her legs shake; her fingernails rake the fabric of the seat.
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"
She wants her thought to be "No, please stop!" She knows it should be this. But her fear, her terror, is that under
"Oh shit!"
is
"Oh yes! More!"
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"
The shrieking of her friends is a constant twitter in each ear, as the bass punches the skull and drums through the liver.
"Oh...go on...keep going! Keep going!"
She thrills. His cock has stiffened! She can feel it pressing its way more firmly on each breast as it ploughs them. Her flesh cannot rebound as easily, there is more force, more insistence against them. As he withdraws, she sees the exposed dome of his glans drinking in the sweat now running in a stream in her cleavage, supping on her, gathering strength. She smells its dirty, immodest stench, tingling in each nostril.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck my tits! Fuck them!"
As soon as the thought has exploded in her, he is gone. He straightens his back, hauling his glistening cock free, stands up, lifts one foot over her head as though to present his arse to her. He jumps nimbly aside and down and heads for Nicola, a paroxysm of laughter reddening her face and shaking her shoulders.
Cathy is left fighting for breath, bare tits shining in the disco light, sweat coursing to her navel beneath her clinging blouse. She stares after him, his buttocks working as he dances up against Nicola, light picking out the ridge of his spine between flowing back muscles. For a moment, Cathy forgets she is exposed, all on show like some cheap slut. For another moment, she doesn't care; finally, what was once normal focus returns and she sweeps her hands up to recover her tits with her blouse. But she finds her fingers diving inside to squeeze and pinch her hard nipples, slick with sweat, to pinch away the fierce, hot, swollen, bruising urge in them that has transmitted itself to her cunt. Her legs still wobble and fidget and vibrate, her cunt feels pressed and constrained and she knows it is swelling with the same urge. She expects her knickers are already soaked.
In all, he was on her, fucking her tits with his half-hard cock, for no more than a minute. A minute in which her friends watched her being sexualised; turned on in baldest, most brutish fashion before their very eyes, opened up for an unknown man to use, led astray from her marriage. His smell and the feel of him are still on her, her bloodstream is flooded with hormones and adrenalin from his touch and the sheer wickedness of being pleasured in public in this way, so far from her usual shyness and reluctance. A beast stirs somewhere deep in the dark pit of her stomach.
The music pounds on, jarring and jangling, hovering around pain. He forces himself up against Nicola, straddling her as he had straddled Cathy, slapping his cock on her jaw. The jaw opens. As Cathy gazes in foot-jiggling, leg-jogging, chest-thumping wonder, Nicola shows her what inhibition is. So what? It's just a cock! It's just a bit of fun, a bit of sex, a bit of a suck! Sex is fun, it doesn't mean anything- and anyway, it's not proper sex, is it? Just a suck, like on a lollipop.
Nicola holds Cathy's bright-eyed gaze for a moment, with look that is nicely balanced between the wry, the delighted and the whorish. She homes in on the latter as she swivels up to look at him, watching each minute twitch of his lips as she parts her own, splitting them redly open for him. She places her teeth on the tip of his exposed glans, lips sliding softly down on the supple skin of the shaft, a sinewy vein pulsing against her nerves. Her head nods, he shifts his pelvis forwards and up and her mouth is filled until her cheek bulges. Her eyes narrow and she arches her back as though he has penetrated not her mouth, but her cunt, as though her vagina is being caressed by the thrust, as though the taste in her mouth is the most exquisite chocolate cake.
Cathy cannot help herself: she has to watch it all, even as she wonders. Why had she thought those thoughts? She doesn't even like the word,
