Author's Note:
This story is inspired by a lover's sexual fantasy, which I offered to attempt to bring to literary life—sort of a "commissioned" tale, but purely for fun and personal pleasure.
This is a work of fiction in a universe where unprotected sex has no consequences or health risks, so please enjoy it as such. It features a sexual encounter with three people and includes first time experiences, oral, anal, and double penetration; two of the characters are father and son, but this is not a story of incest, and they don't directly interact sexually with each other. That's your heads up in case this is not your thing.
Any similarity to any event or person, living or dead, is purely unintentional and coincidental. All characters are over 18. As always, I appreciate your taking the time to leave comments and feedback, especially regarding the success of capturing another's fantasy as a story here.
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I stood in the mirror, fussing with my costume before going out for my set, and smiled at my reflection. Sexy. Young-looking but not childish—a classic look with a sexy twist. Perfect. And I was proud to be able to pull off the look, even at almost thirty years old. Well... all right, not
almost
; it was my thirtieth birthday.
Looking good, Diamond.
I was wearing one of my favorites: "Naughty English Schoolgirl." A short, pleated, blue tartan skirt barely covered my bum, and a white, short-sleeved blouse with a Peter Pan collar and tartan necktie set off my sun-kissed complexion. My long dark hair was tied in pigtails with blue ribbons, and I wore white ankle socks with black Mary Jane buckle shoes.
I felt a warm flutter in my belly at the thought of being the center of libidinous attention, wanted and desired by the men visiting the club where I worked. Even after five years, I got excited and slightly nervous before going onstage. My nipples hardened and pressed against the thin fabric of my blouse, and my heart rate increased. I didn't bother with a bra, preferring the dark hint of my areolae to be slightly visible through the white cloth. Under my skirt, I wore a pair of frilly knickers designed to be conspicuous and removed. Beneath that, I wore a tiny red thong.
Exotic dancing—okay, stripping—was an unexpected vocation for me. Five years earlier, I was in dire need of finances, and some friends convinced me to enter a wet t-shirt contest with a cash prize. I came in second place, won some cash, and, more importantly, discovered that I loved showing my body to people in public. Loved being wanted, lusted after, feeling feminine, powerful, sexy, and in control. In short, teasing and stripping turned me on. Sometimes turned on enough to spend time with customers in the club's private VIP rooms.
The club that night—a Saturday and my birthday—was crowded. The room had an invigorating energy and vitality, and the guests felt loose and happy. The thumping music, buzz of conversations, and moving lights in the darkness formed a background of liveliness for the dancers, waitresses, and primarily male patrons.
The club's central area had three general sections: a stage and table area, an area where dancers gave lap dances that spanned the whole back of the club opposite the stage, and a bar on a side wall. It also had several private VIP rooms down a hallway off the central area where dancers and patrons could indulge in more intimate activities unobserved.
When I danced, I stripped down to my thong and necktie; part of my routine was to pull off my schoolgirl blouse and leave on my narrow tartan tie, which draped between my bare, handful-sized boobs. Men loved that look: topless, wearing a thin tie and a tiny red thong below. The effect sparked their imaginations, sending an incongruous message that many found alluring and arousing.
I received propositions at least a dozen times a night to go to one of the "special VIP rooms," which I did very selectively. In the private VIP rooms, I might give a peek behind or remove my thong or allow more physical contact than was permitted in the main areas. I also received invitations several times a night to meet somewhere outside of the club, which I always politely declined. Although I was tempted a couple of times by good-looking, attractive men who seemed like they might be fun to know had we met under other circumstances.
As my set approached, I closed my eyes, took several deep cleansing breaths, lifted my chin, and stepped out into the lights and onto the stage. The stage was a half-circle, with smoky-glass mirrors across the back and chairs pulled up to the stage along the circular edge for patrons to get close-up views. A stainless steel pole ran from floor to ceiling in the center of the stage.
Every ring-side seat was taken; men sat with expectant looks, waiting, smiling. Waiting for me. A quiver rippled through my groin as I saw the smiles of men wanting to see me—men I would show my body to. My naked body.
I couldn't see much beyond the front row because of the stage lights shining at me; from the stage, most of the club was in shadows and darkness, punctuated by sporadic roving lights splashing out from the stage area. Goosebumps played across my skin as my inner excitement ignited.
I walked out onto the stage, stopped, and pretended to be shy, biting my lip and looking nervously around. That usually caught the audience's attention more than just strutting around—like whispering to get attention instead of yelling. I smiled, looked around like I'd had a naughty idea, and skipped freely around the stage like a young girl. The bouncing of my movement caused my skirt to flare up and expose my frilly knickers and made my breasts jiggle and rub under my white blouse. My pigtails flopped and swung randomly, out of sync with my movement.
Then I halted. I spun and floated my arms to my sides like a young girl spinning on a playground, then dropped in half at the waist and placed my hands on the floor. I wiggled my butt a moment, then popped back upright, reaching my arms overhead with a little jump—this maneuver always sparked smiles from my viewers. I felt the thrill of being the focus of their rapt attention.
The naughtiness and charged atmosphere in the room kindled a sensual fire in my loins. I slowly circled my hips, turning around and facing the different sides. I tipped my head with a finger at the corner of my mouth as if contemplating something. Then I reached under my short skirt, hooked my fingers under my frilly knickers, and slid them down and off.
I smiled inwardly at some men's attempts to see up my skirt as I did so. Several succeeded in catching a glimpse of my red thong, but most were left to imagine what I wore underneath. Or to wonder if I wore anything. I spun the knickers around one finger and flung them to the back of the stage.
At that point, patrons began tossing one and five-dollar bills onto the stage—a sort of "tip" to get more of a show, to encourage and reward the dancer. I paddled around in a circle and unbuttoned my blouse under my tie, keeping it closed with my hands in front of me. My collar was fastened with velcro so I could pull it open and off without removing the tie. I pulled it open slightly, giving tiny flashes of my boobs but quickly closing again, playing with opening and closing it. Then I shifted it off my shoulders and looked back at the men with an innocent "who, me?" expression.
I ripped open my blouse and threw it off. The audience loved it. I loved it, and any remaining hint of self-consciousness had vanished. I was topless in front of strangers and having a blast. Their cheers of approval stoked my confidence. I spun, undulated my pelvis, grabbed my boobs, squeezed and mashed them, licked my nipple, then let them bobble free. I felt naughty, free, and fun.
I raised my arms over my head and undulated my chest and belly. I let the patrons drink in the sight of my bare breasts, areolae crinkling and nipples hardening in the cool air. My schoolgirl tie waved about with my movement. I felt a familiar tickle between my legs; I was getting wet with arousal.
As the next song played, I circled, becoming more sexual in my movements. I thrust my hips, smiled, winked, and caressed my naked tits. The men cheered with each hip swirl and wink. I grabbed the center pole with one hand, hooked my leg on it, and swung around several times, causing my tie to flutter and my skirt to flare and reveal my bare bum and red string thong. I felt like I was flying, untethered and joyful.
I walked to where some guys had put some fivers on the stage and stood over them facing away. I bent forward at the waist with straight legs and unbuckled and kicked off my shoes; the guys sitting there could stare right up my skirt and see my bare ass cheeks and my barely covered pussy lips between my legs. I slid down into the splits before them, winked, rolled over, and rippled back up. I wore my skirt, thong, tie, and socks at that point.
My skirt came off next. First, I flipped the back up and flashed my bare bum several times, arching my back and sticking my butt out in a "Betty-Boop" pose. I picked up some bills on the stage in front of an older man by doing a deep knee bend with my knees open to the sides, which pulled my short skirt up and gave him a nice close-up view of my thong-covered vulva. The thin fabric of my thong left little to the imagination; it barely covered my cleft and the outline of my labia was clearly visible. Then I stood, slipped the skirt off, kicked it up, caught it with one hand, and tossed it to the back of the stage.
Finally, I reached down and peeled off my socks, leaving only my red string thong and a tartan tie. I stood momentarily and let everyone get a good look at my full perky breasts capped by pink silver dollar-sized areolae and erect nipples; my dark pigtails reached down just past my nipples, tickling the sides of my boobs. My ass was bare—toned and round—the thong's string was invisible in my crack. I turned slowly in place, then swayed and circled the stage again.
My third song involved more flirting, posing, and gathering tips than actual dancing. I moved from man to man. Sometimes, I squatted in front or crawled over and showed my breasts up close with erect nipples that invited a kiss (which I never allowed on stage), or I would back up and show my bare bum with my red-fabric-covered pussy peeking out. I occasionally exchanged friendly or sexy words, but more often, the men stared hungrily in silence.
I felt so alive, so sexy, so feminine and confident. The men looked at me with hunger, lust, and appreciation. They wanted me and were aroused by my mostly nude body, which caused a surge of pleasure to ripple deep in my vagina.
It was flattering to know they were getting turned on by me—by my looks, movements, and femininity. I'm unsure if they could see how wet I was, but I was acutely aware. I was incredibly turned on by being on display in front of a room full of men.
I reached down and ran my finger along my pussy, pressing the damp fabric between my swollen labia. This created a deep camel toe that outlined my pussy almost as if I were naked.
I was nearing the end of my set when I noticed a handsome man, probably in his early 40s, sitting by a younger, nervous-looking guy. The older one had a strong, chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and a twinkle in his vivid blue eyes. He appeared fit and confident. A twenty-dollar bill lay on the stage before him, a rare and large stage tip.
Dropping down onto my knees in front of the pair, I scooped away the money and leaned forward towards the handsome man. "Thanks, honey, this is very generous."
The man's eyes flicked down at my naked breasts, then back to my face. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the younger guy openly gaping at my boobs, making no attempt to be circumspect.
"Our pleasure," Mr. Blue-Eyes said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're gorgeous and delightful to watch. We would be honored if you would join us for a drink when you can." He gestured towards the tables away from the stage.
I smiled, warmth radiating out of my belly through my body.
Damn, this guy is hot. I feel like a teenager meeting a pop star or something.
"That sounds nice. Grab a table, and I'll join you in a few," I said. Blue-Eyes smiled and nodded.
My final song ended. I collected my cash from the stage, picked up my clothes, and returned to the dressing room. My heart was racing, and my breathing was shallow. Something about that man really connected with me—in an erotic way. I was excited to talk with him, even slightly nervous.
