Call me Starr. I work in a strip bar in a small Midwestern town. Most girls dance for the money, but I do it because it turns me on.
To me, there's nothing better than slipping into a skin-tight bodysuit and prancing around stage in front of horny men. Their hoots and howls make my pussy drool. My favorite part of the job is taking a man into a private booth and sandwiching his face between my tits. If I like a customer, I let him buy me a few drinks, then take me to a hotel after the bar closes. Allowing a stranger to shove his love muscle into my orifices excites me. But sometimes I just can't wait for my shift to end, and I have to satisfy carnal desires right there in the club.
Take, for example, last Saturday night when I found myself craving cock so badly I could barely keep my panties dry. We had a lively crowd that night, the kind that drive bouncers crazy. Customers were trying to claw their way onto the stage. I secretly wanted them to come up and gang bang me, but the bouncers pulled them back every time.
Just before my third dance routine of the night, I went into the dressing room to get ready. I put on a shiny, silver T-shirt, a matching thong bikini and thigh-high boots. I turned my body sideways and looked in the mirror. Bleach-blonde hair cascaded half way down my back. My tits stood at attention, like two loyal soldiers. I was looking good.
I went to the disc jockey's booth and told him to play something upbeat.
When the stripper before me stepped off of the stage, my heart began to flutter.
"OK guys, I want you to get ready to blaaaaaaaast oooooooooff," the D.J. said. "This next girl is going to take you a galaxy far, far away. So come on everybody, give it up for . . . Starr."
A hush fell over the crowd as I sashayed up the steps to the dais. The stage-side seats were filled with stiff-dicked men. They kept wads of dollar bills in one hand and half-full bottles of beer in the other. A hard bass drum began to pound. I knew just how to rile them. First, I gyrated my hips and licked my lips. Then, I lifted my shirt just enough to show the underside of my tits. This was just the warm up, and some guys were already leaning forward in their seats, waving bills and begging for special attention. I live for these moments. My pussy gushed.
As the second song began, I peeled off my shirt and flung it at a man wearing a camouflage Army uniform in the front row. It flopped onto his head. He pressed the shirt into his face and let my honeysuckle perfume engulf him. He smiled and winked. I gazed at him and drew circles around my nipples with my fingertips. The soldier was cute. I memorized where he was sitting so I could pay him special attention later. His name tag said: "Sgt. Robinson."
On the side of the stage nearest the bar, an obese man leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. I waltzed toward him. Shifting in his chair, he hesitantly held out a dollar. I set my arms akimbo and raised an eybrow at him. He thrust the bill toward me, nodding his head.
"Take it," he said.
"Oh no," I said, scolding him with the wag of a finger. "You don't get off that easy."
I picked up his bottle of beer and slurped down half of it in three slow gulps. Then I took another small sip and left the beer in my mouth, swishing it around as I snatched the dollar out of his hand. I bent my body over the railing and tucked the bill into the zipper of his jeans. He flinched, but relaxed after I smiled at him.
