Revenge Of The Stripper

AN EROTIC TALE OF WET REVENGE

I saw that guy coming in again today -- the one that Candi has been trying to avoid. Skulking around the buffet table, glancing up at the stage periodically -- I only noticed him because his dirty blond hair caught the light sometimes, twinkling offensively at me.

When the girls all stretched their legs to take a walk around the stage, passing each other, circling around to new positions at different poles, trying to work a different part of the crowd, I made sure to bump into Candi.

"He's here," I hissed. "By the buffet table."

"Shit," she whispered back. "I'm getting outta here. I'll send Asia out. Cover for me?"

"You got it," I said, with a sharp spank on her ass to make it look like her departure offstage was planned.

I walked forward to the center pole at the front of the stage and took Candi's spot. It was a coveted position, front and center in the eye of the crowd, but it could make you a target for all the weirdos and dickheads who patronized a joint like this.

Like that dirty blond asshole, that little redneck fucker, whom Candi was fleeing.

I had been at The Paradiso for three years, and in that whole time, I had never hated a client more. He overstepped boundaries; he treated us like prostitutes, rather than professional dancers; and every interaction any of the young women had with him ended in tears.

The last straw for me was when he hired Candi for a lap dance last week. Men aren't supposed to touch us, though we are used to slapping away wandering hands from drunken lechers. Candi said she was so focused on keeping his hands away from her that she didn't realize when he reached for his own zipper.

Without warning, he stood up in his seat, unbalancing her so that she fell to the ground. And then, while she was blinking back surprise, he aimed his tiny dick at her and jizzed right on her face.

I ran into her in the bathroom afterwards, where she was crying and cleaning up, feeling horribly violated, and powerless to have stopped such abuse. Her dejection inspired such righteous anger in me -- I wanted to make that jerk feel as violated and powerless as she did. I wanted to prove to men like him that you can't treat women like objects. I wanted to treat him like an object and let him experience that humiliation for himself. It might not change any of his behavior, but hell...it would make me feel better.

So I already had a plan brewing when I stepped to that pole in center stage. I wanted to attract his attention. I wanted him to single me out, target me, and try to pull some of the same shit. I was just waiting for my opportunity.

That opportunity came when I yielded my position on the pole to Angelia and exited the stage. Drummond, one of the staff, came to meet me backstage and pointed out at the crowd.

"That guy wants a dance."

It was him.

"Tell him I'll only do it if he gets us a private room," I said coolly.

"You got it," said Drummond, slipping back out into the main room.

The guy assented, and soon I was entering one of the boxy private rooms and coming face to face with...him. He was sitting on the chair in the center of the room. He had an ugly face and an ugly sneer and I hated every inch of him.

"Hi, I'm Felicia," I said cheerfully. "What's your name, handsome?"

"John," he said, stone-faced. His hand was already rubbing the front of his jeans.

"John, eh?" I said, approaching him slowly and deliberately.

Suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do. I knew the perfect way to humiliate this guy and get revenge on him for hurting my stripper sisters.

"John," I said thoughtfully, rolling the word around in my mouth. "Is it a...family name?"

He grunted noncommittally. "Are you going to do this or what? I only paid for a half hour."

That small fact alone reinforced what an asshole he was. Most of the guys who come in here are looking for connection -- they'll rent a private room for an hour and spend most of the time just talking to me while I dance, because they want to share things and be heard by another human who will accept them for who they are.

But this guy wasn't doing that. He was just coming in here to use people. To use Candi. To use me. To use the other girls.

But I wasn't going to let him get away with it any more. It was time for him to get used.

xxx

First, I had to wait for the guy to make a mistake.

Candi didn't have anyone nearby to defend her or get the guy away from her last time. But these private rooms all came outfitted with cameras; I knew I could trust Mikey, who watched the live footage, to shut things down if John overstepped his boundaries. If John tried to touch me, or if he pulled out his dick, there would be security guys in here faster than you could say "tiny penis."

And indeed, barely had I started to lower myself to a hovering position just above his lap when I felt a hand grab my ass.

I stood up immediately and turned around. "No hands, no touching. Those are the rules. Try it again and there will be consequences."

He let his hands drop to his sides again and so I resumed what I was doing, though I was lost in my own thoughts about how this might play out. Would he take the bait? Would the security guys play along?

I was starting to doubt my plan would work when he suddenly grabbed my hips with both hands and bucked upwards against my ass. I yelped, and tried to kick off from the ground to pull myself into a standing position, but he kept me pinned against him.

Drummond and Big Steve burst into the room, and the guy released me.

"That's it, dude. Last chance," said Drummond. His massive bulk took up the entire doorway. "You've had too many violations and complaints. We're going to have to ask you to leave and never come back."

"That's bullshit," John said immediately. "I have a right to be here. I paid money."

"Not when you break the rules, you don't," Big Steve said, and he pointed to the huge sign on the wall of the private room itself that said: NO TOUCHING THE DANCERS.

I knew this guy was about to make a big scene, that would end with him being forcibly removed from the venue, and would rattle the nerves of other patrons and dancers. So I intervened.

"Gentlemen," I said sweetly. "Perhaps we can devise a solution to give this man what he paid for."

I leaned closer to Big Steve and Drummond. "Guy is willing to pay a little extra for some fetish play, and I could use the money, but I want his hands out of the way, you know what I mean?"

"We have a solution for that," winked Drummond. Big Steve still looked skeptical. "You alright here, Felicia? You sure you don't want this guy gone?"

"I can definitely handle him," I assured them. "But, uh..."

I leaned in again and whispered. "We're gonna want the plastic mats."

Drummond raised an eyebrow; I think he saw through my plan, but he wasn't going to talk me out of it. "Coming right up."

Big Steve stayed put while Drummond went to gather supplies. John watched suspiciously the whole time, and I tried to calm my nervous excitement for what I was about to enact. Soon Drummond was back, dragging a small storage tub behind him.

"What the hell is that?" John said. "Are you going to give me a lapdance or what?"

I crouched down to meet him at face level. "I consent to finishing the dance for you and hey, I'll even throw in a few extras that you might enjoy, if you consent to having your hands restrained behind your back for the duration."

"Hell no," he said immediately.

"Then you're out of here," I said, standing up and walking back to the guys. "No refunds, no returns, and you're not welcome back here. See you never."

"No!" he shouted. "Crazy bitch. Fine. We'll do it your way."

Big Steve got right in his face. "Call her crazy bitch again and you'll have to answer to me," he hissed.

While John recoiled, distracted, I snapped the handcuffs on him and zip-tied him to the chair. Drummond helped me to position the plastic mats and drag the chair, with John in it, to a good position.

"Have fun," Drummond winked, as the security guys headed out the door. "Oh, wait!"

He flagged down a passing server and passed a glass of champagne through the door to me with a knowing smile. Then they left me to it.

I faced John, who was now handcuffed and restrained to the chair with a sour expression on his face. "Get on with it," he said.

"Oh, I will," I said, sipping my champagne slowly and circling John in a predatory, searching way.

"But first I'd like to teach you a little something about what it means to respect me and the work that I do. What it means to respect women."

I approached him again slowly, ready to continue with the dance but as wary as if he was a chained animal that I feared could break loose to lunge at me. But then I saw that he was indeed straining against the restrains, and his efforts were getting him nowhere; he was well-secured.

Satisfied, I crouched so that my ass was just over his lap, and I mimed the circular gestures of grinding, even though we weren't touching. When I looked over my shoulder I saw that he was staring, fascinated, at my ass.

"Would you rather I face you or turn away?" I purred, and downed the rest of the champagne, setting the flute down on the floor.

"Face me," he said greedily, but when I turned towards him he craned his neck forward, trying to get closer to my breasts -- for what purpose, I couldn't say.

"Uh uh uh," I said, backing away from him again. "Naughty boy. Would you like to see how we treat naughty boys here?"

"Show me," he said -- and I almost thought I saw a new sparkle in his eye.

Slowly, I toyed with the front-facing clasp of my push-up bra until I heard a click, then swung the cups apart to let my breasts pop out. I let him have a good long look.

"Naughty boys might steal treats, but they also receive punishments," I said, and I put the toe of my stiletto on the seat just between his thighs. "Do you want to be punished?"

"Maybe," he said, still drinking in the sight of me. "Show me what else you got."

"Uh uh uh," I said again, wagging my finger at him. "Naughty boys are in no position to make demands. Naughty boys accept what they are given."

"Then give me more," he growled.

"Naughty boys should be careful what they wish for," I murmured.

I let the bra fall to the floor and, with excruciating slowness, started to peel down the tops of my stockings. The guy was practically vibrating with the desire to pull his hands free and use them. I ignored him while I carefully stepped out of my shoes and garters, though I did it all with an erotic sway of the hips and a well-placed ass just out of reach. This dude was eating it up.

I could see the erection tenting the front of his denim jeans, and was careful to remain above it, but without ever touching him: not a single accidental brush or stroke. I was a goddamn professional, here. And knowing that I was doing my job well, that I was capable of servicing this asshole even while I planned to ruin him, only increased my feelings of empowerment. I was enjoying myself.

When I faced him again, I was topless, and clad in only bikini-style bottoms and a skirt: a tight one with a slit up both sides all the way to the hip, barely bigger than a loincloth. I flipped the skirt up to let him see the black lacy panties I wore underneath, and he growled.

"Come back," he said.

"Didn't I tell you naughty boys are in no position to make demands?" I scolded, keeping a distance.

"Besides...I think your half hour is almost up."

"Extend it," he said. "I'll pay more."

I smiled brilliantly at him and came a little closer. "That's what I like to hear."

I shimmied out of the skirt, standing in front of him wearing only my panties.

"However..." I pouted at him. "There is one small issue."

"What?" he said. He never even looked at my eyes; he never looked at my face. He just greedily drank in the sight of my near-naked body.

"I'm supposed to start my break now," I sighed. "I've been on stage dancing, and then I got pulled back here, and I have to say...my bladder is feeling a little tight and uncomfortable right now." I indicated the empty champagne glass under his chair.

"Hold it," he said, still staring intently.

"I don't think I'll be able to," I whimpered. I did have to piss, but the whimpering was absolutely an act.

"But luckily..."

"What?" he said, finally looking up to me.

"There's a toilet in this room," I said, smiling broadly.

"Huh?" he said, looking around. I stepped closer to him. I straddled his denim-clad lap and his tenting erection.

"You, John," I said, still smiling. "Can I call you John?"

"That is my name," he said, bewildered.

"Yes," I said. "And you're my john, now."

"What?" He still looked confused, poor thing. It would sink in.

I leaned forward to whisper intimately in his ear. "I really, really, desperately have to piss, John. And there's no way that I'll be able to make it to a toilet in time. Luckily I have a human toilet right here, and I'm going to make use of it."

I wish I had a camera to take a picture of the look on his face. More than anything, his expression -- the dawning of comprehension, mixed with the horror of realizing his own powerlessness -- satisfied me on a practically spiritual level.

"Mmmm, doesn't this feel right, John?" I said, hooking aside the crotch of my panties with one finger. I kept them on, but I didn't want to soak them. "Isn't this just so appropriate...you come here thinking that you will use us, all of these ladies in employment here, but it turns out that you are the one who gets used. Oh, John, I am going to make such good use of you."

He still said nothing; he didn't even move or struggle, but looked frozen in place.

"Ahhh, thank you, John," I said, putting a hand on my lower back for support while I leaned a little backward.. "This is going to feel so good."

It did.

I wasn't quite dancing with the need to pee, but I certainly felt the pressure building. All I had to do was release the tension -- unclench my muscle, and relax into the feeling -- and suddenly I was peeing down into the waiting lap of my client.

"Mmmm," I said, moving my hips in a circle to soak a wider area. My piss splashed against the denim, turning it dark. I leaned back a little more and the stream traveled up over his crotch to his stomach, and then his chest.

"Oh, what a relief," I moaned. "I'm so glad you're here, John. You make a perfect toilet. I am going to release everything onto you."

He looked down at his shirt, soaked with my piss, and back up at me. He emitted something like a squeak. His cheeks were bright red.

"Ahhhh," I moaned again. "Oh, John, John, what a good john you are for taking my piss like this."

He was silent, soaking wet.

I wasn't done pissing, but I didn't want the fun to end yet -- so I clamped down on my stream and shook the droplets off onto his leg.

"Hmm," I said, looking down at my sopping cunt. "What shall I dry myself with?"

I looked around the room but of course I knew there was nothing here: not even a tissue.

"Your clothes are too wet," I mused. "But I have an idea."

Without hesitation, I swept out the leg of his chair, grabbed the back, and lowered him down to the ground, still bound to the chair, so that he was staring straight up at the ceiling.

"You have lovely hair," I said, staring at that ugly dirty-blond head. "That looks perfect for what I need."

I knelt down by his head, then crawled forward until my knees were on either side of his ears. I half humped, half rubbed my wetness all over the top of his head.

"Mmmm," I hummed with pleasure. "What a good little human toilet. What a good little piss towel."

His eyes met mine but he said nothing. His face was still red and flushed.

"I hope you know," I leaned down to whisper, "that we're giving a good show to the guys watching the cameras right now."

"Oh my god," he murmured -- it was the quietest thing he had said yet, and I almost missed it. I looked at him with a little more scrutiny. Could it be...he was enjoying this humiliation?

If anything, that spurred my determination to new heights.

"I'm not done, piss towel," I said. "I hope you know that. I still have lots more. I'm going to take my relief out on you."

At that, I stood back up, and planted my feet on either side of his stupid head. From this angle, he had a pretty good view of my pussy from below, but only for a brief moment before I let the piss flow out of me.

He was immediately blinded, as the surge fell straight down and onto his face and eyes.

"Ahhh," I sighed. "What a good toilet, taking my piss like this."

While I pissed, I squatted down to get a little closer to his face.

"A piss towel shouldn't leave a mess," I said. "A human toilet shouldn't let any escape onto the floor."

I staunched the flow for a moment and looked at him as he blinked his eyes open and shook droplets off his face. I was a little surprised by the look on his face: one of sudden, slavish devotion.

"Drink it," I said. "You're going to drink my pee. I'm going to piss into your open mouth and you're going to swallow it and you won't let a drop escape, will you, my little toilet?"

He looked at me, and then, obediently, opened his mouth.

"Ohhhh, what a good piss toilet," I moaned; I didn't waste any time. I wanted to relieve myself and empty my bladder into his waiting mouth. Within moments, I was pissing a torrent, which I aimed between his lips. Fuck, it felt good to pee right here, with reckless abandon.

John kept his mouth open, but soon I had filled it, and a few rivulets trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Swallow it," I commanded him, and he gulped it down, shuddering a little. "Good piss towel," I cooed. "Now keep that pretty mouth open again."

I lowered myself until I was only a few inches above his face and pissed a stream right into the yap of my human receptacle. Crouched just above him, it felt like an incredibly intimate act to be leaking into his open mouth. And fuck, it felt so good to use him for my own relief. I hated this guy and I wanted to leave him soaked and full of my hot, acidic piss.

He gulped and swallowed and choked, but he got it all down.

Slowly, my stream thinned and dwindled away to a trickle. I was meltingly happy, and feeling so refreshed and relieved, as I shook the last few droplets onto him and used his hair again as a piss towel.

Then, while he was still bound on the chair, I reached behind and fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his slightly damp clothes. "This is the end of our session together," I said. "And it would be a good thing if you never came back here. I'm going to take my hourly rate, plus surcharge for the special treatment, plus a generous tip."

I took $500 in cash out of the wallet, leaving behind $7 and some nickels.

"Bye, piss towel," I said, grabbing my clothes off the floor and turning to leave. "The security guys will get you cleaned up and out of here."

I returned backstage, humming with pleasure, to get cleaned up and change my clothes for the next dance. I was feeling giddy -- and over the course of the evening, when Drummond came up to high-five me, and I told Candi what had happened, and the story spread through the whole strip club, I was feeling especially powerful.

"He just slunk out of here once we untied him," Drummond said. "I've never seen the wind taken out of someone's sails like that before."

"Clearly we should hire a Piss-tress to keep errant men in line on our payroll, in addition to the security guards!" Candi joked.

Even the patrons were buying me drinks in celebration -- they hadn't liked John any more than the rest of us.

It was after midnight when I finally got off my shift, teetering a little from all the alcohol I'd had in the last few hours, and still feeling cheerful about the way the night had gone.