Their Private Dancer

I close my eyes and feel the rhythm of the music. My arms are over my head and my hips sway sinuously. I love to dance, to give myself over entirely to the beat. My dress is a second skin, alternating bands of lycra jersey and fishnet. A band of jersey barely conceals my nipples, but the shape of my unsupported breasts is plainly visible through the fishnet as they jiggle with my movement. It's really fucking sexy, if I do say so myself. The hem doesn't quite meet my stocking tops. I hold onto the pole and bend over backwards, so the ends of my wavy blonde hair skim the floor. My legs are spread wide, my dress rides up my hips and my thong slips between my waxed pussy lips. There is a collective intake of breath from the front row as they see my arousal glistening there.

Fuck, I love my job. It turns me on to see men lusting after me, looking at my body with their hands down their pants. Hell, I would do it for nothing.

My shoulder-blades on the floor, my heels together and my knees spread, I lick my fingers and slip them inside my steaming pussy, moaning as I finger myself. I can't get away with doing this for long, though. This is a private club and a lot more permissive than the chains, but John has a licence to hold on to. I will have to get my kicks in other ways.

I use my strong core muscles to curl back to an upright position and pull my dress over my head, tossing it into the audience to murmurs of appreciation. I turn my back and slip off my thong to gasps then turn back, shimmying so my breasts bounce and settle. Now I'm dancing in just thigh-highs and towering heels. My juices run down my thighs. I am nude on stage, watched by dozens of pairs of eyes. I love it. I turn my back on my audience again and lean forward to grab my ankles, showing them my pussy and arsehole. I hold the pole and sink into the splits.

The audience whoops and claps. I spin round on the floor, lifting up onto all fours so my breasts hang beneath me. I crawl towards and along the front row.

There's no no-touch rule here. Hands reach out and stroke my swinging breasts. I close my eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the feeling of many hands groping me. Men are tucking banknotes into my stocking tops as I pass and I whisper my thanks and smile at them, committing their faces to memory. I like to ensure generosity is rewarded. The next dancer is coming on stage now, so I crawl to the steps and drop onto the floor, into the audience.

Now I can slake all that pent-up lust.

John, bless him, offers a pensioners' discounted membership rate and as usual on a late Wednesday afternoon - when the seniors also get a reduction on drinks - the average age of the crowd is high. A lot of the girls are reluctant to work this slot. The old boys are less able to throw money around and we have to pay John a fee for working here. The real money is to be made by taking men into one of the backrooms and lots of my co-workers would rather work the younger dicks. (Some have even met their boyfriends here.) Not me, though. I developed a taste for the older guys originally because I found them more respectful, more grateful, more considerate of my pleasure. They didn't treat me like they owned me just because they'd paid me. Now, though, I think it's become a kink of mine. I just like fucking old men, even the nasty ones.

I'm also not stand-offish about touching on the club floor. I move from customer to customer as Daniela starts her set over my head. I straddle a guy with a toothbrush moustache and liver-spotted hands, my hips still swaying to the beat, taking his face between my hands and dipping my tongue between his lips. His sweat-damp hands clamp onto my waist, pushing me down onto his swelling penis. I glance cautiously at his light grey trousers and say into his ear, "Sir, I'm very wet: I wouldn't want to leave any stains you can't explain."

"There's no-one to explain to, miss," he answers, gruffly, and I sink onto his hard-on, slotting it between my labia, rubbing against him. He groans, burying his face between my breasts. But I can't make him cum here - it's one of the few lines John draws for us - and he doesn't ask if there is anywhere else we can go, so I kiss him again and reluctantly move on.

Again, I gyrate in an elderly man's lap. This is one of my regulars, Martin, a sandy-haired ex-army officer whose wife is in a care home. I suck him off in a back booth once a month, but his pension isn't paid until next week so I know it won't be today. I am very fond of the old boy, though, so it's with him that I really let myself go this afternoon, positioning his hand in my lap in such a way that his middle finger slips into my wet pussy and his thumb presses against my clit. I rock on him for some minutes, kissing him deeply, and I reach my climax, crying out, my juices wetting his hand. He smiles at me and lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck.

The third man makes me wary. I haven't seen him before and he is a good twenty years younger than the average age of the patrons in today. His hair is clipped very short and he wears a suit. He scans my body more in assessment than naked arousal, and I wonder whether he's police. As much as I enjoyed my orgasm on Martin's lap I am now regretting the brazen public show. The man sucks my left nipple hard. The hairs rise on my spine when he lets it pop from his mouth and then asks me, "Is there somewhere we can go that's more private?" But I have no real grounds for suspicion, so I lead him out to one of the booths in the back.

He drops his trousers before lounging on the vinyl easy-wipe seating in the booth to reveal an impressive erection, but I have hardly begun to demonstrate what my mouth can do before he pulls me to my feet and astride him. Again, alarm bells ring. I haven't set him any time limits - why is he turning down a blowjob? But I want his rock-hard seven inches inside me so I sink onto it without protest and grind my hips into him. I am still very wet from my recent climax and his cock enters me easily, despite its girth and my tightness. I begin to forget my concern, lost in sensation as I writhe on him. He watches, impassive, unmoving, letting me do all the work. I still have the feeling that he is assessing me - perhaps mentally awarding me points for appearance, skill and enthusiasm - and I don't want to be found wanting. There's something erotic about that impassivity and I long to smash his composure. I give it everything I have, squeezing my tits together, rolling my hips, and it's certainly having an effect on me. I am more turned on than I have ever been with a client - my nipples like bullets, my pussy gushing - and when at last he stiffens and groans, shooting torrents of semen into my hot cunt, I cum loudly too. I lean forward to kiss him but he turns his mouth aside. Puzzled, I rise and thank him politely for making me cum.

"How much do I owe you?" he asks.

Still wary, I decide it would be foolish in the extreme to accept money for sex.

"I just liked the look of you," I say, casually.

He drops a couple of large notes on the table.

"A tip," he says. "You dance beautifully and fuck better."

He gives a small, formal smile, buttons up and is gone.

Confused, I take the money and make my way to the ladies' room. I clean myself carefully, but when I return to the club I still feel his semen seeping from my pussy, such was the size of the load he pumped into me. This gives me some satisfaction, at least.

I give a couple more lap dances when I get back to the main room but then realise my shift finished twenty minutes ago and I need to be getting home. I change in the dressing room and make my way along the dark passageway to the staff exit at the rear of the club.

"Bye, John," I call as I pass the manager's office.

"Sienna?" his voice replies. "Can you come in here a minute?" Most of the girls fuck John from time to time, myself included. He likes the younger ones, like me. I guess I haven't had my last orgasm tonight.

I push the door open and realise I'm not in here for sex with my manager. Sitting opposite John, in a red leather armchair, is my client from earlier. Fuck! I knew there was something off about him.

"Sienna, this is Jason," says John. "He's a . . . um . . . talent scout, of sorts. He was impressed with your performance earlier."

Jason rises and extends his hand for me to shake. Uncertainly, I take it.

"Please take a seat," he says and I sit in a second armchair, perching nervously on the edge. "I really enjoyed fucking you," he continues. "I'd like to offer you a job."

I look from him to John. "Thank you," I say, "and I think you know it was good for me too; but I am very happy here. I'm not looking for anything else."

"You wouldn't need to stop working here," Jason tells me. "You could combine the two. John and I would collaborate to ensure your shifts didn't clash. And - sorry, John - the financial rewards are a good deal higher. You see, Sienna, I run a chain of specialised private care homes for older people. My residents are willing to pay for a range of luxuries, including personal services."

I think I'm following this, but I want to make quite sure. "Personal services?"

"You'd be fucking the elderly residents," Jason says, bluntly. "Like most old men they prefer attractive, classy young women. However, it's no easy task to find attractive, classy young women who enjoy fucking old men. John helps me out by letting me know of likely candidates and he earns a very generous commission on any who work out for me."

I stare, my mind racing.

"So?" John says, watching me closely. "What do you think, Sienna? Want to try a shift in the home, on a trial basis?"

I hesitate.

"I'd pay you for the trial shift," Jason offers, "regardless of whether you want to take it further. £20 per hour basic rate plus a bonus based on the number of guys you satisfy. Satisfaction will be gauged both objectively - by the number of orgasms the residents achieve, and subjectively - by their responses to questioning about you and your performance."

My mouth drops open. The basic rate alone is more than I've ever earned before. I say just one word: "When?"

. . .

The following night I show up early for my trial shift and am greeted in Reception by Marnie, one of the qualified nursing staff, who takes me to the staff changing rooms and issues me with a size 10 uniform.

She watches as I strip to my bra and knickers and begin to pull on the crisp white cotton dress that zips all the way up the front. "You can lose the underwear," she says. "You know what you're here for, right?"

I nod, smiling shyly and looking at her more closely. Now I see that her full breasts are jiggling as she moves, clearly unconfined. I unclasp my bra and step out of my knickers and put them, with my jeans and t-shirt, in a wooden cubby-hole. Then I smooth the sheer white hold-ups she passes me over my toned, tanned legs.

Marnie whistles in appreciation.

"Shoe size?"

"Six," I reply, and she selects a pair of red stiletto shoes which I slip into.

"Perfect," she says.

As we walk down an eau de nil painted corridor, Marnie says, "This is the physical disability wing. The men here are mentally alert but many suffer erectile dysfunction. Thursday is Viagra day."

We pass a nurse coming in the other direction, pushing a medicine trolley. "Finished, Lily?" Marnie asks her.

Lily smiles at me. "You're the new girl? Great. They've all now been issued with medication, so the guys at this end will be good to go."

Marnie knocks at a closed door: "Mr Jacobs? Are you ready for us?"

"Come in!" Mr Jacobs replies.

Mr Jacobs' room is large, light, bright and airy but clinical, lacking ornamentation or personal effects. He is a small wizened man, sitting in a riser-recliner by the window, wearing a bathrobe - gaping slightly open above the belt - and slippers. His legs are pale and wasted and his chest rather sunken, but he has plenty of snowy hair and his black eyes glitter as we enter the room.

"Hello, Nurse," he says. "And who have we here?"

"This is Sienna, Mr Jacobs. She just started tonight."

Marnie unzips her blue dress - the uniform of the qualified nurses - to the waist to reveal big, natural breasts that bounce and jiggle. She leans across the patient to wrap a sphygmomanometer cuff around his upper arm and as she does so her tits dangle temptingly in his face. He catches one in his mouth and begins to suck. Marnie gasps and swats at him playfully.

"Now, Mr Jacobs!" she scolds. "I'm a nurse! That's not appropriate behaviour. That's what the support workers are for." She gestures towards me and he smiles at me.

"You have very pretty eyes, my dear," he tells me. "Is the rest of you as pretty as your face?"

Marnie looks at me expectantly and I unzip my dress all down the front and let it drop to the floor.

Mr Jacobs' eyes widen at the sight of my naked body. "Beautiful," he says. "Just beautiful. Where did Sargent find you?"

I giggle. I can't help it. It tickles me that Jason, who I originally mistook for a cop, has the surname Sargent. Meanwhile, I am finding the incongruity of my nudity, in only the tarty hosiery and fuck-me shoes, against the sterile, clinical background intensely erotic and lust buzzes in my groin. I glance down at Marnie's pretty exposed tits with their hard, pink nipples and I feel more bubbling between my thighs.

"At a club," Marnie replies for me when I fail to make a response. "Dancing."

She flicks a switch on the wall and Lady Gaga begins to play. The music flows into my hips and my feet.

"Would you like me to dance for you, sir?" I offer.

He inclines his head and I begin to move in a slow circle, my hips tracing figures of eight, letting him see my naked body from every angle. His tongue darts out to moisten his dry lips. Marnie, who has made a record of his blood pressure reading and seems satisfied, unties his robe and it falls away to reveal his hard cock rearing up between his legs.

"Come here," he tells me, his voice hoarse.

I move over to him and straddle him. He takes my left nipple into his mouth and I guide his prick into my pussy. Marnie is watching intently as I ride the old man, in time with the music.

"How long have you been dancing?" he asks as we fuck.

"As long as I can remember," I reply. "I started ballet when I was four. In the club? Just under a year."

"How old are you, little girl?" he asks as I rise and fall on his penis.

"Nineteen," I reply.

He groans, softly. "I am seventy-nine," he says. "How does it feel to have my old cock buried in your tight teenaged twat?"

I rotate my hips in answer, incredibly turned on by the way he is talking to me. I fuck him with genuine enjoyment through 'Bad Romance', and as Meghan Trainor takes over.

He is still talking. "Did you know belly dancing evolved from the efforts of the harem girls to get the fat old sultan off? They would stand over him and writhe, just like you are doing to me now."

It's too much. I scream in orgasm and my pussy pulses violently. He cries out, grabbing my hips, and my hungry cunt sucks the spunk from his balls up his shaft into my uterus. I laugh and pant against his shoulder and he pushes me to arms' length, looking into my face.

"Amazing," he says, shaking his head. "Kiss me, new girl."

I've worked at clubs where kissing isn't permitted so I glance over my shoulder at Marnie who, to my amusement, is swiftly extracting her fingers from her knickers. She smiles and nods at me so I press my lips to Mr Jacobs'. Our tongues dance together wetly. He is the first to break the kiss and he looks searchingly at me again.

"Sienna," says Marnie, gently, breaking the spell, "we have other clients to see."

Reluctantly, I swing my leg over Mr Jacobs. We both came hard and as I dismount gouts of our mingled cum ooze out of my pussy and on to his withered thigh. I gasp and scoop some up with my fingers. Instinctively, I raise my hand to my lips to suck and then freeze and look again at Marnie for approval. Her mouth is an 'o' of shock but she collects herself and nods again. I sink to my knees between Jacobs' thighs and he groans and puts his hand on my hair as I clean up the gooey, delicious mess with my tongue.

When I have finished, I move towards Marnie, smiling at my client who smiles back, slightly dazedly. Marnie hands me my dress, which I zip up to the throat.

"Thank you, sir," I say to Mr Jacobs. "That was lovely. I look forward to taking care of you again soon."

"Don't forget to complete your evaluation, Mr Jacobs," Marnie says quietly as we leave the room.

In the passageway she turns to me. "You are outstanding," she enthuses. "Jacobs is really hard to please. He has a certain reputation. He can be quite nasty."

I stare at her, surprised. "He was a pussycat," I say, and she laughs.

"Not usually," she replies.

She uncaps a pen and initials a record sheet affixed to the door.

It's headed: "MR F R JACOBS - Thursday 5th November", and underneath is a grid recording all the staff interactions Mr Jacobs was due to have today.

"Medication: Lily Booth." Lily has neatly initialled next to the column.

Marnie's initials are alongside "Routine health checks: Marnie Ferris".

The next column reads "Personal services" and is divided into two. Under "Patient preference" is typed, "No selection made." In the second half, "Allocated" the name Bernadette Sanderson has been crossed through and "Sienna Carrick (trial)" has been inked in above, by hand.

Marnie hands me her pen and I initial alongside my name, to show that I have completed my allocated task.

"OK," Marnie says, briskly. "Are you ready for Mr Willoughby?"

As we continue down the corridor, a skinny dark-haired girl of around twenty-three, hastily stuffing her naked breasts into, and zipping up, a dress like mine runs helter-skelter down the corridor and peers at Mr Jacobs' door.

"It's alright, Bernie," calls Marnie. "Sienna's done Jacobs."

"Oh, wonderful!" exclaims the brunette with obvious enthusiasm, smiling at me and falling into step with us. "You're the new girl, aren't you? We'll be working Dementia together later. I'd better get on to Willoughby."

"No, no," Marnie tells her. "Sienna's taking him too."

"Wow," grimaces Bernie. "Quite the first day Jason's lined up for you! Adams it is, then. My favourite patient: he's a love. Thanks, Sienna; you're a lifesaver. Wait in the staff room for me when you've finished your round. I'll walk over with you." And she opens the next door and says in a cheerful voice, "You've got me today, Mr Adams. I hope you're lovely and stiff: I'm feeling super-horny."

Marnie rolls her eyes. Three doors later she stops me before I enter Mr Willoughby's room. "Be prepared," she warns me. "Willoughby has an abusive streak. I'm pretty sure only the specialist BDSM girls will be willing to touch him before long." And with that she opens the door.

Mr Willoughby is fat and bed-bound. Marnie unzips the top of the dress again to bare her breasts and this time as well as checking blood pressure she checks the patient's in-dwelling catheter. He leers at her as she changes the bag and says, "If I could still piss without help, it'd be all over your tits."

"That's enough, Mr Willoughby," snaps Marnie, tartly.

His eyes find me. "Is this the new whore?"

"Miss Carrick is working a trial shift as a support worker, Mr Willoughby," she replies, coldly. "Watch your language."

"I'm paying her to have sex with me," replies Willoughby, with irrefutable logic. "I'm pretty sure that makes her a whore, by anyone's definition. Why do you have clothes on, girl?"

Marnie shoots me an apologetic look and I hastily lose my dress.

Willoughby's eyes narrow and he barks, "Come closer." The sight of my young body in just stockings and shoes seems to give him pause. He says, "Fuck," under his breath and the sheet - pulled over his hips but below his mountainous belly, twitches.