Maverick
I noticed her watching me halfway through my act. The lights were too dim for me to really get a look at her, but I liked what I could see. The tiny top she wore left little to the imagination, especially with the way she was leaning on the stage. Three degrees lower and I knew she'd pop right out. Her huge yellow eyes were distracting, catching on the flashes of blue and purple light that danced with me. I had to keep glancing her way, to see if she liked the way I moved my body to the heavy beat of the music, to see if she was watching as I rubbed my cock against the cool steel pole.
I've been an exotic dancer for years, but no one in my audience has caught my eye like this one. As I stepped backstage, I had an itch to get a closer look at her. I slipped a tight pair of blue jeans on, glancing at myself in the mirror as I buttoned them closed. I'm a lion, but big even for my breed. A perfect white lion. I have violet eyes that could stop traffic. I keep the four suits of cards dyed into my fur, on my thighs and arms—mostly because I like to take chances, but also because I like the way black and red look against my fur. Other than that, though, I don't have a single piercing or tattoo, like some of the other dancers.
I pass one of those dancers on my way out, a rat named Tommy. He's got his dick pierced, he's also gay, and there's two things we disagree on. But he's all right, and I pat him on the back before stepping out into the nightclub.
She's watching the door like she knew I'd be walking through it to see her. A smirk on her feline face almost gives it away. Damn, she's sexy. I love a woman with a little weight on her, and this one's got it in all the right places. She's a tabby cat, much smaller than me, but already I'm imagining her pinned beneath me. As I'm walking over to her, she's walking to me, and we meet somewhere in the middle. Tommy's taking the stage now, and I have to raise my voice over the music.
"Tryin' to get out of here?" Some women like cocky. I can tell she's one of them.
Her long tail flicks out to the side, swishing against her green skirt. I already know she's not wearing anything beneath it. "I've got a place," she says.
We walk the few blocks in silence. I watch the way her hips sway when she walks, the way her tail follows, and I notice she has something around the base of her tail, but it's too dark for me to see what it is. I slip my thumbs into my pockets and enjoy the scent of her—heady, female, and aroused.
She leads us into an apartment building, up a few flights of stairs, and to a door—apartment 92 B. The door's unlocked and we go inside.
Her apartment is not what I'd expect of a woman who frequented nightclubs. Books lined one wall. The furniture was expensive and the rooms were clean. She'd been burning candles before she came to the club—I could still smell the smoke.
Gods bless this woman, she is not here for small talk. She came up to me, pulling the little camisole over her head and throwing it to the side. Her breasts are perfect. I grab one, squeezing it, as I pul her against me. She's grinning up at me while I grind my hips against her, letting her feel my cock.
"For me?" she asked, coy. I feel her fingers trace the outline of it through the jeans, making the confining bottoms even more uncomfortable. As if she'd read my mind, she deftly pops the button open. The strength of my organ pushes the zipper open, bouncing out into her waiting paw. I grip her ass as she strokes me.
