I'm a fantasy girl. I'm into Dungeons & Dragons, and fantasy tales with wizards and goblins and that kind of stuff. My name is Robyn. I love to dress up as an elf and go to Ren Fairs. I wear a cotton dress that shows off my bust, a corset, braids in my hair, and these little latex extensions for my ears that make them pointy on top. It's cute, and I always turn a few heads.
There are several of those festivals in the area, especially in the spring, and I go to them all. I love the medieval games, the mead, the whole vibe. Sometimes I go with gamer friends from my D&D crowd, but sometimes I go alone and flirt with guys (and sometimes girls) dressed as elves or hobbits or goblins.
There's always this one vendor at those fairs -- a guy in full plate-mail armor, including helmet, selling roasted corn on the cob. We've kind of gotten to know each other. He always approaches me with the same line: "My, you're a comely sprite!"
It's corny, I know. But I love it. Just my kind of thing.
The knight, or corn-seller, or whatever he is, has an intoxicating voice. It's deep and soothing and kind-of airy with a proper British accent. Since I've never seen his face, that's how I recognize him. Well, that and the suit of armor. Those things are expensive and there aren't many people wearing them at Ren Fair.
His name is Richard, which has given rise to lots of jokes -- King Richard, King Dick, Big Dick, the Lion Harded. I usually call him Your Highness or something equally haughty.
He usually sells me an ear of corn, which he offers with the line, "Something tasty for the lady?" It comes with a packet of melted butter which I dribble on the corn. We talk about fantasy stuff: movies and board games and the next festival. Occasionally, some of the butter or the juices from the corn squirt out of my mouth. His corn is very juicy. And he touches my face with a handkerchief and wipes me clean. I love that.
I have tried peering into the little eye slit in his helmet, but I've only gotten a glimpse. They are cool blue and masculine.
Anyway, that's one of my worlds: elves and fantasy and a corn-selling knight in shining armor.
I'm also -- and I'm sorry if this is burying the lead -- a stripper. That's my full-time job. It used to be a side-hustle. It got me through college, and I did it on weekends after I landed an office job. But stripping pays better than office work. So I quit. I can always go back to that when I'm too old to strip.
I work at this place called the Prancing Pussy -- a spoof on the tavern in Lord of the Rings, except our sign has a dancing cat on it. I chose it for the vibe. The whole place is done up in rough wood beams and antlers and big steins for the beer. It looks like it's right out of Middle Earth, except for the stage lights, stripper poles, and naked women.
I like to flirt and I think I have a good body. It sounds arrogant to say that, but guys seem to agree. I have what my college boyfriend used to call a "miracle body" -- skinny legs and ass with big, round boobs.
When I first started stripping, I wasn't very good. It's one thing to have a great body. It's another to know how to use it. Some of the older gals taught me some moves. And I paid attention to what turned on the customers. After a while, I got really good at showing off my most attractive body parts. And my tips grew. That's the joke among dancers: if you can grow a guy's cock, you can grow your tip.
So with my appearance, my skills, and my interest in fantasy, stripping at the Prancing Pussy is a good fit for me.
I have some regulars -- mostly business men who come in on their lunch breaks, which is a sure sign of an unhappy marriage. They tip generously and treat me with respect. If they don't, I don't keep them as regulars. One guy, Steve, always wants to touch my butt, which is supposed to be a no-no. Skin-to-skin contact is not allowed. But Steve never reaches farther than my ass cheek and I let him do it. He's one of my biggest tippers.
For the most part, though, customers are just customers. I don't really get to know them or think about them. I'm mostly concentrating on my own body -- performing well, moving gracefully and posing seductively. There are all kinds of tricks like keeping your arms in the air, which stretches your torso and accentuates your shape; rubbing a customer's erection through his pants with your twerking ass or your shin while you lean over him; avoiding awkward turns or bends or -- most embarrassing -- falls. Guys think it comes naturally but it's actually a lot of work. It's a performing art.
I've gotten pretty good at sizing up wallets as well. That also sounds pretty gross, but it's part of the job. The greasy pervert stroking himself in the corner is not going to be worth my attention or respect. But the table of three business men from out of town with expense accounts and time to kill -- those are the ones to watch.
Yesterday, when I was about halfway through my first song on the main stage, a couple of guys walked in and sat at a table to my right. They both looked young and fit, in casual business dress. They ordered beers and were engaged in what appeared to be some important discussion.
I was wearing one of my favorite outfits: a flouncy, off-the-shoulder top that showed my midriff, my standard barely-there thong, and knee high boots with high heels and laces up the back. It's kind of a naughty Ren Fair look. Guys were really noticing too. They were actually lining up five-deep to slip dollar bills into my G-string.
During the second song, I stripped out of my top -- slowly, of course. That's one of the tricks of the trade: give a little and take a little back. Now, I had the whole room's attention. More guys looking up at me from the foot of the stage, waiting to pay for a fleeting second of being close to my body.
Stripping is a power trip, really. It's exhilarating to be up on a pedestal like that, knowing that every dick in the room is hard because you've made it that way.
The two guys to my right finished their beers and stood up. They shook hands and the shorter one left. The other one ordered another beer and then sat back and watched me intently. His eyes seemed to show more than naked lust. I turned to him and pressed my tits together with a wink.
Near the end of my set, after just about every other guy had stuffed my G-string, that guy got up and walked to the stage with his dollar out. I had made another fan.
Smiling, I squatted in front of him and leaned over to give him a close-up look at my tits. He caught his breath, clearly pleased, and then looked into my eyes. I swiveled into a sitting position and put my long legs in the air, knees together, showing him my ass and the little black patch of thong encasing my pussy lips -- the last, tiny piece of me that every eye in the room wanted to uncover. Then I spread my legs and scooted to the edge of the stage, putting him between my knees. Coyly, I flung my hair to one side and pulled my thong away from my hip to let him make his donation.
As he slid the money against my skin, he said with a grin, "My, you're a comely sprite."
I stared at him, open mouthed. "Richard?" I breathed out, with surprise and excitement. "What are you doing here?"
"Surveying my kingdom, I guess," his soothing British voice said. He winked.
"I'm-- well, I'm a stripper."
He laughed. "I can see that. A rather good one, I might add."
I giggled. "Thank you. So you don't disapprove?"
He looked over my mostly-naked body and then said to my eyes, "How could I ever disapprove of something to beautiful."
That took my breath away. I had never expected my fantasy world and my dancing world to collide like this. But now, my mysterious, anonymous knight was here, between my legs. I decided I would take very good care of him.
He went back to his table and never took his eyes off of me. I finished the last two songs and scurried down to join him.
"You're very good," he said, after ordering me a drink. "Graceful and erotic."
"Oh, are you a connoisseur of fine strippers?"
"Yes. And corn. Strippers and corn. Those are my specialities." He said it the way Brits do: spesh-ee-al-it-ees.
I laughed. "You haven't even gotten a proper sample. May I dance for you, Your Highness?"
"I'd like nothing better."
I said I don't normally pay much attention to customers, but this one was different. I watched his eyes for flickers of pleasure or excitement or curiosity -- the things I wanted to feed. I gave him my very best show. I twerked and then sat on his lap, feeling his bulging rod between my ass cheeks. I slid up and down, grinding my ass against him. I turned around and put my hands on the back of his chair and threw back my hair, thrusting my boobs into his face so close I could feel his breath on my nipples. I sat on his knee and put an arm around his neck, showing off my tits and the curve of my waist. I pulled at my thong as if I was dying to get it off, stretching it into an even thinner stripe of fabric hugging my pussy lips. I knelt in front of him, sliding his bulge between my tits. I even put my mouth against his slacks and hummed, vibrating his crotch. He got to see just about every inch of my body and he seemed to like it. When the song ended, I didn't want to stop. But, like a gentleman, he pulled a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it into my thong.
"Oh, it's only twenty, honey."
"I know."
To thank him, I leaned in and nibbled his ear. And then I had an idea. "Richard, have you ever been to the Champaign Room?"
"What's that?"
"One of the rooms upstairs."
"Oh, no. That's not my-- I've only been here a couple of times."
"It's a private room. Just for the two of us."
"Oh, wow, Robyn. I don't-- I'm not really--"
