am I.

I am NOT an official climber of the chrome column. Nonetheless, I know what it takes to make a room full of dicks stand up straight. It’s not that difficult, not like doing the dividend discount model on the fly or flying a fighter jet. (I have done the former; have not done the latter but do have a pilot’s license. Thank you.)

You see, dear reader, back in the day when I was a young associate, the boys invited me along to celebratory strip club visits on the odd chance that I’d tangle it up for some girl/girl action over which they could fist-pump and brag about later. I threw dollar bills and laid back for some lap dances that had them hooting. However, as far as they knew, I never took the stage for an encore. What they didn’t know was I had an off-screen reputation for derring do that would have creamed their weekend khakis.

It started when a brassy blonde offered to muff dive me out of this world for two hundred bucks. Challenge accepted, dear. In the VIP room, I dropped two C-notes expecting something to write home about. Instead, she fumbled the ball on kickoff and never recovered. Her attention under my panty was unworthy of a freshman at the junior prom with the senior queen. I turned the tables by launching her into a string of orgasms using nothing but my unarticulated linguistic lashings. To drive the point home like a cigar-chomping, union pile driver, I stuffed one of the hundreds back in my own panty and told her to keep the other one for lessons, which I’d be happy to give if she so desired. Out the door, I went.

She did me the courtesy of informing Our Sisters of the Club that if they needed a tune up, swing by the business chick and whisper, “I heard you’re Jenny from Heaven. Angels want to sing.” Some obliged. I didn’t charge them. I was making plenty at my J-O-B among the dark-suited and seriously handsy, but who never touched me because I was a daylight tigress with the death stare. One cutesy brunette said to me, “If you give head the way you eat pussy, you could make a fortune here.” Even though I got her rocks off, I gave her a hundred because the compliment rang sincere, which is high praise for a stripper. Hey, some of them are nice college girls. Not really, but it’s the lie most often told even though it might be true once in a while.

All this foreplay to foreshadow what’s coming, my enthralled literary explorer.

Lessons from those days I tucked away for future application. Yeah, I’m a saver, an investor in myself and what I want to do with me. On that note, I stay in shape at the gym, do some dancing when no one can see, and keep my blue eyes on opportunities to do those things I want to do with all this accumulated knowledge, training, and experience.

You with me so far?

Skip some boring shit. Fast forward, close to the present day for just a little more boring shit.

Yeah, I’m older but in wicked good shape. I hear the old songs in my head. I got festering desires that break through personal limitations that were previously strictly enforced to protect career advancement up the greasy ladder with a brutal unwillingness to ruin myself for a short time/good time that would have left me with a long time/shitty time. I relied on my math for calculated risks. I came out on top with the bonafides in the bank and only a few boneheaded mistakes to regret. Oh, and add in no boners that boned me because, yeah, I really was gay the whole time. (There was that guy in high school I did it with a few times but that doesn’t count. It was fine. No drama. Just not my thing then. No dicks after him.)

But that changed. I mean the gay part. Phew, what a trip to take down the confused river of where the hell am I going? Talk about boring, boss-girl angst, introspection, and downright dipshit dithering. And yet, I’d love to talk about it because I do have a rare reflective side and can be an attention whore about that. Lend me your ear!

Point is, I started the straight thing. Translation: Fucking guys. I mean one guy. Dipped a toe in the water, fell into the freakin deep end with him. Wow, was that water warm. Did I get lucky, or what? Went from rookie to seasoned vet in record time. I’m a good student, do my homework, take direction well, and want to be first in the class. He’s a patient proctor with fun kink tendencies that pique my interest.

Which is how I got to the point where I was in the office of a strip club owned by a friend of mine (long story how we know each other) in a medium-sized city near you.

Now you perked up, didn’t you?

Sorry I had to tell you all the boring shit at the start. I had to! If not, you wouldn’t believe the rest. Or maybe you just skip ahead to the part where I get banged.

That’s right, I’m in the office talking to Manager Mike, who only knows that I’m here to do my thing with the big man’s absolute approval so help him God. The memo: Give the lady whatever she asks for because she paid for it in advance, in cash. Don’t bother calling me about whatever she says/asks for/does (unless the fuckin’ cops show up). Make sure the cameras are off where she does her thing a la VIP. She’s in the showroom/on stage that’s on her vis a vi the cams. Make sure no bartenders/others peep the VIP without her approval, which she may grant or deny at will. House mother stays out and away from aforementioned VIP suite. She pays me a fortune for her crazy shit, again in cash, some of which pays your outrageous salary, which is worth every Godforsaken penny because you, not me, has to put up with those bitches every night. I sincerely thank you for the effort. Over and out.

“We square?” I ask Manager Mike.

Manager Mike looks at the thousand dollars on his desk, then at my tits tucked inside my blouse, and finally at my face.

“Not the first time,” Mike answers. “I know the deal.”

“That’s why the big tip,” I tell him. “To keep things clear.”

“Crystal, honey. I appreciate the personal consideration. You got connections on high, and as I tell you every time, those orders are followed.”

“Right on,” I conclude. “How’s the wife?”

“Doin’ well,” Mike says. “Taking classes over the community college. Wants to be a nursing assistant. Work night shifts like me, then we can be together during the day.”

I toss a loaded gift card on top of the strapped 20’s. “Give her that.”

“Aww, shit, now you’re embarrassing me,” Mike scoffs.

“Nah,” I retort with a wave. “I gotta ask how you stay loyal with all these chicks around willing to give a favor to get one?”

“Please. No offense, because I don’t want you squawking to the owner, but I deal with enough nutcase women to be completely, fucking-fucking-fucking completely, satisfied to go home to my Suzie homemaker normal sweetheart for a real kiss on the cheek, a quiet meal, some lovemaking on Wednesday, and no fucking bullshit.”

“No shit?” I sighed. “It’s that good with her?”

“Compared to what I deal with here? Drunks, douchebags, and divas?” he snorts. “A never-ending vacation.”

“Why stay in the job?”

He palms the money and gift card in one swoop. “For the money, sweetheart. Where else am I gonna work and some wingnut like you shows up, drops a grand on my desk, a gift for my wife, and doesn’t expect me to break my ass? Not just Christmas time either. On the semi-regular. Ya get what I’m saying here?”

“You’re a smart man, Mike. I’d kiss you on the cheek myself, but that might piss you off, and I want to stay on your good side.”

“Do your thing,” he tells me with a shrug. “You have a problem; ring the buzzer.”

I wink, grab my bag, and head for the VIP room rented for my exclusive use. I do wonder about Mike and Mrs. Mike. Sounds amazingly proper.

Darn it, I feel light. Flying almost. And for good reason. On the regular in Mike-speak means I only let myself go wild (this wild) a few times a year. It is completely out of my public character, at the very edge of my private personae, and something for which I wish I didn’t lust. But hey, I gotta scratch that itch. You know what I mean?

It's early, about thirty minutes before the club opens. I pass some upstart strippers in street clothes in the hall. They give me the once over, probably wondering who the MILF I was. “No competition for you,” I want to say, but simply smile and continue on my way.

The last VIP suite is the big one. It has a separate dressing room, complete with shower, makeup table, racks for clothes, racks for luggage. The performance room features a padded stage about eight feet square with obligatory pole in the center. A clever, removable cover sheet, stretches tight over the pad. Sparkling fresh spare covers are in the little closet to the right. Four chairs face the central, flesh-pot plaza, hinting at contained audience capacity. Short pile rug underfoot, vacuum line stripes. Unlike skeevy clubs, this space is spotlessly clean. The owner knows his business, understands how to keep loyal customers, and doesn’t skimp. He’s got me, doesn’t he? Fuckin A right he does. He’s got a lot of other legit businesses, too, which is how he met me in the first place. (And some non-legit as well.) Whatever.

Phew, I feel warm. Less than an hour to go.

I unfold my garment bag, unzip, reveal outfits. First one: Halter dress, white, made just for me. Classy. Exposed back, plunge neck, bare shoulders. Hem reaches my calf but slits up the side stop at my hips. Lace and skin underneath will be displayed in constant glimpses. Thank you, Mr. Halston, may you rest in peace. Second one: A want-to-be Cocktail dress that extends exactly two inches beyond my ass. Also made just for me. Black. Again, bare shoulders, plunge neck. Flare to the skirt allows revelations when I move. For dress one: Nude stockings, white garter, white panties, no bra. For dress two: Black stockings, garter, panties, no bra. Panties are mostly sheer in back, smooth front panel. Classy.

I go to work. Hair, already washed at the hotel I left before coming here. Get it fixed with a touch here and there. Makeup. Again, classy, subtle, as if going out to the best restaurant in town. Foundation, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, liner, the rest. What a pain in the ass; worth it for the results.

Get dressed. Oh, I love this part. I love pulling on stockings, hooking the garter clasps, and slipping my panties up-thigh until they’re in place over my ass and mound.

Phew, really warm. Jeeze, don’t start sweating. It’s not even go time!

Check in the mirror. Looking good, Jen. Really.

Get the dress on without messing hair/makeup. Easy, not much to it really. Hoisting my boobs into the halter makes me think mine are sized just right.
Another check in the mirror. Oh, yeah, I’d fuck you. All night.

Oh, shit! Forgot the music for later. I dig out the burned CD. Yeah, old tech. It’s a playlist you might not like, totally incongruous to my outfit. Don’t care. It’ll feed my wild child. Drop it in the player, hit play, spins up, boom! A little too loud, ease the volume. Right there.

Re-check the mirror check.
Oh, shit again! Shoes!

Slip on the sling-back, Italian, 75mm heels. That’s less than half a millimeter under three inches for Imperial measuring sticks. Will be short among the chunky, clunky stripper specials out there. Don’t care. I’m a classy fuck (in public that is). (Save the black fuck-me pumps for the other outfit and be careful on the padded stage.)

Final re-check of the mirror check. Oh, yes. Yes!

Damn, Jen, why don’t you do this more often? Because you can’t deal with the kind of attention you’d get outside of a space over which you have complete control. You must wear those bullet-proof, custom suits to cover every inch of who/what you are tonight. Thus, you’re a headcase. A wingnut like Manager Mike said. Or, was it a nutjob? Oh, well, for tonight… viva la revolution!

Last thing: I slip a modest stack of singles out of my purse and fold it over my garter’s waistband at the hip. The bulge violates the flow of my dress. Too bad. I take another sheaf of twenties and slide them in place beside the singles. Uneven but somehow correct.

Saturday being game day in this city, I know the place will be packed. The home team has won according to data on my phone. I pace around the room, gaining confidence in my heels. Darn I’m excited.

I exit to the hallway. Skimpy outfit chicks half my age stop and stare.

One says, “Who the fuck are you, granny?”

“Not your mother,” I shoot back.

Another takes her arm. “Come on, let’s go. We’re up soon.”

I let the line go past me, tits jiggling, asses winking, those goofy platform shoes clunking. The last one gives me the full once-over.

“I like your dress,” she says with a smile.

“Thanks.”

I stop at the door through which they all exited to the main showroom. The music: Shitty, pounding, half rap hip trash, barks at me. I hate that music but deal with it for my thrills. I scope the room. Already, most seats around the stage are filled with guys, money in their pockets, dicks in their pants. They crane necks to watch the action on the three poles. They toss a few singles. They elbow their pals. They point. They whistle. They clap.

I feel a nervous shock freeze my feet.

I remember: The rules forbid touching. It will happen. Lap dances will grind crotches against crotches and other places. Hands will find legs and asses, maybe a tit. Bouncers will monitor and admonish. Anyone who goes too far gets a nite-nite toss to the parking lot. I’ve seen it. You all know it’s gonna happen. Drunks, douche-bags, and divas, right?

Hey, wait, who are you, Jen?

I’m the nutjob here for her own fun. It’s time to get this party started. No one out there knows me. Anyone who does probably wouldn’t recognize me, and if they did, wouldn’t believe it really was me in here. “Hey, were you at…” “What would I be doing there?”

I stride into the room, shoulders back, chin up, arms relaxed. No one notices thanks to distractions of flashing flesh on stage and scattered about. I go to the nearest bar, where a familiar face dispenses a bourbon/ice in prompt order. I stand alone for thirty seconds until the first guy makes a pass.

“Hey,” he says. “Looking good, baby.”

He’s late 20’s, sandy hair, golf shirt, jeans. Reminds me of the guys I worked with in the early days, only they wore suits.

“Thanks!” I reply, big smile, raised glass. “Who won the game?” Pretend not to know the answer.

“I think you’re winning my game, baby,” he answers.

“Is that right?”

His pal steps in. This one same age, dark hair, pullover. “Man, who’s this?”

“What’s your name?” Golf Shirt asks.

“Jen,” I tell them.

“Wow, that’s totally not a stripper name,” he says.

“Yeah,” Pullover adds. “Thought you would be a Missy or Misty. Anyway, nice legs, Jen.”

Without hesitation, I raise my foot to land on the empty stool next to them. My leg comes out of the slit in my dress, showing off the lace-top of the stocking. Yeah, working out and stretching gives you that kind of poise and balance. Highly recommend the pain for the gain.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Nice,” Golf Shirt comments.

“What about you?” I ask. “You a leg man?”

“Rather see your ass.”

“Oh,” I coo, lowering my leg, then pushing out my ass in his direction. I caress it with my empty hand. “How is mine?”

“Can’t see much,” he reflects after a few seconds of contemplation.

I touch his chin with a finger. “Maybe later, guys,” I say and walk away.

A little cock tease? Warm up more like it. I really don’t mind the ogling. When you dress for it, you’ll get it. Tonight I welcome it.

On the way to the other, darker side of the room, I note their eyes on me. Some do double-takes. I don’t fit the mold. Too old. Too well dressed. Too… something else. I’m not begging for dollars. I’m not touching shoulders, rubbing backs, putting myself in position to get that lap dance dividend.

And you know, that’s just wrong. They deserve the attention. That’s why they’re here, silly!

I spot a guy seated at a table with a fresh drink. I guess he’s waiting for friends. I take a chance. I cruise in close. He’s maybe 30’s, strong jaw, losing some hair.

“Hey,” I say, “Mind if I sit down?”

He looks me over from toe to head. “Not at all.” Like a true strip club aficionado, he pats a hand on his lap with a casual, “Right here.”

I lower myself down, ass out, like a demure debutant. My free hand goes to his shoulder while the other brings my drink up for a sip.

“Name’s Chris,” he says, “Haven’t seen you before.”

“Jen,” I tell him. “Come here often?”

“After the games.”

“Big win.” I shift on his lap, scooching a little closer to his cock.

His eyes take in my tits.

“Like them?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Like it all.”

“It’s all real,” I inform.

Just then, a pair of strippers descend on us.

“Chris, honey!” one cheers, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“Brittany, babe,” he replies, “Was hoping you were on tonight. And Jordan, you look great.”

The other blows her kiss past me to him.

“I’ll let you three enjoy,” I say, excusing myself.

Darn it. Can’t lose momentum. Have to get in the game quick because the players were about to change.

Salvation comes in the form of a guy whose ID had to place him at twenty-one not more than twenty-three. He’s brave, bold even.

“Let me buy you another one of those,” is the line he delivers to stop me mid-stride on the way to another table.

I stop short, reach for his hand, pull him close, put my lips to his ear, say, “Let me give you a lap dance instead. On the house.” Did I flick my tongue over his ear? Yes. Did it give me a little burst of warmth somewhere. Oh, yeah!

I yank him toward an open seat against the wall. It’s one of those wide ones with plenty of room on the armrests to support a chick writhing for greenbacks.

Now a real stripper rarely gets hot and bothered during a lap dance. (Sorry to break your hearts guys.) A non-pro like me, with a guy more than twenty years younger than her, well, she’s less jaded. At least, this one is, especially when she’s in wild mode.

I ditch my drink to press the length of my body against his. I blow warm breath over the nape of his neck. I turn around and grind my ass between his legs. I turn the other way, put that foot on the arm rest, slowly inch up my dress to show him my panty-covered pussy. My hips rock: Look here, look here, look here! Think: I wanna fuck her. Believe: She wants me to fuck her. You don’t know: Her pussy wants your cock but will never admit it. More warm breath on his neck, hands squeeze his legs, dress fabric moves to reveal nipples. Fingers glide over supple skin that flows and glows. Close. Closer. Closest! Pull back. That panty covered pussy rocks atop fitness-trained thighs. The soft firmness. The warmth. Lean back, show off those tits, nipples firm. Flick your tongue toward them. Project: Suck them for me. See: I bet you taste great, baby! Rise up, raise the dress, show that panty. See the fabric reveal the folds beneath. Turn around. Pull the dress all the way over hips. Reveal that ass, the garter, grind on his crotch. Feel that erection. Enjoy it.

The song ends. I wind down to butt-plant the arm rest.

“Hope you enjoyed that.”

“Hell, yeah. You’re hot!”

Hardly, I resist replying. Compared to the others? Then again, I can hold my own.

I am hot for real. My crotch is warm. A young cock straining under pants? Yeah, it has an effect.

Only a few yards away I see a familiar face. With him is another familiar face. They are two guys I know, one my age, the other twenty years younger, almost as young as the I just crotch-covered.

I’ve been waiting for them. Surely you can guess who they are, at least one of them.

“Aren't you the best-dressed stripper in town,” Mr. Y greets me.

“You like this?” I say, showing off the dress.

“Fantastic.”

“What about you, Mr. Tech?” I ask the other one. Mr. Tech is the newest member of my team. (Details some other time.)

“Rocking it, boss,” he says.

“Drinks for all!” I inform them. “Please watch my ass while I get them.”

I return with three drinks, all the same, all bourbon. I drape myself over Mr. Y, nudge Tech closer with toe-hook under his calf and a come-hither tilt to my chin. He shuffles his seat against Y’s so I can rest my legs over his while keeping my ass atop Y’s lap.

Darn, I like these guys. It’s not love. Don’t be confused. It’s like. It’s easy to like them. They’re serious fun; they’re best buds in the best ways. And, you know, that makes me want to give back ten times what I get. That’s saying a lot from a chick who is bare-knuckle brutal in the business battle. Generous is not my middle name.

We sip whiskey.

“What do you think of the talent?” I ask.

“Inspiring,” Y says.

“Oh, really?” I query.

“Gives me ideas,” he adds. “What about you, Tech?”

Tech bobs his head. “Two and two is four, my friend.”

“More like five,” I suggest, “if you dudes are going to rope a couple cowgirls each with me leading the trail to orgasmic fantastic.”

“On second thought,” Tech mused, “we might be spread thin if we try to ride the whole herd.”

“Let me rustle up some help,” I propose.

My bee line puts my beaver in the middle of a four-stud quatrain around a low table perfect for my pending positions. They’re full attention snaps when I sit on that table, pull my halter open, and show them my real, real ones.

“You guys like real tits?” I ask.

“Whoa,” one says.

“Maybe you need a closer look,” I say, climb onto his lap, place a plump boob close enough to his nose to feel the air whiz. I glance over my shoulder at number two, use my free hand to hike that dress. “Or is it my ass that pops your rod?”

“Fuckin A,” is number two’s reaction.

“Yeah?” I ask, then return to the table for a sit and pivot around to number three, my legs opening, my dress rising. “What about you? Like white panties?”

Number three jaw-drops a non-verbal notion.

I rotate one-hundred-eighty degrees to display the goods for number four who makes no secret he’s buying.

“Fuckin' nice.”

“You mean the shoes?” I chide him, dangling a foot.

My legs draw closed, I rise, wag a finger at each of them as I take a final spin.

“Think about it, guys. I really want to know.”

I blow kisses, bunny hop down, prance to the far side of the stage. Men follow my progress. I dodge requests from them and death rays from the strippers.
Hey, bitches, I’m not taking any money from your purses. Kiss my ass.

To show I’m actually a team player, I get hold of the stack of singles in my garter. These I fan out, raise above my head, and heave at the stage. George Washington rain drops fall through the strobe lights. Guys roar; strippers scramble for dollars. Chiropractors will be called to cure the whiplash.

Not a minute later in front of Y and Tech. I glance at the quatrain still pondering their opinions on tits/ass/pussy/panties/shoes/other. I smile. I resist the urge to repeat with them.
Put my hands out for Tech and Y.

“Rise to the occasion,” I say.

Me in the middle, hand-holding we go.

I know the quatrain watches, says something to each other about what happens behind closed doors. I know it. You know it. I’d love to hear it. (I can handle dirty comments.)
Let’s find out. Shall we?

Beyond the VIP door, I make requests: Pour the bourbon. Turn on the stage lights. Turn off the rest. In exactly 7 minutes, push PLAY.

I bolt to the dressing room. The shoes kick off. The dress follows. Down with the panties. Out of the garter/stockings. Freakin’ naked! Peeeeeeee. Phew. No point to, or time for, fixing makeup/hair. Keeping the energy high. Garter on, stockings, too. Panties. Black dress. Finally, step into those fuck-me pumps.
You may not like the soundtrack, but I hear that scratchy guitar riff of AC/DC. It calls me to the pole.
Opening the door, I hear lyrics:

“She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman that I ever seen…”

I strut into the room finding Y on one side of the padded stage, Tech on the other. Their eyes feast on my sexy-ness. I hold the pole, mind my footing on the pad below. My legs are wide. My ass out for Tech. My tits hang for Y.

“She had the sightless eyes, telling me no lies
Knocking me out with those American thighs”

My American thighs warmed with every beat. My ass, my tits, too.

“Taking more than her share, had me fighting for air
She told me to come, but I was already there
'Cause the walls start shaking, the Earth was quaking
My mind was aching and we were making it…”
And you…!”

That is me! Ready. For it all. In this room with these guys there were few rules: No fisting. No facials. No anal. The rest to be enjoyed until I beg for no more.

“Yeah, you! Shook me all night long.”

I push Tech over to lay on the stage. I straddle his mid-section, run my hands over his neck, get them inside his shirt. He nuzzles my cleavage. My hand goes to his belt, gets it open. He rolls me off, opens his pants with his eyes on me. My hand returns to dip in for a cock squeeze. Oh, my, my. Hard.

I roll again and again until opposite Y standing for a view down at me spreading at the edge of the sage. He obliges with his own pants drop. I sit up in time for his pants to be out of the way and face another hard cock. I cup the balls underneath, wrap my fingers around the shaft, and run my tongue over the head.

“Working double time on the seduction line
She's one of a kind, she's just mine, all mine.”

And you know, I do belong to Y in moments like this: His to enjoy, to be selfishly had, or shared at his whim. He can have me, all of me, whenever I am whatever he wants.
My lips close over the head of his cock, my tongue swirling around that silky-smooth skin. I look up at him, accept his approval of my skills, then obey when he pulls back to make room for Tech who steps up for the special treatment. One hand still on Y’s cock, I open my mouth for Tech’s, taking several inches.

“Wanted no applause, it's just another course
Made a meal outta me, and come back for more.”

I always come back for more of Y. I pull off Tech and shift my eyes between them as I stroke their spit-slick cocks. My nipples poke my dress; my crotch sears my panties.
I release them for stage time, running out the song with a series of ass swings, tit cups, crotch flashes, and plenty of writhing on the pad. Cocks in hand, expressing unbridled lust, they stand patient.

A no-dead-air transition begins the next song. I let my tits out of the halter so they hang free for touching, tasting, and testing. Hungry for cock I wave them up. I kneel to suck and be groped.

I hear lyrics:

“Livin' easy
Lovin' free
Season ticket on a one way ride
Askin' nothin'
Leave me be
Takin' everythin' in my stride
Don't need reason
Don't need rhyme
Ain't nothin' that I'd rather do
Goin' down
Party time
My friends are gonna be there, too!”

I bob on one cock then the other. The hardness delights, signals capability, stimulates me as much as them. Yeah, baby, you’re going to get it down there. Be ready! Oh, I’m way ahead on the road to hot, wet, tight.

Time warps through the rest of the song and part of the next. I note a little squint in Y’s gaze. The sign he’s taking it up a notch. I welcome his guidance. He eases me down on my back. He yanks my panty off my crotch. It lands to the side.

Braced on my elbows, I feel my heart pound with the music. I spread wide. My heart skips. I’m open and want it. Still… that’s a hard cock coming my way.

I say, “Wanna fuck or what?”

Y answers by rubbing his cock along my slit. I jerk with a jolt of raw nerves at this first touch. He smiles. He presses. He pushes. He pops into my swollen pussy.

“Ohhhh,” I groan and let my head fall back.

He moves in all the way and almost out. Repeat. Repeat.

I wave to Tech for his cock. He obliges by kneeling next to my face. He helps Y by holding one of my legs. I suck slowly, feeling the cock in my pussy and tasting the one in my mouth. Y and I share a look.

Take what you want, I say in our unspoken language.

Tell me you want me to take it, he demands.

I want you to take it all, I assure him.

Y squints again. He slams into my crotch. I gasp around Tech’s cock. Y pumps me steady with a view of his cock stretching my twat. Tech likes the sight of that as well as most of his cock in my mouth. I’m feeling, tasting, smelling everything.

The music changes. Y pulls out. Tech pulls out. I take deep breaths. This kinda fucking is a workout. I make a guess Tech wants me from behind. I get up on all fours, arch my back, dress hides nothing. Tech takes position. Another cock head rubbing on my slit precedes the stuffing.

“Oh, shit!” I yelp. “That’s a hard cock!”

Tech says, “Love how wet you are.” He leans over me, grasps a tit. “And your tits.” He kneads the nipple as he fucks my pussy. Then moves upright to spread my ass and fuck me good.

Y lowers the music a notch. He likes to hear me moan and all the comments. He comes close to spit roast me. Their cocks move with the beat of the music, so one fills my pussy when the other is not so deep in my mouth. Or, the other way around. Or, both probing me from each end at the same time. Talk about getting stuffed!

They both pull out and away again. I remain on all fours. Y brings me a drink of water. Phew, needed that. However, momentum must be maintained.

They trade places. I taste my juices on Tech’s cock while Y takes his turn in my pussy. Hmmm… I think I taste pre-cum, too. I stop sucking, look at Tech, yeah, he almost lost it there. Would be okay, but I know what Y wants and what Y wants is what I want, too, maybe more than him.

I twist away from Y who instinctively knows the reason. Another drink of water for all, after which I cup Tech’s balls and stroke his cock. Y plays audience member.

“These balls feel ready,” I say.

“Almost.”

I wipe a hand along my dripping pussy then over the head of his cock. I suck the head just a few secs. “Want to cum in me?”

“Mmmm.”

“Want to fill my pussy?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You sure?”

“Are YOU sure?”

“I love baking creampie,” I inform him.

“I heard you did,” he says.

“Got what I need for that?” I tease.

“I might,” he teases back.

“Darn, how do I get it?”

“I could show you,” he offers.

“Hmmm… I could show YOU.”

I kneel on the edge of the stage so he can stand and fuck me good from behind until he blows.

Tilting my head toward him, I say, “Will this sexy pussy help?”

“Probably,” he jokes, rubbing the head of his cock.

“Please, mister, I need some baby batter to bake a creampie.”

“Here it comes.”

He’s behind me. Bang.

“Ooooof, that hard cock again.”

Tech squeezes my ass before reaching down for my tits again. Sensation buzzes around my body, through my mind. Suddenly he leans back and drives his cock into me. Pounding against my ass, he hears me grunting with each thrust.

“Oh, fuck!” Tech shouts.

Boom! The first spurt of his cum jets into my welcoming pussy.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” I say.

His hips jerk with his throbbing cock that empties his balls into me. I receive his cumshot with a delightful mind-rush. The pulses fade even as my joy swirls. There’s plenty where that came from. A lot more.

Tech backs out, softening cock hanging white with cum. I lay on my side a couple seconds, letting my hips and pussy adjust. I again brace on my elbows and open my legs. My labia feels sticky/warm.

“Pull ‘em back,” Y requests.

I do as told, my legs moving toward my chest but remaining wide. Tech is a good shooter, but his cum is thin and wet. It pauses briefly on my inner lips, then seeps down onto my ass.
“Nice load,” Y says to Tech who indulges a long look himself.

I almost blush. Almost.

“Beautiful, fucked pussy, Jen,” Y tells me. I’ve come to appreciate the visual as much as him. (More on that in another story.)

“Like it?”

“Will like it more when I’m in.”

“Yeah?”

“Spread some more for me.”

I open my legs. My fingers open my labia. More semen spills.

“This what you want to see?”

“Hot, Jen.”

I push a finger into my vagina, feel the wet/warm puddle of remaining cum. I taste it. Savor it with fluttering eyes.

“Mmmm. Need more,” I say.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Y says no more. Instead, he guides his cock into my fucked pussy with a satisfying grunt. His whole body covers mine. He speaks directly into my ear.

“You feel amazing.”

I rock my hips with his thrusts.

“Hot. Wet. Fucked.”

I roll my hips to vary the touch inside.

He gets his rhythm going, holding my legs for his preferred angle and point of view. I take it with gusto, spotting Tech now and then with his own perspective.

“You want those four guys out there?” he asks.

Eyes blazing, I say, “I might.”

“Want their cocks banging your tight little pussy?”

“MMMMMmmm.”

"Feeling those full balls on your ass when they go deep?"

"Ohhh."

"They'd all fuck you, Jen."

"Not as good as you."

The steady in and out begins. Oh, yeah, here we go. Y focuses, squints, must be feeling me just right. My mind reels: Cumshot number two on the way.

Maybe a minute passes before my eyes go wide when Y bears down and fills me. I don’t feel it the same as Tech’s. I’m too wet, already fucked, and less sensitive down there. Nonetheless… the mind trip of another blast of baby batter sends me to dreamland. Yeah, that’s my thing.

Phew. Water first. Then another bourbon. All brought to me by them. Extra sticky between the thighs. I take a lap around the stage and really start to drip. Cum runs down my leg. Yikes. I wipe it up with a finger that I suck clean. They see that; their dicks twitch.

I get on stage, sit back, show off my messy pudenda. I take another taste. Hmmmm… mixed semen is potent. The musky scent of sex loiters around me. I see firming cocks. I want them again.

Tech takes his cue when the song changes. I meet him half-way by sitting on the edge, opening my mouth. He tastes cum-salty, Jen-juice special. Rock solid ready, I offer my pussy. He penetrates my sloppy self no problem.

A good long period of pussy pumping does not result in a shot. Tech’s a younger guy, just over 30, should be firing away. I figure the drinking and fucking has caused some fatigue. I have a solution. I pull him to a stop. Send him to the chair. Kneel down for a another taste of that mix fresh from my steamy box.

“MMMMM…” I moan.

There’s a hand on my head. Yeah. Someone’s getting there. Cock harder. Balls snugging.

Sucking the head, stroking the shaft, caressing the balls. Moaning. Louder. Louder. Deep, shallow, deep. Tongue that thing!

“Oh, fuck, Jen.”

“Mmmmmm.”

Big swell.

The hand squeezes my head.

The gush into my mouth is hot/salty.
“Mmmmfff.”
I almost gag. Swallow. Throb. More brine. Throb. More brine. Swallow.
“Mmmmff.” Swallow.

Gently milk those last drops out of him. Get it all. Look up with bright eyes as if you love nothing more than his cock in your mouth. Well, almost nothing more.
I stand up. Wipe my lips on the back of my hand. Phew, that was something to get down. Wasn’t expecting that much.

Quick drink of bourbon then back on my back, center stage. Y joins me. Stuffs me. Plain old fucks me. I’m grunting and moaning and forgetting everything about anything.
He is close to my ear for more dirty talk compliments.

“You sucked his cock like a pro.”

“Had a good teacher,” I remark.

“You already knew how to fuck.”

“Did I?”

“A natural.”

“I don’t know about…”

He grinds hard into me, says, “Dripping wet for my cock that first time.”

“I wanted to…”

“Get fucked.”

“Oh, yeah, I did.”

He strokes into my pussy, pressing me into the thin pad. "Want to cum on my cock?"

"What do you want?" I ask with open eyes.

"To shoot another load in your pussy."

"Then fuck me."

He does. He uses my pussy. And I take as much satisfaction in that as if I hit the moon with an orgasm of my own. During these session, the pleasure I get is nothing like an orgasm, not better, just different.

Y stops. Deep breathing. Oh, shit, I’m going to have to swallow another one? OMG. Wait. Idea. Ass up again, really up, knees apart. Permission to pound is granted.

Y shoves in. Whoa. No, it’s okay.

Wham! Bam! You’re getting fucked ma’am.

Don’t I know it. Hope I don’t need the safe word.

Y pumps my pussy right to my limit. Hands on my shoulders, he bangs me just about silly. My pussy aches. I take more because I want him to get it done.

He leans forward, reaches down, palms my mound with a big, man hand. His fingers are on either side of my slit. I have the sensation of being trapped between his cock and that hand. Joyous acceptance relieves momentary panic. I want him to take it all.

“Fuck me,” I whine. “Pleeeeease. Fucccck meee.”

His grip tightens. I couldn’t escape if I wanted to. The panic rises. No. This is why you’re here, Jen. Still, my heart thuds, thuds, thuds. I almost can’t…

And then…

“Mmnnnffff!” Y growls.

He unloads in me. Pulsing, pushing, almost painfully cum-plasters my twat.

“Oh, yesssss,” I sigh. “Yes.” Euphoria captures my mind as much as his semen fills my core.

He growls some more until it’s all out, yet his cock still in. For some indeterminate period of time, we remain joined. At last, his cock softens, eases out. I feel an odd vacancy between my legs as if I lost something. Despite exhaustion and a mild ache, I want whatever it was returned to me.

Through barely open eyelids I see Tech. His cock hangs maybe half-hard. To ask him, or Y, for more would be too much. For them? Or you? Do you want to find out?
I slump forward, a sweaty, panting, fucked pile of Jen.

I remain on the stage, face down, letting my body and mind relax. Y and Tech take their turns through the bathroom, getting dressed, and setting the room to rights.

“You okay?” Y asks.

“Yeah, just going to rest here,” I answer, then issue them their release. “I really enjoyed this.”

“I could tell,” Tech puts in.

“Promise me we’ll do it again.”

Y spanks my ass. “Any time you want.”

I can’t stop smiling until the door closes behind them.

I drift into semi sleep a while before finally sitting up. Yeah, TMI, there’s a mess between my legs. I taste it. Ooooof. Strong. Shower time. Quick but thorough enough. Dress in street clothes, meaning pants not tight over that pussy ache, and big panties over that pussy because, TMI, always a few more drips. Casual shoes. Pack up the soiled outfits.

Take a minute to strip the cover over the stage pad. Leave it with the used towels. Put two hundreds on the counter for whoever cleans the room.

A short walk down the hall with my bag in hand. Take the detour to the main entrance where a bouncer offers an escort to my car. Accepted. He’s a gent. Really. The kind of guy with a soft spot for seemingly hard chicks, who gets a thrill out of being protective. I like that in a guy as long as it doesn’t morph to needy.

“You okay to drive, lady?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Look awful tired.”

“A good time does that to me.”

His confused face wonders what I did in that VIP room. He pushes my car door closed. Waves.

I smile, wave, push START.

I don’t look in the review mirror. I’m not going backwards.