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Never thought I'd make a second entry in you, Mr Diary. I figured I'd get bored after just writing a few lines down, but thinking back over screwing that otter's hole was so fucking hot... I have to do it again.

This time, I'm gonna tell you about my job, or at least part of it. The brighter side, ironically, as I'm a part time stripper and, how do I put this lightly... an escort in the bedroom - in other words, a man whore. Usually that's not every time I get up on stage and jiggle my junk around in everybody's faces, but it's becoming more of a habit for me to get approached backstage by someone with more money than brains and self-respect combined.

Tonight was my shift, and I was due up on stage in five. You could hear the music pumping through wafer thin walls; shitty club couldn't even afford decent soundproofing. Not that they cared, of course, as the patrons loved to hear the moans and groans of guys and girls getting off echoing through the building. I'd make it a competition sometimes when I was in the mood to make someone scream as loud as possible as they had the most mind shattering orgasm. I was sort of renowned for that, my ability to get anybody off when I wanted; that and my surprisingly helpful and eerily strange control of my own woodies.

There was a military theme tonight, so I had to dress up for the occasion. Some army blokes were passing through and they expected to see some skin after being away so long. Hell, I don't think they even cared so long as they had something to picture jacking off under the covers back at their barracks. Thank goodness they scrapped the 'don't ask, don't tell' rule; otherwise I'd have been put out of a wage for the night.

First, I oiled myself down. That was always rule one. You'd get deducted if you went out onto stage without looking like you'd just ran a freaking marathon and you're pores were gushing with floods of sweat. Every muscle possible had to be on show by the end of the dance, so the final piece the soldiers were gonna see was my not-so-little trooper curled up and nestled tightly within a khaki jockstrap. It bit into my skin a little, but pain was pleasure, and I didn't dare wear any other coloured one. My boss would have my heads, and yes, I mean heads...

Next, I slipped on my cheap khaki skin tight trousers, followed by the standard issue jacket. Some drunk army guy had left it at my apartment a year or two ago, and he never came back to collect it. So, I had one of the girls stitch the tag 'Dancer' into the breast of it so I could role-play as 'Private Dancer' for the crowd. It was kind of my gimmick. They absolutely loved it!

A frail looking nanny goat popped her head round the door and bleated at me, yapping me to get my chunk of meat that I call an ass on stage and ready to go on. It was only a short walk from the dressing room to the 'entrance' - it was nothing more than a mere shabby velvet curtain that had seen better days. The music suddenly switched, to something a little more my style; some heavy beats and epic drops, just the thing I needed. My stage name was called, Private Dancer, and then I trotted out onto the blindingly lit stage with a tap to my hooves and a shake to my ass. I could barely make out the silhouettes of the audience that had gathered tonight. I could hear their hoots though, their catcalls. It was somewhat derogatory at face value, when they're treating me like some sleazy slab of muscle that they can all drool over and leer at, but if you think about it, I'm the one who's mocking them. I use them like puppets and they all throw their money at me just because I'm slipping down to just my underwear. Where's the harm in that? I get rolls of cash at the end of the night, and all they can leave is the burning image of my bulge embedded in their memories.

I shut out the cheesy announcers and his corny lines that were dripping with puns, enough to make you physically sick. I blotted out the jeers and shouts, and I focused on the routine. I threw off the jacket and tossed it to one side of the stage, flexing my pectorals as they gleamed in the spotlight. I performed pose after pose until off came the next garment; I whipped the trouser off, specially built Velcro that ran down the back. You needed a strong wrist for that; otherwise you'd just trip yourself up and off the stage. Probably break your neck too. They went wild after that, with me just standing there with a scantily covered crotch, the fabric straining with my large endowment.

The bills came streaming then, and soon it was just this constant green shower onto the stage as I finished off with the final blow; I willed myself to get hard, letting the blood rush into my meat as it began to bloat and sag at the jockstrap. The bulge nearly grew to twice its original size, and probably so did my payslip.

I rounded off the show quickly, and let the stagehands gather the income. I'd get my share for sure; the manager would never cross me. She feared and needed me too much. I was about to head back to the dressing room to clean myself up and hit the sack for a night. Shows tired me out quickly, and so far I'd only put on about three or four performances, and I'd been standing outside in the freezing cold as part of a promotional teaser before for a good two hours. I was ready to just flop on my bed and sleep.

But there was someone waiting for me. Some feline soldier - at best just your regular ginger tabby - with no remarkable rank, but apparently from what was whispered in my ears is that all the lads had chipped in to give him a special time. It's why so many straight dudes had come here to tonight; this guy was what they'd dubbed as the 'Camp Queer'. Hardly flattering, but he bore it with a grin, as I was yet again told. They were all tipping generously, and all so that he could have an amazing time with, and yes, I'm quoting here, 'that ripped stud whose got a python stuff down his jock'.

He sat there, a big fat smirk slapped across his face like he'd just won the lottery. I sauntered in, still clad in nothing but my jockstrap. On the other hand, he was still donning his army gear, albeit lacking a bit of the equipment. I'd never been with a soldier before, so this would be a first. However, I didn't know what he liked. Problem was with bought sex is that I never know how to treat 'em. Some like it soft, sensual and slow. Others like it rough, brutal, even verging on rape. I'd just have to experiment with him and see how he took it.

With the same confident swagger, I didn't say a word as I went up to him. He was a soldier, right? So he was used to taking orders, letting another take command. So I didn't need to ask his permission, or mull over what he wanted. I leant down, taking his mouth in my own as I snatched off that ridiculous cap and placed it on top of my head. He'd probably like that, fantasising in his had with me as a superior officer of his. Those guys must be ripped.

He took the hint and started to undo his clothes, throwing them onto a nearby chair as I pushed him back against the dressing table. Being in just my jockstrap meant I only had to wait for him. I continued to nibble and dine upon the tender flesh of his neck, giving him a good number of hickeys as mementos of me, but something caught my eye. In the mirror as he pulled off his shirt was his back, lit up by the exposed bulbs. Puckered scars and vicious slashes marked his soft fur, and where the ginger pelt had once grown was now replaced with faded white tufts of shorter hairs. A sudden pang of guilt, sadness and maybe even a little pity shot through me. Mostly for him, naturally; I was here leading a life of sleaze and comfort when yet he was risking his in some foreign country, away from his family, not knowing which day is his last... But some of that pity and sadness was reserved for me. I treated people as though they were nothing more than tools to better my own existence... I needed to change, and I could make my first change right now.

I unbuckled the pants to the soldier, letting them drop so that they were around his ankles. Quickly, without giving him chance to get comfortable, I snaked an arm around his waist and hiked him up onto the dresser's edge. My other hand found its way to the back of his neck, practically dominating his mouth. I could taste him, so bitter yet intoxicating. He was moulding to my very touch - probably because he hasn't been with a man in months. I was now determined to give him the best welcome home present I could.

He seemed to get the message, as with struggling quickness he jostled down his underwear, the boxers looking well worn. He had that musk about him that drove me wild - I loved a guy who smelt like that. Don't get me wrong, I savour the sweet taste of feminine camp twinks, but sometimes a man who knows from experience how to act will always have that sexy, masculine charm. I knelt down to be greeted by his overly eager bulge of manhood. The tool itself was already fully extended and sloping with a lazy arch downward as it dripped with pre and built-up sweat. I wrapped my stallion lips over it like I'd done with so many others before, and began to pump his length with slow languish movements. Had to resist chuckling when his paws gripped the edge of the table like he was holding on for dear life, the knuckles going white - it meant I was doing a good job. Whilst he'd beefed up with his service to the military, he wasn't anything to shout about down there; only an average length of around five inches, maybe six at a strain, and with only so much girth. I would've sat it was a little girly, if you can catch my drift. Fitting, since the guy's a bottom.

I was about to let him blow his nuts down my throat when he whimpered out, telling me to stop. Abruptly, I pulled off his dick with a wet slurp, smacking my chops with my leathery tongue hoping to entice him into more. He shook his head, breathing out something about wanting to cum from being fucked, that he hadn't done it in a long while. I was happy to oblige, naturally. Granted, I was a little disappointed I couldn't get my fair share of a mouthful of cum, but he was the paying customer, so to speak. He hiked his legs up, leaning back onto his rump and placed his ankles on either of my shoulders. Flexible bastard; he'd done this before.

I pulled down my jockstrap just enough to let my equine beauty flop out and land against his cock. It was kind of funny to see his expression change from shock to horror, then to pure lust, all within a split second. I could have been three times his size, and even more so around, and he knew it deep down - I just hoped that inside his ass he was a little bigger.

Lining up my blunt crowned head, I began to push inwards. Yeah, he'd done this before. No doubt about it as his hole ate up my cock as though it were nothing more than an appetiser. It felt good, sliding into an ass that hadn't been fucked in such a long time; he had that virgin-feel that I simply lusted after. It's always a treat to break a new ass in, even if it was the ass of a pro. Wider and wider he went until my fat head started to push deep into his guts, grating over his love button hidden within.

It took me only a few strokes until he was panting and writhing, staving off his orgasm as he held onto this moment of utter bliss. I couldn't blame him; I was on the brink myself. This guy felt amazing wrapped around my cock like a moist, velvet envelope. I took a hold of his hips as he embraced me in his arms, jackhammering my length from tip to base, ploughing him deeply until he mewled and yelled at the tops of his lungs, shooting off up against my abdomen and covering it with sticky strings of off-white cum. I figured I'd let him ride out the orgasm before he was just about finished, watching his face as the pleasure peaked. Then I let loose, cannoning a huge load of stud jizz into his hole and filling him up, softly thrusting a few more times to milk the last drops.

He burned a bold red, eyes rolled into his skull as he lay against me. Normally, I would've pulled out and tossed him aside onto the couch as he was, wiping myself off and heading home. My customers would've then woken up with a sore, gummy ass and wondered where the hell they were and how long they'd been out for. But him... I don't know, but something inside me had a soft spot for him. It wasn't love - I'd been there, done that - but I just felt sorry and yet proud of the guy. Maybe I was being slightly too laissez faire about life... I held him in my arms as my dick throbbed and pulsed, swimming in my own spooge as I simply waited until he recovered. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt, and I certainly wouldn't mind a round two, on the house...

That's another story down, Mr Diary. Look forward to a lot more of these hot little numbers. I have no idea why I didn't do this sooner!