A Private Show
You find yourself alone with your own private exotic dancer, and she seems every bit as happy to be here as you. <3
This story was written for IdejTauren as part of my Patron only request days for November! It contains solo masturbatory acts involving an adult herm. :3
A Private Show
You watch her emerge from a beaded curtain, and immediately you know you made the right choice. There had been... what, a dozen options? But now that you see her up close, now that you see her eyes meet with yours, and a smile spreading across her broad muzzle, you know that there was really only ever one choice. Dressed in the attire of a cowgirl, hat, plaid shirt, frilled leather trousers, she'd be hot as hell even if the shirt wasn't open to reveal her buxom breasts and heavy, milk dripping udders. She'd be gorgeous even if the trousers weren't assless and crotchless, exposing a hefty pair of balls, a thick, drooling cock, and as she spins around and caresses the pole upon which she is to dance for you, proof positive that behind her balls lies the glistening slit of a pussy to complete the set.
She begins to dance, and though her figure is plump and powerful, though her breasts, udders and the hefty package of her manhood should all detract from grace and elegance, they don't. She spins around the pole, leaping up upon it and twirling her way down, grinding her slick member against the cool metal. She presses her breasts around the column of metal, drawing herself close as she embraces it. She weaves from side to side, peering down at you where you sit, and kisses the metal before her before blowing another tender smooch your way.
The music slows and grows ever more sultry, and a soft moan escapes the dancer's lips as she throws her hat away, tossing it over your head and throwing back the flowing braids of her sandy brown hair. She peels away from the pole, swinging around it with one hand as the other falls to her crotch. She grasps her thick cock, pulling it up, pressing it to the flesh of her udders. It's long enough to reach, and soon she's dribbling pre-cum over her teats as they in turn pour warm milk over her swollen cock. You lick your lips. You'd give anything for a taste. Anything, for any of those various intermingled fluids and the flesh from which they come. And she'd let you, too... if only she weren't on shift, if only this wasn't her job. Her career.
As the music increases in tempo slightly once more, she returns to her routine at the pole. She carries herself like her weight is nothing, dragging herself up into the air and lifting her legs high over her arms and torso, locking her ankles around the pole and hanging upside down, peering at you with a tender smile as her cock throbs and her teats dribble and drip milk down onto the platform below. One arm leaves the pole, and she reaches down, grasps her cock, begins to masturbate right there in front of you. The other hand follows, and her legs alone are holding her weight up upon the pole as she reaches for her breasts, squeezing them and sending sprays of milk gushing from each nipple in turn, far more potent than the trickles emerging more steadily from her udders. She bellows, a low, deep grunt of pleasure. She keeps touching her cock, but the hand that teased at her tits returns to the pole once more. She flips, one handed, back to her feet, and in doing so you are granted yet another glimpse of the soaking wet feminine flesh between her legs.
You can't resist any longer. You reach into your pocket, and pull forth the wad of cash you've had prepared for just this occasion. Not singles, you know that this beautiful woman deserves far more than pocket change. You peel off a note, and she smiles. You peel off another, and another. She licks her lips. You peel off a fourth, and a fifth. She squeezes her cock a little harder, and moans at you with lyrical sweetness and deep, burning passion all at once. You throw the money down upon the stage, and while she doesn't move to collect it, the fact it has now been given rather than just offered is all the reason she needs to act. To do what she's wanted to do ever since you picked her over all others to give you a private show.
Again she begins to dance, but this time the dancing is less complex. It's no longer meant to tease and tantalise and tempt you into spending more of your hard earned cash. Now it's mere window dressing, not to mention a still immensely skilful performance when you consider that with every move she makes, one hand is still wrapped around her cock, jerking it off not delicately or teasingly, but with a feverish passion. She disembarks from the pole and drops to her hands and knees, crawling towards you, dripping milk and oozing pre-cum. She moans as you toss more bills towards her, and scrambles down off the stage, straddling your lap.
She takes a hand. Not one of her own, but one of yours, and places it upon your own crotch. She smiles, she giggles, and she moans as she orients it appropriately; three fingers raised, firmly pointing towards the sky. She leans in close, and whispers in your ear.
"You're not supposed to touch. Don't tell."
Then, she's all over you. Dancing on you. Lap-dancing, grinding and rocking against you. Her breasts are in your face, and as you moan loudly, you feel her wetness, her feminine arousal dripping down on your still upturned and waiting fingers. She teases and dances and grinds at you for maybe a minute, your eyes bulging as you watch her thick cock twitch and throb, practically ready to leap forward and slap you in the face, or spray you with hot gouts of cum. Then she wraps her legs around your waist, and sits down upon you. Hot flesh encircles your fingers. Wetness soaks them, and as she wraps her hands around the back of your head and kisses you deeply in an act only permitted because she engaged it, you find yourself with three digits inside her. Fingering her. Fucking her as she grinds and humps at you.
She strokes her cock, and bellows, whimpers, cries out to you, calling you all the sweet names any good and attentive dancer would. But between those calls to keep her bosses happy, she whispers to you too. More intimate words. Frantic, feverish in her euphoric urgency.
"You're my last client of the night. Please... meet me after work. Outside. My car... it's the green Chevy. I... oh god, I want to be with you. I w-want... please... oh god, I'm gonna... a-ah... please, meet me. Spend the night w-with... oh. Oh! Yes!"
Your fingers have been twitching, rubbing inside her all this while, and as you strike her g-spot over and over again, tapping it as you sit red faced, wide eyed and overwhelmed by every secretive plea she whispers, you drive her over the edge. She bellows with a loud, feral moo'ing of ecstasy as she soaks your hands with her feminine juices, and begins painting the fabric of your top, not to mention the fur of your face, with streaks of her explosive male orgasm at the same exact moment. She shakily rises to her feet, abandoning your questing fingers, and thrusts at the air, bucking seductively as she cries out with genuine euphoria, still putting on a show for her bosses as much as for you.
Shakily, with your dry, non-juice stained hand, you throw more notes at her. You watch the rest of her performance as it winds down, and as she slinks away through the curtain once more still dressed in her cowgirl outfit, hat clutched in one hand, she peers back over her shoulder. She blows you a final, seductive kiss to round off the event. But her eyes beg you to remember her whispered words.
You look down at your wet fingers. You look back at the now empty curtained doorway. And though you don't want to hope that she meant every word... you're suddenly eager to leave this club rather than hanging around for another drink. To find your way to the car park, and to the green Chevy parked within.
The private show might be over... but the night? Your night, is only just beginning.
By Jeeves
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