Desiree Ch. 01: Prince Charming

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

I’m Desiree, and I’m a dancer. No, not a ballerina. And you won’t see me in Broadway shows. Or backing up singers at rock concerts. The dancing I do is a bit more…exotic. Yeah, okay, I’m a stripper.

Strippers traffic in fantasy. We embody fantasy. We facilitate it. We act it out. We ARE fantasy. Our audiences (usually men) see something in us that they want. They see what they want to be. Everyone has fantasies, and my job is to bring them to life.

You might be surprised to know that strippers have fantasies too. I’m not talking about kinky shit, like bondage or whatever. I mean just regular, everyday fantasies about how our day could be a little more exciting.

I think the most common stripper fantasy, and definitely my favorite, is Prince Charming. The perfect guy who waltzes in and sweeps you off your feet. Funny, interesting…sexy. A man who knows how to take care of a woman. Especially in bed.

Like most strippers, my fantasy plays out at work. I’m at the club, it’s a slow day, nobody’s making much money, the girls are bored, the customers aren’t very interesting…and then this GUY walks in…

In my fantasy, the first thing I see is he’s kind of tall and well put together. I can’t see his face or anything else, just his body backlit as he comes through the door. From a distance, I can see he’s dressed well…preferably a suit and tie. Carries himself well. The girls all notice him right away.

It’s always pretty dark in clubs, so I can’t really see him in detail yet, but so far he’s checking all my boxes. He walks in confidently, sits down and spreads out, acting like he feels at home. Not one of those nervous guys who looks like he’s expecting to be arrested or robbed.

The other girls are all trying to approach him. Trying to get a lap dance out of him, or at least a drink. He sends them all away. This Prince Charming has his own fantasy princess. He knows what he wants, and he’s confident enough to wait for it patiently.

His eyes scan the room. And they land on me. I’m just going about my own business, but I can feel his eyes on me, and every time I look back at him he’s still watching me. He doesn’t look away when I make eye contact. He just gives me a cocky smile and keeps helping himself to the eye candy.

So eventually I go to him. Up close, he’s good looking. Good talker. Funny, interesting…sexy. Wants to get to know me a little bit, doesn’t treat me like a piece of meat.

And, of course…generous. What can I say, I’m a stripper.

There’s instant heat between us. Chemistry. A real connection. We’re into each other. Where does it go from there? Who knows, your fantasy is as good as mine. Love? Marriage? He flies me off to Paris on his private jet? He “takes me away from all of this” and we live happily ever after?

Maybe…but maybe it’s just some fucking great SEX. We go somewhere, we get naked, he fills me with his big hard cock and just takes me. Rides me hard until the sun comes up. Forget about happily ever after.

I have to admit…lately, my fantasies usually end with that last one. Why? Because these days, I seem to spend most of my waking hours (sleeping hours too, I guess) in an advanced state of sexual arousal. Yeah, HORNY. Maybe you don’t think strippers get horny? You think we’re jaded, we’re sex professionals, we spend so much time catering to sexually charged men that we get tired of thinking about sex? Well, think again. Strange as it may seem, plenty of exotic dancers don’t get laid as often as they’d like. It’s one of the things I don’t like about my job.

Think about it. Stripping isn’t the right job for you if you’re shy about your body. Typically, we’re natural exhibitionists. I get off on undressing in front of men. I like walking around all day in sexy lingerie with men staring at me. I get turned on by dancing up on a stage and men throwing money at me because I’m turning them on.

The guys who come into the club are a mixed bag, but some of them are pretty cool and decent looking, and most of them I can stand to be around for at least a little while. They like to touch, if they can get away with it. I’m no prude and I don’t mind being groped a little bit, as long as they follow the rules and show a little bit of respect…and generosity. In fact…most of the time I like it, and it adds to my general state of unrequited horniness.

And the girls…wow. I’m not a lesbian, and I’m not even very bi, but let’s face it, strippers are HOT. All day long I’m surrounded by beautiful, sexy girls who are barely dressed out on the floor and mostly naked in the dressing room. Most of them are just as frustrated and horny as I am. A lot of them are bi if not outright dykes, and some of them are pretty aggressive. They look. They flirt. Sometimes they touch. Sometimes my body responds to all that naked beauty on display.

So yes, I spend most of my day sexually aroused. I get wet enough that I have to change panties at least once or twice per shift. I keep a vibe ataşehir escort in my clothes bag and maybe two or three times a week, I’ll get so desperate that I take a trip to the ladies room and jill myself off.

But as a stripper, a hot girl, it should be easy for me to get laid, right? Well…not so much. Relationships are difficult. In my line of work, it’s really tough to have a normal boyfriend relationship without an unbearable amount of drama. Every guy thinks it would be so fucking cool to have a stripper girlfriend, but the number of them that can actually handle it is close to zero. Plus, stripping is hard work, and at the end of a shift, I’m too exhausted to play the dating game.

I can hook up with one of those gorgeous dykes and bi-cuties I work with. Lots of girls do that, and sometimes I do, but interoffice romances are always tricky. Besides that, I just don’t get complete satisfaction without…ummm…COCK.

Okay, but there must be plenty of opportunities for random hookups, right? True, I have guys hitting on me constantly, when I’m at work or on my own time. While sex with a stranger can be wildly fun, it can also be dangerous. You don’t know that person, you don’t know if he’s a teddy bear or a serial killer. Oddly enough, I feel safer with guys I met in the club than outsiders, because their agenda is more open and obvious.

But dating customers has its own challenges. Most clubs will fire you if you get caught seeing clients “outside the club”. And of course, you need to worry about undercover cops busting you for soliciting . If you’re gonna do “private shows,” but you have to be selective…and cautious.

I’m one of those girls that will do a private from time to time. I always get paid for it, but oddly enough, I usually agree to see a guy outside the club because I’m desperate to get laid, not because I need the money.

So that’s where the Prince Charming fantasy kicks in for me. At the ripe old age of 23, I’m no longer waiting for Richard Gere to come walking in the door, recognize my heart of gold and make me his Pretty Woman. But I’m pretty much always on the prowl for that GUY who’s got some game, has some cash in his pocket and is ready to take me to a cheap hotel room on my off day and fuck me like I need to be fucked.

**********

I spotted the sign I was looking for. It had one word: Skin. And a silhouette of a sexy girl in a seductive pose, in case the name alone didn’t clue you in about what kind of a business it was. I was there to see a guy about a job.

I heard about Skin from a dancer at the West LA club where I used to work. Skin is located in a low-end industrial suburb east of downtown. For some reason, the local enforcement is pretty laid back about adult entertainment, so the town has more than its share of porn shops and strip clubs.

The thing that got my attention was her description of how they run the VIP rooms out there. VIP rooms are private or semi-private rooms inside of a club where a customer can pay extra to take one of the dancers for a more intimate show. Every club has its own written and unwritten rules about what’s allowed in the VIP room. Most places, it’s just a glorified lap dance, often with a bouncer watching the whole time to make sure nobody is having too much fun. Other places, it’s actually private, with a curtain blocking anyone from seeing inside, and maybe some touching by the customer is allowed. Maybe on the ass, sometimes the boobs, rarely in the naughty bits. At least, not officially.

At a few clubs, the girls get away with, ummm, let’s call them sexual favors, if the client has enough cash on hand. Mostly handjobs, occasionally oral.

But, sex in a strip club? Actual fucking? No way that’s gonna be allowed. Maybe it happens once in a blue moon, when a very daring dancer runs into a very generous customer on a night when a very lazy management team is on duty. But no club could allow it to happen on a regular basis, because word would get out and the place would get raided and shut down.

Except, it was said, in this low end insustrial suburb east of downtown, home to Skin and three or four other clubs. I got confirmation of the rumors from the girl that used to work at Skin. She said the girls there would take suitably generous gentlemen back into the VIP rooms on a regular basis, and, as she put it, “go all the way.” Not officially on the menu of course, but the girls did it and the guys paid for it and the clubs let it happen. And the local cops didn’t interfere. Needless to say, girls could make good money doing it, and it was safer than meeting up with a customer on your own outside the club, because you had bouncers for backup if things got out of hand.

I was intrigued. I was also broke, between jobs, and horny. So I put on a sexy dress and drove out to Skin one morning.

For such a dumpy neighborhood, the place itself was pretty nice. I was ushered in to meet the manager, Gary. He sat at his desk, and the only ataşehir escort other chair in his office was filled by an older woman he introduced as Martina, one of the bartenders. So I stood.

“Desiree Watkins,” he said. “Nice to meet you. So you worked at Garden of Eden. I know a DJ that used to work there, Paul Gaines.”

“PauliBoi! Yeah, I know Pauli. Great guy!”

“I talked to Pauli, he vouched for you. Said you pulled in some pretty good business, and that you aren’t a flake. He said you left a few months ago.”

“Yeah. I thought I’d try something besides dancing. Found an office job.”

“Didn’t work out?” he asked.

“No.” I decided not to go into the details. The perv who hired me didn’t really care about my office skills. He had something else in mind, but I didn’t provide it. Maybe I would have, if he wasn’t such a creepy toad. Anyway, after a couple of months he found an excuse to get rid of me.

Gary didn’t press me for details, but no doubt he’d heard similar stories before. He just got down to business.

“So, go ahead and get naked for us,” he said.

If that sounds shocking, keep in mind what I do for a living. It’s a legit request, he needed to know what I look like. And if I wasn’t comfortable stripping for him, how was I gonna do it onstage? Of course, he was in a position to take advantage of me, but the fact that he had someone else in the room – a woman – told me it was strictly business.

And I came prepared, wearing something easy to put on…and of course take off. I undid one clasp, did a little shimmy, and the dress slid down my golden brown skin and pooled around my 6″ stilettos. I stepped out of it, and stood before Gary and Martina in a sheer pink bra and G-string set.

“Niiice,” said Gary. “Very, very nice.” Martina actually whistled.

To fill you in on what they were looking at, I should tell you that my nickname in high school was Betty Boop. Like the cartoon character, I had big sexy eyes, pouty lips, and curves for days. A tiny waist and flat tummy flared out into sturdy hips and a deliciously thick but firm ass. Sleek, trim legs that looked long on my petite 5’4″ frame, and positively Amazonian in stripper heels. And the boobs…

Oh dear lord, my fucking boobs. At any given moment in my life, they had been my greatest blessing or my greatest curse. They showed up early when I was just a scrawny 13-year old, and they’ve left a trail of jealous girls and brokenhearted boys everywhere they’ve been. My bra size is 34DD, in case you’re wondering, and they’re 100% natural. But that doesn’t tell the whole story. They’re ridiculously firm so I can skip the bra and get away with it, but when I do, my thick, dark, sensitive nipples put on a show of their own.

I reached behind, unhooked my bra and showed them the goods. I did a little pirouette so they could see all the angles. Gary was clearly impressed. Martina looked at me like I was filet mignon and she hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. At first I had been relieved to see another woman in the room for my interview, but now I was glad Gary was there.

“Yeah, I think we can use you,” Gary understated. “Now let’s see the rest of it.”

I slipped off my panties revealing a tuft of medium brown curls.

“Very nice,” said Gary. “Bushes are back in fashion. Just keep it neat, okay?”

“Anything you say, boss,” I said with a naughty smile. “I’ll shave your name into it if you want.”

**********

My first night was a Wednesday, and it was so damn slow. I got some decent tips at the rail when I was onstage, and a couple guys bought me drinks, which are way overpriced. We get paid a few bucks for each one that someone buys us.

I did a few lap dances, which take place back in these little booths that are open, so other customers (and bouncers) can see what you’re doing. We can do them nude, and the customer is allowed to touch everywhere we let them, except tits, ass and pussy. Except it was obvious almost all the other girls were letting guys get away with stuff and the bouncers let most of it slide. I pretty much played by the rules since it was my first night, but I did let a couple of customers play with my boobs a bit. All in all, the guys were nothing special, but in my horny state I enjoyed grinding my pussy and ass against the bulges in their pants.

I was a little intimidated about doing a VIP, so I didn’t offer it to any of the lap dance customers. One guy asked me about doing one, but when I told him the price ($200 to the club for 20 minutes in the booth, plus the obvious expectation of a big tip), he changed his mind.

I spent most of the evening shooting the shit with a couple of the other girls. One of them, Natasha, was a hot little Asian who I’d worked with at another club. Natasha and her friend Tiffany were nice to me and made me feel welcome. Most of the other girls were pretty standoffish. I noticed that one of them kept staring at me. She was a tall, slender, athletic anadolu yakası escort girl with a killer body and waist length black hair. She looked Hispanic. She had a bunch of tattoos on her arms, back and chest, and they were sexy on her. When I caught her staring, she didn’t look away, so I kind of avoided her because I couldn’t tell what her deal was.

Late in the evening, I ran into her in the hallway just outside the dressing room. She was staring at me again, but she managed a little smile this time.

“Hey, new girl,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Desiree. Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Miranda,” she said. I was a little nervous, so I giggled.

“Hi, Miranda,” I said. “Are you gonna read me my rights?”

She didn’t laugh. Instead she stepped closer to me. I tried to back up, but the wall was in the way. Oops, I thought, I guess she doesn’t like being teased about her name. I flinched as she reached toward me, but all she did was touch my cheek as her beautiful brown eyes stared into mine.

“You have the right to remain sexy,” she said as she leaned in and closed the distance between her lips and mine. Her kiss was soft but confident. She tasted like cinnamon. I wanted to push away, but then her mouth opened an her tongue slid forward and caressed mine. I was melting into my panties. I felt dizzy. She finally pulled back for a second.

“My body can and will be held against you,” she continued, before locking up with me for another kiss. Her hands caressed my hips and waist. My hands decided on their own to grab both of her ass cheeks and pull her toward me. I felt, rather than heard, her moan. Christ, I was so fucking horny, I could feel an orgasm building inside me already.

“Ahem,” said a deep male voice behind her. It was Steve, one of the bouncers.

“This is a private conversation,” said Miranda, but she was already pulling away from me as she turned to face him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like you’re about to talk her brains out. Don’t do it out here in the hall where the customers can see you.” I grabbed her hand and started to pull her toward the dressing room, but I heard the DJ calling me to the stage.

We didn’t run into each other again until after 1:00 am closing. She caught up with me in the parking lot and asked me to have a drink with her. Tempting as it was, I didn’t want to look like a total slut on the first night of a new job, and besides I had to get up early the next afternoon to do some domestic stuff like laundry and grocery shopping. So I told her no, but promised we’d do it some other time.

When I got home and fell into bed, I replayed the kiss in my mind and my hand drifted down to my pussy. Damn, I was so fucking wet. I desperately needed an orgasm, but my horniness was battling against exhaustion. Exhaustion won, so I drifted off to sleep with my hand still inside my soaked panties.

**********

Went to sleep horny, woke up hornier. I’m not good at remembering dreams, but I think I had a naughty one. Pieces of my Prince Charming fantasy were floating in my head. I really wanted to jill off, but I was already running late and didn’t have time.

So I was up and out the door by 1:30 pm (which is bright and early for night shifters). That gave me about four hours to get my personal shit done before I had to get to the club and start making myself pretty for the customers.

One of my errands was to get to a lingerie store to buy some new stuff for work. My old outfits were looking a little tired, and in my horny, dripping wet state I was having to change panties constantly. The laundry basket was filling up and the panty drawer was almost empty.

I skipped the shopping mall chain stores which all carry the same boring stuff and went to a little shop in Beverly Hills. Expensive but worth it.

The salesgirl was a cute redhead who was very helpful. Very, very helpful. Spent a lot time taking my measurements and adjusting things and otherwise finding excuses to put her hands on my body. She insisted on bringing me out of the dressing room to a big mirror out in the middle of the shop. There was a guy shopping there who saw me several times in my unmentionables. With her hands and his eyes all over me, my sexual frustration kicked up another notch.

I bought a few sexy bra and panty sets, plus a black fishnet bodysuit that looked fun. Also a couple of garter belts and stockings. The guy was gone by the time I left. The salesgirl insisted on giving me her personal phone number, “in case you need any help fitting it.”

Fitting it? Like I really needed her help putting it on. No, she didn’t want to help me get into it…she wanted to help me get out of it.

**********

Natasha told me that Thursdays at Skin were a little weird. Like Wednesdays, the night shift was pretty slow at the beginning, but like Fridays it got pretty busy later on.

I was hanging out with Natasha and Tiffany up near the bar. My new friend Miranda was nearby, not saying much but giving me smoldering looks. Martina was working the bar. She was probably pushing 40, but still pretty hot, and she had a dancer’s body that was still pretty tight. My guess was she had started out as a stripper and worked her way up into lower management.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32