by Chaparrita
(08/03/11)

I knew how to work the pole. If you work your pole well, men can sense you tantalizing their poles with the same intensity. And they'll keep coming back for more.

It's just that easy.

I'd slither around the pole like a snake swirling out of a basket, like a green vine ravenously climbing the hard trunk of an oak. I'd get on all fours in front of it and imagine it was a fat cock deep inside me, rubbing my ass against it and moaning as I stared into the glazed eyes of men who'd give anything to be where that metal shaft was. Twirl around it like a schoolgirl at the playground, especially when I was wearing frisky pigtails and a plaid skirt with thigh-high patent leather boots. Stroke it like I was giving it a teenaged hand job. Scale it like a monkey, wrapping my legs around it, hanging upside down with a tiger-striped scarf barely hiding my tits and pussy. Then I'd laugh.

The thong was a ringer. The pole gave a great view of the thong, that inch of violet or pink or black lace that men could never resist on my tasty ass. Better than being naked. I liked to give them something to imagine ripping off. Sometimes their fingers would sneak under it, tickling for a moment before I could catch them. Touching without permission was definitely a no-no. I never scolded harshly but smiled, licked my lips, leaned in so close my breasts brushed shoulders and said softly:

"You have to pay to play, baby."

Which would get me cash in my garter belt every time. Enough cash and I'd let the man take my thong off and then I'd wrap it around his wrists. Or I'd shove it in his face, which got the crowd howling.

Unpredictable. The customers never knew what I'd be wearing from my extensive wardrobe. How I'd single out a man from the crowd. Sometimes I came onstage naked from the get-go, not bothering with the pretense of clothing. I got to do exactly what I wanted onstage because I brought in the most money, more than the fresh-faced college girls with too much makeup and fake tits and no game. 41 yet a former dancer: I looked 10 years younger. I was the star and the manager, Frank, knew it.

And in case he forgot, I let him fuck my ass twice a week.

My years of dance training didn't get me to Broadway. They got me here, to the pole. If I were noble I'd say I was saving for a new home or to go back to school to get my Ph.D. or to help the needy...but I really just liked to get naked and make men's dicks hard. I was an artist and the pole was my canvas.

Days at the club ran together sometimes, long slow successions of afternoons spent in lace or leather or tulle with my crotch in some guy's face. I wasn't complaining. But I was yearning for something. Something more. I didn't know what.

One afternoon I was performing a slow number in red sequins. Song: "Feel Like Makin' Love." I wore a sparkling top hat, heart-shaped pasties over my nipples, and see-through undies, along with killer sequined red stilettos. My version of the magic slippers. Click your heels for a good time! Just as I dramatically kicked my leg Rockette-style and wrapped it around the pole, the main door opened and a ray of sunlight blinded me. I gracefully lifted a hand in front of my face as if it were part of my routine. The door clicked shut and I saw a man in shadow. Like any strip club, we had no windows, so I couldn't see all the details from afar. He was built solid though, a man who was used to doing work with his body. Amazing arms, even better ass in faded blue jeans as he turned to look towards the bar. Work boots. A bit of sunburn on his nose. He sauntered in, sat down, and ordered a strong drink in a short glass.

Holy shit.

The last person I ever expected to see. He'd moved away for college, somewhere warmer, gotten married. Now here he was, smack in front of me. Eric. My first love, my first everything.

He savored the first sip, penetrating me with his gaze and letting the liquor warmth seep into his body. I sashayed over to him, tossing my top hat to the side and shaking my hair with both my hands. The tip of his tongue darted out, licked lips. God, he looked good. Better, even, with the muscles and arrogance of a man, not a boy. I knelt and leaned forward, taking the pasties off to free my nipples for him. Arching my back, I formed a C shape with my body, my arms spread wide. He was fixated on my bare tits jutting upwards, my dusky nipples, pussy like a dare in front of his face, flash of lower belly taut above the filmy panties.

Yeah, it was my high-school boyfriend Eric's fault. He was the first one to feel me up, in the rain standing next to his motorcycle in the parking lot, kissing me until my cunt began to weep. He was the first one to eat me out, working his mouth up my leg until his tongue dove unexpectedly into my pussy. And he was the first man I gave a blow job, one evening on the beach as the sun went down. I remember the taste of salt and the thrill of my mouth sliding over the head and shaft, the delicious sounds he made. I was seventeen.

Eric showed me I had a talent for moving my body in exactly the way a man needed. So when ballet didn't turn out, the pole came easily.

I needed to get him back for that.

Eric pulled a worn leather wallet from a back pocket. I pursed my lips at him in a campy kiss. Was there any chance he didn't recognize me? He pulled out a stack of bills and started peeling them off and flicking them at me, never taking his eyes off me, acting like he owned me.

I imagined what he was thinking about as he did this. Maybe he was licking my belly, his tongue running downwards to get me wet for his cock, his hands clutching the saucy cheeks of my ass. Of course the other men wanted me too, somewhere on the periphery of my vision, all horny and sweaty and desperate-looking. Eric had my full attention, though. Sneaking a peek at his crotch I saw he was really hard and suddenly my mouth felt greedy and tingly and swollen with need.

The music ended and I got up, strolling around the stage a few times like I was walking the runway in Paris. My victory lap, I called this. Smiling and waving to my fans, I gathered up a few more twenties. I blew a kiss to Eric, stepping behind the curtain and into my dressing room.

In the blessed quiet, I changed into a pink satin babydoll with pink garter belts, hose, and high heels, retouching my makeup at my lighted vanity. Sexy enough but not transparent: good for mingling with the crowd. Like Barbie -- only nastier.

Sappy 80s hair metal played medium-loud as the cocktail waitresses wove through the crowd, getting the guys -- and the occasional girlfriend along for the adventure -- fresh drinks and snacks before the next act. I made an entrance, greeting and touching the shoulders of a couple big spenders, making my way to a barstool in the corner. There I sat on my break sipping a Shirley Temple, lipglossed mouth on a straw, when I turned to see Eric had taken the stool next to mine.

What was he doing here? Why now? Hell, why not? "Howdy, Eric," I said, my eyes widening and my pussy taking notice. It felt as if the pilot light in my cunt had been switched on. He gave me a shy look, running a hand through his sandy hair. His mouth was extremely kissable. Always had been.

"Hey, Dixie," he said. "Really liked that last number. The red sparkles." His eyes watched my mouth on the straw. "How about a private dance?" He smiled a winning smile. He was here to close a deal. "Catch up a little?"

Private dances aren't something I usually did. I liked to save my pizzazz for the pole and let the younger ones do the lap dances. My lap dances cost quite a bit. My boyfriend wasn't so crazy about me grinding into some dude's erection, so I charged a premium.

But there was something about Eric.

"OK," I said, setting my drink down and catching the eye of the bartender to signal that I had a backroom invitation. He raised his eyebrow at me as if to say oh, really?

Eric followed my ass into a tiny room that had dark gold walls, plush purple couches, and yellow stained glass light fixtures. Kind of an art-deco feel. One candle: patchouli and musk. No windows. Everything that happened in that room was secluded. Every touch, every grind, every moan.

In the time I'd been at the club, no one had violated the sanctity of a private room when the door was locked with the "do not disturb" sign displayed. No one. Not unless you count the time some guy got too rough with one of the new girls and she yelled for Big G, the bouncer. Big G kicked the door in. The guy suffered a similar fate.

Eric settled his frame onto one of the couches and laced his hands behind his head like he was waiting to be impressed. I strolled in front of him, his eyes tracking me, and then trapped his knees between my legs as I traced the edges of my push-up bra with my fingertips. I moved my hips in a little bump and grind tease and he pushed against my legs with his knees, as if he were trying to spread me. My pussy whimpered at his pressure. With one hand I exposed a nipple, popping it from my bra. When I pinched it, he made a noise.

A hungry noise.

I imagined I was a dolphin. My body swam, one long wave in the brokenhearted golden light. Concentrated pleasure. Salty depths. He was rapt, tantalized by my form. His breathing had quickened. I felt my own ocean churning between my legs and held his gaze. One thing was for sure: the rigors of the job had helped keep my body younger. And I knew my body looked good.

His hand was about to touch my leg but I parried, sinking him back into the couch with a pink feathered heel planted lightly but firmly on his thigh. I waved my hands overhead like I was dancing to music, then I ran them down my body, caressing neck, breasts, navel, hips, showing him how nice it felt to touch myself. Showing him he could only watch while I could love myself good.

Hooked my thumbs into my panties and pulled them lower for a second, teasing, lower still so that he could see the shadow of my bush. Suddenly I straddled him and his hands reflexively grasped my ass. He grinned smugly but I moved his hands. "No touching," I whispered, wanting nothing but those hands on me.

I started to move like I was riding him, hips rising up and then sliding down the crotch of his jeans. "Baby," he said, pushing his hips up to meet mine. "Someone told me I could find you here." A little moan escaped my throat. I wasn't supposed to let myself get into it this much.

But I did.

I shed my top and hovered my tits a butterfly's wing away from his lips. The tip of his tongue appeared and our eyes met. He didn't touch me, though, didn't lick me. He was so hard I could feel the desire through layers of clothing, just as if we were naked. I grabbed his arms and they were hard too, underneath a t-shirt smelling of the outdoors, of grass and leaves and sunshine and labor. Hard thighs pressed between mine, that hard cock jutting upwards, yearning. His breath was heavy, humid, and smelled like Certs and liquor. His face showed nothing but a sweet lust.

"What's the matter, darlin'? Your wife not do this for you?" I asked, grinding myself eagerly against his stiffness.

"Ex-wife," he said. "No one was ever like you, Dixie."

"What about this? Do your women do this to you?" I unzipped him and teased my fingers into his pants.

"I want you to do it to me," he growled.

"And this," I said, squeezing the head of his cock, breaking the no-touching rule good. "What about this?"

"Fuck, yes," he said. "Do that, too."

I felt myself slipping out of control, wanting him, needing him, letting him get to me. I didn't have to do the "extra service" like some of the others did. Not anymore. I was an artist!

But he didn't have any underwear on and his thick cock was so magnificent and proud. That silky skin against my hand. His heat, rising to meet my own. The rough material of his clothing and the powerful muscles beneath. His eyes urging more. The delicious power of desire: this man who had made me a woman.

My lips touched his cheek ever so gently. And then he turned his mouth to meet mine. There was nothing but our lips, our tongues together. The club could have blown up and I would have stayed where I was, curled in his lap, kissing. It was an epic kiss. A kiss to end all kisses, flowing out slow like a spool of thread unwinding. It reminded me of the time I kissed Eric for three hours in the backseat of his car.

We never made it to the movie that night. The feel of his tongue in my mouth uncoiled something inside me. Something grown up. It made me wet and dizzy and I lost my mind with the first taste of real lust.

And it was still the same with Eric. Hunger and innocence. There in his lap with his tongue in my mouth and my wet panties against his jeans, I giggled and pulled back from his kiss to catch my breath, then sank to my knees. My hand rubbed his cock. I forgot everything but the need to have him fuck my mouth. Fuck my mouth hard.

He sprung his dick, moving his hand up and down the shaft, watching me.

"Ooh, you're so big and hard," I said, smiling.

Men loved that shit. I loved that shit.

"Stop talking and suck me," he said, putting a hand to the back of my head and lowering me onto his cock. I went straight for the gusto. My lips traveled over the head and down the shaft, taking him deep so he hit the back of my throat. He groaned. I couldn't contain the wordless happy murmurs, the thrill of having my mouth filled to the brim. The firmer I gripped him with lips and hand, the harder and louder he got. His cock wasn't very long but it was very thick and ropy. I opened wide to take him in, to tickle the back of the head with my tongue, to suck his spicy-smelling balls, pressing my finger into the secret spot right behind them for an extra jolt. With that, he started fucking faster, rougher, trying to fit as much of himself inside of me as possible. And I could take it. I could take it like nobody else.

When I was thirteen, my best friend Candace and I vowed never to give blowjobs. This was before I met Eric. We were sitting in a tree outside my apartment, listening to "Sweet Child of Mine" on endless repeat on a small portable tape deck, drinking Cokes and musing about boys. I'm never going to put my mouth on that thing, she said. Me neither, I said. I saw her ten years later, during college. What about that vow, I asked her.

We both just laughed, knowing what had happened.

Eric tasted sweet and the hardness of his cock told me he was getting close. But then, in a quick motion, he pulled me up with hands under my arms, moved the crotch of my pink satin babydoll to the side, and plunged hard into my wet, waiting cunt as I yelped in joyful surprise. One hand went to my ass, where he fingered my hole. One hand went behind my head, steadying me so he could kiss me as he fucked. Cock below, his mouth above: divine.

No one had broken down the door yet, even with our wild yowling.

I prayed for it never to end.

He was taking his shirt off, peeling it across muscles tensed like a fine animal, like a big cat. "Ah, fuck it," he said, pulling me off his cock. My panties tore like paper in his hands. In two seconds we were on the floor. He was on top of me, holding his cock in one hand, teasing me with the soft, thick head of it, making slow circles around my opening and then inserting just the tip. When I moaned he'd pull back. More circles, more play until finally I lifted my hips slightly and he gave me his full length, pushing in with a grunt.

Then it got faster.

Moaning, laughing, my cunt pulsing around his driving cock, his lean belly slapping into mine, sweaty, my legs splayed open in offering to his desire, he pulled me to my hands and knees and fucked me from behind and his fingers played my nipples to a crescendo.

I came so hard that sparks of light swam before my eyes and my mind screamed hallelujah!

Satisfied that I was satisfied, Eric went off in a long, deep, breathy moan, pulling out and pouring himself onto my back. We collapsed into a tangle of naked limbs and I smiled at how good it still was. Me and Eric.

Panting. Notes of music from the club, filtering in to our love nest.

My pussy throbbed.

Slowly the world came back into focus.

"Hot damn," Eric said, kissing me and then slapping my ass with approval. "Let's go again, baby."

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