Author’s Note: This story germinated from a single quirky idea and evolved to include multiple partners, wide age disparities, internal cumshots, a touch of incest, prostitution, and a healthy suspension of reality. Please note: first, this is fiction and fantasy—in a world where unprotected sex has no consequences or health risks—so please enjoy it as such. Second, age is relative; no derision is intended when describing a young woman’s perception of people two or three times her age as “old.”
As usual, all participants are well over 18, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely unintentional and coincidental.
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I’m Sara, and this is my story of how, in an Escherian twist, my slide down the proverbial slippery slope brought me up to a higher place.
Today, I’m a successful and comfortably well-off 25-year-old woman whom most people know by my professional name, Starla. Two years ago, I was a broke, 23-year-old unemployed grad student. Like many, I had rent and piles of debt—student loans, credit cards, and a car loan. Then, I lost my job when my company downsized and laid off all recent hires. I desperately sought new work, but we were in a recession with little decent employment available.
A difficult family situation complicated matters. My father is an extremely conservative Pastor and is overly strict. Old-school strict, judgmental, and intolerant, to put it bluntly. He reluctantly helped pay part of my rent and insurance on the condition I maintain steady employment, a high GPA, and conform to a near-impossible level of moral purity—of which he was the sole judge. I hadn’t told him I’d lost my job; he would have blamed me, accused me of sloth or some other sin, and would have stopped providing financial help. I needed money desperately and needed my father’s continued support.
Two good friends had discovered and started working three nights a week at a strip club outside of town. They earned enough to pay all their living expenses, including rent, food, insurance, gas, and some loan payments. They described it as a mix of easy and hard work, mostly fun, and more money for fewer work hours than any entry-level jobs they could get elsewhere. My friends tried to convince me to join them, saying that no one would ever know and it would solve my financial problems.
Out of curiosity, I asked if they had to have any sexual contact with guys. They assured me no, the “dancers” have complete control—the guys aren’t allowed to touch, and bouncers enforced that rule. This was not the kind of club with a VIP room where blowjobs or other sex happened. It was as classy and above board as a strip club could get—but it was still a strip club. So the dancers were required to show off their nude bodies, act sexy, and give lap dances if they wanted any meaningful money. I wasn’t naive. I understood the general setup.
They told me I was beautiful, sexy, and hot, and customers would line up and pay to see me undress and spend even more for me to sit on their laps and wiggle against them through their clothes. I wasn’t buying it—but I was flattered nonetheless. Over time, I slowly went from “you’re crazy, no way,” to “maybe no one would know, but still couldn’t risk it,” to “might be worth the risk, but I’m too shy/introverted and can’t see me doing anything like that.” In the meantime, I urgently looked for a “real” job.
Finally, a situation arose that tempted me to cross the line—the first of many lines, it would turn out. My friends told me about an upcoming amateur night stripping contest at their club, with no lap dances or other interactions with customers. According to them is was the perfect opportunity for me to see what it was like to dance/strip in front of men in public. And as an extra incentive, the winner receives $500, $250 for second place, and $150 for third place. Not bad for what would amount to less than 30 minutes of work.
At first, I didn’t take it seriously, thinking it was still too much for me. Then my friends clarified that I wouldn’t have to get fully naked if I didn’t want to. I could go topless but leave my bottom on or keep my top on. But, of course, if I left everything covered, I had little chance of winning. Some do that, but most end up nude after getting into it.
After a week of cajoling, badgering, pressuring, teasing, and reasoning, I finally agreed to try just that one event, to see for myself and to get them off my back. I was sure I would hate it, but I felt that I needed to try it to make my case against it with any legitimacy. They told me to wear what I wanted as long as I wore something sexy for the last bits of clothing, like lingerie or a skimpy bikini.
The three of us arrived on the contest night, and the club was crowded. It was fairly dark except for the stage, a semi-circle with chairs pulled up around it, like sitting at a curved bar. They had an area for the amateur contestants to sign up and wait—about a dozen women of all sizes and shapes, ranging in age from the early twenties to mid-forties. I was surprised and somewhat impressed by the participation of several “older” women who were closer in age to my mother’s contemporaries.
A female club manager oversaw contestants, showed us where we could change and safely leave our things, and suggested we wear at least an outer layer over something skimpy (underwear or bikini) so we had something to remove. She also recommended we leave our shoes on. I guess men find it sexy to see nude women wearing heels or shoes for some reason. Also, the floor was not exactly clean.
She checked us in for the contest. When she got to me, she said, “Name?”
“Sara. Without an ‘h.'” I said obediently.
The manager looked at me. “That your real name? You don’t want to use your real name. What performing name do you want? Pick something short, memorable.”
I hadn’t thought about that; that was one thing my friends didn’t mention. So I went with the first “showy” name to pop into my mind. “I, um. Ok… Starla. Yes, that’ll be my stage name tonight. Starla. I like that.”
The woman nodded and made a notation. After checking us in, she explained the sequence of the contest. First, we would all dance simultaneously for two songs, then the crowd would narrow us down to the top three via applause. Next, the top three would dance together for two more songs, with the audience again choosing the winners.
Most of us seemed nervous; a couple looked terrified, and a few looked confident and having fun. I felt butterflies in my stomach from both nervousness and budding excitement.
For the first round, we were encouraged to do our sexiest dances. We could leave our tops on or take them off, but we were not allowed to go beyond topless—we had to leave our genitals covered with at least a thong. They wanted sexy, sensual, erotic stripping. The three chosen for the second and final round were welcome to take as much off as they wished but should avoid overt sexual displays such as masturbating or fingering themselves.
I was shocked that such a warning needed to be given at all. What have I gotten myself into here? As the start time approached, my excitement was tempered by heightened nervousness and a healthy dose of fear.
Despite my upbringing, I did not consider myself a prude, even if I wasn’t as sexually experienced as many friends. I lost my virginity when I was 19 and had sex with three men to date. I very much enjoyed all aspects of sex that I’d had so far: giving and receiving oral, intercourse, and all the attendant licking, stroking, fingers, hands, and lips that go along with it. And, evidently, I was one of the rare women that actually liked the taste of cum, to the delight of the recipients of my oral ministrations. My limited number of lovers seemed well satisfied with my sexual prowess, despite my relative lack of experience.
So not a slut, but no angel either. And, of course, my best friends were working at the club as dancers (ok, strippers), so I was pretty open-minded about the whole thing. However, my firm plan was to play it up but only get to the lingerie stage; I wasn’t about to flash my bare boobs to a roomful of strangers. Ah, the best-laid plans…
They called us up and explained the contest to the crowd. The music started, and I began moving somewhat awkwardly and self-consciously. I saw others moving smoothly and sensuously with the music, which inspired me to get into the spirit of things. I lifted my arms over my head and circled my hips, swaying my butt and feeling the rhythm. I was one in a group, all moving, turning, and gyrating.
I noticed a couple of women had pulled off their shirts and danced in just lacy bras. Another woman slowly lifted her t-shirt up and off, revealing a bikini top. Inspired and emboldened, I decided to follow suit. Swirling my hips, I lifted my shirt partway, dropped it down, then peeled it up and off—I had on a half-cup bra that lifted my boobs and accentuated my modest B-cup cleavage.
The crowd cheered and hooted, encouraging their friends and us shouting things like “take it off,” “go, girl,” and “you got this.” I smiled as I heard my friends calling out in the mix.
By the end of the first song, all the women had stripped to their bikinis or lingerie and were dancing more suggestively. We were getting caught up in the atmosphere of eroticism and frivolity. The second song brought increased lewdness to the dancing, with women squeezing their boobs together, thrusting their hips forward, and shaking their asses. I joined in right along with them.
The sensuality seemed contagious as we moved, thrilled by the naughtiness and charged atmosphere. The crowd cheered loudly, and I followed the noise and saw that a beautiful woman with long ginger hair had taken off her top, revealing full firm breasts topped with large pink areolae and perky nipples. She was spinning her top over her head like a lasso as she turned her body in place. As she spun, her boobs wobbled and followed her movement—each time she turned, the crowd’s noise swelled.
The general noise of the crowd increased in response to three more women pulling off their tops. First, a slightly older woman, probably in her 40s, sashayed up to the edge of the stage and lifted her bare breasts alternately up and down as if weighing them—the audience roared its approval. Next, two blonde women peeled off their tops and shimmied, causing their boobs to ripple and wiggle, their pink nipples crinkling and hardening.
I knew the song was going to end soon, and some deep competitive streak stirred to life within me. I spun, lifted my arms over my head, then dropped in half at the waist, my arms and hair reaching towards the floor. Then I threw them back up with a little jump—I had a sizable portion of the audience’s attention.
I paddled around in a circle, reached behind and unhooked my bra, held it in front of me, then threw it off—literally threw it— into the crowd. The crowd loved it, I loved it, and my previous self-consciousness had vanished. I was topless in front of strangers and having a blast. Their cheers of approval stoked my confidence, and I spun, undulated my pelvis, grabbed my boobs and lifted one, and licked my dark pink nipple. I felt naughty and free and was having fun.
The music stopped, and the club manager announced it was time for the preliminary round vote. I looked at the other women—all but three of the twelve of us were topless. We were all flushed and breathing hard from the exertion. All nine of us topless women presented constricted areolae and hard erect nipples of various sizes and colors to the crowd.
The manager encouraged the crowd to rile them up, then walked along and held her hand over our heads, soliciting audience cheers. We all got huge, enthusiastic cheers, except for the unfortunate covered ones, who got far less clapping and even some good-hearted ribbing and groans.
As you might have guessed, since this is my story, I made it into the final round, one of the three top cheer-getters. The other two women seemed toned and confident. They stood in quirky poses like fashion models, boobs thrust forward and smiles on their faces.
To be different, I made a pouty face and lifted my chin in a haughty gesture, then looked down at my boobs and looked up with a surprised expression with my mouth in an “O,” as if I had just discovered I was topless. The audience laughed and clapped at my antics.
The following songs brought out the naughtiness, sensuality, and boldness in all three of us. One was the beautiful redhead who had first taken off her top, with her firm breasts and perfect pink nipples. The other was a short brunette with compact tits, dark nipples against a light brown complexion, and an exotic look.
I imagined how I must have looked and lost a bit of confidence, thinking I wouldn’t stand up next to these hot women. My auburn hair was flying around just past my shoulders without style. My boobs seemed ordinary to me but nicely shaped and firm—mid-sized, with dark pink nipples that tended to stand up a lot. I was reasonably fit but not a cut athlete’s figure. My friends say I’m beautiful and sexy, but that’s what friends are supposed to say.
We danced the first song, gyrating, bending over, trying to be erotic, as we imagined strippers should be. We had fun, despite not having prior experience; we laughed at our own antics and even turned and danced with each other at times.
Then the other two faced each other, locked eyes, and started mirroring each other’s movements. The short exotic woman smiled, slipped her thumbs under the straps of her bikini bottom, and pulled them down a hair—a tease, that one. The redhead responded by actually mooning the audience, pulling her lacy knickers down off her butt and back up. Finally, they spun away and continued sensually teasing the audience.
As the second—and last—song played, we circled and became more sexual in our movements. We thrust our hips and caressed our boobs. The exotic woman slid down into the splits, much to the loud appreciation of the audience, then rolled over holding her leg still in the splits, and rippled back up. The redhead then took the heel of her foot in hand and lifted her leg up high, above her shoulder and pivoted in a circle, to even more cheers. Unfortunately, I wasn’t that flexible and had no quirky physical tricks.
So I pulled off my panties.
I whipped them off as if it were something I did every day, not thinking about modesty or morality. I was caught up in the eroticism, the competition, and the thrill of a newly-discovered exhibitionist streak in me. Then, totally nude, I swirled my hips, swung my panties around, and threw them into the audience. The crowd went wild, cheering and hooting.
The cheering volume increased again, and I glanced at my competition and saw that the other women had joined me in full nudity. I noted that the redhead had well-trimmed natural ginger pubes—matching her hair—and the exotic darker-complexioned one’s pussy was totally bare. I was glad I was always well-groomed, as I had never intended anyone to see my pussy that night; my dark patch of trimmed pubes hovered like a crown over my shaved labia.
The music stopped, and we awaited the results. Amid the cheers and applause, I realized that I enjoyed what I had just done and being the object of positive attention. And I found it arousing to be nude in public, in front of appreciative men.
I also realized that my friends were right—this would be a great workplace and a fun, lucrative solution to my financial woes. And since the club was so out of the way, and such an unexpected activity, no one would know what I was doing; the anonymity of the place was perfect.
The redhead won first place, and I came second in the amateur contest. But I also got a job. A secret solution to my money problems. Miss Pastor’s-daughter was now officially a professional exotic dancer—a stripper.
I danced for two months, starting two, then three nights a week. I gradually lost my fear and nervousness and became more comfortable showing and moving my body undressed. It helped that the other dancers were helpful, supportive, and friendly. They showed me the ropes, gave me advice, and were fun.
When working there, I dissociated what I was doing from sex and didn’t feel guilty or immoral dancing erotically and stripping fully nude. It was a job: these were patrons I was paid to perform for, and after the first couple of nights, I barely registered who they were, what they looked like, or their ages. I compartmentalized my actions, lost myself in the routines, and focused on my performance.
The job consisted of two “services.” First, solo stage performing and second, mingling with the patrons to solicit and give lap dances (where most of the evening’s money could be earned). I focused on stage dances only for the first week, learning the ropes.
I followed a similar routine for my solo stage times as most of the other dancers. We would have three songs. During the first, I would do primarily sexy dancing, gyrations, and heady looks, and strip to bikini/lingerie. I would then crawl on the stage, showing my bum in a thong, and squeeze my tits to show cleavage—cash tips would start to appear, usually dollar bills tossed onto the stage or placed in front of stage-seated patrons. Toward the end of the first song, I would take off my top, play with my bare boobs, lift and lick my nipples, shake, and start to show my boobs closer to patrons.
The second song would start with more boob offerings closer to patrons’ faces (careful to jerk back if they tried to lick), even slapping them against their faces. Then would come the removal of my thong, revealing my full nudity. I would still do some dancing but also keep crawling around the stage or stand right over the onlookers so they could look up and see my crotch from below. I sometimes would bend forward with straight legs, head to knees, showing my pussy from behind—all with appropriate wiggles and gyrations because we were “dancers.”
The most tips came during the third song, which involved almost zero dancing. Instead, I would go along from one patron to the other, pick up the bills, and slide close to them, pulse my hips up and down, wiggle my butt near their faces, and sometimes pull a cheek to the side to show my pussy more in response to a big tip.
It took me a week before I gave my first lap dance. The other women talked me through the activity and demonstrated with each other and me. This seemed much more intimate than just stripping and being looked at—it required personal interaction and physical contact. I was scared as hell, but eventually figured that it was just part of the job, and the bouncers were right there to protect me from being touched or groped. We were required to wear bottoms—we were strictly forbidden from physical contact with a customer fully nude, under threat of termination. And I had total control over where and how I touched the guys.
My first lap dance was awkward, but the nice guy complimented me and tipped well. I sat on his lap facing away and wiggled my butt near but not on his crotch. Then I turned, stood so his face was near my crotch, and lowered myself to straddle him. His eyes darted from mine to my bare boobs, my nipples hard in the open air. I tried to catch his eye and smile, but he avoided my gaze and looked down at my tits. I realized he was just as nervous as I was, which gave me confidence.
I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned back slightly, which pressed my groin against his crotch. I was startled when I felt his cock harden and swell in his jeans, even though I intellectually knew it would happen. After my initial freakout (well masked and totally in my head), I started gyrating on his erection, sliding back and forth, sometimes putting weight on it, other times lifting so I barely scraped along.
He closed his eyes, lolled his head back, and gave a little smile and moan of pleasure—I suspected he might have cum in his pants, but I might have imagined that. When our songs ended, he gave me a big smile and said, “that was incredible, thank you.” I stood and smiled down at him, topless and slightly flushed. I realized I was aroused by it as well.
Once I overcame my initial reluctance, I mingled, flirted, and openly solicited lap dances from the customers. Our goal was to give as many as possible each evening, which made us and the club more money and the patrons happy. Sometimes the customers would be attractive, usually ordinary or plain, and sometimes downright unattractive (to be polite). Occasionally a couple came in, and the guy would buy a lap dance for the girl—not sure if it was more arousing for her or him. Maybe both.
I soon learned to adjust how I moved to suit my comfort level with different customers and still give them what they wanted, regardless of their inherent attractiveness. Sometimes one would try to touch me by sliding his hands onto my ass. But I would say no, and they would usually drop their hands like a schoolboy reprimanded by a teacher. Only once a man refused to stop touching despite being warned. He groped my ass and tried to lick my nipples despite my pushing him back away; within seconds, a bouncer was there, who marched the guy out of the club rather roughly.
By my second month, on a good night, I would generally go to the side booths to lap dance with a customer every 20 minutes or so. Combined with my stage tips, I generated a couple or even several hundred dollars a night—on one stand-out Saturday, I made over five hundred. I was having fun and making good money.
I got used to guys getting hard and horny, and grinding on erect cocks became routine and, in some ways, empowering. It was flattering and made me feel powerfully feminine to know that men were getting turned on by me—by my looks, movements, conversation, and physical contact.
Several times a night, a guy would actually cum in his pants during a lap dance—sometimes I could feel the throbbing and vibration of the ejaculation. Many other girls thought it was gross when that happened and complained, but I figured it was a sign that I was doing my job well. And, I at least never felt any wetness soak all the way through a guy’s pants, though if that did happen, I could see why the girls didn’t like it.
I felt secretly proud when I could make a guy cum just by moving my butt against his dick, through his clothes—it turned me on when someone got that aroused. And they usually were some of the biggest tippers.
I also received propositions at least a half dozen times a night to either go to some non-existent “special VIP room” where we could theoretically go much further in private, or to meet someone outside of the club (which was strongly discouraged by management). I was tempted a couple of times by good-looking, attractive men who seemed like they might be fun to know had we met under other circumstances. But I always politely declined and never ran into a problem.
Everything was going great; I covered my bills, met fun colleagues, and enjoyed my newfound skills. All was good until disaster struck, and my world came crashing down.
It was a Saturday night—the busiest and most lucrative night of the week—and I was fully occupied and on a roll. I had lap dances lined up three in advance and was letting loose in my stage show more provocatively than ever. I was in my third stage set of the evening. I had gone through my first two songs, so I was fully naked, crawling, exposing, titillating, and, based on my tips, pleasing the customers. I was in the zone, moving from one guy to the next, collecting singles, five, and some ten-dollar bills from the stage.
I crawled over to an older man who had just sat down while I was giving a close-up treat to another customer, my eyes spotting two ten-dollar bills—a generous and infrequently large stage tip. I scooped up the money and smiled at him, and his eyes crinkled back at me. For that amount, he was going to get a great look. So I opened my legs, put my feet on the drink shelf before him, and hoisted my hips. My uncovered pussy was right near his face and made little pulses and undulations.
Usually, when I took that position, the guy would stare, transfixed, as if hypnotized by the movement and the opening and closing of my pussy lips. That night, however, the older man maintained eye contact with me longer than most. But he finally gave in to temptation and dropped his gaze to my undulating sex.
A young guy sitting to one side of “my” guy leaned over to get a free look (a common occurrence). I raised my eyebrows and gave him a disapproving look, followed by a coy smile—after all, one never knows where the next best customers will come from. On my guy’s other side, I was peripherally aware of another older man, which I assumed was with the man I was exposing myself to.
After writhing and undulating my slightly open pussy near my current guy’s face, I sat back on the stage and pulled my feet back up. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the older man beside him slide some bills onto the stage. I gave the first man a wink, rolled over onto my hands and knees, and surreptitiously noted that there were another two tens. I scooped the money out of the way, turned my ass toward the new guy without eye contact, and backed up toward him.
I was getting into the eroticism, felt sexy and emboldened, lost in the cacophony of music, talking, and my own sexual movements. I arched my back, which opened my butt and exposed my pussy lips, and rocked back and forth, pressing closer and away. Then I dropped my head down onto my forearms, exaggerating the lift of my rear. I reached behind with one hand and pulled my lower butt cheek open—the first time I’d been so explicit that close to a patron—which parted my outer labia and exposed my inner lips. I felt cool air waft over my pussy, and became vaguely aware I had become wet with arousal.
After giving a suitable show, I rolled onto my back towards the next guy— another older man—again without eye contact. I had found a rhythm of moving from man to man, collecting money and displaying myself, hardly registering who each person was. I decided I liked these older ones, who were generous with the bucks. I looked at the stage and saw two twenty-dollar bills, far more than usual and far more than I’d ever been tipped on stage. Again, I felt a mix of arousal, greed, and pleasure.
As if in a dream, I smoothly rolled onto my back and scooped the bills away. Mirrors on the ceiling above the stage gave me a bird’s-eye view of my body. I was in front of the generous tipper on my back, looking straight up at the ceiling, head towards the stage center, crotch and legs towards him. I shimmied forward on my back with my legs up, bent at the knees, bringing my butt to the end of the stage.
Still lying flat on my back, I extended both of my legs straight up in the air, which placed my compressed pussy peeking out from between my thighs directly in front of the guy’s face.
I watched my reflection, mesmerized as if seeing someone else, as I slowly dropped my straight legs open to the sides, down to nearly complete side splits. My labia peeled apart in slow motion like a shy flower blooming in the morning sun; first the outer, then inner petals spreading open. I held my thighs down to maximize my current customer’s view, giving him an explicit and sexual image.
I was lost in the moment, the feelings, the sexual energy of the room, and my inner tingling of arousal. I saw in the mirror that several other men had crowded around the stage next to and behind my current patron and were sharing a view of the basically pornographic image I was presenting.
I watched my reflection as I reached between my legs, ran a finger along my inner lips and slit, and felt my sopping wetness; I quivered with arousal in response to my touch. Then, dropping my attention to my hand, I sat up on my elbows and marveled at my fingers glistening with my juices, the undulating colors from the stage lights dancing across them.
I brought my finger to my mouth and tasted my juices, gently sucking on my fingertips as if they were tiny cocks. Then, with a lascivious smile, I slowly and sensuously lifted my gaze and met the eyes of… my Uncle Bob. My father’s younger brother. Holy shit, that’s my fucking Uncle!
I froze. The room swam, and dizziness nearly conquered me as darkness encroached into my peripheral vision. My eyes widened in shock and horror, and my body trembled. My mouth quivered as if trying to form words. I shook my head as if the action could deny what was before me, the impossible nightmare enveloping my life.
My mind snapped back to reality, and I rolled to my side, curled my legs into a fetal position, clenched my eyes closed, and absurdly tried to cover my crotch with my hand. I opened my eyes and looked back, terrified, and watched Uncle Bob slowly stand, his eyes also wide with surprise and shock. He hadn’t seen my face before then. I had already started giving close-up shows along the stage when they arrived and hadn’t looked at him as I moved towards him via his companions.
Uncle Bob backed away from the stage as if fearing some danger, slowly shaking his head. Then, turning to his friends, he barked, “We need to go. Now.” Looking at me, he shook his head as if clearing his vision. “You and I will talk,” he said, then turned and walked briskly away. I got up and ran backstage, tears streaming down my face.
After several aborted attempts, I finally got the nerve to complete a call to my Uncle the next day, trembling and crying. He said we should meet and discuss this. The way he said it, he didn’t even try to mask his… what? Disgust? Disdain? Disappointment? I couldn’t read his reaction from his tone. But at least he wanted to talk. Not just run and tall my father. Not just ruin my life. At least I clung to that hope: something less than horribly catastrophic could be worked out. Somehow. I had no idea how.
We met, in person, two days later. I begged him not to tell anyone, not tell my father. I cried, telling him it would ruin my life if Dad found out. That Dad will disown me, my reputation destroyed, his perceived reputation destroyed. I just needed the money, and I couldn’t ask him for more after being laid off. He already made me feel guilty taking the little support he gave.
Tears streaming down my face, I pleaded with Uncle Bob. “Please, how can I fix this and make it go away? I can’t have this ruin everything. You’ve got to understand.”
Uncle Bob nodded in contemplation. He was still handsome at 50; his salt-and-pepper hair and weathered skin made him seem judge-like and wise. So unlike Father, just four years older, whose decades of scowling made him appear old and bitter.
“How long have you been working there?” Uncle Bob asked. His neutral tone suggested information-gathering rather than a pending lecture.
“Only two months,” I said. “I can quit. I’ll never go back if that’s what you want. I made a mistake; I won’t do it anymore. It wasn’t who I am; I can be good.”
With an even tone, Uncle Bob said, “Just calm down now; this hysteria isn’t helping anything.” He considered me. “Why did you feel you couldn’t tell your dad you lost your job? It wasn’t your fault; he would have understood.”
I shook my head. “No, you don’t know him now. You’re his brother; it’s different. He would blame me and accuse me of doing something to cause it. He wouldn’t understand—he wouldn’t even try. He made it clear that if I failed to meet his exacting expectations, I would be cut off from the little support he gives.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Uncle Bob said. “Maybe he’d understand if you explained what happened with your old job.”
I again shook my head, frustrated that Uncle Bob wasn’t getting the big picture. “Maybe he’s changed from how you knew him, but I know him. And with this, with you finding out… if he finds out where I’ve been working, he’ll disown me for doing what I’ve been doing. He won’t forgive me; he’ll say I’ve gone down and I’m immoral and evil. I’ll lose everything.” I started to cry again.
“So, knowing this, why did you start working at a strip joint?” Uncle Bob asked gently. “There are plenty of other jobs you could find with time.”
I sniffled. “It’s a long story. I didn’t plan for it to happen, but things fell into place, and there I was.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
Uncle Bob quirked his head. “Were you enjoying doing that? Enjoying what you were doing in front of all those men?”
“I… well… oh, hell, it doesn’t matter now anyway. Yes, actually, I was.” I looked up with a hint of defiance. “I enjoyed it. It was fun. And exciting. And, if you must know, it was sometimes arousing.”
A flicker of surprise flashed across Uncle Bob’s face. Then he considered my response and seemed to ponder something, his lips pursed in thought. Finally, he spoke. “Ok, I have a thought, and I’m pretty certain it is not anything you expect.”
I looked at him expectantly. Waited. “Ok… so, what are you thinking? Are you not going to tell my dad?”
“I’m thinking—and this is not intended to be retribution—but I have an idea, maybe something that might be mutually beneficial and help your situation.”
My eyes filled with hope… and a bit of dread.
“I have some friends,” Uncle Bob said. “And we get together now and then, usually for special occasions, celebrations, go on ski trips, things like that.” He paused as if seeking to choose his words carefully. “Well, we are planning a bash, a party to celebrate one of the guy’s early retirement. He’s not even 60 yet, but he’s been at the same company for almost 40 years, since high school. He gets a full pension and a severance package for choosing to retire early as part of a company restructuring.”
My confused look helped refocus my Uncle’s narrative.
“Ok, well, right. Too much detail, sorry. The short of it is that several of us hoped to arrange for a little ‘adult’ entertainment at the party. Sort of like a bachelor’s party, but for us old fogies and a different reason. You know, like a stripper…”
“You want me… to be a stripper at your party?” I was decidedly undecided about how I felt about the whole idea. This was my Uncle Bob, for god’s sake. But he didn’t sound like he planned to tell my father, which was the main thing. I was intrigued.
Uncle Bob nodded, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bingo. You’re talented, beautiful, experienced, and enjoy what you do. The guys would love you.”
“You don’t think that might be a bit awkward? Um, you know, with you being my Uncle and all.”
“The way I see it, any potential awkwardness at having your Uncle at a party where you’re stripping, well, I—for better or worse—have already seen probably more of you than you would be showing at the party; that ship has sailed. And no one would know we’re related.”
“I, um… well, I… I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what I think about that. It’s not anything I’ve ever thought about.”
“You would be paid, of course. No one expects to have something like this for free. I’m sure you would do very well—these are not stingy men.”
I thought about the generous tips the two older men who had been with Uncle Bob at the club had left, and my mind churned with the possibilities. “So, I come to your party, and what? Just do a strip dance? How does that work? And, paid… how or who pays me?”
Uncle Bob chuckled. “I’m no expert at this, but I think a stripper usually arrives at a prearranged time. Sometimes it’s a surprise, or a joke entrance, or known and expected. We can arrange for music, and you can let me know what makes you most comfortable.”
Musing, he continued his stream of thoughts. “You can mingle with the guys first, like at the club, or be more formal and present like a show. Do a few songs or a couple different ‘sets’ of dancing. You could dance, then mingle after or between dances. I think we’d be open to most arrangements. We could set a flat fee, or you could get a base fee and maybe get more tips directly from the guys.”
My mind swirled with ideas. The setup, songs, what I’d wear, if I’d like to be more interactive or just give a show. I was getting into the idea. “Ok, so let’s say I’m there and dancing, stripping. How much do I take off? Like, just topless or totally nude?”
“I’d assume totally nude would go over the best, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so. Is it at a club, someone’s house, or what?”
“Glad you’re thinking about this seriously,” Uncle Bob said. “The party will be in a private home. I brought up the idea half-thought-out, but the more we talk about it, the more it seems like the perfect arrangement.”
“If I do this, then no one finds out about me working at the club? Dad doesn’t ever know?” I looked at Uncle Bob, hopefully.
“Well, yes, I assumed that was a given. No reason for your father to know anything. It was just a fluke that I was ever there in the first place, a one-in-a-million chance that we would meet like that.”
Would it be weird to strip again in front of Uncle Bob, knowing he’s there? I looked at his twinkling eyes and noted his handsome face and strong jaw. Well, as he said, he’s seen all of me—literally—nude already. And it’s kind of hot in a pervy way that he would see me again.
I met Uncle Bob’s eyes and nodded. “You know what? Why not—I’ll do it. As you said, the money should be good, and it might be kind of fun. How do you want to set it up? Where and when is the party?”
Two weeks later, as it turned out. The party was at one of the guy’s house—a mansion is a better description. It had a pool, game room, actual movie theater, and a party room with sofas, chairs, tables, a fireplace, and a full wet bar. The sound system was as good as the club’s commercial system.
The plan was for me to arrive about an hour after the party began—after the guys had time to relax, drink, and be ready for the night’s entertainment. Uncle Bob and I decided not to tell people that I was his niece or related in any way to avoid weirdness or awkward questions.
I suggested that mingling with the guys before stripping would be more fun for everyone. Of course, that is counter-intuitive for many, who might assume that having strangers watch is less intimidating than people you’ve interacted with. But I suppose I got used to connecting with men before and during lap dances, so I preferred handling it that way at the party.
We decided to play it by ear after I danced to see if I wanted to further mingle, do a second set, or just leave. Uncle Bob stressed that it was my decision, and I could decide what I wanted to do at any time, even during the event.
I arrived at the set time, wearing a short, slinky, red party dress and heels. My “mingle first” outfit. I had a bag with a change of clothes that I would wear for my show. I was greeted enthusiastically by the guests—about 15 or 20 men. Most seemed to be in their late 50s or early to mid-60s. At 50, Uncle Bob was one of the youngest ones there.
The majority of the men had either gray or salt-and-pepper hair. Some were primarily bald, most were thinning and receding on top, and a couple still had thick hair. They seemed generally fit compared to many men I’d seen around that age; I think they were pretty active with ski trips, swimming, biking, and tennis. I was the only woman, and as expected, I received a lot of attention as I mingled with the guests.
As planned, I mixed and chatted for a half hour before my show. I had interesting conversations with a number of the men. We discussed travel, school, world events, sports, and, naturally, my job as a stripper—how I got into it, do I like it, whether it is creepy having guys stare at me, etc. Most were anxious to see me dance when they learned I had fun and enjoyed dancing, showing off my body, and being nude in public.
A few half-joked about whether I gave lap dances at private parties like this. I mentioned it to Uncle Bob privately, as we had never discussed that. He said if I wanted to, it was fine with him; he didn’t see a problem. I wondered how that would work and how I would be paid.
When it was time to start, I went into the bathroom to change. I wore some layers so I would have things to take off. I opted for a slightly formal look for my initial entrance: a skirt and blouse with a scarf. Underneath, I wore a pseudo corset, stockings with garters, panties, heels, a matching tiny string bikini top, and a thong under my panties that barely covered my vulva.
The music played, and I walked the room like a guest, nodding and greeting the men. About half the men sat on sofas and chairs, and the others stood. Then I swirled into the center of the room and pulled off my scarf as I spun around. I looped it around the neck of one of the men sitting in a chair and pulled him into my chest, which I shimmied in his face. The others laughed and clapped; the man beamed with pleasure.
I then danced around as I unbuttoned my blouse, playing with opening and closing it. Next, I shifted it off my shoulders and, looking back at the men, dropped it into the lap of one of the guys. Unzipping my skirt next, I let it fall to the floor and kicked it up towards a standing man who caught it, smiling. At that point, I wore my black corset, garters, stockings, panties, and heels.
The men cheered with each zip, drop, swirl, and wink. I undid the corset and tossed it to the floor. In my string bikini top, knickers, and stockings, I took a while to circle the room, caressing the men’s faces or heads, sometimes pulling a seated man into my boobs and wobbling them in his face—a classic stripper move.
I swung my legs over one man sitting on a chair, on his lap facing him, and gyrated my pelvis against his crotch. A warm wave of pleasure rippled through me as I felt a hardening and bulge pressing back almost immediately.
Next, I slipped my panties down—leaving just my thong—and flicked them up and caught them in my hand; I strutted up to a standing man and placed my panties on his head like a hat. Everyone laughed and clapped—the guy grinned, took them off, and sniffed them deeply, giving a big exaggerated sigh of pleasure.
I removed my heels and bent at the waist with straight legs to arrange them carefully by the fireplace; I took longer to let the men see my bum. Then, wearing only my stockings and my tiny string top and thong, I turned slowly around in place, my hands over my head and hips swaying. I felt sexy and attractive and loved that all these men were avidly watching me, hoping and anticipating seeing more of my body.
I pondered whether it was better to remove my stockings, stripper style (slowly rolling them down my legs), or leave them on so I would end up nude with stockings, like a nudie magazine model. I opted to slip them off because it made more of a show. I rolled each down. The first was in the middle of the room, bending my knees and leaning forward. For the second one, I placed my foot on the arm of a sofa, so the guy sitting there could watch my leg and stare right into my barely covered pussy.
Wearing just my string micro bikini, I took a while to dance, swivel hips, undulate, shimmy, and move from man to man, brushing his face, arms, and crotch. Finally, I went to a seated man and offered the end of my bikini top string to his mouth; he held it in his teeth as I slowly leaned away, which untied the top and let it fall open, exposing my bare breasts. I pulled it off and let it fall to the floor.
I stood momentarily and let everyone look at my full perky boobs, dark pink silver-dollar-sized areolae, and erect nipples; my slightly wavy auburn hair reached down just below my boobs, tickling and framing my nipples as I moved.
I turned slowly in place again, then circled the room of men again. I brushed my hard nipples on some of the men’s cheeks or noses and over several men’s lips, pulling away just as some tried to lick or kiss them. A couple of them were a bit too quick for me and made contact with their tongues.
My string thong was last. I stood in the center of the room and slowly lowered it, revealing my patch of closely-trimmed pubes first, then my bare labia. My arousal was evident by the glistening moisture clinging to my lips. I twirled the tiny thong and tossed it to my Uncle Bob, who caught it with a flush of embarrassment.
Fully naked, I circled my hips and ran my hands all over my body—boobs, belly, butt, legs, and pussy; I swiveled, turned, and strutted around the room. I approached some men, stood behind them, pressed my naked body against their backs, and wrapped my arms around their chest or belly. I ground my pelvis into them as if humping them from the back. I gave some of them a quick squeeze of their hard dicks through their pants.
I dropped onto my hands and knees in the center, swayed my hips, and arched my back so my pussy would peek out from behind. Then I stretched my pelvis upward into a “downward facing dog” yoga pose: an inverted “V” on my hands and feet with my ass at the top, high in the air. Next, I rolled onto my back, and with my ankles crossed and knees bent, I swirled my feet in circles, which I’d seen many strippers do.
Finally, I duplicated the explicit pose I’d done for my Uncle Bob at the club. Lying on my back with legs straight up perpendicular to the floor, I slowly opened my legs to the outside, into side splits, and pressed down on my thighs.
I knew how open, vulnerable, and exposed I was—I had practiced the position and taken photos to see what they saw. I knew my wavy inner pussy lips were peeled open and showing my inner pinkness, my clit was erect and peeking out from under its hood, and my vaginal juices would cause my whole pussy to sparkle in the light. The men in the room moved forward as if being drawn in by a magnetic force and watched with arousal as my pussy split wide open and greeted their hungry eyes.
I was unsure if they could see how wet I was, but I certainly felt it. I was incredibly turned on by being on display in front of a room full of men. The fact they all were more than twice my age didn’t matter to me. I reached down, as I had with Uncle Bob, ran my finger along my slit, and gathered pussy juices; my pussy quivered at my touch. Then I lifted my glistening finger into the light, slipped it between my lips, and sucked it clean. I was feeling naughty, sexy, and confident.
The watchers clapped and called out how sexy I was, how inviting my pussy was, and how they wished they could have a taste. I smiled, dropped my legs, and rocked up to sit, leaving my legs in a relaxed open “V” on the floor. I smiled in response to the delighted faces surrounding me, then cupped and jiggled my breasts. I had so much fun and loved the charged atmosphere of appreciation and eroticism.
Just as I was about to get up, I felt a hand on my leg. Startled, I saw one of the men kneeling next to me, looking at me with raised eyebrows in a “may I” expression. I paused, unsure, then bit my lip and simply smiled, and leaned back on my straight arms, chest high with boobs pressed forward.
The man took my reaction as a “go ahead” signal. He started caressing my inner thighs, tickling the bottom of my labia. Several more hands joined his, stroking my legs, belly, boobs, and arms; then someone cupped my pussy—which caused me to start but not complain. This is all definitely a no-no at the club. I smiled inwardly at the thought.
Instead of stopping the usually forbidden contact, I rolled back onto my back, stretched out with my legs slightly open, and let five or six men touch and caress me. Not grope, nab, and grab, but gently explore, tickle, and caress my naked body. It felt wonderful, and I relished the sensations. I felt like a queen being pampered by her male harem. Fantasy images of being taken by many men flooded my mind: men worshipping me with their cocks, and tongues, and hands, and fingers. I was getting dangerously horny.
After a minute or so, reality clicked back in, and I sat up. “Ok, guys, show’s over now.”
Several men groaned in protest. “No, give us more, please. Don’t stop now. You’re so hot.” But they were perfect gentlemen and let me stand without constraint.
I smiled, walked to the bar, and poured myself a glass of water. I stood naked against the bar, drank water, and smiled. I could see my reflection in a glass door leading out to the pool; my darker trimmed triangle of pubic hair above my bare labia stood out in contrast to my lighter skin, above well-toned legs, and below a flat belly. My boobs were firm and compact, with areolae and nipples dark enough to be clearly defined. My Uncle Bob gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up sign from across the room.
A couple men came over and chatted with me as if talking to a nude woman at a party while fully dressed was commonplace in their world. Others started to mingle among themselves now that the show was over. I received nothing but wonderful compliments the whole night.
I started to excuse myself, thinking it was time to get dressed, but a movement caught my attention. A man was sitting on a chair, holding up and gently waving what looked like two fifty-dollar bills, a look of inquiry on his face. It took a moment for me to register that he was soliciting a lap dance, just like at the club.
I looked at the man, the other men, and my Uncle Bob, who simply smiled and shrugged. It was up to me. I decided yes. I approached the man and realized I had nothing on, which wasn’t allowed at my club; we were required to always cover our genitals when giving lap dances.
He looked at me expectantly, a hint of a smile crinkling his eyes. “This enough for a nice lap dance?” He asked.
Taking the money, I smiled and said, “Absolutely, but usually, at my club, I need to wear something on the bottom.”
He shrugged. “It’s ok with me if it’s ok with you. This club doesn’t have that rule,” he joked.
I smiled and moved sensuously up to him. I stepped up and stood on his chair, straddling his legs, my bare pussy lining up with his face. He leaned in, his nose touching my trimmed patch of pubic hair, and breathed in my scent with a smile of pleasure. I bent my knees and let my body slide down his face so his nose—and a tickle of his tongue—brushed from my pussy, across my belly towards my boobs. I stepped back to the floor, and I offered one boob at a time, this time allowing a little lick and kiss of each nipple. Definitely not allowed at the club, but hey, for the money I was getting, I wanted to give the man his money’s worth.
I sat on his lap and felt his erection press against my pussy, which made me smile. I love it when I turn men on and make them hard. I gyrated my hips and felt my uncovered labia squish and grip rather than slide across his groin like in the club. I pressed and undulated on his crotch until the song that had been playing ended, and I decided that would be a good stopping point.
I stood, kissed the top of his head, and stepped back. I turned and was greeted by a row of men sitting on sofas and chairs, smiling, with cash in hand. They all wanted a turn. My belly gave a little flip of arousal at the thought. Wow, looks like I’ll be busy for a while.
I sighed, smiled, and approached the closest man in line. I repeated the same basic pattern with him. When I finished, I stood and noticed a smear of wetness on his crotch; I was that wet. I moved from man to man; each handed me $100 or $150 for a lap dance. This is much more fun than the club and way more money!
As I gave out seven or eight lap dances, the other men mingled, drank, laughed, and either watched or didn’t pay much attention to me or my activities. I guessed that they were used to ignoring actions that did not affect them or that they were involved in. Unless they wanted to be involved.
I finished my lap dance for the final man in the line and took a break to get another drink of water. Uncle Bob came over. “You seem to be having fun tonight. So… good idea?”
Nodding, I said, “It’s been fantastic. These guys are all so nice and appreciative. I’m having fun—and making a bucket of money.” I smiled. “Thanks for this.”
“No, I should thank you,” Uncle Bob said. “This will be one for the record books as one of the best of this group’s gatherings ever, thanks to you.”
“Speaking of gatherings, who is the guest of honor, anyway? I haven’t heard or seen anything special mentioned about him.” I looked around the room as if some signal would appear.
Uncle Bob nodded toward a handsome man in his late 50s standing by the fireplace. He was tall with a thick shock of silvery hair. A silver fox. “That’s him, Theo.”
I left Uncle Bob and went over to Theo. “So, this is all for you, I hear,” I said playfully.
With a grin, Theo eyed me up and down, drinking in my naked body. “Clearly, not all for me. I think the guys are getting a lot of fun out of this evening. Thanks to you. I don’t know where Bob found you, but I must thank him.”
Just then, another man approached us. “Theo, my man, you haven’t had your special Starla treat yet! Let me buy you one of the most fabulous lap dances ever; you should celebrate.”
I bit my lip, suddenly embarrassed by the praise, and said, “Since this is the Man of Honor, this one is on the house.” I gestured to a nearby chair. “Have a seat, kind sir.”
Theo sat, but as I turned to walk in front of him, the other man intervened. He spoke quietly to me. “So, since this is Theo’s big night, maybe he could have something extra special? You know, more than just a lap dance. Not for free, of course.”
I looked at the man, confused. “What do you mean, something extra special?”
The man glanced around and then mimicked the motion of a blow job. My eyes widened with a mix of surprise, shock, and some offense. But despite my automatic rejection of the notion, I felt a tingle deep in my pussy.
“I… I don’t do that. I’ve never done that. Only lap dances.” I stammered. I was taken off-guard. Shit, what do I say to that? Does he think I’m just some cheap whore here? But… why don’t I feel more offended? Is it really outrageous for him to simply ask this under the circumstances?
With a smirk, the man said, “Well, just because you can’t or don’t do it at your club doesn’t mean you can’t do it here. Think about it; it’ll make his day and be good money for you. So, I don’t know, perhaps $500 would be enough incentive?”
He waited as a series of confused thoughts and emotions played across my face.
My mind raced. Oh my god. That’s like a whole night of work at the club—a good night. But a blowjob; that’s a big step up from a lap dance. I enjoy it and am told I’m pretty good at it. But giving one to a stranger? Stripping is one thing… but this is like sex, sort of. I should just say no. But… I kind of don’t want to say no. It sounds kind of exciting—is that bad? How do I decide what to do?
The man prompted gently. “By the way, I’m Andy. And you would make this night one of the highlights of Theo’s life—a special treat from a gorgeous young woman. This is his special night; all of this is for him. Plus, it’s pretty good money for only a few minutes… it would be great all around for both of you.”
I eyed Theo as I sorted out my thoughts. Maybe it was the charged sexual atmosphere, my financial struggles, or the thrill of doing something risky, public, and naughty. I was stark naked in a room full of dressed men—probably a combination of all those things, but something clicked in my mind.
Getting paid that much for a few minutes’ effort was just too good to pass up. I gave up trying to rationalize that I would be doing anything other than exchanging sex for money. I was only slightly struggling with being turned on by the idea. The fact I was getting paid made it all the more exciting, not worse.
With a nod, I turned back to Andy. “Well, nice to meet you, Andy. And, what the hell; it is Theo’s special night. So, ok, I’ll do it.”
I walked over to Theo, smiled, sat on his lap, gyrated my pelvis, and felt his cock swell; this caused a ripple of pleasure deep in my gut. Then I stood, sliding my nipples across his lips, hovering there until he snuck a tongue out and gave a little lick. Then sensing no resistance, he took my nipple and sucked gently. I would be in major trouble if I did this at the club, but it’s so much fun.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” I murmured. I let Theo suckle each nipple for a moment. Then I stepped up and stood on his chair, feet on each side of his legs, as I had with my first lap dance recipient. I leaned in so his lips met my thigh, then bent my knees, lining up my pussy with his mouth. But this time I invited more than just a sniff. “Go ahead and have a taste if you want. A special treat for you.” Oh, yeah, I’d definitely get fired if I did this at the club…
Theo wasted no time sliding his tongue out between my swollen labia, sliding it along my cleft. Then he licked up and across my clit, causing my pussy to quiver and a wave of pleasure to surge in my loins. He expertly flicked his tongue across and around my clit, with occasional tiny sucking pulses. My pussy gushed with increased wetness, and my juices trickled down my thighs.
I ran my hands through his thick hair, partially to pull him into my pussy and also to help keep my balance. I knew this man could make me cum in minutes under other circumstances, but I was uncomfortable standing that way. And this was supposed to be his pleasure treat, not mine.
I detached from Theo’s magic tongue and stepped back down. I ran my hands along his chest, down his belly, and placed them on his hard bulge. Our eyes met for a moment, then I focused down. Without a word, I opened his belt and pants and slid my hand under his boxers onto his throbbing cock, feeling its heat.
“Are you sure… sure this is ok?” Theo whispered.
My answer was to fish Theo’s cock out into the open. I held its velvety hardness and felt the strength of the turgid muscle. I ran my tongue up the shaft and around the cock head, then slipped it between my lips and into my mouth. I heard his quiet moan as his sensitive head met my warm, soft mouth. I pressed Theo’s dick deeper into my mouth and began sucking, sliding it in and out while stroking the base with my hand. This wasn’t a tease-and-edge situation; it was a suck-and-finish. In a crowded room full of men, out in the open and visible to anyone looking our way.
I stroked, sucked, licked, and kissed Theo’s erection until I sensed his breathing become more rapid and his balls tighten. I increased my speed and pressure, and he began to thrust his hips in search of more friction in my mouth.
Suddenly, Theo contracted his belly and caught his breath, shuddered, then gave a guttural moan as he began shooting cum into my mouth. I felt his first jet of semen hit the side of my cheek, tasting the salty tang of warm cum. I clamped down on his ejaculating penis and sucked it like a baby on a nipple, swallowing all I could and dribbling the rest down my chin.
When Theo’s spasms abated, I let his softened dick slip from my mouth, lifted it, and kissed it on the tip. I looked up and smiled at him, feeling proud of my accomplishment. The look of bliss on his face was empowering and gratifying.
Quiet clapping turned my attention toward the fireplace, where Andy and two other men stood applauding. “Damn,” Andy said. “That was so hot. Hope you liked your special treat, Theo. You are a lucky man; watching that got me so worked up, I feel like I could come with a strong wind.”
One of Andy’s companions looked at him. Then looked at me; I was kneeling, naked, holding a soft cock, with cum dribbling down my chin. The companion turned back to Andy and said, “Well, why don’t you get your own blowjob then? She’s here and looks ready. I’ll buy you one if you’d like, my treat.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My mind reeled. Another blowjob? Hey guys, I’m right here; maybe you should ask me first. I paused and reflected further. Then again, I’ve done it once, so another won’t make much difference. And anyway, tonight is a special occasion; it’s not like it’s my career. And this way, Uncle Bob doesn’t tell Dad about me stripping. And, when you think about it, it doesn’t really even count as sex. It’s just a blowjob. Oh, what the hell.
Andy’s buddy smiled at me. “So, Starla, how much was that magnificent blowjob?”
“Um, it was $500.” I had no idea if that was an unusually high amount, maybe paid just for the special one for Theo. It seemed absurdly expensive to me, but I wasn’t about to complain about being overpaid.
“Cool, that’s done then,” Andy’s buddy added without blinking.
I looked at the man who spoke with wonder. Damn, how rich are these guys? Five hundred bucks—the amount doesn’t seem to faze them. They act like it’s nothing more than buying a cup of coffee. So, it looks like I’m on for another blowjob.
“Ok, sounds good,” I said, smiling. I stood up, facing the two men. I ran both hands back through my hair and stretched, breasts thrusting towards them. My nipples were standing erect with arousal, which apparently captivated both men.
I walked over, guided Andy down in his chair, and went straight for his belt. I opened his fly, fished out his cock, and momentarily regarded it. It was straight, cut, rigid, and filled my hand nicely. I licked around the pink tip, cleaning off the tiny appetizer of pre-cum, then slipped the shaft into my mouth. I sucked and pumped his cock to climax in less than three minutes, enjoying the audible moans accompanying his orgasm and the unique, slightly acidic taste of his ejaculate.
No sooner had I finished milking Andy’s cum from his fast-fading erection, I saw another man standing by with his cock already out and waiting. Really? I guess Mom was right; don’t start something unless you can finish it. Looks like I’ve added a new service to my repertoire.
I ate four more loads of old men’s sperm. None of them lasted more than five minutes. I loved the varying taste, viscosity, and quantities of their cum—all unique—a veritable smorgasbord of epicurean delights. They all paid $500 and were very grateful. The money I was earning was ridiculous.
After the fourth subsequent blowjob—the sixth in all—I got up and sat on the armchair. I sighed deeply and announced that my jaw and mouth were too tired, so I was done dick-sucking for the night.
Instead of closing down the Starla Sex Shoppe, however, evidently all I did was trigger the creativity of my patrons.
“Well, there are other wonderful things you can do that won’t affect your jaw at all,” a new voice said. I looked to my side and was greeted by a large erect cock. A cock that was attached to a man standing next to my chair. I glanced up from the eye-level penis to the source of the voice. A man with snowy white hair—a bit older than most there, probably mid-sixties—smiled down at me with kind eyes.
“What are you saying? I’m not following you,” I said tiredly, thinking that jacking off men by hand sounded even more tiring. And not nearly as much fun.
“You’ve presented a special treasure tonight for our not-insignificant enjoyment that is designed to give incalculable pleasure, with almost no exertion on your part.”
I sat, looking confused, trying to discern what he was getting at. Slow on the uptake.
“Between your legs—your beautiful, wet, inviting vagina. Crying out to be filled with man, to give pleasure, and milk the seed of humanity from our vessels.”
I looked stupidly at him for one more instant as his flowery words sunk in, and I realized what he was saying. Then I laughed in amusement at his waxing sex poetically. “Sex,” I said simply. Yeah, right. You wish.
But even as I discounted the notion, I looked at his hard cock, and for just an instant, imagined pulling it into me. My belly fluttered and I felt warmth radiate throughout my body at the thought.
He beamed. “Yes. Such a simple, eloquent word for a delightful act. I’m ready, you’re ready, and I’m here. I should think—since a blowjob is $500—that for graduating to simple intercourse, something along the lines of $1500 should be reasonable.”
I was stunned. Holy. Mother. Shit. That’s a whole month’s rent. That money plus what I’ve already earned tonight is like four months working at the club. These guys must be made of money to afford this. But why am I even thinking like this? I can’t just have sex with a stranger—that’s wrong. On so many levels. Isn’t it? It must be. And that’s way, way more personal than sucking a dick. I couldn’t do that… I think.
“I… um, I don’t know,” I stammered. “That’s… no, I don’t think so, no… I mean, I appreciate the offer, but, well, I’m sure… I mean, I haven’t thought of sex, doing sex like that before.” My words were as jumbled as my thoughts. My body wasn’t helping any; the idea was making me wetter, and my pussy tingled.
My mind spun again, and my emotions were confused and mixed up. I was dealing with that phenomenon a lot that night. I furrowed my brow in thought.
This has to be crossing the line… whatever that is. But, then again, how is it morally different from a blowjob, other than a step up in intimacy and a different location? How is a blowjob worse than making a guy cum by rubbing on his lap? Am I just a whore who’s going to hell, like Daddy says? Am I going down the proverbial slippery slope? Why don’t I just say ‘no’ and be done with it?
I glanced at Mr. Kind-eyes, who waited patiently. Hopefully. My jumbled thoughts fell into clarity. I don’t just say ‘no’ because the idea excites me and turns me on. It’s not just the money; I feel sexy and powerful knowing men want me, and I can choose to have them. Shit, I’m getting really horny.
“Hey there, relax. Are you ok?” The old man with kind eyes asked with concern, putting his hand on my shoulder and pulling me out of my mental melee. “It was just an idea; you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He smiled and added, “But I hope you want to.”
I looked at him, standing with his cock now down to half-mast. Oh, poor guy, look what I’ve done; I spoiled his hard-on by acting like a whiny baby. These guys are all so nice; they’ve only been kind all night in every way. Treated me politely and made me feel beautiful, special, and wanted, not like a failure and lousy person the way my father does. Part of me wanted to reach out and restore his erection; my curiosity, arousal, and excitement pressed through my myriad feelings.
“Yes, I know, and thank you for saying that,” I said. “It’s just a new idea, something I hadn’t considered, need to consider. So I was caught off guard.”
I thought about what I’d been doing, from stripping to lap dances and blowjobs—I was sitting in a chair stark naked in front of many men, with six loads of semen in my belly. And this lovely man offered me an outrageous amount of money to let him put a little more semen in me, just in a different place. Sure, sex is a significant step up from a blowjob, but I wouldn’t have to work as hard as I do sucking them. And the money will help solve all my financial problems and tide me over until I can get back on my feet with a real job without my father finding out anything.
It’s not like I’m a virgin; I’ve had sex loads of times. What difference would one more time make? Much more upside here, and it would be only for tonight, as a favor to Uncle Bob and to help with money. Compartmentalize and move on.
I looked up at Mr. Kind-eyes, gave a coy smile, and reached out and grasped his now nearly flaccid dick. I noted that his pubic hair was beginning to gray slightly, but not white like the hair on his head—I hadn’t thought about pubes graying, but it made sense.
“Thank you for considering my feelings,” I said as I started stroking his cock, which began swelling instantly. “But yes, I think you have a marvelous idea. One mutually beneficial to us both.” I smiled broader as I saw his face light up like a small boy getting a birthday present, and I grinned to myself for using old-fashioned language like he was. “So, what position would you like me in?”
Mr. Kind-eyes leaned forward, placed his hands on my shoulders, and gently pressed me back, guiding me until I leaned back in the chair. My upper body was canted back at an angle, with my pelvis near the front of the chair and my legs spread apart to the sides. My pussy was wet with arousal and anticipation—an open invitation. He reached out and ran his fingers around my labia, dipped one into my vagina just to the first knuckle, and pressed his thumb against my clit. Electric ripples of pleasure permeated my pussy and belly, causing my abs to undulate.
“Mmm, you’re very wet,” he said. “Ready, willing, and able.”
“Oh, yes, very ready, and oh, that feels so nice.” My sexual anticipation was palpable. I wanted this—here, now, with him. Fuck the money. No, strike that; yes to the money.
Mr. Kind-eyes replaced his hand with his restored erection and smeared its tip between my labia to lubricate it. Then he lined up and gently pressed it inside me: a little in, back out slightly, then deeper in, a little back, then deep inside me until our pelvises met. I felt his fullness, and my vaginal walls quivered in greeting. Next, he started pumping all the way in and nearly out, slowly building speed. I unconsciously spread my legs more, lolled my head back, and relished the stimulation, pleasure, arousal, and excitement.
Hearing his breathing get heavier and more ragged, I refocused and looked into his eyes. He was looking alternately at my face and down at our joining, watching his cock sliding in and out of my pussy, clearly relishing the sight.
Then, I glanced around, and realized we had attracted a small audience. About eight men were standing near us, watching. Half of them were tugging on their own erect dicks as they enjoyed our show. I squirmed with delight, knowing I was arousing them, that they got turned on seeing me naked, being fucked before their eyes.
Mr. Kind-eyes suddenly sped up, pumping hard and fast inside me, pressing my legs open to slam deeper inside my vagina. “Mm, soon,” he moaned, thrusting deep and forcefully. Before I could respond, he arched his back and pressed deep; I felt his eruption of cum splashing inside me repeatedly. After he came, his cock softened quickly and plopped out of me—sooner than I had experienced with guys my age.
He smiled dreamily and said, “Thank you, you’ve made my day—my year. That was really wonderful.”
I stretched in languorous post-coital pleasure when another man stepped up in front of me. He was bald, with white eyebrows, fit and built with well-defined muscles, and had a very erect penis in his hand. He also looked well over sixty. He reminded me of Mr. Clean on the kitchen cleanser bottle. All he was missing was a hoop earring.
Mr. Clean smiled at me. “That was unbelievably sexy; look what you’ve done to my cock.” He lifted his dick as if showing me something that wasn’t obvious. “Can you please take care of this problem for me? You look like you’re possibly ready for some more.”
My mind didn’t reel or whirl this time, and I wasn’t shocked or confused. Instead, I briefly reflected on what I was doing and how much money I would receive just for providing a receptacle for older men’s sperm.
Fuck it; what does it even matter now? If there’s a hell, my reservation has already been secured—I’ve sold my body for sex, and what’s done is done. If I’m a whore tonight, I might as well be a well-compensated whore. And I’m not sure most whores love having sex like I do, but the money is just icing on the cake because I love this whole thing.
I regarded Mr. Clean’s nice-looking, hard cock, pulsing and yearning to be inside me. I licked my lip, smiled, and said, “Welcome to my treasure box.” I took two fingers and parted my labia—a clear and explicit invitation.
Mr. Clean pressed his tip to my entrance, paused, and said, “Fifteen hundred, right?”
I nodded, and he slid easily deep inside my well-lubricated vagina. I felt the warm fullness of his engorged cock stretch and slide along my rippling vaginal walls; he pressed into me until our pubes greeted each other in a sexy dance. I took a deep breath of pleasure and pushed back against his intrusion as my vagina enveloped and caressed him.
“Ah, that’s so nice; it’s been so long,” Mr. Clean murmured. His expression was of pure ecstasy. He thrust quickly right away, and his balls tightened in less than a minute; he grunted and ejaculated in me with swelling pulses. Then, he pulled out, his cock already soft—even faster than Mr. Kind-eyes. It must be an age thing; cocks seem to go soft more quickly after cumming.
I loved the feel and idea of Mr. Clean’s ejaculation inside my pussy, and I felt a tinge of loss when he pulled out, leaving my aroused sex empty. His look of bliss, however, brought a smile to my face.
I looked up and saw a line of guys queued up to fuck me; a surge of arousal radiated deep in my gut. I wanted them, wanted all of them to fill me and fuck me; I wondered how many I could take before getting sore. Morality had ceased to be a factor. Instead, I would have fun, enjoy myself, and satisfy these wonderful gentlemen. Make us all happy.
Even though all the men were over twice my age and some were nearly triple my age, I preferred them to most young guys, who were often just assholes. I loved my older men’s attitude, their attention to me, their appreciation, and the fun of controlling and getting them off—of giving them sexual pleasure and satisfaction.
I was aroused, sexually charged, wet, and reveling in pure hedonistic delight. And I would make more money than I could make in six months at the club—and more than I would have earned in ten months at my old job.
So I accepted their offers to be fucked. Each man was polite, respectful, and relatively quick; they all grunted unintelligibly as they shot their semen inside me. I had expected older men to take much longer to cum. Maybe it had been a long time, and they were very worked up. Or I’m just that sexy, I chuckled to myself.
Following Mr. Clean, three more men entered and came inside me as I leaned back in the chair facing them, making five total in that position. The first was jovial and talkative and complimented my boobs, body, and pussy throughout. The second was a timid-looking man—serious with concentration—who seemed fixated on my nipples, with lips and hands. Finally, the third man gave meaning to the expression “fire in his eyes;” he lifted and pressed my legs up towards my shoulders, splitting my pussy wide open, then pumped into me with unconstrained fervor. I welcomed his primal thrusts and gripped his cock with my pussy; I might have climaxed, given more time.
My well-lubed vagina trembled with pleasure, but my legs and back needed a change. So I asked the next man that approached if he didn’t mind entering from the rear—not surprisingly, he didn’t mind. So I turned over and knelt on the chair, leaning forward on the cushioned chair back, my ass and pussy open and welcoming.
Facing away from the men taking me from behind, I savored the experience of what was tantamount to being taken anonymously—the anticipation, the naughtiness, and the pleasure. Four consecutive men stepped up and entered me; I silently welcomed their cocks by arching my back or wiggling my ass rather than greeting or interacting with them. Each man waited his turn, stepped up and stroked my ass cheeks, ran his dick between my pussy lips to lube up, and humped me doggy-style until he came, pulled out, and stepped away for the next guy.
I fantasized and played mental guessing games. Like a blind taste test with my pussy. I hungrily accepted each cock into my sopping pussy, and wondered how long the sex would last and what the man looked like. I tried to tell if the cocks were circumcised (I couldn’t) and predict how close to the edge I would get or if I might even cum myself. My pussy felt the void in between cocks, and yearned to be filled again until the next entry. My pussy undulated and gripped each hard dick like a predator seizing prey. A predator that sucked the life essence from its target.
The fifth man rubbed my clit and played his thumb in and around my vagina’s opening a little before entering me—I was close to cumming before he pressed his rigid cock inside. It was nice, more than someone just wanting a cum dump. I enjoyed his touch, and images of being with a lover like that made my pussy tremble with arousal. His cock filled me, and my body writhed with exquisite pleasure. Mmm, I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this. I felt his semen erupt deep in my vagina as he came, groaning and holding his dick fully inside me until it softened and slipped out. I felt a trickle of wetness trace down my thigh.
“Thanks, honey, you’re amazing,” said the familiar voice.
My eyes widened with recognition. Shit! My Uncle Bob. Damn him! Now my mind reeled once again, at least a bit. My Uncle Bob just fucked me. What the actual fuck? Why would he do that?
I spun around and faced my Uncle; our eyes met. He cut off my outburst as he shook his head subtly but sharply, warning me not to say anything, not give away anything about us being related. He leaned in and whispered, “Not now; we’ll talk later. You just have fun.” He kissed the top of my head and moved away.
I collapsed back down on the chair. I watched Uncle Bob’s retreating back, perplexed. I inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and tried to make sense of things.
Ok, so… I just got fucked by my goddamn Uncle. But what’s done is done—just breathe, relax. It doesn’t matter; he was just another old guy doing precisely what they all did. Nothing I can do about it now—compartmentalize. Deal with it later.
Which was easier thought than done. My mind struggled with the nagging question: why didn’t he tell me who he was or ask me and give me a chance to decide if I wanted to?
But I knew deep down that I would have let him if he’d asked, and then I would probably have felt some guilt. So maybe he didn’t say anything before fucking with me to protect me from those concerns, to give me “plausible deniability.” But why did he fuck me at all? I’m his niece, for god’s sake… my dad is his older brother.
But I was oddly accepting of the situation. I even liked it on some level—it was naughty, taboo, sexy, and risky. And so very gratifying.
Compartmentalize. Move on. I shook my head to clear my muddled thoughts.
I looked over and saw that only one more man was waiting. He had waited so long and patiently. And he was attractive: handsome, strong jaw, a tight physique, and greying at his temples. Someone I would have responded to positively under other circumstances, despite our age difference. I should make the most of this; he will certainly take my mind off my damn Uncle. This will be a nice wrap-up and end things on a high note.
I gave the final guy my most dazzling smile. “Thanks for waiting; I appreciate it. You are last, so you can choose what position you want—front, back, sitting? What would you like?”