*[Author’s Note: The following story is told in the voice of Candice, a 24-year-old woman who narrated to me the stories from her six years working as a stripper. While some artistic license has been taken, these events are largely based on the truth.]*
June 5, 2018
I almost have him. I can’t tell you how I knew, but I just do. He has about a minute left in the lap dance, which means that *I* have about a minute left in the lap dance. He can always ask for another one; I can’t. In that sense, this is my audition. If he says “Thanks,” tips a few dollars and walks away, there’s literally nothing I can do about it.
“VIP Room” is such a misnomer at this strip club. It is barely the size of a restaurant booth, with furniture you would never sit in if you saw it in the light of day. But the light is dim, and the occasional flashing from outside makes its way in, too. A flimsy, half-drawn curtain gives an illusion of privacy. The small side table next to the armless chair he sits in has an ashtray filling with spent cigar butts, and two half-empty glasses of tepid champagne. The bottle is long gone.
I dance facing him, my open legs straddling his seated ones. He has both his hands clasped over the small of my back, pretending to move rhythmically, like he is dancing with me. The music is shifting. It is time. I drop down to his lap, and grind my string bikini bottom against it–the only thing I was wearing besides the clear plastic heels. Six-inch heels, and I once got slapped in the face for wearing something shorter. But that’s a different story. When I knew my tits were at his eye level, I arched my spine and tossed my head back, sending my hair flying and the tits pushing to within inches of his face.
I let that linger for a second. His hands are still on my back. I can’t *see* him now, which is a huge disadvantage. Is he done? He’d better not have, I think to myself. God, is he still trying to decide? What more does he want?
I have to play a gambit. I reach one hand back, and guide his hand to my ass. I brace myself, suppressing a cringe. I never did, at least not that I think they noticed, but I worried I would. This was a gamble. If I timed it right, *this* is the move that pushes them over the mental block, makes them decide they want more than just a teasing dance and a single handful of bikini-covered ass. If I timed it *wrong*–well, he leaves the club because his pants are dirty, and I’m lucky to get a few dollars thrown at me. Make or break.
His fingers come in, giving my ass a good squeeze. Then they are moving around, like he wanted more and wanted to keep going. Yes. I know I have him. And I do.
“Can I take you out?”
I let myself feel the emotions for a split second. A mix of celebration and dread. I got another one. I made the sale. Closed the deal. Whatever. Something to be happy about. *Yay!* Then dread. Because I know it’s going to be rough, because it always is. *Well here it fucking comes.* But I don’t have a lot of time to feel things. I smile, as coyly as I know, and give the best playful trill I can muster.
“Oh, that’s going to cost you.”
Playful, like he just said something flirty. A tinge of regret, as if I’m sad that he can’t do that for free, even though I would let him if I could. And a little hope, as if I really *want* him to, no matter the cost. That’s the perfect tone I try to strike. I don’t know if I get it right every time. But this time it must have worked, because he asks how much, with relaxed confidence that no number would be too high.
I might have thrown out my usual rate if he had ever stopped talking about how rich he was, with his oil tycoon money. He didn’t, so I say the highest number I’ve ever given and had the guy go through with it. He can’t say no now; he can back out later, but his confidence, the *masculinity* is at stake at this moment. We pick a date, then a time he will pick me up.
He walks out of the VIP room with my address. I grab the glasses of leftover champagne and down them both.
*June 8, 2018*
It’s a nice restaurant; I just don’t care.
Maybe I even hate it. He is a fat, hairy, 50-something man in a polo shirt the size that says he’s given up, and the waitress had to remind him that he couldn’t smoke cigars in here. And here I am, a 20-something woman with a spray tan and bleached blonde hair, in a form-fitting dress that just might get me kicked out of this place yet, and beautiful heels I hate walking in. I feel like the waitress knows exactly what this is and judges me as she takes my order–a glass of red wine and shrimp alfredo–and mentally say, well fuck you too. I already know I’m going to need another couple glasses. Is shrimp alfredo even the nicest thing here? I don’t know. I don’t care. I can’t not eat, so this is something.
He wants to keep talking about his oil business in Texas. He thinks it impresses me, probably because I acted impressed when he droned on about it at the club three days ago. West Texas something crude oil, and something about futures. I wonder what’s in my immediate future. Is it too much to hope that after all this, he’ll just be too tired? I gesture at the waitress; please bring me another glass of wine. For some reason he likes this.
The tablecloths are thick creamy linen, as are the napkins. The ambient music is quiet and subtle, probably because most people here actually want to have the conversation they’re in. The lighting is a little dark, just enough for the yellow bulbs to set a warm, inviting mood. It’s the kind of lighting that can make most people look good. A candle is lit at the center of our table. A regular romantic affair. I lean forward as he talks, both so I look interested and so he can get a better look at the cleavage I really made an effort to frame.
This makes him decide that this is the moment for some intimate conversation.
“So… You ever have it in your ass?”
Well *fuck*.
I bring the wineglass to my lips, because drinking is all the reaction I can manage, and because it hides my face and makes my giggle sound passably genuine. “Yes,” I coo flirtatiously. Wait. Fuck. That came out wrong. Now he’s going to think I want it, when I’d do anything to take his mind off it right now. “I’ve done lots of other things, too,” I add quickly.
He mumbles something, and goes back to his steak and roasted potatoes. He doesn’t care. He got the answer he wanted, so why should he? I drain the glass of wine, and try to catch the waitress’ eye so I can ask for another. I’m beginning to feel a bit of a buzz come on, and welcome the sensation with relief.
When he finishes his food, he is quick to call for the check. He asks me if I’d had enough, as if he will wait for me to finish if I hadn’t. I want to tell him that I’d had enough before my first bite. “Yes, I’m completely full. This was *such* a nice meal,” is what I say instead. I’d had three glasses of wine now, and the buzz will, hopefully, keep me going long enough. I plaster on a smile big enough to hide my anxiety at what’s about to come.
He drives us across town to a cheap motel. Its parking lot is dotted with dated cars with out-of-state license plates, and the building, even under the spotty fluorescent lamps, can’t hide the grime. When we walk into the room, it’s immediately obvious to me that this isn’t where he is staying: the bed hasn’t been slept in, there isn’t a single bag tossed about, and the room still has a whiff of air freshener. Why does he not use whatever fancy hotel he must have already booked and paid for? I decide to not dwell on the question for now.
It’s work time. I’ve taken the “sugar” part of the deal as soon as we walked into the room, and now I’ve got to live up to the “babe” part. I tell him I need to freshen up, scurry into the bathroom, and close the door behind me. My makeup needs at most a couple minor fixes, and I look fine in the mirror. How should I approach this? I mull over the question for a minute, and decide on a theme: casual, flirty, entertaining. I reach under my dress, hook my fingers over my panties, and pull them off quickly. I hope this hits him as a pleasant surprise. Maybe a bigger tip if he likes it and thinks I’m eager. The panties go in my purse. One final spray of perfume, and a look in the mirror, and then I’m out the door.
And he’s masturbating naked on the bed.
“Oh, look at you!” I exclaim. The surprise in my voice is absolutely real. The part where I sound like I’m charmed and excited is an effort. I know hesitating here might kill the mood, but he is just so disgusting. His belly is taut with swelling. Thick, matted, gray hair covers his chest, thighs, and shins. His cock is buried somewhere in the mounds of fat, though I can’t quite see it behind his chubby hand. A mixed odor of alcohol, his unwashed stench, and sweat hits me like I have been slapped. *Don’t frown*, I tell myself. *Please don’t fucking frown.* Then, when he looks up at me and gives me a mischievous, knowing grin, I practically shut down. My body moves as if it has a will of its own. I saunter over to him, in exaggerated, gyrating steps. “Are you just getting yourself ready for me?” I hear myself say in a playful, bantering tone.
“Yeah, never had any complaints,” he says boastfully. He is eager, expectant, for me to get on top of him. I hike my dress up ever so slightly and jump on the bed, straddling his legs once again. This time, between his not wearing pants and me not wearing underwear, there’s nothing to separate his sweaty, hairy thighs from my bare pussy. I feel his hand pull my dress up above my waist. Then–smack. A heavy slap sound tears across the air and echoes around the room. I let out an involuntary gasp. My ass cheek is stinging, and it feels like it’s just been lit on fire. Then the other cheek–smack! Oh god. I’m in pain. This stings; this stings so bad that a tear nearly comes into my eye and I can’t even focus on how humiliating it is to be spanked like this. I lower my body down on him, pressing my tits against his chest, hoping this mollifies him. Nope. Another smack. Then, his hand is on the back of my head, pressing it into his. Our lips collide, and that same second his tongue is battering itself into my mouth. I don’t quite have my mouth open enough, but that doesn’t stop him from trying again. To him, of course, that just means pushing harder. I use my hands to stroke his hair, and then his torso, hoping this distracts him. Our bodies are contorted and pressed together, and I can feel his stench melting into me, the sweat imprinting on my skin and my dress.
He grabs me by the armpits, and rolls me off him. Now I’m lying on my back, and he’s on top of me, his body weight fully pressing against mine. I hold my breath. He is so heavy. But he seems to like it: grinding against my body, planting his lips on my neck, shoulder, face, and then again on the lips. Again the tongue. This time I give in to the indelicate assault. It comes in like a battering ram, out to subdue my tongue by force and push everywhere inside my mouth. I hear a groan of pleasure. Then, he breaks off. Now that he can’t get to my ass, my face is the next target. Slap. His thick hand is heavy and painful. I have to put a stop to it.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, putting both my hands on his chest, trying to get him to back off. He gets up, and then off of me.
“Get on your hands and knees, in a doggy position,” he commands, making a circle with his hand. I’m quick to obey. Hands, knees, back arched, ass up. Give him a full view of my pussy and asshole. My view is replaced with that of the headboard and the pillow. The pillow smells like a cocktail of his ass sweat and farts, my own shampoo, and some other mysterious musk. For a few seconds, I hear some ruffling; the sounds he makes as a condom packet is ripped open, and a bottle of lube is squeezed.
My reprieve is short-lived. A jolt shoots through me as a wet finger pushes into my ass. I feel myself clench, and let out a gasp. My ass just doesn’t want it. It’s squeezing, making itself tight so nothing can get through. But his finger does. It pushes around inside me. Then, as quickly as it withdraws, a much thicker battering ram comes invading. It’s his cock, of course. There’s the same routine–my ass clenches and resists, there is tightness, then its resistance is shattered. He is slow at first, but quickly picks it up. I bury my head in the pillow.
His cock has found some perverse rhythm, pushing in and out. My clenching has given up; that tightness resisting it has stopped, and I feel like I’m in the process of involuntarily shitting myself. The loss of control is crushing. I gasp and pant, and then groan in pain. He likes this. With one hand, he yanks on my hair, sharply and strongly enough to draw a squeal, and with the other, he chokes my neck from behind. A guttural groan escapes my throat, and at that moment, he moves that hand and sticks two fingers into my mouth.
I gag, and at first dry heave. Then, because the loss of control today has to be from both ends, I throw up. I can feel an acidic noodle in my nostril. Some mess escapes my mouth, coating his fingers and then falling onto the pillow. Panic descends on me like a cold bucket of water turned upside down. “I-I’m sorry!” I scream as soon as his fingers are out of my mouth.
*“Ohhhh yeah!!!”*
His cock rams my ass even harder, his stomach clapping against my ass cheeks to accompany his gratified shout of enthusiasm. He grabs a bunch of my hair again, and this time pushes it into the crack between the headboard and the mattress that the pillow is barely covering. Then up, and then down again on the same spot. He is bouncing my head into it. The thumps ring in my head as he keeps bumping my skull against the wood. His cock gives another violent, hard ram into my ass, and another. I am a defeated, lifeless rag. I close my eyes to avoid looking at bits of my dinner.
It’s not long after that that he climaxes, bouncing my head against the headboard and battering my sore, destroyed ass with his cock. I’m collapsed on the bed like a broken doll as he gets dressed. I get a pat on the butt instead of a tip. Then, he’s out of the room.
When I feel like myself again, when the surreal numbness of my ass returns to a throbbing, sore pain, I get up with a groan and falter my way to the bathroom. My makeup is completely ruined, and my hair is dirty and tousled. I turn on the sink faucets as far as they’ll go, and look at my own bewildered eyes, surrounded by running mascara and smudged foundation.
“What the fuck,” I mutter, shaking my head. I splash some water on to my face. Then it comes out as a scream. “What the *fuck!*”
Now I know why he rented this cheap motel room. It’s for me. The dinner, that was for him; he is a man who goes to expensive restaurants accompanied by young, pretty girls. This, this was for me. I’m a girl who gets fucked in the ass at a cheap motel room, and then gets discarded: a ruined rag left to clean herself up, her dignity thrown away with the used condom.
I call for a car to come pick me up and bring me home, and spend the waiting time washing my face.
[Hope you enjoyed reading! This is a developing piece, and more may be written to continue. Any feedback you could leave would be greatly appreciated.]
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/i3ec47/under_the_persona_a_strippers_confessions_fm_cw
Long but hot as fuck
Well written but….oof it’s indignant.