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Seated behind the wheel of my Audi, I slowly turned the corner from Hyde into the slim alley behind the club. It was dark, around 10 at night, and there was no sign over the door. The club was called “Lily”, an appropriately vague name to a club determined to remain anonymous. The valet recognized my car as I cautiously approached. He took a few steps from the shadows to alert me where to stop. Damn. Blood rushed to my head. I felt a woozy. I loved being here, but it also scared me to death. My heart was racing and, although the seat belt still strapped me into the warm leatherette driver seat, my body was trembling.
“Good evening, Sara,” the valet said as he opened the door. Both his professional demeanor, and that he remembered my name made him seem more like a high-class concierge than a valet. Yet his thuggish appearance and scar across his cheek told me he’s known violence and was likely an ex-convict. Exactly the type of guy Mason would want guarding his very unique, clandestine club.
Mason had suggested I choose a fake name to go by while I’m performing here. It’s against my nature to choose anything too “Strippery”. I have never been to a proper strip club, and all the names I could think of — “Roxy” “Jade” “Angel” etc all seemed both cliché, and a name for a dancer both younger and thinner than I. “Sara” was a stage name that suited me. It was familiar, unassuming, and fit well for a middle-aged mother of two boys.
I met Mason when my friend Julia brought me here earlier this year. She was my still-happily-single, more adventurous friend and because she was fucking one of the bartenders she was able to get us in. More and more lately I’d been enjoying living vicariously thru her stories, and soon enough I found myself asking (or begging, if we’re being totally honest) Julia to take me with her on some of her outings. The thrill of going to a secret strip club intrigued me. Mason was very kind to Julia and I, giving us free drinks and escorting us through the club. Julia and the bartender have long since broken up, but Mason gave me his card in the event I ever wanted to return. I hid the card in the very back of my underwear drawer in my closet. It excited me. As if it were a key to a secret life, not belonging to me.
Over the next month I absolutely could not get the club out of my head. I wanted to leave it in the past, but it was impossible. I was obsessed with it. Sleepless nights led to quiet midnight searches for information on it on the internet. I found nothing. Later, the searches turned to erotic costumes, which led to downloading pornographic erotic images. I try to avoid alcohol as much as possible, and use working out as a stress reliever. I mostly enjoy pilates and yoga, with a training session here and there for weights. Still, at 36 years old and after having two kids, my body isn’t what it used to be and no amount of training can change that. My thighs are a bit bigger, and it infuriates me that I can’t lose the last little bit of my tummy. I can admit I’m a little vain and, although I’m happily married, I enjoy the attention I get from strangers who sneak a second glance when they pass me on the street or out shopping. I especially like it when they are with their own wives and sneak a glance at my ass. I’ve always had a round, firm backside, and I focus on glute and hip exercises during workouts to make sure I don’t lose the one asset which has consistently provided me attention from men.
I remember the affect I used to have on men, as does my husband. I used to love the control I had over them. Despite trying to turn back the clock with vigorous training, it’s just not quite the same. My husband often has to go to Los Angeles for work, and more and more I’ve been staying home, in San Francisco. I just can’t compete with Southern California girls in Santa Monica, Hollywood or Beverly Hills. Even the ones my age there somehow still look just as they did in college. Lately my husband has been encouraging me to dress more provocatively in my daily activities, likely because he too used to enjoy the attention I used to get and longed for the old days. It used to come naturally, and now if I want the looks and attention, the best way to get it is to dress a bit more like a slut. I hated that I had to resort to such measures, but as soon as I feel strangers’ eyes on my body, I don’t care about what I had to do to get it.
What my husband does not know is that this exhibitionism has lead to my posting nude photos of myself (face blurry, of course) on the internet. I like to masturbate while reading the comments.
That’s a very nice dress, and sexy body!
Wud luv those sexy legs wrapped around me!!
that really is a beautiful ass…just want to hug it and nuzzle my face into it!
So inviting! Would eat that pussy and tongue that ass all day!
god I need to fuck that pussy
so hot.. wish my cock was inside you
Great pic……..would luv 2 fill ur ass with my cum!
Sure, you have to get passed the bad grammar bahis firmaları and first grade spelling mistakes, but when I’ve got a few fingers up my pussy, it’s easier to overlook certain trivial elements. And, I’ll admit, as a middle aged woman who used to turn heads a little easier, hearing nasty, filthy comments about my current body make me feel young again. It’s shallow and vain, but it’s just the way it is. I love their anonymous appreciation, and I love hearing about the affects my current womanly body has on men. Lately I’d been posting more and more. Like with any addiction, it escalates.
All of this, of course, began with the club, “Lily.”
I looked up, into the eyes of the rugged valet as my long leg reached out from the car, and my heel hit the asphalt beneath a small puddle of dirty rainwater. My little cocktail dress pulled away from my thigh, revealing quite a bit to the valet. With him standing over me, holding the car door open, he also had an excellent view of my breasts, hanging freely inside my dress. I don’t dress every night like this, mind you, but tonight, knowing where I was headed, I allowed myself to push it. Strangers were going to see my naked body soon enough, so why not give the valet a peek?
Seeing the hunger in the valet’s eyes, his inability to hide his lust even if he wanted to, my power to throw his sexuality into over drive simply by revealing patches of my bare body was exhilarating.
I waited in that pose for a few seconds, letting him look, my heart instantly pounding blood throughout my veins. My increased blood pressure gave me a warm and cold chill. I felt night air on my hard nipples inside my dress.
When my eyes met his, after he had taken a good, hard glance, I felt my pussy tingle. To be totally honest, I would’ve let him grab me, throw me over the hood of my own car, yank my dress up over my ass and forcibly fuck me. Thank God he didn’t.
With that powerful, split-second fantasy playing in my head, he extended his hand, helping me out of the car. As he opened the unmarked heavy metal door to the club, I felt his eyes on my ass and thighs as I walked away, down the narrow, dark hallway. I shot him a quick, sharp glance over my left shoulder. Yep. He may as well have been stroking himself. Before we were married, I was sincerely shocked when my husband casually told me that likely men masturbated to thoughts of me. I turned red, and thought he was just trying to embarrass me. He said it’s not a big deal, but certainly men who saw me at the gym, or even work associates used me to fantasize to. Of course, that was ten years ago now, and I’m sure it is no longer the case
Still, looking into his eyes, my mischievous glance told him to “have fun with me” if he uses me to fantasize to later. Perhaps you think this makes me arrogant, but tonight I wanted to let myself go and feel sexy like I used to.
The club itself was behind another large, metal door at the other end of a little hallway, but the staircase leading up to Mason’s office was here. I heard the muffled sounds of loud, dance music from behind the door. Louder was the sound of my hard heeled shoes hitting the tile floor beneath me.
Despite my nerves, a guilty, anxious smile came over my face as I ascended the wooden steps of the staircase leading up to Mason’s office.
I raised a delicate fist to the door and knocked, lightly, twice. My hand was trembling. Perhaps there was some hesitation or anxiety left in my bones that night, or perhaps it was excitement masquerading as fear. My psychiatrist would likely tell me it was both.
Mason opened the door. His blue eyes, only slightly visible thru his messy grey hair, gave me a quick up and down. His office smelled of cigars and rum.
Without saying a word, he stood at the doorway and watched as I approached the old, oak wardrobe inside his dark office. I loved the smell of this antique, worn furniture piece. In less than an instant, I always seemed to muse on which European countries it had lived, and what it had held, in the centuries since it’s birth. Now it lived here, in modern day San Francisco, and housed costumes of secrecy for those of us who wished to taunt and indulge our sexual tendencies. I opened the doors and began looking through the masks. I selected a dark blue Venetian masquerade mask, the type that covers only around the eyes and nose, and features a large decorative feather. I next chose a long, black wig to hide my blond hair.
Mason was excellent with using more than enough snap clips and pins to fix the wig solidly to my own hair. Mostly this was because he very much enjoyed looking me in the eyes as he gave it a few hard tugs. He knew secrecy was extremely important to me, and that absolutely no one in “real life” could find out what I was doing here. This was the excuse we both used to allow Mason to really tug on the black wig, yanking the roots of my blond hair beneath. He liked watching my mouth and eyes wince from the little, sharp pains.
I loved kaçak iddaa this part: The coach smacking me on the ass before sending me into the game. I knew he wanted to fuck me. I could feel the burning lust in his eyes. His fucking would please me enough so that he could hurt me, just a little, and I wouldn’t mind. Mason didn’t fuss with romance or love. Another performer who fucked Mason told me that he both savors and enjoys women sexually. As she put it, it’s like the more he indulges his desires with her body, the more she enjoys it. And from the blushing face on this particularly trashy stripper, I’d have to guess she agreed.
My husband, although rather conservative, is very attentive sexually. He comes from an extremely wealthy, Christian family, and was raised to be very aware of appearances. We did not live together before marriage, and we did not have sex before our wedding night. Having only had three sexual partners in my life, I’m certainly not as open as some of my friends were, but I was worried that our sex life would go lacking. At first, I was so grateful that he was so preoccupied with my orgasm and my pleasure over his own. I appreciate the concern, but over the last few years, I’ve been frustrated with the realization that deep down, I may be a girl who just likes to be fucked.
Looking at Mason, my mind playing out imagined scenes of him using up his sexual partner, I wanted him to hurt me. That is, I wanted him to hurt me while he made me cum until I ached and begged him to stop.
“Room 5. It’s ready for you now. Curtain at 11,” he told me. I believed he knew what I was thinking. I was afraid he could read my mind.
Part of me wanted to fall back on that awful green thrift store love seat in the darkest corner of his office and finger myself for him. Not say a word, just part my fleshy white thighs, toss my skirt up above my waist, look him dead in the eye and watch him watch my pussy eagerly accept two little fingers inside it’s wet, warm environment. Standing in my masquerade mask and black hair, in character, “Amy” asleep somewhere deep inside my psyche, I very much wanted to see how I could affect Mason. Would I see his heart thumping underneath his skin tight V-Neck? Would I see his cock growing when I began to whimper as my hungry orgasm woke within me? Would he be forced to drop his pants and masturbate when I licked my own juices from my fingers, then used one to trace the stiff bud of my asshole while fingering myself with the other two (One of many masturbatory “party tricks” in my arsenal, only seen by my own eyes thru a mirror)? Would he stumble forward as his orgasm peaked and discard his cum on my low-cut dress? Spilling himself on my pale white cleavage? Would he ejaculate his warm, salty seed on my face? My lips? My cheek? Perhaps I would involuntarily open my mouth for him…
No. Not tonight. There were rules. I always need rules in situations such as these. Once the hunger for “newness” and “danger” is fed, the desire calls the shots.
Unfortunately the intrusive erotic thought of Mason watching me finger myself was very much alive and needed some attention. This was a test. How do I feed the little beast without going too far? Remaining silent, I chose a black, lace slip from the oak closet.
Before Mason could turn his back to give me privacy, I was quick to nonchalantly drop the shoulder straps of my cocktail dress from my frame, allowing the dress to spill to the ground around my heels.
I stood still, allowing Mason to look at my naked body. I desperately wanted to fondle my little breasts for him. To allow him to watch me delicately run my fingers of my left hand around the nipple of my left tit. I wanted to ask him about his cock while I squeezed my breast with right hand and only slightly fingered myself with my left.
“God, how badly do you want to fuck me right now, Mason?” I wanted to breathe to him. I wanted to laugh and taunt him. To languidly inquire: “You want to know what my pussy tastes like? Once and for all? Do you think you’ve ever tasted a pussy like mine before?” I wanted him to consider the question. “What does a girl with my thoughts — my eyes, my feelings, my hopes, and my dreams… what does her pussy taste like?”
“You’d remember the faint, sweet taste of my pussy forever.” I wanted to threaten as I looked into his eyes. “You’d crave a second taste, but I’d never give you one.”
After only a few seconds of silence, I turned around, stepped into the lace slip and pulled it snug over my skin.
I had the urge to touch my hot, moist pussy inside the lingerie. I wanted to comfort myself, and at any time of high excitement, it always grounded me to touch my pussy, even over my jeans if I was in public. But right now, I wanted to stroke my soft, bare lips.
I masochistically enjoyed denying myself this pleasure.
I walked out of his little, bleak office overlooking the club. I heard the hard stem of my heel hit each of the seven wooden steps on the way back down the cheap staircase, kaçak bahis echoing loudly in my brain off of the dingy tiled hallway. I felt as though I was in a dream as I continued to the door leading onto the floor of the strip club.
The main floor of “Lily” was an entirely different vibe. Lit entirely by candlelight and a few large fireplaces, it was like stepping into another world: Elegant yet peeling brown wallpaper clung to the walls. Dark red velvet booths were scattered throughout, each grouping of them in front of one of five display rooms. “Lily” was a throw back to classy “peep shows” of the past. It was also a rum and cigar bar, a very expensive one, and it was easy to feel like you stepped into the movie Casablanca. I loved the mood and tone of the place.
I always cut through the crowd and headed straight to performance space. I didn’t drink or chat with anyone. I felt the eyes looking at me, my attire giving me away as one of the night’s performers. I loved the attention, but keeping up the mystery was very important to me.
“Room 5” was my favorite room — a freestanding, ten foot by ten foot glass box, sound proofed, surrounded on all sides with tables and chairs for the audience. Inside the room was a small couch for the dancer to lounge on in between performances. Mason provided magazines and a laptop inside the box for us to use to kill time before the show. There were only a few candles lit in the room, and the exterior lighting around the floor of the space was very dim. All of this made the experience more erotic rather than the typical strip club.
A lot of people enjoyed this voyeur element more than the typical strip-show itself. They liked seeing a pretty girl in a mask and lingerie hanging out in a display case surfing the web or flipping through magazines. As if the dancer were a pet they kept for light masturbatory entertainment. I never made eye contact with the guests. I enjoyed keeping “the fourth wall” intact. I liked giving them the ease to relax, as if I didn’t know they were watching me.
Showtime was 11pm, and the cold chills of my nerves were in over drive. I muttered a customary “oh fuck” to myself when I heard the cue:
Ladies and Gentlemen: Sara will now begin in Room 5.
Yet, just as the lights went down I saw something that truly terrified me. For whatever reason, I broke my own rule and quickly glanced out over the crowd. Standing near the front and to the left was my husband’s brother, Eric, and his father, John.
Typically, in these few moments of darkness, I’d stand from the couch, so when the lights softly came back up, I’d be ready to sway with the music and discard my clothes. But now, I was fucking panicked. I was visibly trembling.
“Oh fuck,” Could they know? Could they know it was me behind the black wig and mask? What were they doing here?
It had to be a coincidence. My husband’s brother, Eric, was not religious. He was the black sheep of the family, using family money to produce low-budget “indie” movies. Some made money, most didn’t. Eric’s relationship with his and my husband’s father had been strained. I knew they were trying to bond again, but I’d never think Eric would bring his Dad to a place like this. Still, from the look I remember on both of their faces before the lights went down, clearly both were excited for what they thought was to come. They just had no idea it was going to come from me, John’s son’s wife.
I steeled myself, insisting they had no idea it was me. Then, I allowed myself to enjoy the secret sickness of it all. I would be the only one who knew about this. I would excite both my father-in-law, and brother-in-law, likely give them both erections as they looked over my naked body. At future family gatherings, they will treat me just as “Amy”, the reserved wife of their conservative son / brother. Yet I will know about this night. Would they masturbate to thoughts of me? I was suddenly very excited.
My dances were usually no more than a few minutes, just the length of a song. I know that sounds like not enough time, but when you’re in there, removing only a few little pieces of lingerie for strangers, it feels much longer. The thought of John and Eric watching me made me very wet.
I was sure not to look for them again as I slowly pulled my panties down around my ankles, and removed my bra. I always left my heels on. Usually I prolonged this stripping and made more of a show out of it, but given the unique circumstances tonight, my kinky side was in overdrive.
Naked in heels, I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle of red sitting on the little table. I took a drink and sat down on the love seat. John and Eric’s presence for my show that night had encouraged me to go a little farther. Being nude wasn’t enough.
I began to finger my pussy for the crowd. With the room being soundproofed, I heard absolutely nothing. Some girls liked to hear music, I enjoyed complete silence.
I pictured John and Eric in my mind while my little fingers ran up and down my wet slit. I thought of kissing Eric as two of my curved fingers slipped between the slick walls of my lips and entered my pussy. I slid in and out, my body trembling with a mounting orgasm.
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