The Best Erotic Stories.

The Dancer Pt. II
by EvesDemise

Suddenly, the owner of the club appeared on the scene, but taking care as was his usual practice when arriving on the scene of a "private", to stamp noisily, before entering the downstairs room. This afforded the man, whose fingers, up to this point, had been probing rudely deep inside of me, to remove these fingers, and replace his now, wet hand between his own clenched knees. I stood with a smile, adjusting, for the second time, my silver pink and green skirt, before sending a smile to the older man. The owner did not seem worried if he were interrupting anything we were doing there.

The fact is, that we were not supposed to be doing anything there, or anywhere in the club, for that matter. Although, as I said earlier, the club had a sort of Clinton approach to contact with customers; the "don't ask, don't tell" policy, the owner wisely insured that though it may be possible to set up a special session, with compensation to him personally, involving one or more dancers, this was not discussed, or even eluded to by him to the customers in the presence of the dancers. You see, his greatest policy the CYOA policy, or "cover your own ass" was practiced by him quite regularly, and without apology to anyone. He was as the rest of the club, hard core. And to work there for any length of time required one to be as thick-skinned.

"Ok, Eve, sweetcheeks," he said, coming over and smacking me possessively on my warm, thonged ass.

"Get on upstairs now. You're on after Kali"

Obediently, I skitted off up the stairs, to give the DJ my next song picks, and then hurried back to change my clothes. I chose a black and gold outfit, more strings and gold rings than anything. I wrapped my small waist with a long piece of gold fabric, lined with black. I tied my hair up in a high, sexy ponytail, and left little pieces to hang on either side of my face.

Kali's second song, her last for that set, was almost over, and I didn't have much time. I forgot to take all the twenties the private had made me minutes beforehand so ran out to the stage, barefoot, with money like a Christmas door wreath wrapping my right thigh. I danced to two Jackyl songs, first The Lumber Jack, bumping and grinding my hips and ass in time to the chainsaw buzzing in the song, and then ending with She Loves My Cock arching up for one of my favorite customers, who had apparently slipped into the club while I was downstairs earlier.

He would fold his tens and fives into paper airplanes, sailing them across my naked body, and landing them all around me, as I bent and kneeled, and arched, giving him special view of my untouchables. He kept saying he was going to get a private with me, everytime he came to the club. He came at least once a month, but he usually only stayed long enough to see each girl dance once, and land his famous, and envied airplanes on me, and then he would leave until the next month. At the end of my set, I winked at him, and then went back to the dressing room.

I finally got a chance to deposit my huge pile of cash in my trunk, and quickly locked it. There had to be at least three hundred plus, just in twenties, and tens, I thought to myself with a smile. I was on a roll. I primped up my curls in my sassy ponytail, added some lipliner and gloss, and bounded back out to the floor. I walked around, eyeing prospective customers, for a table dance, as Bambi did her thing to a couple of AC/DC tunes up on the stage. I sidled up to where my favorite customer, the aforementioned airplane flyer, and wrapped an arm around his brown shoulder. Leaning down, once I knew I had his attention, I said hello.

"Hi, baby." I said, as a whisper in his ear. "Want a table dance?"

He smiled, saying, "You know I do, beautiful. But not right now. I got business with my people." He motioned with his hand to those at his table, five men of various ages, all watching him, and waiting for him to say something. I was not one to pry, and so played up the dumb, beautiful dancer act, saying, "Alright then, I can see you are busy here now." Before standing up again, I looked around at his business partners, and noticed that two of them I had seen before. In fact just recently, downstairs for my private dance. It was the same shy boy and the older man who seemed to be his father, or uncle.

"Hello, again, Eve," the older man said, looking across the table at me.

"Hello," I said smiling at the man.

"Eve, here is quite a dancer." the man proclaimed to those seated at the large table.

"Believe me, I already know," my favorite customer agreed, adding "Hot, sexy little thing."

"She's even hotter up close and personal, if you know what I mean," the older man continued, with a wink at me.

"I've never had the pleasure of being up THAT close and personal," my airplane man returned, tracing a finger up between my tits.

"Oh, well, Scott and I have," the older gentleman said, turning to the shy boy to whom which he referred.

"And so how was it?" the gorgeous man, whose lap I wanted to be in as he looked up into my eyes, asked.

"Well, as far as for Scott, I don't know if he was into it really," the man said, probably embarrassing the boy to death.

"But I know one thing," the older man continued with his version of our private dance earlier, "I know somebody who WAS into it, and deep into it too." then the man shot me a knowing look and laughed.

"And who might that be?" my favorite customer asked with a sly grin at the man.

"Me, oh yeah. Deep too." They both laughed, and the boy looked about how I felt, how nice it would be if the floor of the club opened up and swallowed me right about then. I shot the older man a look of disgust at his in-depth discussion of our session together.

"So Scott," my airplane flyer asked the boy, "You didn't enjoy yourself?"

Scott didn't answer. He just looked down at his beer.

"Maybe your second time you will know more what to do, huh?" the man asked him.

"Uh-yeah, I guess, if there ever is a next time." was the boy's reply.

"Sure there will be, son," the older man assured the shy boy.

"Maybe sooner than you think," my gorgeous customer answered with a laugh, and wrapped his arm around my waist. All but the boy laughed then, as I looked around at the throng. I pretended to get the joke, the one that seemed to be so funny, but I didn't and I was kind of tired of leaning over affording the older man with his lude comments such an expansive look at my cleavage. I knew all he thought, no matter what I did, when he looked at me, is how wet I was, and how obediently I had spread myself for him just a little while ago. I didn't like that I had given into my submissive side, to the point of it affecting my job, and therefore my cash flow. That was inevitable, because once a dancer lets the customer in on her secrets, she is doomed. Turning my attentions back to my airplane man, I stuck my tongue out just close enough to make him wish I had stuck it out further, and brushed with warm air of the thrust, his full lips.

He side-glanced me with a soft smile, and said, "I will come up to the rail when you dance, beautiful. You know I only come here to see you dance for me."

He was a gorgeous man, in my opinion, not just outside, which was all brown and long dark hair, and dark chocolate eyes, but on the inside too. He would always tell me I was too beautiful to work as a dancer in a little dive club, that I should be a model or actress. I would then always tell him I wanted to go to college, and that I was a writer. We could speak like friends, as I shed my clothes for him, in public, and he would beam, almost with personal pride in what he knew everyone in the place saw, each time I danced for him. And yet it would seem we were alone, just him and me.

Secretly, I wanted so badly to dance for this man in a private, that I could taste it. Rarely, very rarely a customer would physically turn me on. I think part of it was the fact that this particular customer had known me since I was a freshman in high school. He was a senior when I arrived, so we did not have much to do with one another, and in fact, I did not even realize that he had ever even noticed me back then. I was all lanky, and flat chested. I found out, though, that particularly slow summer evening, while dancing for him, that he indeed remembered me.

"I want you to know," he said, leaning on the rail of the dance stage, as he slid dollars in my garter, "I remember you from school."

Surprised at his words, I leaned down, after adjusting the recently placed bills, and said. "You do?"

"Uh huh." he said with a smile from ear to ear. "I wanted you too, boy did I want those hips of yours gripped in my hands."

I was almost embarrassed, thinking back to the days when I would never have even imagined being that close to the beautiful boy, smoking in the parking lot of the school, his own breath a steam, mingling with all the smoke of those around him. I only trusted myself once to even approach that crew, and asked for a light. He whipped one out of his long, black trench coat, and shielding the flame from the cold winter wind, held the lighter up to the end of my Marlboro. I did my best impression of any of the famous femme fatales of the old movies, leaning into the flame, and drawing hard, before standing back up, and meeting his gaze. He smiled at me that day, and I never forgot that mouth, or those eyes.

Now, here I was, totally naked in front of him, a veteran of the strip club scene, listening to him confess to me how much he had thought of me since then.

I had to snap myself out of the past, feeling the air of the a/c on my bare ass. Snapping back into my business mind, I took the opportunity to inquire as to why he still had not requested a private dance with me.

He smiled, and said, "Well, actually I think tonight might be the night, beautiful."

"Okay," I replied, inwardly jumping at finally maybe having the chance to be oh so close to this man. "Just tell one of the guys up there." I pointed in the direction of the cooler and the owner's son, who were watching our every move at that point. "They will set it up, and then they'll let me know, and we'll do it."

He smiled at my vague verb usage and replied, with a sly grin on his gorgeous face, "Oh we'll do it, will we?" He looked me up and down slowly then, actually making me, the pinnacle of immodesty, feel self-conscious about my lack of clothing at that moment. Leaving me at a loss for words, another rarity in my experience with men, I smiled again, and winked.

"We might." was the best quip I could return, but it must have worked, for as the song ended along with my set, and I headed to the bar for a drink and was informed by the cooler that I had a private downstairs, and could take it before or after my next set. It was policy and procedure for them never to tell us (the dancers) exactly who was waiting for us downstairs for a private.

A lot of the girls bitched about this, and argued with the owner about not knowing whom they were meeting in private, but I rather liked the concept. It added to the sexual servitude which a dancer displays to the club, in presence of the customer. This, in my opinion, gave the customer an advantage over the dancer. And that was, in fact, what any paying customer was putting up their cash for; the opportunity to be made to feel in control over the girls.

As I returned from the dressing room, in my black shiny bra top, the cups sheer black, allowing my tits to peek from under the line of black fringe, as I moved, with matching thong of black wet look leather, the same type of fringe concealing my bare pussy, at least until I started to sway, I was met by a strong brown hand around my slender arm, which pulled me quickly around to face its owner. It was him, my airplane man. "Look, beautiful," he said with his trademark smile, "I want you to dance for some friends of mine."

I was crushed, after thinking I would finally get to be alone with him. But he was, after all, the customer. And I was, after all, the product whose services were being bought. But he would not have to pay me. Oh I wished that were true. I WANTED to be with him. It was not a job then. Oh this was no good. None of it. I tried to smile up at him. He was at least a head taller than I. "Alright then", I managed to say, with what I hoped, seemed like enthusiasm, or at least, indifference.

I no longer wished him to know how I felt about him. Let him open up and confess his sins to me, if he liked, I thought to my self, as I inhaled his musk. I will not allow him the opportunity to know my feelings. My eyes became dull, I knew, as I looked at him, or rather through him, as he held be up against the wall of the hallway, next to the bar. I looked down at our feet, his in weathered boots, mine, bare, as I seemed to be naked in more ways than usual that night. I didn't want him to see the disappointment in my eyes, that I would not be alone with him.

"But, I wanna watch you, sexy." He said to the top of my head.

I didn't know what to think. I guess I should be glad that at least he would be there, even if it were only to observe. But I wanted him to myself. He didn't mind sharing me, but I was feeling sort of selfish.

He squeezed my arms a little tighter for effect, I suppose. Leaning with his breath tickling my ear, he gave me goose bumps as he said, "I don't know why, but I have always thought of you as mine when I came here. And because of that, I have always wanted everyone to know that you are mine and only mine."

"Well, that certainly made sense as to why he would then want to share me," I thought somewhat angrily.

"But here, at this place, I can't just go around cutting into your profits, telling everyone that you are mine."

I thought about his words, and somehow that made sense to me. He was right about not being possessive with me. I was, after all, a dancer, a performer, and actress of sorts, paid to act out customer's fantasies, not just hang around for the once a month visit from some guy who lit my cigarette back in high school. I was being silly. I knew I loved this guy for some reason, now I knew why. He thought ahead. He thought things through. That must be why he was so quiet. But why, then would he still want to buy me for some other man, and then want to watch? I was puzzled, so looking up at him, I simply asked, "Don't you want me?"

He smiled and replied "Of course I do, and I have for a long time." Then he huffed with frustration.

"I am trying to explain to your sexy little mind," he laughed softly, "that in order for me to let other people know that you are mine, I have to show them that you will dance for them. The pride I feel in knowing that they will know that I am watching, and that you are only with them because I will it is what makes it all real for me." He let go of his harder that soft clasp on my one wrist, to cup my chin in his hand, and drag my face to meet his soft, brown eyes.

"You are so beautiful. I want to share you. I know you want me, and I want you that much too. I see how they all look at you. Don't you see it? You aren't like the other girls here. We can all watch them, and think they look good, and buy them drinks and even maybe take them home with us for a night, but none of them is like you."

"What?" is all I could say. He was making me out to be some sort of dream dancer, and I don't know that I could live up to all of that. I was actually starting to get nervous. Damn him, anyway!

"No one wants you for the night, sexy. They want you forever. To possess you, own you. Damn, darlin' I want to OWN you!!"

His voice just seemed like a flower petal, heavy with an afternoon rain, and warmed by the enlightenment of the sun's rays. I could never say "no" to this man; a fact I was not so proud of, and one that could be dangerous in this line of work. My mind was drunk with the liqueur that was his heartfelt confession to me. And so I said the only thing that came to my parted lips, as I looked into his beautiful face, aching to kiss his need for me away; "Alright. I will do it."

He smiled at my words, brighter than I had ever seen him smile. "Don't worry. I will be there the whole time. I told the cooler that I would play bouncer, and he said it was okay. I know him from way back too, and he knows I can be trusted," he assured me, and headed back into the main part of the club.

My chosen tune lilted through the speakers perched precariously upon small shelves on either side of the stage where I began my sweet routine. It was a mating dance-of-sorts. With my back facing my audience I heard them enter behind me (My airplane man, whom I figured reclined lazily in a chair off in a darkened corner of the dimly lit room, awaited my performance) He had told me he would be there in lieu of the owner's son, the regular bouncer for these events. This was fine with me. I hated the idea of being limited in my job, with things such as allowing no customers on stage, or making sure there was no actual contact with a customer.

After all, this, as I mentioned before, was where the big money was to be made in this business. So I sat on laps, yes, totally nude, and I raked fingernails slowly down the backs and chests of those who paid the extra cash to get that close. I guess, in a way, and I am sure this would be considered bad business practice with most other exotic dancers out there, I considered it a compliment that my customers would ask for some private, let's say 'quality time' with me, and were willing to fork over a pretty penny to both me and the club for the opportunity. For this, I suppose, I showed my own appreciation the way only a dancer can.

But the thought of favorite customer watching me, with anyone who wasn't him made me nervous once more, and I tried to imagine which of his "friends" he was treating to this private show.

I knew shortly thereafter who my audience was, and realized what my airplane man had meant when he had said upstairs at the table, "It may be sooner than you think."

The boy, Scott sat at a safe distance from the stage, watching with only one wide eye at its corner, as the older man, in comparison, reveled once again in all the glory of being a red-blooded male in a liberal strip club. I smiled at this older man, over my shoulder, and shot a quick look at the boy, who, embarrassed to be caught looking back, quickly pulled his own gaze immediately to the tiled floor in front of him. Swaying back and forth, I turned slowly, rolling my hips and allowing my body to follow. As I faced the two men, the dance pole between us, I reached forward with both hands and grasped the shiny brass in front of me.

I looked vainly into the darkness, hoping to see my true audience, but the lights on the stage blinded me like a deer in the path of an oncoming car. Trying to put the fear of him not actually being there, but tricking me into think he was, I turned my attention back to the dance pole. Caressing it as a lover, first with my hands, and then with my body, I slowly lowered myself down on my knees. Again holding the gaze of the older man, I straddled the giant brass phallus, and leaned back into a graceful arch until my black fringe covered crotch met with the cold metal of the pole. I caught my breath in my throat over and over as I moved slowly up and then down the pole, my thighs gripping it on either side. If my airplane man was there watching, I did not want to disappoint him.

The music intro was coming to an end, and the lyrics to Creed's Torn began as I spun around, to look directly into the eyes of the older man, He just watched me; eyes wide and all -consuming. I could see that he was already undressing me with his memory of the dance earlier. I still remained a sure two feet from where he sat as I reached behind me, with both hands, and undid the clasp on my matching black bra top. I allowed him to enjoy the scene, as my hands came together to lacing my fingers in front of me. I pushed my arms downward, urging the black straps off my shoulders.

Both silky strings slid obediently down my arms, to rest on my wrists. With one quick, well-rehearsed movement, I grabbed the left strap and flung the small, fringed piece of fabric back between my still parted thighs. Standing before the two men, with only my black thigh-high boots and sheer black fringed panties, I caught the strap with my free hand between my legs, and began dragging it up and down and back and forth, slowly across my crotch. The two men (or three, as I wasn't sure at the moment) watched me, as the second verse began: 'Torn--I'm filthy...' The boy, Scott must have been a big Creed fan. I could see, as I watched both men through hooded eyes, that he, his own eyes half shut, was tapping his foot, and absent-mindedly smacking the top of his blue-jeaned leg in time to the music.

I took that opportunity to try and 'make nice' with him. Every second beat of the chorus, I slid one booted foot and then the other an inch or two closer to where my music-minded audience member was sitting. By the time the song had reached the haunting lead break, I stood in front of the boy, who, with his head back and eyes still half closed, took little notice of me. I took the liberty then of reaching out to him, so to speak, and placing my hand on the knee he bounced in time to the guitar riff, I leaned forward, brushing my bare breasts against his tee shirt, and whispered in his ear, 'I like em' too, baby.' I figured he heard me, and understood my reference to the band he was obviously enjoying.

I hoped this would put him more at ease, so he might enjoy all the effort being made here. He jumped, as his eyes flew open, and almost knocked himself backward in the chair. Seeing I had startled him, I smiled as sweetly as I could, and pushed myself back to stand in front of the two of them again. The song was coming to the end, and so was my first of two dances for them. I ended my first performance, kneeling on the floor, head forward and arms crossed over my bowed head. As the CD in the juke was changing, I took time to just breathe as I sat curled there in front of them, hair thrown forward on the floor at their feet.

"Boy," I heard the older man say, scooting his chair across the floor. "This is your night. The big two-one!" So, It was the boy's birthday, and obviously his first time at a club like this, let alone his first private dance session. 'Poor thing,' I thought, as the CD kicked in place. I remained in my prone position, listing to the-tell tale hiss, before the second song began in earnest.

"Now, I want you to enjoy yourself," the older man was saying, obviously pressuring the boy by his gruffer tone. " This time show that little girl there who's boss."

I heard the Scott answer him in a soft, decidedly timid tone, "I-I don't think I know how..."

But the man cut him off, saying "Well then son, if you don't know how, I guess I'm gonna have to show you how." And as he preached those last words, I raised up on my haunches, raising my crossed hands above my head, and looked again in the two men's direction. I was closer now than at the beginning of the first song, and they had moved also, the older man's chair now right beside the shy boy's.

I kneeled in front of them both. Slowly, as the first strains of Creed's My Own Prison began, I raised myself up and stood in front of them as before. I watched them as intently as they now watched me. Caressing first one, and then the other of my milky-warm breasts, I noticed Scott was definitely paying attention after his elder's sharp tone with him. I let my hands press down both sides of my body only to stop a moment to run circles with my slender tan fingers around my belly button, before continuing down and into and under my small, sheer-black panties. With my thumbs, I slowly, teasingly pushed the top of the fringed fabric forward, and down off my hips. Reaching with one hand in his shirt pocket, and pulling the garter, which bound my right thigh inches above the top of my boot with his other hand, the older man deftly pushed a hastily folded twenty from his pocket with two fingers under the black elastic band. I noticed he took great care to brush my inner thigh there before pulling both hands back to rest in his lap, and smiling up at me.

I loved when they put money in my garter. I can't say exactly why, but it made me feel appreciated, well paid and altogether decadent. Smiling back at him, I knew it was my cue to 'lose the bottoms', as they say in the business. But I wanted to help this man out in his efforts to teach the boy 'who was boss', and so, slipping back down to the floor, I arched backward, and sliding my hands again above my head, I crossed one leg over the other and rolled to then lay on my stomach, my back now to the two. This is one of my favorite routines, and one my customers favor as well, I think. My next move was one of well thought out submission. I hoped it played out well for my unseen lover whom I still hoped was somewhere out there in the darkness, watching how his gift to these two men was being appreciated.

As the chorus of the song began: 'Shoulda' been there on a Sunday mornin' bangin' my head... ', I pushed back on my elbows, to raise my still thong covered bottom to their view. I rocked in that position on both my elbows and knees in time to the fevered lyrics, looking back every so often, to wink or smile at them both. I loved, though, not looking back; just imagining what they looked like or were doing as I kneeled on all fours that way, seemingly vulnerable to anyone or anything in that submissive position. I felt a hand slide under my garter once more, and the cold kind of thank you that folds scratched my warm thigh. I smiled to myself, knowing the show was good. I pushed myself backward, bending all at the waist until only my feet and elbows were still firmly on the floor. (Being limber, I should probably explain here, is a very effective way of attracting an attentive audience.)

Whether one is a professional dancer or not, it lets others know your limits and abilities if placed in a situation that calls upon these talents. Rhythm, I think is equally important. Anyone having a bit of experience in the art of lovemaking will understand how the two go hand-in-hand. So it is also in the art of exotic dancing. A dancer must appear able to meet the expectations of the customers. Each customer, I always assume, arrives with a fantasy, a play of ideals, in which they are the stars, and one or more dancers are to take supporting roles in their fantasy play.

Therefore, when I am given the opportunity, as I see it, to co-star in one of these fantasies, I approach it with thoughts of graciousness and attitudes of strength and courage of knowledge. Fear, true fear has no place, in my opinion, in art forms of any kind, including exotic dance. If you approach your art with fear, then you immediately limit your creativity and talents to the minimal necessary to achieve only mediocrity.) So, with this knowledge well in place for me, I grabbed both ankles as I bent and looked through my legs at the men before tucking my head and completing a slow somersault forward, to end further from the two men than before, but leaning forward on my elbows and up on my knees once again, in the same position.

It was as the last verse ended and the chorus began once more, that I slowly backed up, crawling backward, on my knees, my head low, between my arms. I continued inching back towards them both, but moving over towards the older man. When I was kneeling directly below and in front of him, I looked back and asked him, in a soft, kitten-like voice, "Would you please take my panties off me? I am getting sooo hot!"

I don't say much during my acts, as a rule, but what I do say awards a great impact on the moment, as was proven, once again to me, by way of this man's reply.

"Oh my, yes, sweetie" he said to my rear end. "I bet you are getting a bit warm by now, and wet again too"

I smiled, though I didn't look back, as I felt his large hands slipping under the spaghetti-thin elastic which hugged my hips, and stood between me and all-out freedom from modesty.

He then added, slyly, "I know you're making me hard just looking at you."

Closing my eyes, I let him grasp my hips in both hands, eventually I could feel a couple of fingers traveling to my inner thighs. Almost as a feather kiss, those same fingers brushed against my warm, moist lips there. It shocked me for a moment, but I didn't move an inch, other than to sneak a sidelong glance to see how all of this was affecting our younger audience member. He sat, arms folded across his middle, looking intently into my eyes. I smiled at first, before sensing in those eyes something that seemed like sadness, or more specifically, pity.

Surely he did not feel sorry for me! That thought, in itself, heated me with anger deep in my stomach. It traveled the length of my body, and met the panties on their way, as they were eased by unseen hands to my ankles. I was rigid at that moment, with hatred. I now understood why this young man was so preoccupied during my show. It was not fear or even embarrassment that had kept him distant, but disgust and pity. He was disgusted with me, with my show. He pitied me; the poor little stripper, dancing and taking her clothes off for men, for money.

'Oh, no,' I thought to myself. 'No. He didn't know me. He only knew my outside; my performance, what he had bothered to watch.' Perfected over time, it was a beautiful show, one akin to making love. But it was just that, a show. I had been a gift of my beautiful airplane man, and this boy was throwing it back in his face!

I decided then that I would show him how strong this poor little creature was. With pure hatred at this boy's ignorance, and stereotypical persecution, I crawled forward, allowing, with the older man's eager assistance, the little panties to slide over and off my feet. I then backed up on all fours one last time, though this time naked, save my thigh boots and money-stuffed garter, pushing my knees farther apart with each slow backward inch.

I then sat poised, with my back to the older man. I could see his black leather shoes on either side of my knees. I knew I was close enough for him to reach out and grab my shoulders at that point. Both the excitement of the submissive closeness and the hatred at the other's decided pity equally filled and emptied my soul.

I looked over at the boy Scott, who sat, leaned back in his chair as the last chorus of the song ended, and the words played in my head: 'And I said OH, so I held my head up high...hate that burns inside...fueled with selfish pride.' The words just drove me further, as I rocked back and forth, watching the boy who would not watch back, looking to see if my airplane man could see all of this, what he felt about how ungrateful this boy was. I felt rough hands try and hold my hips, grab my tits, which bounced painfully as I only rocked more violently, as breeding with a bull.

When I could no longer stand the man's rough touch, or the desire to be touched by my airplane lover, or at the very least, touched by the gaze of the insolent boy, I defiantly sat back on my heels, spread my bent legs still further apart and raised up on my knees. Bouncing, and rocking, as if possessed by the music, I made love there in front of them all. I made love to the music, to my unseen lover, to hatred, to loneliness as I grudge-fucked pity and shame. Sweat was beading between my tits and tracing wet tears of defiance down my spine to tickle between my ass cheeks.

I fucked the world, not caring who was looking, but knowing they all had to be now, even my dark airplane flyer, as the last notes of the song pounded my senses to numb. The lyrics I kept hearing over and over in my head: 'I created-I created-I created-I created-I created-I created my own prison!!...'

 

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