Monique's Needs

[Note - this story has elements of raceplay in it. It's not meant to offend, but if that's the kind of thing that you don't like, then this is a good point to stop reading. And probably needless to say, but this is a fantasy, so for God's sake don't start putting tasers in sensitive places.]

*****

The limo worked its way through a mess of traffic downtown. Mike Stevens peered out through the tinted glass and watched as the city changed before his eyes from a centre of corporate commerce and competition to a different sort of hedonism, characterised by youth and augmented by all manner of controlled and uncontrolled substances. The inside of the limo was lit by gaudy purple neon lights which played across the dark suits of the six other men and one woman all spaced out territorially on the seats. One of the men passed Mike a bourbon and he nodded his appreciation, listening to the background chatter of international mergers and creative finance. His attention, however, was largely on Monique Jackson, the sole woman in the group, who sat with her legs together, angled to one side in a ladylike fashion that had the effect of turning her torso in such a way that he could see through the gaps between the buttons in her blouse.

The game of peekaboo her shirt played as she moved was certainly a nice pre-game before they reached the club, but it wasn't the first time Mike, or any of the other men in the car, had noticed Monique's chest. It was a running joke in the bathrooms, mail rooms, and golf courses that the star of several business magazine profiles had a very nice rack. Phil, the head of accounting who was currently sitting next to Monique had once said that: "Monique is such a bitch because she doesn't have enough modesty to cover her massive ego and her massive tits at the same time." Mike had always like Phil's description.

Monique wore a look of amused tolerance - it was one she'd had a lot of practise with over the years. She was well aware that they had deliberately decided on a 'boys night out' to try and marginalise her, assuming that she would bow out and make her excuses. Well, she had spent enough time among the big swinging dicks of high finance to hold her own in any environment, and it took a lot more than some naked titties dancing around to faze *this* bitch, thank you very much.

It was, of course, just symptomatic of the struggle Monique had had to fight all of her life. Being from a blue collar background in this environment was one strike against her. Being a woman was two. Being black - or at least mixed race, which basically seemed to count for the same thing on Wall Street - was three - if not more. And having an inconveniently large bosom just multiplied up the difficulty several times over. Monique had often cursed nature for the hand she had dealt her - no man looked much beyond her 40F breasts. She had had to fight for every ounce of respect that she had ever earned from her mind - men had been talking to her chest since she was 14. But she had climbed those mountains all the same, and felt justifiably proud of herself for doing so.

The trouble was, she knew it still counted for nothing as far as these limp-dicked WASPs were concerned. In spite of her achievements, against all the odds, the kind of struggle these boys born with a silver spoon in their mouth knew nothing about, they still looked down on her, still thought she ought by rights to be on her knees in the back of the limo, giving them a tit-job before they came over her face. And what she hated most of all was how wet that knowledge, that casual disdain made her feel. Monique had long since given up on trying to psychoanalyse why she felt the need to submit to rich, arrogant, or even down-at-heels white men. She could tell herself she had internalised centuries of oppression, that she was focusing self hate outwards, or any one of a half dozen other things. All she knew was that it made her horny as hell.

She had never crossed the streams, of course. For all of the times that she had fantasised about slinking off to the worst kind of truck stops and white trash titty bars, seeking the degradation and humiliation that somehow perversely turned her on, it had only ever been her secret fantasy - she had never done it for real, never let her work and out of work personas meet, never let her smart, slick office facade slip. To do that would be the end of her, she knew - the end of all of the money, the comfortable life, reduced to being nothing but a big titted plaything for the Masters of the Universe, the end of everything she had painstakingly built for herself over long hours in high school, college, her MBA and years with the company. Still, she could see Mike Stevens peering at her blouse as they rode along in the limo, and much as the workplace Monique had to look cool and disdainful of his pathetic slobbering, the out of office hours Monique was imagining kneeling in front of him, gagging on his cock.

The limo pulled up alongside an art-deco style club, trying to capture the charm of the burlesque days while pedalling something far seedier. The doors opened and the group filed out, like black suited corporate clowns. They had a table reserved between the two stages, but it was unnecessary. The club was far from full at 7:00 PM on a Friday night. Monique swung her legs, knees together, daintily out of the limo as they arrived, avoiding giving the assembled corporate dicks a glimpse of her stocking tops or panties, and planted her spike heels firmly on the sidewalk. Monique was tall - statuesque, even. At 5'7", with the addition of the 4" heels she routinely wore, she was virtually equal in height to any of the men, and taller than some. She had often found being physically intimidating to her advantage.

"This is it?" she asked, giving a slightly wry smile. "Classy joint, gentlemen... well, lead on. Mine's a gin sling."

The group settled in to the reserved tables. Mike ordered up an old fashioned. He paid with a $100 bill and looked approvingly at their waitress, dressed in a cliched but pleasingly ribald bunny costume as she laid the remainder of his change before him in singles. He took a sip of his drink and lost the pleased look. Even at the upper end, strip club bar tenders couldn't mix drinks worth shit.

He carefully measured up the girls in the club. There was a solid mix of "types" that might appeal to a variety of tastes. He fired a few singles onto the stage with each act but deflected the advances of the girls who sought to provide company. He bought a lap dance for Jim, who worked in legal. Like a good sport Jim declined to go to a back table and instead took his lap dance in the good company of the group. The short Latina in a slutty schoolgirl costume faced Jim and slid her body across his, the main point of contact being the silicone of her breasts. Straddling the man, she pressed his face between her breasts and kissed his bald head. The lap dance ended when Jim tried to slip a finger up the girl's ass. She jumped in surprise causing a round of laughter from the group which raised glasses to Jim in toast. The club bouncers took no notice of the group even as the dancer left flush with either anger or embarrassment. They were tipping and drinking and could get away with quite a bit.

Monique watched proceedings with a look of amused contempt. She finished her - presumably watered down - cocktail and ordered another. She was drinking perhaps a little more quickly than she usually would, but what the hell - it was a Friday night, and she was probably going to need several more of these get through this evening. She watched the girls go through their routines. Some of them were giving her quizzical glances - probably they didn't get many female customers in here - but Monique was determined not to feel intimidated by the surroundings. The men treated all of the women like objects, of course - bought and paid for - but the girls were pretty good at what they did too, Monique mused, which was separating horny middle-aged businessmen from their money, and no doubt in return regarded the men purely as ATMs. For a while Monique wondered exactly who was being exploited here. Maybe nobody.

They'd been there about an hour, and Monique was on her third overpriced cocktail when Mike bought a girl for her. She was a skinny little thing, barely out of school in a tiny gold bikini. And of course, Mike had made sure he got Monique a black dancer. Monique flushed slightly at that thought - she knew he was deliberately making the comparison. Mike chatted the girl up and a bit of playful banter and a bit more tipping got her to remove her top showing pert a-cup breasts. The girls hand snaked playfully toward his crotch, but Mike shook his head and pointed at Monique. He withdrew a hundred dollar bill he handed it to the girl.

"Make it as slutty as you can, we all want to see what gets her off," he told her quietly.

"What's your name, honey?" Monique asked as the girl approached her.

"Sherry," the girl said, giving Monique a little apologetic shrug, as though she knew she was letting the Sisterhood down but, you know, a c-note is a c-note.

"You're a pretty girl, Sherry," Monique told her, "but I'm afraid I don't swing that way."

"That's okay," Sherry breathed, "I can make it good for girls as well..."

Sherry began to sway to the music and close in on Monique. She swung a long dark leg with a gold spike heel on it over Monique and straddled her, moving her lithe young body against the older woman. This drew some cheers from the men, and Monique sighed at the sight she must be presenting now. This had been a dumb idea. Sherry draped her arms around Monique and licked her glitter and gloss-covered lips, before nuzzling to one side of Monique's neck and gently kissing and nibbling at her neck, shoulder and ear. Monique sighed again, but this time with pleasure as well as embarrassment. Sherry moved to the other side, and did the same thing, then moved her lips to Monique's, letting them lock together. Monique could feel Sherry's tongue probing at her lips and made a decision. Fuck it, they wanted a show, they could have a show. She opened her mouth and the two women kissed, Monique's eyes closed, Sherry still grinding her lap up and down on Monique's, her hands coming down to Monique's blouse, unbuttoning it as the two women remained locked in a steamy kiss. Sherry had Monique's blouse open halfway down now, exposing the older woman's massive swelling breasts in their lacy, tightly constraining bra, and gently ran her hand across Monique's mounds, slowly slipping her hands into the cups of Monique's bra, and gently kneading the flesh there, trapping the nipples between two of her fingers and squeezing them, harder and harder. Monique moaned and arched her back at the sensation, feeling her sensitive nipples pinched, continuing to kiss the younger girl. Against her will she found herself becoming aroused, her panties dampening beneath her formal business skirt.

Mike watched with amusement and awareness that his cock was getting hard as the two women shared an intimate but public moment. He slid his phone from his pocket and discretely began recording the scene, determined that the moment would be made selectively more public. There was a tradition of taking the guys in his department out for drinks after the annual sexual harassment training. It was a good opportunity to swap stories and commiserate and a bit of video of Ms. Jackson getting off with a skinny black girl half her age would be well appreciated. After all, a sexist corporate culture needed careful cultivation to preserve.

Sherry continued to slide herself around on Monique's lap, her tongue returning to Monique's neck again, nuzzling at her ear, playfully flicking her earring. One hand stole down to the waistband of Monique's skirt, and slid inside it. Monique stiffened, realising where this was going, but somehow powerless to resist, feeling Sherry's long, probing fingers slip into her panties, past the neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair, and into Monique's glistening slit. Monique's eyes widened as she closed her thighs involuntarily around the finger, feeling it probe and stroke, gasping with the pleasurable sensation. She had never let a woman do anything like this to her before, had never found women attractive, but Sherry was getting her hot and bothered for sure. Monique suddenly had a moment of clarity, seeing herself in a sleazy strip club with a girl's hands in her bra and panties, her male colleagues watching with their tongues out. She had a brief, horrific vision of herself helplessly orgasming in front of all of her co-workers, and her hands suddenly grabbed at Sherry's hand and dragged it from her crotch.

"That's far enough," she told the girl firmly, pushing her back off her. "You've earned your money now." She looked around, flushed and embarrassed, and pulled her blouse back together again, buttoning it back up. Mike Stevens. This was all his fault. She looked across at him, grinning sardonically, and looked away, not able to look him in the face, angrily grabbing up her cocktail and taking another long swig of it to cool down.

There was a round of hoots and applause slightly more intense than Jim had earned with his sneaky finger trick. Sherry acknowledged the attention and began to take her leave from the group, but Mike caught her hand. "I could use a bit of that brown sugar you gave Monique," he said loudly to the young woman, for Monique's benefit. "Maybe in the back?" He inclined his head toward the beaded curtain separating the private dance area to clarify that he wasn't talking about Jim's version of "in the back."

Mike followed the stripper off toward the back leaving the group to itself for three songs. He returned by way of the bar, this time with a beer bottle rather than some poorly fixed mixed drink. He plopped himself back into his chair with exaggerated relief. The club was beginning to fill up and each stage had a pair of dancers. Most of their group had migrated over to one of the stages where a steady stream of singles was urging the dancers into a show not unlike what Sherry and Monique had demonstrated.

"Our girl, Sherry, has quite the tongue," Mike said as he leaned forward to talk with Monique. "I like it when a stripper gets handsy," he said, smirking. "She said you liked it too. She said you were sloppy wet and you moaned like a cow when she pinched your nipples." He shook his head. "She doesn't think you're a lesbian though, just that you're not getting enough." Monique always seemed so cool, so in control. He wondered if he was getting under her skin.

He was belittling her, teasing her, calling her a cow, and normally Monique would have bitten his head clean off for daring to talk to her like that, but she was unsettled by the exhibition she had put on with Sherry, embarrassed that she had indeed got so wet from this dumb little black stripper, and she was also finding her embarrassment and being talked down to in this way stupidly arousing. She knew if she wasn't careful she was going to end up doing something really stupid like fucking Mike Stevens tonight.

"She must be talented if she can talk that much while her mouth is full," was the best comeback she could manage under the circumstances.

"Sherry said she could give you the numbers of some 'brothers' that you could use for booty calls," Mike continued, draining his beer. "I declined on your behalf, told her I'd get you a big fat dildo for Christmas or Kwanzaa or whatever." Mike found he was really enjoying pushing her. He wasn't sure how much of it was coming across over the music of the club, or how much the woman across from him would take before she slapped him, but he was enjoying himself. "What colour would you want? Flesh coloured or black? I don't think they make Asian dildos but maybe I could special order."

"Is that what you think?" Monique asked him. "That 'we' only fuck each other?" He was goading her now, but so help her she was getting off on it. "Shit, you really are a redneck, aren't you? For your information, and contrary to what the lovely Sherry may have told you, I have no problems in finding company, and yes, that includes white men, and I don't even have to pay them. Can you say the same? I could walk up to any man in this crummy bar and have him in my bed before midnight. Even you. Probably especially you."

Mike flagged down a waitress by indicating with his empty beer bottle that another was called for. He ordered Monique another gin sling without asking. She seemed to be holding her alcohol fairly well, but he also noted that he hadn't seen her up from her chair in a while. She could well have already crossed the line where women lose the ability to walk gracefully in heels.

"Oh you could walk out the door with Jim over there," he finally countered, "but he wouldn't dare slipping a finger up your ass. You would get the same safe, politically correct, human resources approved sex he gives his wife."

In spite of herself Monique laughed out loud at that - it was definitely true.

The waitress returned with drinks and spirited away the empty bottles and glasses. Mike took up his beer and stood. "That is kind of sad." he said, looking down at Monique. "It was probably easier to get good sex when you were just an intern. Guys would get one look at those nipple rings..." - he let the little intimate detail Sherry had divulged hang in the air - "and know you were game for anything."

She groaned inwardly at the knowledge that Sherry had blabbed to him. So he wasn't just bullshitting her about what Sherry had said about her. But the knowledge, another little humiliation piled on top of all of the others this evening, was also another little sexual jolt. Was she really going to do this? The drink was making her reckless, she suspected, but she nevertheless already knew the answer to that one.

"Maybe I am," she smiled up at him, letting a hand come up to her blouse to part it slightly and let him get a better look at her cleavage. "What's your definition of 'anything'?"

He laughed. "There are some pretty sick fucks, out there," he said in response. "You wouldn't believe the strange shit that gets some people off." Mike was momentarily remembering a past girlfriend who needed to choke herself to climax.

Then he noticed that Monique was flirtatiously flashing a bit of cleavage at him. If she was flirting with him after all that something had gone very right. Mentally, he reflected on the pick-up artist practice of 'negging' but that was a subtle art form compared to the last 10 minutes of barbs and petty humiliations.

There were two real possibilities. Either she was fucking with him, which was quite likely given what he knew of her, or she liked that he was fucking with her. Mike leaned town over her where he could see down the front of her shirt. He made an obvious point to do so before pressing his cheek against hers. He whispered into her ear. "You are flashing a bit of cleavage in a titty bar, but there are five girls here with racks as big as yours and they are wearing a hell of a lot less. Your tits aren't special here. You are not special here. And, unlike Jim or Phil or any of the other guys in this cheap little bar I wouldn't fuck you like you were special."

Mike straightened up. "I'm going to the bathroom. You coming?"

She looked up at him, blinking in surprise as he finished his little tirade and walked off. Monique had thought she had been sure where this was going, but now he had pulled the rug from under her again. Now he was basically inviting her to blow him in the bathroom of a seedy strip club. Monique felt as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff, and she knew that the smart thing was to drink up, get a taxi home, and chalk this one up to experience. Mike would get transferred out, she'd have to endure a few snide comments about making out with a stripper, and life would go on as normal. Except every time Mike brought her down, every time he was mean and belittling, every time he humiliated her, her pussy got wound a little tighter. She had fantasised endlessly about giving herself to a sexist asshole like Mike Stevens, but now she had the opportunity to. And he could see that he didn't respect her, would treat her like shit, and that was just making her horny dammit. Why couldn't she just have a normal sex drive? Why did this kind of thing get her going so much?