Pole Position

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note must remain attached.

***

Life's tough since the refinery shut down. Matt has a job part-timing at the garage, but that barely covers the mortgage. And his wife Becky, well, there aren't a lot of ways to earn money with only a high school diploma.

But there's always the Pit Stop.

She starts by dancing and waitressing six shifts a week, then eight shifts when management notices the clients like her, and extra work when the racetrack's busy. Matt doesn't like it, not by half, but these days a paycheck's a paycheck. Or in Becky's case, singles, fives, tens and the occasional twenty. He doesn't come down and watch her at work after that first week -- she says it makes her feel dirty, and Matt doesn't like seeing the way the other men look at her. He knows what they're thinking, damnit.

But it's not *that* kind of club - not like the ones downstate, with their "special rooms". And anyway Becky always comes home to Matt, and what she does in the sack with him, well, he'd have to be made of stone to say no to her. He's lucky, and he knows it.

Still, he's sitting at the back of the club today with a gimme cap tugged down hiding his face. He watches as a couple of dancers take their turns on the small stage, each one putting her bikini top back on when they leave to make the rounds of the tables. He finishes his beer and sets the bottle down when a long-nailed hand slides over his shoulder and he smells a mixture of sweat, cigarettes and cheap perfume.

"Hey Matt, what brings you out to our little place?"

It's Connie - five-nine, big-titted, and well-padded where it counts. She settles her ass on his leg and slides a moist kiss across his lips. "Things a little slow at the garage today? You decide you want the businessman's special?" She rubs her thigh against his crotch and leans into him, blocking his view of the stage and giving him instead a view into her strained bikini top. She reaches between them and tugs the bottom of her bikini down, just so he can't miss any of it.

Connie says, "You know that driving spot's open whenever you want it." She emphasizes the word "want" with her hand squeezing his crotch. Connie's husband Lou has a small racing team, but that's not the kind of driving she's talking about. Lou's got a trucking firm that runs things out to the backwoods. Guns. Meth. Whatever makes money - small town, open secret. Matt doesn't want any part of that job, but Connie seems to have her eyes set on him.

"Sure you don't want some of this, big boy? Becky's a sweet little thing but she can't really give a big man like you what *I* can."

The club rules officially say no touching. But the police never come past the front door, and anyway those rules only apply to the paying customers. Connie's fingers can do pretty much whatever she wants them to. It takes an effort for Matt to detach her from his lap, and by then he's already missed his wife's first set.

Becky's gliding around the stage topless as Lynyrd Skynyrd pulses from the speakers. She's the classic fresh-faced Southern girl - strawberry blonde hair, freckles all over, especially noticeable on her breasts as she presses them around the pole. Her nipples are all puffy - Matt can tell she's enjoying herself. Between Connie and Becky, he's getting awfully tight in his jeans. His breath catches as she walks the front edge of the stage, leaning forward and swinging herself at the men in the front tables.

Becky picks up the bills from the stage floor as the music ends, plucks several more from her G-string, and wriggles her rear at the applauding men before putting the top on and starting her rounds at the far side of the room. Matt takes the opportunity to make a discreet exit, a mixture of arousal and guilt going with him to his pickup truck.

He really shouldn't have gone to the club. But sometimes, a man's just got to be sure.

A cold shower and another beer at home helps. It's too empty and too quiet in the house, and Connie had been right without knowing it - Matt's boss had cut his hours earlier. He turns on ESPN and watches a rerun of last week's featured race. The camera focuses on one car and he shakes his head. Women drivers in NASCAR - the whole world's just gone upside down. That reminds him - the circuit comes to town this weekend, so Becky's going to be working extra shifts for sure.

Another beer, then. And maybe a nap - there's a few hours before she gets home from the club. Yeah, a nap is a good idea. He'll just close his eyes for a bit.

It's like he never left the club, ZZ Top echoing in his ears and cleavage pressed into his face, womanly weight rocking across his lap. He rocks back, his cock rising to the occasion. If this keeps up, his jeans are going to be a mess but he doesn't want to stop.

"Mmmm, you like that don't you? You want a real special lap dance, baby?"

Matt's eyes blink open. That's Becky's voice.

And indeed, that's Becky straddling his lap, the sheets pushed down to his feet, her breasts swinging over his face. "I saw you at the club today. You looked so cute trying to hide in the back." She leans down and slides her nipples across his, dragging through his chest hair. "I hope you don't mind I didn't start dinner for us yet. I kind of thought you might have a different kind of appetite."

Becky twists her hips, trapping his erection under the firm curves of her bottom and the thin cotton of his boxers. He shudders and stiffens, pushing his pelvis up against her.

She slides off that ridge, drawing a groan of disappointment from Matt, but her cool fingers open his boxers and pull him out into the air, dancing from base to head. Her lips tease, but that's not how she wants him. Instead she holds him upright, and slides herself down clasping him inside, his pulses amplifying hers. "Oh God," he says, as Becky does something with her inner muscles. "I'm ..."

He can't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to as his body tells Becky everything she needs to know. The smile on her face is positively angelic as her thighs flex against him. Matt's fingers claw at the bed sheets and tears flow as he gives up his all, lost and drowning in the beauty and love of his wife.

Somewhere amidst the creaking of the bed frame and the slapping of flesh, Matt hears Becky's special squeal, and she comes down atop his chest wriggling inside and out, her kisses dancing over his wet face, cleaning the tracks of his tears.

For a long time, there's no sound other than the pounding in their ears.

"Becky," he starts.

"Ssshh," she says, putting a finger to his lips. "If it's about the garage, I heard about it. We'll manage, Matt. We always have."

Now his tears come full force, sobbing openly, shaking as she strokes his cheek. There's so much he'd tell her, if he could only say the words.

But Becky knows that already.

/ END /