by Joanna Angel
I paused mid-purse collection. “Really?” I replied.
“Yeah!” she said. “I mean literally just yesterday she was asking me why I don’t have any friends . . . so this is perfect timing.”
“So that’s what I am? Your friend?” I replied.
“Oh my god.” She laughed. “Are we seriously having this conversation three minutes after the first time we had sex?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just want to be . . . more than a friend.” The words just slipped out of my mouth. Hey, she was the one who’d told me to go with my instincts.
She smiled and kissed me again . . . and our kiss was interrupted by the loud beeping sound of a school bus outside.
“I’ll go get her. I’ll be right back!” Melody walked outside.
I sat on her couch and let the moment soak in. It all felt so surreal.
I’d spent this summer as LeClaire by day, and Naomi by night. I’d tried to keep the two personalities separate, never able to quite decide which part of me was actually me, and which part of me was just pretending to be something. LeClaire was not the name I was given at birth. She started off as nothing but a name for my nudity, but she became the source of my strength and independence. She was an exhibitionist, and a hustler. She was my sexual inner animal, who specialized in witty, horny banter with men in suits.
But both parts of me had sex with Melody. The stripper and the hipster—the nerdy and clumsy film school graduate and the graceful and desirable dancer, the Brooklyn and the Manhattan. Every aspect of both of my personalities had come together and joined forces in the name of having mind-blowing orgasms on this very adult teal couch. It felt peaceful. It felt wonderful. It felt . . . like love. A broken American flag bikini had led me to find that special someone that I hadn’t even known I was searching for. Now, I couldn’t get too ahead of myself . . . but I knew that together we were in this for more than just one lap dance.
THE END
To go back and choose another fantasy, turn to page 13.
Rob closed his eyes and soon drifted off to sleep. The minutes passed, but I was wide awake. He began to breathe in that way that isn’t exactly a snore, but almost could be. I wanted to drift off to dreamland with him, but I also wanted to tell him the truth.
“Hey. So, tomorrow, I’m not going to work at the coffee shop,” I said. I didn’t know if he was actually sound asleep or if I’d woken him up and he was ignoring me. I sat up. It’s hard to speak sternly when you’re snuggling.
“ROB!” I said louder, and I shoved him with my hand. Now that I was mentally prepared to tell someone I was a stripper, there was no going back. He had to wake up. His eyes opened, startled. He looked around to collect himself, and then he realized he was in the same exact place that he’d been not even five minutes ago.
“Yeah, hey, um what’s up? You okay? I figured it was cool if I stayed here, but I can go if you—”
He started to get up. He seemed so nonchalant about this situation he thought was happening. If I’d had sex with someone and passed out in their bed, I’d be furious if they woke me up to kick me out. He must have been very used to getting kicked out of beds. I wasn’t sure if I found this concerning or not.
“No! Don’t go, you don’t have to go anywhere. Sorry. Um, I just wanted to tell you something.”
“Do you have a boyfriend or something? It’s cool. . . . Don’t worry, I go back on tour in—”
“No! I don’t have a boyfriend!” I laughed, and now wondered how many of my friends in committed relationships might also be sleeping with Rob.
“Look, I told you I didn’t have to wake up at five . . . and I didn’t tell you why, and I just want to tell you, so you know,” I said.
“Okay . . .” He looked really confused, and rightfully so.
“Today I got fired from the coffee shop I worked at, and . . . well, on my way home I kinda sorta stopped at this strip club in Times Square, and . . . I got a job there. As, you know, a stripper.” He had an innocent, confused expression on his face, but then the confusion turned to a neutral nod, and then the nod turned into a smile.
“Cool! So . . . you’re a stripper now?” he said.
“Well, I just auditioned today, and I go back tomorrow to officially start.” I made quotation marks with my fingers when I said the word “auditioned,” even though it literally was an audition. I just felt like any of my friends who used the word audition referred to trying out for Broadway musicals and such, and I wasn’t sure if applying for a job to work at a strip club warranted the same word.
“Hmm . . . have you ever done it before?” he asked.
“No, never. Nothing even close.” I wasn’t even sure what was “close” to stripping, but the only jobs I’d ever had were working at coffee shops, and for a short while a bookstore, and it was safe to say that neither of these were close to stripping.
“So, wait you just walked in? What did you wear on stage?” he asked.
“Um . . . the same clothes you saw me in?” I shrugged my shoulders, and he broke into a laughing fit.
“Fuck, really? Are you serious? You just walked in and stripped in that?” He pointed at my pile of clothing on the floor, still laughing. I didn’t understand. Coming from a guy who changed his jeans maybe once a month, how was he some kind of Tim Gunn for strippers?
“Well yeah, I didn’t really plan this. Alright? It all kinda just happened.” I was starting to regret telling him.
“I’m surprised you even got the job!” he said, patting my thigh.
“Hey, fuck off!” I shoved him jokingly, but also kind of seriously. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I had a very nice matching pair of bra and panties that was just . . . lovely up there, and, you know, vintage dresses are becoming a real thing at these clubs. Just you wait.” I paused, realizing how ridiculous I sounded, but it was too late to take it back. “Anyways, I start at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow!”
“Yikes. The day shift?” he said. Here I’d been worried he’d judge me for taking my clothes off for money. But instead, he was judging me for taking off the wrong clothes at the wrong time for money. I was speechless. He must have seen my face contorting, half in surprise and half in indignation, because he held up his hands.
“Hey, babe. I’m no stranger to strip clubs, or strippers. I’m in a band. I’ve been to nudie bars all over the country, and I’ve definitely dated a whole bunch of—”
“Alright!” I interrupted. “Thank you. I don’t need to hear about all the strippers you’ve fucked. Wait, did you fuck any strippers who work at Club 42?”
He thought for a moment. “Only like three,” he said.
“What!” I threw a pillow at him . . . once again, half joking and half not joking at all.
“I’m just fucking with you. No. I’ve never even heard of it. But I also never go to strip clubs when I’m home.” He held his arm out and pulled me toward him. “Come here!” He held me close to him and kissed me on the cheek. I think this was his polite and loving way of saying sorry for calling me a crappy stripper, and also telling me he fucked a lot of non-crappy strippers.
“So how about I help you out a bit? I don’t want you going in tomorrow like you went in today. If this is what you wanna do, babe, you gotta go in and kill it!”
“Really? How can you . . . help me?”
Rob drew his arm away and pointed to the small square of empty floor space by my bed. “Well, why don’t you show me what you can do, and I’ll give you some pointers!”
“What do you mean?” I said.
To see Naomi do a strip tease for Rob, turn to page 246.
To see Naomi give Rob a lap dance, turn to page 253.
“Astrip tease?” I said.
“You heard me! Show me your routine! Let me see it!” he replied. He moved back to the corner of the bed and placed a pillow flat in front of him on the covers, and did a “ta-da” shake with his hands. I wasn’t sure how this pillow made it any more practical for me to turn this bedroom int
o a strip club. “This is the stage, and I’m a customer, sitting here!” he said, pointing at the bed to demonstrate that the bed beyond the pillow was the stage, and anything behind the pillow was the customer. I started to shimmy my naked body around awkwardly, laughing.
“Well that’s no way to start. Come on! Put on an outfit and dance for me. Or then I won’t believe you that you actually became a stripper today.” He folded his arms, all smug. Sheesh. These strip club customers can be so demanding!
“Okay, if I’m gonna do that then you have to put on some clothes too? You can’t be naked by the stage. What kind of establishment do you think this is?” He nodded and pulled on his boxers. Rob did not graduate high school, or go to college, or adhere to most rules in life. It was nice to know that he did, however, respect the rules of the fake strip club.
I didn’t have actual stripper clothes, but I did have a burlesque outfit, which I’d purchased for a burlesque-themed brunch I used to frequent every Sunday at a bar in my neighborhood. After wearing it once, I’d realized it was a terrible outfit to eat poached eggs and drink mimosas in. Luckily, it was far more suited to wear while dancing in your bedroom that was also coincidentally a strip club.
As I found the red and ruffly outfit, Rob was patiently waiting by the um . . . stage/pillow. He grabbed his pants off the floor, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He threw a few singles onto the pillow. I had better hurry and get this outfit on—I had customers waiting!
The outfit consisted of a red corset with black ruffles, matching ruffled panties, and red satin gloves. The corset was an idiot-proof one that thankfully had a zipper down the front. It cinched around my waist and it pushed my perky B cups together, making them appear slightly more like C cups. I pulled on the ruffled panties and then put on the satin gloves, which extended up to my elbows. I immediately found myself caressing my own exposed skin on my neck and chest. The gloves felt silky and smooth, and got me in the mood to take all this off.
And now . . . of course. I needed a song. I’m not gonna lie, I was starting to believe we were in a strip club now. I could see it. I was committed to this. I pulled out my phone and cued up a Christina Aguilera song. You know, the one from that movie Burlesque that was about . . . burlesque. It seemed appropriate. As soon as I pushed play, Rob perked up.
Shit. It was a commercial for Geico. Maybe the first thing I would do with my stripper money would be to get an actual paid subscription to Spotify. Now it was very awkward in the strip club. Rob started laughing, and then a Spotify announcer came in and assured us that we would now have thirty minutes of music.
Finally the song began. I started by standing on my bedroom floor. We never discussed if the stage was only the bed or if it extended onto the floor, but I took it upon myself to use my own imagination since, after all, I did work here. Christina’s powerful voice came in with a big belting sound, and I used this opportunity to get in a committed stance. I took my gloved hands and ran them through my hair, then brushed them across my face, slowly. Rob nodded in approval. My outfit and the song, combined with the fact that I was incredibly attracted to my one audience member, helped this all come to me quite naturally.
I climbed onto the bed. The song shifted tempos drastically, and it felt like that meant it was time for me to move drastically. I stood on the bed and I began to slowly draw my silk hands down my satin corset. This naturally led me into a crouching position, where I continued to feel down my thighs. I repeated this same motion again, sliding my hands up and down my body.
“Take it off! Wooohoo!” Rob yelled, and he threw a single dollar bill at me. I slowly began to unzip the corset, exposing more cleavage, my nipples, and eventually my navel. I threw the corset at him—it landed on his head and we both smiled. He was quite adorable in his boxers with a corset on his head, sitting behind a pillow at this bedroom strip club.
I crawled toward him, and let him get just close enough to want more. Even though I’d had his entire cock inside me less than an hour ago, I really enjoyed role-playing in this “look but don’t touch” tease. I put my boobs incredibly close to his face, and then I backed away, turned around, got on all fours, and began to shake my ruffly butt. I was more or less dry humping the bed, and after several moments of that, I decided it was time to take my panties off.
I put my face down on the bed and my ass up in the air. I reached behind me and managed to slowly pull the panties down. Rob had a perfect view of my ass and pussy, and with my face down where it was on the bed, he could see that too. He stared, mesmerized, right at my pussy . . . the same way the customers had earlier today. He had a whole different admiration for my pussy from this angle. I mean, before, he didn’t have the opportunity to get a good look at it. He’d been too busy pushing his cock into it and trying to make it cum. Before, it was like his musical instrument—now it was like his very own oil painting.
He threw the three remaining dollar bills at me. And then, breaking every strip club rule that I assumed existed, he leaned in and stuck his face in my pussy, while I remained face down and ass up. He licked my exposed lips, and I shuddered.
“So, since you’re the stripper expert, is this what happens at the end of every song?” I giggled.
“No! Just at this club. This one’s different,” he mumbled, lifting his mouth just barely from my skin, and then he got right back to licking my pussy. I still had my satin gloves on. I’d never found an appropriate time to take them off, and I liked it. It made this whole little pussy-eating session feel . . . fancy. I could feel him breathing inside me. He worked his tongue as far into me as he could go, which sent electricity spiraling through my chest. He spread my lips open ever so slightly, and then sucked on my clit.
From my upside-down view I could see my left satin glove clenching the organic navy blue sheets in a fit of pleasure. He stopped and came up for air, and I wanted to scream. How dare he choose oxygen over my pussy? I needed more. I looked back and saw his rock-hard bulge inside of his boxers. He swiftly pulled down the already stretched-out elastic and his eager penis slid right inside of me.
“Fuck!” I yelled, in anger and in pleasure, like I was cursing him for making me feel this good. His cock penetrated me so deeply from this angle, I could feel him all the way to my cervix. He pushed himself all the way inside me as the walls of my pussy stretched open to fit every inch of his cock. He thrust in and out, and smacked my ass, and it felt dangerous. I wanted him to rip my insides apart and destroy me.
Instead, he paused mid-stroke and his cock stopped moving. “Come on,” he said, and he gave me another good smack. “You want this cock? You better get it!” He laughed, in the most manly but immature way. I couldn’t believe he was going to make me do all the work after working three jobs today—a coffee shop, a strip club, and a make-believe bedroom strip club—but alas. I did want that cock, and I was going to get it.
I scowled and pushed my ass back and forth, getting every last inch of cock I could possibly get. My ass cheeks bumped up against his pelvis, and I slid back and forth, from the tip of his head to the bottom of his shaft. His cock was so thick that every time my pussy came off it I worried it would never fit back in, but my soaking pussy solved this physical mystery, and he slid right in every time.
I got into a good back and forth rhythm, riding back on him. He moaned and kept saying “Ohh yeah” in approval of my ass. I liked his encouragement and decided to try to add some flair to my ass-riding by throwing some twerks in there. It fucked up my flow, and I’m not entirely sure what it looked like from his point of view, but quite honestly it felt ridiculous. This was probably too advanced for a person with little to no twerking experience. We both immediately started laughing.
“Cute,” he said. I’ll take it. He smacked me again, pulled my ass cheeks apart, and then reclaimed control of the thrusting as he plunged himself in and out of me. I moaned in ecstasy. “Yes!” I kept yelling. He was destroying me, just as I had wished for earlier, and I couldn’t hav
e been happier that my wish was coming true. I could feel his cock throbbing, pulsating. He thrust faster and faster, hitting my G-spot, and my legs quaked. I was in orgasmic tears. And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly cum anymore—I came again.
I yelled, a loud broken moan, interrupted by the rapid thrusting. Spotify wasn’t lying about its half hour of uninterrupted music. It had taken us down a rabbit hole of all the Christina Aguilera hits, so my orgasm moan harmonized quite well with one of her belting choruses. He pulled out of me and covered my ass crack and some of my cheeks with his semen. While I couldn’t exactly get a great view of it from where I was, it felt like an impressive load, especially being his second one for the evening. I reached my hand back and scooped up whatever droplets of cum that I could get, and then licked my fingers clean. I loved the way every part of him tasted. I got out of my doggy position and lay my head on his chest. I needed a moment to collect myself, to return from the other orgasmic dimension I’d been abruptly transported to.
“So, how did I do?” I said.
“Well, I guess you can work the day shift in Midtown . . . and the night shift here.” He laughed.
“Oh, thank you. I’ve always wanted to work the night shift at the strip club in my own bedroom, I just never thought I was good enough!” I threw off my satin gloves, and we resumed our snuggle position. I shut my eyes, and this time I fell asleep soundly, knowing that honesty truly is the best policy. It had turned my bedroom into a strip club, and had gotten me multiple extra bonus orgasms. I was ready for Club 42.
To go back and see Naomi give Rob a lap dance, turn to page 253.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 261.
“Well, why don’t you give me a lap dance? Let me see what you can do!” Rob said.