“Which one do you want?”
“I want her.”
“Do you think you can handle her?”
“Mmmmm, yes, I definitely know I can.”
I was inside of one of the hottest strip clubs in Manhattan, enjoying the sights with my husband for Valentine’s Day. He thought it would be sexy to spend the holiday doing something that we both wanted for a change.
We’ve been swingers for the length of our three-year marriage, and every so often, we find exotic locales to indulge into those insatiable desires, coming out of them even more connected than ever. We’d been to Hedonism down in Jamaica, but the one thing that we hadn’t done yet that I fantasized over was to be taken to a strip club and seduced by an exotic dancer of my choosing in one of the VIP rooms.
It was nearly an obsession that I couldn’t quite put into words; I was always bi-curious, and while there were plenty of women at the other locales that would have more than fit the description in my head of the woman that I wanted to “pop my bi cherry,” none of them compared to her… the one who would inspire me to enter the abyss.
She possessed a figure that made a Coke bottle jealous, with curves that a Ferrari couldn’t tame. Her light caramel brown skin seemed to possess a radiant glow, even in the dimly lit establishment that my husband and I had been enjoying for the last two hours. I had been scanning the whole place, admiring the wanton sexual abandon and liberation that these women possessed, but none of them commanded my attention the way she did.
She got my attention when she sent a drink to our table; I found it odd that a dancer would do that, at least, that was the way my husband’s friends would tell their stories. When I accepted the drink, the waitress pointed in her direction as she was on stage working the pole as if it were a lover she’d been with for ages.
She blew a kiss, and I blew one back, feeling my pussy begin to moisten because she was exactly what I wanted. She winked and nodded as if she could read what my body was telling her, and I wanted her to hear everything it wanted to say.
I was scared that I was making it too easy for her to claim me, but my body was on fire and I didn’t care because I had to have her. I watched her hips as she grinded against the pole, imagining that I was between her legs while she grinded against my face.
My husband grabbed a stack of bills and handed them to me, kissing me across my lips. “Show her how much,” he whispered in my ear, slipping his hand between my legs. The skirt I wore for the occasion was meant for all access, and the lack of underwear made it clear that I would soak someone’s face and fingers tonight.
I whipped the stack in her direction, watching the dollars cascade around her like a slow summer rain. Her eyes flashed as she watched the storm around her, and the slick smile on her face gave me a subtle clue that she might be joining us once her set was over.
I could feel the connection, and my husband could, too. The intensity of the heat between my thighs needed to be put out by something warm and wet and then by something long and hard. I wasn’t deterred by the rules that state that there’s no sex allowed in the VIP rooms; with the right persuasion, I was going to have what I wanted, even if the security staff had to sit there and watch!
Her stage name was Cinnamon; it was a fitting name for the woman that would begin my unquenchable lust for women from now on. I felt my sweet tooth begin to make my mouth water for something sweet and sticky.
“You wanted me to see your pussy spread out like that while I was dancing, didn’t you?” she asked as she slipped her dress back on. I didn’t want her to, but I knew I would have a chance to touch it in a few moments. Her eyes gave her away.
“Yes, you turned me on so much while you were up there,” I replied, licking my lips as our eyes connected. I squeezed my husband’s hand to keep me grounded; for a few moments, it felt as if we were the only ones in the club. “I’m so wet right now, and I was hoping you could help me out with that.”
Without another word, Cinnamon slipped her fingers inside me, rubbing her fingers against my G-spot. I wanted to moan, but she pressed the fingers of her free hand against my lips. “You don’t want to get thrown out, luscious,” she warned, trading glances with my husband as if to confirm with him to be the quick lookout. “I’ve wanted you since you both walked in, and if you play by the rules, you can be my Valentine… as I’m about to be yours.”
She didn’t wait for my response; she kept stroking my G-spot with her fingers while her thumb continued to rub against my clit. Her eyes never left mine, and every time I felt a moan escape my lips, she slowed down enough to keep me wanting to go higher.
I kept grinding against her fingers, bracing myself against the onslaught of her finger fucking my pussy. She kept daring me to scream, teasing me every time I tried. My husband enjoyed the show, never once giving us away or the encounter that was taking place as the music continued to flow and the dancers continued their libidinous lap dances for the eager patrons around us.
I couldn’t take any more, and she knew it. I needed to feel her, and she wanted to have me.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.”
“How badly do you want it?”
“Please… fuck me now!” I pleaded.
“Mmmm, good girl, now follow me… this will be a Valentine’s night that you won’t soon forget.”