Picking the Players for the After- Hours Fetishist’s Club

Late night, Larry’s Lounge—the dancer halfway through her number is Mona Corona.

She is billed as the golden girl, who goes down smooth.

And Mona—she has the look.

It’s a professional look, yes, seemingly innocent, a hungry look that casts no judgment.

And—yet, it does hint—right there, just at the corners of the dancer’s mouth, a something taboo, a something like your babysitter—yes, or your cousin, the younger one who walked in when you were slapping your wang—a something like that.

Meanwhile, Mona’s tabulator mind does its business, review ing the customers, deciding who will do and who…will not.

The tempo changes and so does the look. On Mona’s lips a big, wide ‘Howdy’ erupts; come and fuck me, its not so secret subtext. On the other pair— (that southerly pair) sprout teeth—or is it suction cups, because that’s what it feels like, the better to adhere them to the cold metal pole.

How often, she wonders, has her pussy gnawed that pole? How often has it chewed and swallowed dick?

Exotic dancers do not equal sex for pay. Larry's Lounge is explicit on that point. But if Mona and her cohorts want to drum up some after hours work all on their own—well, the entrepreneurial spirit is what makes America great.

So, every other weekend at Larry's Lounge there’s a game. Call it weekend lotto. It’s a fixed lotto, because Mona, Cathy and Melba already know the winners by the end of the night, picking their favorites while they dance then alerting the bouncer, Jaime.

Jaime—he sells the tickets, just a buck.

Prizes, he tells the buyers, are awarded when the club closes.

And, Larry, the club’s owner; that guy’s none the wiser. But, that’s his choice. He’s already decided that if three of his best dancers wish to use his just so happens to be available spare apartment in the back for a nominal stipend toward upkeep, well…again, that equals after hour's business, business that is destined to appear exactly nowhere on any of his accounts, or IRS statements, for that matter.

Mona shoves and shakes her shimmy-thing. An outthrust groin and side-shaking hips toss the golden tassels of her skirt. The gold-flocked fringe does less to hide her shaved pussy than the thong below it. A thong so teeny, mind, that a single tug can snap it—rip apart the fragile bridge, as could a man's teeth, a woman's tongue.

Two women in particular scintillate Mona's senses, absorb her thoughts, two women who offer up their images for her imagining—her fellow dancers.

Melba Toasty, who’s always introduced as hot and buttery and Cathy—dance name; Chitty-Cathy- Bang- Bang, she’s billed as an excellent ride. Both of these lady’s tongues are always welcome to Mona.

Last Lotto weekend: Mona's shimmy has a shiver at the core, remembering how she had Toasty's nipple in her mouth, the melt- away satin hardening under her tongue. It hardens her clit now, thinking of it.

Ah, her clit, the soft flesh- button pummeled flat by the pink padded riding crop Cathy uses for a dildo. Afterwards, her pushed open walls leaked their ecstasy down Cathy's chin, while Cathy sucked her clit.

Melba took a turn as well—her tits in some ecstatic guy's face as she fucked herself on Mona's tongue. It was a fantastic evening, worth repeating. But finding the right men to pay and play, that is the thing.

That one

He closed his eyes when Cathy pretended to blindfold him with her boa, closed them, even kept them that way for several seconds post dance, while she twirled the boa across his neck before allowing it to fall into a heap in his lap.

Taking her time, she'd retrieved it by pulling it dramatically from one end, slowly, as if it were tied to an anchor—slowly, so the feathers tickled the bulge in his pants. The parting hump-hug of the last few inches left its legacy in more inches accrued to the fabric over his crotch. All the while, those eyes, they’d remained shut. Guy only opened them when at last the pink snake had slithered off his thigh.

A sensuous submissive.

It would be fun to tie him up. The girls would appreciate it.

Toasty would appreciate it.

Toasty adored helpless victims. Her specialty was breast play.

Most of all, Melba Toasty loved a good booby fuck with her breasts as hog pen, although she loved rubbing her nipples across a man's ass too.

Melba loved to bite nipples too, loved it too when a man or woman sucked hers, hard. Used-up-raisin-hard, she called it. She loved tracing her tits in lazy S's over a man's helpless face and body—using ball gags, kissing the gag with one of her aroused nipples.

Loved it

"You can feel it like a pimple about to burst. You know those teeth are punching latex so hard they'd be drawing blood on your thigh.”

“There are times when I come so hard thinking about it, I gotta grab that gag with my own teeth. And the shaking and rattling that goes on between our two sets of teeth—it's a wonder either of us has any left."

Yes, thinks Mona; For Melba, a good submissive.

Slippery with sweat —and other juices, her twat band side-sneaks off her plumped labia, giving it a way out, so it grows just a little with its release into the night club air.

The shock when a slip of nether lip slides liquidly up and down the pole is like the embrace of a friendly artic eel—one that swims the waters of her cunt with easy strokes then hugs her till her tummy shakes, until she thinks she’ll come right on stage.

Mona turns, unwilling to waste the moment, hoping that pushed aside twat floss has left her dewy notch visible to at least one guy, one special guy with thick glasses, the tongue-tied kind, who comes extra hard, who shakes and shudders just touching wet pussy, the kind who nearly creams at the touch of cream—the sort that dreams secretly of spanking a woman… because Mona loves to be spanked.

The last lotto winner left handprints, big handprints. Mona remembers the thwacks, how they began with her body limp across his ham-like thighs—the two of them completely nude. His rising erection had excited her belly, while her nose and mouth, resting inside the soft, wet walls of Toasty's pussy, breathed and tasted the odor and flavor of hot musky woman.

She lets a finger touch the slightly open notch, strokes her labia tips before she backs her fingers up and across the vee of her mound, turns next, before she allows the pole to trench inside her barely covered ass cleft. Mona grinds ass against her pole, describing circles with her Venus mound. Arching first away then toward it with her ass, she lets it dig in deeper and deeper.

Ass-play, eating and being eaten, those are two of her favorites

And, there he is.

That one…

Mona notes how his chin wobbles, just a little, while his neck cranes around and back like an agitated stork. Clearly, he’s torn between her twisting twat and the bite of her ass, as it rears up and down the pole.

He’s the one, the kind who'll kiss and suck her ass, the kind who’ll lick the rim..

Two Sundays ago, their sessions finished, the three women had come together, winners in tow for a last orgy. It was the usual culmination of a weekend lotto fantasy night.

Even Larry's tacky apartment couldn't really destroy the opulence of the view.

Cathy sprawled across a cheap tartan couch was still Cathy, six foot two, an appropriately long dildo at the slim waist that pogo horsed Toasty's close cropped bush up and down.

An iron bracelet, its chain wrapped around her forearm, ended in a leather ring she tugged with strong fingers. Like beer from a tap, it overflowed with dick that Cathy lowered to her mouth.

Jaime, Larry's Lounge bouncer, a usual attendee, fucked the curvy can of a diminutive dancer he had splayed over a chartreuse hassock, one with the buttons MIA.

Like a she-pasha on a swing of rushes, a big dancer graced the dented well of a second and equally dilapidated hassock, her mouth fusing with the one belonging to the bit of tail being reamed by Jaime, while a pair of hot dog sized fingers skidded in and out of her fellow dancer's twat.

And Mona, lucky Mona—center panel of a tongue triptych. She had one man busily sucking her clit, while a second lavished swirls on her back gate.

One to rim her butt hole, while the other sucked her pussy dry, how she loved it when she had that.

Practically speaking, though—right now she only needs one. And this one looks more than possible. A higher fat to muscle ration equals appetite, she thinks. And. Mona is a fan of gobblers.

He'll be shocked, she thinks, when she turns the tables, handing him the pointer, the ruler—heck, the tool chest to choose from and play her with, as he wishes.

He wasn't, however, a true submissive, not like Mr. Eyes Shut. So he'd adjust… quickly.

Mona could always call em.

He'd spank her ass scarlet and come while doing it.

Mona watches the drool on his chin and knows she’s right.

And for sweet Cathy, Cathy who always wears pink on stage, pink stockings, shredded by the end of each dance. Sometimes she wrecked them bending over to expose ass cheeks, bobbing like softly buoyant bread tops. Sometimes they ran up the inseam until they split at her crotch.

Once she purposely cut off the toes. With each squat and twist of her raunchy dance the hose curled over and rose higher till they were flapping like the exploded ends of Fourth of July sparklers.

So, then she’d ripped them—pulling out a pair of little pink scissors.

Cathy cut the waistband, and voila. A band of shredded hosiery dropped on one ecstatic guy's head, while all the while, Cathy's blonde pussy stared him in the face.

If his tongue had legs it would have walked. If it had a paddle it would have canoed right into Cathy's pussy, never to be seen or heard from again by the happy mute it left behind.

Cathy was a Dominant in her pink stilettos. She especially liked it when her men liked to be stomped by her pink painted tootsies.

But foot fetishists weren't as easy to spot as some.

However—Toasty had that covered.

While Cathy was willing to buy hosiery by the truckload, she never lost, loaned or dropped a shoe on stage.

Melba though, well she always threw out a spare. It was the least she could do, she said, considering how Cathy's trick with the boa usually helped single out the submissives into Melba's scene.

The ladies of the club worked together to single out the guys that would pay them to do what they liked to do anyway.

Mona's torso drops as she bobs then shakes her chasse like an apple tree. Deftly, she plucks the gold bra she wears away from the star pasties covering her wine colored nipples. She looks out over the crowd.

There he is—he, or rather they; man and shoe.

College guy; young and yuppie, wearing horn rims, a trench coat, all that—and tight against his side, in a clench that would wring a lake from a sea sponge, is a fluffy white mule, Melba Toasty's trademark.

Her back stretches out like an ironing board and Mona dangles her near-nude tits at the men in the front rows.

The shoe strangler is just a few rows back. She flings her bra straight at him. Bulls-eye, the dude’s hand never leaves his side. Neither do his fingers desist from their stroking of Melba's mule.

Bulls-eye, indeed, though the bra never reaches him.

Instead, a trucker type with a dairy farm cap and mountains for shoulders intervenes. A beefy hand interjects itself on the bra's intended trajectory and claims it, stuffing it first to the man's nose and lips then into his pant's pocket.

Bully for him. He'll never know what he’s missed by claiming it over the mule. No. He’ll go home believing himself the luckier man.

And that is that.

Mona Corona, the golden girl who goes down smooth, wearing nothing but pasties and butt floss is the clincher of the night's single dancer acts. Chitty Cathy, sans stockings, and Melba in a different pair of mules strut their way across the stage for the finale, the famous all nude review finale.

Mona is the first to make her exit. Jaime, the bouncer meets her out back. He knows who two of the choices are already. Mona gives him hers.

It isn’t hard for Jaime to arrange for the ladies choices to win. Dude, has a near photographic memory, plus all the seats are discreetly numbered. Lotto chances are plain unnumbered vouchers, so the winning number always corresponds to the patron's seat number. Several burly men are always on hand to insure no last minute changes.

When the last dancer swishes her way off stage Jaime ambles on, clears his throat and announces the night's winners, who, if they'd be so kind as to wait till everyone else has gone will receive a special gift from the bouncer.

He never says "from the dancers." That would never do…Although Jaime is a luscious bit of goods himself, and always fits in nicely with the night's festivities.

Breathe: Clip 13