Strip Club
Going to the strip club with friends from work.
They giggle and blush. I try not to look bored.
The first stripper is beautiful. Lean muscular body.
Gyrating, trying to entice with large biceps, hard dick.
When done on stage, he wades into the crowd.
Encourages touching, takes money with teeth.
My friends hold up money. The stripper’s arrival
makes their hearts race. He straddles my chair.
I hand him my dollar. He guides my hands
onto his chest. My heart rate is steady.
"You’re very attractive," I mutter, hands falling.
He leans down to whisper, "You’re sweet," in my ear.
I hold back my snort. I am soft spoken,
but people mistake me for sweet all the time.
The next stripper on stage, still fully clothed,
takes off his belt, makes it snap in the air.
My body responds to the sound of that slap.
My panties are damp. My heart rate is faster.
A blush creeps up my neck, settles on my face.
He wraps the belt around both his wrists,
and holds them bound above his head.
My knuckles turn white gripping my chair.
He tosses the belt. and takes off his shirt.
I try regaining composure while he is dancing.
But my eyes keep darting to the abandoned belt.
He’s out in the crowd. I can’t look at him.
My mind is too busy playing out scenes.
I want him to crush both my wrists
behind my chair, in one of his large hands.
I want him, to bite my shoulder
hard enough to leave a lasting bruise.
I want him, to start the bite slowly,
increasing the pressure until I am squirming,
until I try wrestling my wrists from his grasp,
until the pain forces a moan from my throat.
But I don’t ask him. This strip club is normal.
My unusual requests won’t be welcome here.
I'm with my friends. I'm in the closet.
I can’t be myself in front of them.
So I smile politely, hand him my money,
and pretend to enjoy touching his ass.
When I get home, my husband is waiting,
holding our handcuffs. He knows me so well.
I lean in to kiss him and whisper, "Let’s play."
Going to the strip club with friends from work.
They giggle and blush. I try not to look bored.
The first stripper is beautiful. Lean muscular body.
Gyrating, trying to entice with large biceps, hard dick.
When done on stage, he wades into the crowd.
Encourages touching, takes money with teeth.
My friends hold up money. The stripper’s arrival
makes their hearts race. He straddles my chair.
I hand him my dollar. He guides my hands
onto his chest. My heart rate is steady.
"You’re very attractive," I mutter, hands falling.
He leans down to whisper, "You’re sweet," in my ear.
I hold back my snort. I am soft spoken,
but people mistake me for sweet all the time.
The next stripper on stage, still fully clothed,
takes off his belt, makes it snap in the air.
My body responds to the sound of that slap.
My panties are damp. My heart rate is faster.
A blush creeps up my neck, settles on my face.
He wraps the belt around both his wrists,
and holds them bound above his head.
My knuckles turn white gripping my chair.
He tosses the belt. and takes off his shirt.
I try regaining composure while he is dancing.
But my eyes keep darting to the abandoned belt.
He’s out in the crowd. I can’t look at him.
My mind is too busy playing out scenes.
I want him to crush both my wrists
behind my chair, in one of his large hands.
I want him, to bite my shoulder
hard enough to leave a lasting bruise.
I want him, to start the bite slowly,
increasing the pressure until I am squirming,
until I try wrestling my wrists from his grasp,
until the pain forces a moan from my throat.
But I don’t ask him. This strip club is normal.
My unusual requests won’t be welcome here.
I'm with my friends. I'm in the closet.
I can’t be myself in front of them.
So I smile politely, hand him my money,
and pretend to enjoy touching his ass.
When I get home, my husband is waiting,
holding our handcuffs. He knows me so well.
I lean in to kiss him and whisper, "Let’s play."
