by Joanna Angel
The day continued on, as days in strip clubs do. I slid my neon on and off. I went on stage, I danced to Top 40 hits I’d never much cared for and found myself liking them. I half-assed twerks, I spread my legs open for strangers. Some of them loved me, some of them didn’t. I learned the art of giving a lap dance. On, off, dance, repeat. I made small talk with the other girls on the floor, and found that anyone in the club will be nice to you if you engage in conversation with them about how much the customers suck, and then give some kind of hope based on no facts at all that it should get busy later.
“Natasha coming to the stage next. Natasha, coming to the stage,” The DJ said, while I was sipping on a bottle of root beer at the nonalcoholic bar. I walked to the stage, and a Cardi B song came on. It was “Press,” which I thought was an odd selection because it’s rather aggressive. It was funny to see all these businessmen nod along to the lyrics and tap their feet to the song that certainly they couldn’t relate to. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the people here worked for the same media Cardi B was frustrated with in the song.
I shook my ass and felt the silk neon against my skin. The beat of this song made me dance with more determination, like a combination of protest march and dance. I slid the dress off, and the DJ asked for the “crowd”(about six guys and three women) to make it rain on me.
“Throw some dollar bills on stage if you want to see Natasha take more off!” he shouted. Don’t tell anyone, but I was going to take the thong off at some point, regardless of how much money was thrown at me. I got on all fours, with my head facing the three customers on the right side of the stage, and my ass pointing toward another three on the left. I shifted my body and crawled around, and then turned the opposite direction, toward the other side of the stage—
“Natasha? Really?” I heard shouting in the direction of my ass. I spun around and saw Natasha (the original one) sitting near the stage with a big smile on her face. I crawled right up to her and pulled her toward me, putting my little breasts in her face, and all other people in the crowd near the stage clapped and hooed and hawed.
“Yes, that’s my name!” I said. She threw dollar bills at me, and I slid off my neon thong, attempting to twerk to the beat of the chorus. Natasha clapped in approval. I tried to spread my attention around the stage, but I only wanted to dance for Natasha. No one seemed to mind. It would be safe to say that everyone here knew she was the most attractive customer. And I felt quite privileged knowing that this customer was here just to see me. At least, I thought she was.
I walked off the stage and I noticed her talking to Tony, who motioned me to come over to them. What the hell could they be discussing? I hoped there wasn’t a rule here about how many Natashas could be inside the club at once.
“Hey . . . you,” Tony said. He clearly didn’t remember my name.
“Hey!” I replied, still smiling at Natasha, but trying to focus on Tony.
“This woman here wants to get one of our exclusive VIP suites with you.”
“Oh?” I smiled, even though I had no idea what the exclusive VIP rooms were.
“Which type of room did you want?” Tony asked real Natasha. “We’ve got the shower show—that’s fifteen minutes—or the champagne room—that’s a half hour.” I found it odd that something was called a champagne room, since there was no alcohol. Did this also mean that the shower show had no shower? I wasn’t sure. But
I was about to find out. Natasha took out her credit card and handed it to Tony.
To see Naomi go with Natasha to the shower show room, turn to page 319.
To see Naomi go with Natasha to the champagne room, turn to page 325.
Tony led us through a door, which led to a hallway, which led to another door with a blinking neon sign on top of it that said “SHOWER SHOW.” I wasn’t sure if the blinking was because the sign wasn’t plugged in properly or because it was meant to garner excitement about shower shows, but regardless, I was genuinely excited.
We were brought into an area with a shower stall enclosed by glass. Outside of the shower stall, there was a leather couch, a television, and some bottles of water, all lit with purple and blue lights. The whole thing was like the inside of a limousine, but with a shower inside of it.
Tony slid Natasha’s credit card through a device, and when her card cleared, he said, “Have fun” and left the room. I had absolutely no idea what to do, but with the powers of my deductive logic, and the giant shower . . . I managed to figure out a place to start.
“You know it’s my first day here?” I said to Natasha.
“Well, it’s not mine.” she laughed. I was noticing a pattern here. Apparently I had some sort of attraction to people who frequent strip clubs. I’m not sure exactly what that says about me, but this wasn’t the time to delve into that. The image of Natasha sitting in a strip club in her short leopard dress, throwing dollar bills at women she had dressed in neon, was a hell of a lot sexier than Rob coming by in his unwashed pants, handing over whatever per-diem he got on tour, if he actually even tipped at all.
I followed my natural instincts and got inside the shower. As soon as I stepped inside, loud R&B music started playing and the inside of the shower lit up. There was a bench and a hook in the corner of the shower—I assumed this was where I was supposed to put my clothes. I stripped off my dress for what felt like the four hundreth time that day, and for the four hundredth time, I greatly appreciated having the appropriate kind of stripper clothes.
Natasha comfortably sat on the leather couch just outside of the shower, with a smile on her face, waiting for the show. The shower had a removable showerhead and an array of sponges and soaps. I turned on the shower, and to its credit, it was the perfect warm temperature. This was a rarity in New York City. It would have been incredibly awkward if I’d had to do what I normally did at home, which was turn the water on and wait five minutes while freezing in the cold for the water to heat up. Come to think of it, this shower room was close to the size of my apartment. I should ask Tony if instead of fifteen-minute shows they offered fifteen-month leases.
I let the warm water drip down my body. I looked at Natasha through the glass door, and she stared right back at me. I swayed to a Post Malone song I wasn’t very familiar with, and I have to admit, it was good shower music.
Natasha signaled me to come closer. I assumed the goal of the removable showerhead was to avoid getting your hair wet, but with this perfect water pressure and temperature, along with the thrill of the beautiful woman in front of me, I was becoming incredibly excited in all sorts of ways, and the threat of damp hair simply didn’t scare me. I put the showerhead over my head and wet my hair. The water ran down my face. I was certainly testing the limits of my allegedly waterproof mascara.
Once I was doused and dripping with water, I took Natasha’s cue and walked as close to her as I could— pressing my body against the glass of the shower. She stood up and touched the glass, putting her hands on my breasts, but for the glass between us. While I couldn’t physically feel her at all, her touch created a sensation all through my body. I pressed myself harder against the glass, and it almost felt like I’d push right through it.
She got down on her knees and stuck her tongue out, touching the glass right near my pussy. I pushed my pussy up against the glass, and she moved her tongue up and down. She had a long tongue that was the perfect shade of pink. The steam of the shower caused a mist behind me, and my body made something similar to a snow angel against the glass. Natasha, on the other hand, was crystal clear on the other side of the glass, with her thick lips leaving traces of lipstick against the shower stall. The music was loud, so we spoke with our eyes and our body movements.
She sat back down on the couch and lifted her dress up. She reached inside of her black lace panties, rubbing the bulge underneath. “My girl cock,” she said, smiling. She pulled down her dress from the top and revealed her round breasts. Watching her stroke her girl cock and her full breasts made me ache. The showerh
ead moved toward my pussy, as if a magnetic force had taken control of it.
I noticed on the nozzle there was a way to turn this robust water pressure up even higher, so I cranked it as far as I possibly could, and a sharp jet of water came blasting out. I spread my pussy open and sprayed it right against my clit. I watched Natasha stroking herself on the couch, and I pushed the water hard on my lips. She stood back up and put her hand against the glass, and I put my hand right up against hers. It was oddly romantic, like we were holding hands through glass, while we were both masturbating. It felt pure and filthy, clean and dirty.
I opened my legs wider and gyrated my pussy into the hard stream of warm water. I spread my lips, making a V with my fingers so the water could hit me in the right spot. Then I took a small squirt of soap and lathered it all over myself. The suds dripped down the sides of my pussy. This water was a million fingers and tongues, licking and flicking my clit in all the right spots. As I pushed my hips harder against the water, I could see Natasha’s girl cock growing bigger. Her giant breasts hung just outside of her leopard dress, which was pulled right underneath them. Her long hair fell to the sides of her breasts, perfectly framing them.
I felt all the muscles in the erogenous zones in my outer pussy tighten up. It was amazing how strong an orgasm I could have without anything going inside me, but it was even more amazing that I could get one from . . . water.
I started to spasm, and my knees shook. I leaned forward against the glass with my left hand, the showerhead still in my right hand, so I wouldn’t fall to the ground and hurt myself. This strong water pressure could potentially be dangerous in this slippery arena. Perhaps the reason why the water pressure was generally horrible throughout Brooklyn was for safety reasons, so none of us hipsters would crack our skulls while masturbating.
I stared right into Natasha’s eyes. The glass fogged up, but I wiped the mist away with my fingers so I could continue to watch her, as we both strived for completion. I wasn’t sure how well she could hear me, but I mouthed “I’m gonna cum” against the glass. She nodded, her expression saying, “Oh yeah, I know you are.” My clit kept pulsating, again and again and again. I tried to hold still, but I was shaking, my clit was so sensitive. Finally, after what felt like seven hundred orgasms, my body relaxed. My pussy felt raw and sore, but in a good way, like it had gotten a good workout. I moved the showerhead up to my shoulders and let the water massage me.
Natasha put her hand up against the glass, and her eyes closed. I could see her thighs shaking, and her mouth was open. I got down on my knees in the shower so I was at the same level as her girl cock. I got as close to the glass as I could, and then I saw her cum spurt out onto the glass. I opened my mouth on the other side, as if she was cumming in my mouth. Her cum dripped down the clear glass, illuminated by the blue and purple lights. The whole thing looked like some kind of stained glass window, but . . . with cum.
At the end, we both laughed. After the orgasms were out of our system, we could relax. Suddenly, a loud buzzer noise went off, the music stopped, and the water turned off. I supposed this was a sign that the fifteen minutes were over. Natasha giggled, and she quickly found a blue spray bottle behind the couch with paper towels. She wiped her jizz off the glass. I towel dried myself on the other side, and this moment of collecting ourselves reminded me of the times we’d rushed and thrown our clothes back on when we’d heard my dorm roommate jiggle the doorknob.
I was soaking wet. Tony came in, and Natasha was back to being fully clothed next to a pristine, jizz-free shower glass wall.
“Natasha!” Tony yelled. Natasha jumped, startled. But Tony was looking at me. It took me a second in my cum-drunk state to remember that I was also Natasha.
“You’re not supposed to get your hair wet! What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry Tony, I had no idea,” I replied.
“Well, your shift is over anyways,” he mumbled.
“I tipped her extra for the wet hair. It’s like my thing,” the original Natasha said.
“Oh . . . well . . . okay. Don’t do that again.”
I wasn’t sure which Natasha he was talking to, but we both nodded and agreed to stop engaging in all wet hair activities. He led us out of the room, and we walked down the hallway behind him, giggling nonstop, just like we used to.
To go back and see Naomi go with Natasha to the champagne room, turn to page 325.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 332.
“Follow me,” Tony said. Tony didn’t seem remotely impressed with the fact that this was my first day and I was already being taken into the presumably important VIP room. Perhaps somewhere on his clipboard there was a space for gold stars next to the strippers’ names. There was an incentive program at Fix, and you got praised when you convinced anyone to add a flavor shot to their coffee . . . which I thought was actually disgusting. Whoever sold the most vanilla pumps got a free cronut. Another thing I thought was disgusting.
I was happy to have my first VIP room experience with someone I knew. I was also excited to get a little bit closer to Natasha, in a room that may or may not have champagne. Tony led us down a hallway, which led to another hallway, in which there was a row of doors. He unlocked the door of the room with the number three on it and let us in. It was a small, dark room, about the size of my bedroom, with a leopard couch and small table beside it with a bucket of ice. Inside of that ice was a bottle of “nonalcoholic brut,” with a handful of champagne glasses, or nonalcoholic brut glasses, I guess.
“Alright, enjoy you two. See you in thirty, make sure you follow all the rules. I don’t care if you’re a hot chick or my 400-lb Uncle Joey in here, keep your hands to the side and keep your clothes on,” Tony said to Natasha.
“Yes, of course,” she replied. He shrugged his shoulders and walked out, closing the door behind him. Natasha and I were soon alone on the leopard couch, and I was nervous. I felt like we were on a first date. I remembered our actual first date, at the planetarium in the Natural History museum. The lighting in there was similar to the lighting in this room, now that I thought about it, only it wasn’t quite as educational.
“Thanks for coming to see me—that was a really unexpected surprise,” I said.
“Don’t thank me, I wanted to come see you!” she replied.
“How much did this thing even cost?” I asked.
“About the price of five of those outfits you got today,” she grinned.
“Well, I’ll make sure to spend it all at your store, and we can just keep circling this money back and forth between us!” I replied. Genuinely, though, the thought of an economic system where cash flow goes from a strip club back to the store that sells stripper clothes, and then back to the strip club, was pretty humorous.
“Well, now that you have me all to yourself for the next thirty minutes, what would you like me to do?” I said, a coy look on my face.
“Well, have you given any lap dances yet?” she asked.
“Yes! A few of them. They’re . . . kinda fun!” I said. I truly had found myself getting excited during some of the lap dances I did. There was just one layer of clothing between my naked body and the customers’ clothed selves, and while I knew my job was technically to arouse the customers, I found myself getting quite aroused too. It was a unique way of practicing safe sex. If they had taught us how to give lap dances in our high school health class, perhaps we would have paid more attention.
“Well, I’d like to experience the very best lap dance you’ve ever given,” she replied, batting her long eyelashes at me.
“Since I’ve only given about eight of them, and they were all only three minutes long, that should be easy.” I paused. “And . . . well, none of them were as sexy as you . . . duh.” I had a bad habit of using the word “duh” when I was nervous. It’s a stupid word.
Natasha put her hands to her side, following Tony’s instructions. I stood up and faced her, untying my neon dress from the back with one hand. It truly wa
s miraculous how easily this thing could slip off. It made all the other clothing I’d ever bought seem so inefficient. To think of how much more I could have accomplished in life with the time I could have saved not buttoning and zipping tight-fitting jeans and blouses. I could have written a book. Or two!
I slid my thong off and put it on the table next to the “champagne.” Then I straddled Natasha. Her leopard dress rose up and revealed her black lace panties. This was a hell of a lot sexier than the various pairs of pleated pants I’d been grinding on all day. I touched her breasts on top of her dress, and put my little breasts up against her face.
“I’ve always loved your perfect, perky breasts,” she said. I took this opportunity to lift my little breast, stretch out my tongue, and lick my own nipple. Then I did the same to my other nipple, all while continuing to grind against her panties.
“Fuck!” she said. I could feel her starting to grow beneath me, and I was quite happy that my little breasts were able to inspire such a reaction. “My girl cock remembers you,” she groaned.
I could feel her breath on my chest. I leaned into her, pushing myself into her body. I put my hands around the back of her neck and shimmied my body up and down. I pressed my pussy up against the bulge inside her panties, as we moaned heavily into one another’s mouths.
Any small talk had stopped. We were both committed to this lap dance and deep into our dry hump. I shifted my positioning a little bit, and fuck. My moist pussy loosened up and just kinda spread itself open. Her covered girl cock now slid up and down between my pussy lips, right up against my clit. Such a thin, moist layer separating us from having hardcore sex, from her penetrating me, from her sliding up into me. The layer of separation turned us into wild dry-humping animals, grasping at whatever we could just to get closer to one another. I tightened my grip on the back of her neck, and she shifted her body forward so I could completely wrap my long legs around her. Up and down and up and down I rode her, without actually riding her. My clit was growing larger, pulsating. I breathed heavily, and when I kissed her neck, I could taste her vanilla-scented perfume on my tongue.
