His Filthy Game

by Cassandra Dee

  But that was only three inches … and there were still twelve to go. With a long groan, I held her hips still and pushed again, this time driving my hips upwards into her ass, the Donkey insistent, making headway with each thrust, each sweet, dry slide.

  “That’s it,” I grunted, holding her still as my brother continued to run his dick into her mouth. “That’s it.”

  And that was all I needed. With one more insistent shove, I was in all the way, my rod embedded in that hot cavern, her anus clenching tight around me, the muscles so young, so firm, that I practically spurted right then and there, there was probably a load of pre-cum leaking into her ass at this very moment.

  But Pax had plans for her as well.

  “Roll,” he commanded, and I knew exactly what he wanted. With my dick embedded in her, I rolled us so that I was on my back, Stacey on top of me facing forward, my dick embedded in her ass.

  And Pax took advantage of it like a seasoned pro. He knelt between her legs, holding them up and apart in a big V, her pink slit wet and dripping, on display.

  He circled his dick, purple, monstrous and slickly shiny from being in her mouth, around her little pussy hole before pushing deep into that cunt, forcing her to take fifteen inches in one massive stretch.

  “Aieeee!” Stacey squealed, her body trembling and shaking between us, the ecstasy rapturous. “Aieeee!”

  And it felt fucking good, her anus clenching on my dick at the same time that my brother fucked in, feeling his hard cock slide right in next to mine through her pussy wall. Like madmen, we started going at it in tandem, sawing into that little cunny and ass, finding release in her sweet little body, pounding her, doing the ultimate double penetration with thirty inches at our disposal.

  “Aieee!” Stacey squealed again and again. “Aieee! Aieee! Aieee!”

  God it was fucking dirty and amazing. Within a few minutes we were blasting load after load of sperm into her hot box, the fluid flying into her in reams, spraying her insides with load upon load of creamy white.

  She squealed, she twisted, she turned, and sure enough, our little girl came as well, her puss clenching down hard on my bro’s cock, her anus spasming around my rod, forcing us to give it up, squeezing every drop of DNA from our cocks, our balls emptying everything into her, giving it our all.

  Finally our breathing calmed, our massive bodies relaxing, her breasts pressed up against my bro’s chest, her sweet ass cheeks jammed against my balls. Stacey wiggled a bit, making Pax and I groan, our dicks still in her body, the sensation incredible.

  “You like?” she said sweetly, a smile beaming for the first time, her form slick with sweat … and our cum.

  “Oh yeah,” grunted my twin, reaching up to capture her mouth in a deep kiss. “You’re quite the receptacle.”

  And I had to agree. With my dick buried deep in her ass and my twin similarly placed in her cunt, we were home … for good.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Stacey

  I don’t even know how to describe what happened between me and my steps. Wild? Impassioned? Hot sex? HOT SEX, all caps? It was crazy, completely uninhibited, and totally, utterly satisfying.

  But how to reconcile that with the video exposé? I was too numb to even be embarrassed. The world had no color, I was merely a robot, limp, dragging myself around, going through the motions.

  Fortunately, the network wasn’t making me appear in front of the cameras, so at least the public didn’t see how drained I was, barely able to crack a smile, my entire persona a drab grayish-beige.

  But my co-workers could see it, shooting me looks of concern, the hushed whispers whenever I walked past, the pitying smiles. After all, I was the one with a sex tape out there … the sex tape with two dildos. Oh god, FML.

  It was embarrassing. Beyond embarrassing. Totally, utterly shitty. Someone in my place would have been ready to kill herself except that I had Pax and Peyton … my brothers were back and it made a huge difference, their support meaningful, helping me get up each morning.

  But it’s not like life is perfect now. After all their betrayal still stung, the hurt forming a lump in my throat sometimes. How could they have turned their backs on a virgin? How could they have left me naked and used in the woods, alone for the second time? Despite my steps’ apologies, I wasn’t over it. I’d had five years to reflect and stuff doesn’t go away just like that.

  So I stared at myself in the mirror, sizing up my appearance. Not bad. I was no longer scrawny, instead I filled out the bikini, the tiny swaths hugging my boobs, barely covering my snatch. As a test, I ran a finger along the string tie of the triangle bottoms and snapped them. Oh yeah, a glimpse of pussy, then away again.

  Because I was getting ready to dance. I’ve never done something like this before but I felt so limp, a worn-out dishrag, that I needed to do something to make me feel alive again.

  So the Donkey Club was my big chance. My friend Jen had told me about it, shame-facedly, barely even able to get the words out.

  “Um, there’s this place,” she began hesitantly, “it’s not like most places in the city.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said listlessly, toying with my sandwich. We were seated outside during lunch break, the sun shining, birds tweeting. You’d think I would have been happy to be alive, enjoy the spring breeze on my face, riffling through my hair, but instead I had no appetite and looked like a half-dead corpse.

  Jen was silent for a moment, sizing me up. I guess I looked so bad that she took the leap and confessed her big secret.

  “It’s called the Donkey Club,” she rushed, her voice quiet in case someone came out on the patio. “It’s a place in the city, I go there to let go, relax, let my hair down.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, playing with the edge of my napkin. Most days after work I went home and got straight into bed. Life was easier asleep than awake.

  “You should go too,” she said forcefully, trying to get my attention. “It’ll do you good.”

  I continued to examine my napkin, not looking up.

  “Listen,” said Jen, this time shaking my arm. “The Donkey is a strip club and dancing there will help you get some adrenalin going.”

  At those words, I finally snapped awake.

  “Strip club?” I repeated dumbly, my head woozy.

  “Strip club,” Jen nodded emphatically, shaking my arm again. “It’s what you need to build your confidence. You look bad Stacey, real bad.”

  I knew she was right. My blood pressure was probably so low that I was the walking dead at this point. But I had to put up some defense.

  “How do you know what I need?” I protested. “You’ve never been in my shoes before, it hurts Jen, my life really hurts right now.”

  She was silent for a long moment, looking into her lap and playing with her hands before looking back up.

  “Stacey, remember when I took medical leave for six months? I was gone one day, MIA with no explanation?”

  “Sure,” I nodded woodenly. What did this have to do with anything? “Rumor was that you were in a car accident, that you needed time to recover. Mike and I brought some flowers over to the hospital in fact, but we couldn’t find your room.” I remembered asking the nurse on duty for Jen Rollins, but the nurse had searched the hospital’s records and come up with nothing. I figured it was just a glitch, they were probably overhauling the computer system.

  “No, I wasn’t in a car accident,” my friend said softly. “I was raped.”

  Now my mouth dropped open, my expression shocked.

  “What?” I stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s simple,” said Jen softly. “I went to a party and got really drunk. When I woke up, my clothes were on all wrong and my body felt weird and bruised. When I went to the hospital,” she choked, her eyes tearing, “they did an exam and sure enough, I’d been violated.”

  I had no words, looking at her with shocked eyes, stunned, not knowing what to say. What is there to say when something this awful has happened to
one of your friends? My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

  Jen read my expression and nodded.

  “I didn’t want people to know, I didn’t want their pitying stares, the uncomfortable looks, the victim-blaming,” she said bitterly. “After all, I was drunk, someone would say it was my fault. So I stayed silent,” she said. “The police never figured out who it was.”

  “But was there any DNA from the rape kit?” I asked.

  “No, he was careful and used a condom,” she said, her eyes tearing again. “I’ll probably never find out who did it to me.”

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching to take her hand. For the first time since the scandal, I felt someone else’s pain in place of my own. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “That’s the thing, I needed time to recover, go to therapy, take art classes, do whatever I needed to become myself again. And dancing … that was a big part of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I said puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  “Dancing took me to a higher plane,” she said simply.

  Huh? I shook my head, confused. I’d never taken Jen for the mystical type.

  But my friend sighed and tried again.

  “I was lost, Stacey, really lost. I didn’t feel like myself, I was spinning through a void with no direction, no sense of self. And the Donkey gave it back to me,” she said simply.

  “But how?” I asked. “How did dancing do that for you?”

  “It was empowering,” she said simply. “I chose when to take off my clothes, how to do it, I controlled the men with my dancing, they looked, they touched, but only if I let them. And it helped me regain control, all eyes on me but only if I wanted it that way,” she said. “I went from being a victim to the one holding the reins.”

  I looked at her with my head cocked. Jen was pretty but I would never have pegged her for a stripper. She looked too wholesome to play the part. No stripper heels, heavy make-up, or visible tattoos. Instead, her medium-brown hair was pulled into a sensible ponytail, and she was wearing regular clothes, totally office appropriate.

  “I know,” she laughed. “It’s hard to believe that Jen Rollins is also Cherry Max, but I was and I still am,” she confided.

  “You still are? You’re still dancing?” I asked, disbelieving. Holy cow, this was a lot of information.

  “I am,” she confirmed, “and I’d recommend it for you too. There’s something about you right now Stacey, you’re so lost … drifting. Take back yourself, and use the Donkey to do it.”

  I sat back, unconvinced. This sounded too sketchy, I had no dance skills, and I’d never taken my clothes off for anyone other than Peyton and Pax.

  But after another miserable week like a limp dishrag, I decided to go with it. Jen had given me the name of the manager, and I dialed hesitantly.

  “Donkey,” said a nasty voice.

  I almost hung up right there, but forced myself to reply.

  “Hi, I’m calling for Stanley,” I said hesitantly.

  “This is he,” the voice said, suddenly welcoming. Oh gross, it was one of those guys who responded only to women. Uck.

  “Hi, I was wondering if you had a slot for a new dancer,” I began. “My friend Je- I mean Cherry, recommended that I come try out.”

  “Tell you what, instead of trying out, why don’t you come to Amateur Night tonight?” said the wheezing voice. “It’s open to everyone.”

  “To- tonight?” I stuttered. “That’s kind of soon. I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “Up to you girlie,” he wheezed again. “Tonight’s the night or no go.”

  Oh, so suddenly he was playing hardball. But I felt so miserable, so down on my luck, that with a snap, I made up my mind.

  “Okay, I’ll be there. Can you put Inga on the guest list?” I asked.

  The voice cackled.

  “Inga, is it?” he guffawed. “Sure, okay, I’ll tell management we’ll have an Inga trying out tonight.”

  And so here I was, outside the club, my coat wrapped tightly around my form, nude underneath except for the tiniest bikini and high, high heels. Oh god, what had I gotten myself into?

  But with one more resolute shake of my head, I stepped up, wobbling a bit in my high heels and said to the bouncer, “Inga, please” with as much confidence as I could muster.

  The dude smirked a bit, a big Samoan guy, making an elaborate production of looking through the list on his clipboard, squinting his eyes as if searching for my name. But suddenly the Bluetooth in his ear buzzed and he put down the clipboard, nodding his head and heaving open the heavy metal door.

  “Go ahead,” he grunted, nodding towards the darkness.

  And tentatively, I stepped into the absolute black, afraid of what I would find. I’d never done anything like this, I was still Ana on the inside, and my heart beat quickly, the fear bitter in my mouth.

  I gasped as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The club was just as horrible as Jen had described, bare bones furniture, a long wood bar on one side, three daises with spotlights pointed at them.

  And the girls. Well, the girls were okay looking I supposed, it was more their dancing, their unbelievable moves that shocked, straight out of the dirtiest porn you’d ever seen.

  One girl had one foot on the floor, the other one stretched upwards in the splits, her ankle propped up against the gold pole, her flexibility amazing. But even more amazing was that she was stark naked except for her heels, her cunny open and wet for all to see, slick and juicy, rubbing tantalizingly against that the metal rod. Man, that pole was going to be wet, an occupational hazard for whoever was up next.

  And another girl was on her hands and knees, shaking her assets for all to see, her boobs bouncing below her, her rump squeezed and slapped by all sorts of men, a couple even dragging their fingers through her snatch if my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

  But what made her set incredible was that her mouth was full … with dollar bills. The dudes, instead of putting bills on the floor for her to pick up, instead folded them into squares, pushing them into her mouth like the tastiest appetizers. And the girl would part her plush lips and let the guys insert the money until her cheeks were puffed up like a chipmunk, stuffed with cash. Talk about salting away a nut for a rainy day.

  So with trepidation, I looked for a place to sit. The performances were NSFW to the max, surely no one would notice me, not a small figure hunched over in the back. I wasn’t sure I could do this, my confidence slowly but surely ebbing away.

  But it was too late because someone had already seen me. A dude rambled over, malnourished looking, missing two front teeth, and leered.

  “Buy you a drink?” he sniggered.

  I almost slapped him right there, he was so gross and nasty, how could he think I was interested?

  “No thanks,” I said coldly, turning my face away.

  But the dude wouldn’t go away, sliding into the chair next to me, putting a dirty hand on my knee, his stinking breath hot in my face, until I finally jumped up and said, “It’s my turn, I have to go,” before running up to the stage. Amateur Night hadn’t started yet but I couldn’t hang out with this guy, any excuse was welcome.

  So without any ado, I started to dance. It was crazy, I’m sure the other dancers were wondering about the strange girl prancing around in front, off-beat and desperate.

  But they were seasoned professionals and had probably seen this movie a million times. The other women exited and suddenly I was by myself, alone on the center dais, nude except for my tiny pink bikini and towering glitter heels.

  Why oh why had I worn these heels? I usually wore cute sneakers even when reporting, it was appropriate if you were on the sidelines of a football field or tennis court. But the stripper heels had appealed to something in me … maybe the see-through plastic platforms, glitter embedded inside, making my insides course with feminine delight, bringing out a new, slutty side.

 
And so I spun around like Cinderella at a ball, pivoting, twisting, kicking my heels up in the air, bucking like a filly.

  “Oh yeah!” howled one dude. “Hi-ho Silver!”

  “Go get ‘em little girl,” whooped another customer, stamping his feet. “Ride ‘em hard!”

  And I began dancing in a frenzy then, shaking my hips, running my hands up and down my bod, cupping my breasts, before sliding them over my abdomen to my sweet snatch, that private part covered by only the tiniest of triangles.

  With a sly smile, I did the move I’d been practicing at home. Running my finger along the string tie, I fingered it, and then snapped it boldly, giving the men a peek at bare snatch, my pulsing pink cunny on view before letting the fabric drop back in place.

  That got a lot of whoops and hollers, dudes clapping their hands, stamping their feet with encouragement.

  Feeling brave, I went with it. I ran my finger along the string tie again, but this time when I snapped it, I snapped it in the back and the guys got a look at my bare ass cheeks and anus, that dark star on view for the first time in public.

  This time, the hoots were deafening, the clapping and stampeding becoming a roar, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was the unmistakable whir of a couple zips loosening. Oh yeah, penis was coming out, I could see the outline of a couple shafts in the dark, big hands moving up and down those poles, giving them the old stroke.

  I felt good for the first time in a long time, my cheeks flushed, my body tingling, warm and wanted. It was exciting and I could see why Jen had recommended the Donkey. There was something liberating about dancing naked, about controlling a roomful of men, their minds on nothing else but you, seeing your assets shake and shiver, boobs quivering, cunny dripping. I loved it all, oh yeah.

  So I let go of all inhibitions and began performing the routine I’d planned while in the shower, warm water gushing over me, my nude curves slick with soap.