girl tries to dominate. I love it when she demands more. I don’t want a wilting flower, and that’s why I crave Meredith so much. She’s a fighter with a magic pussy.
“What do you want?” I tease by slowing down, not letting her thrust as hard as she wants. “What do you want me to do?”
“Harder,” she begs. “Faster. More.”
“Are you sure?” I slam my cock into her and she cries out. I back up and do it again. This time, she clenches against me, opens her eyes, and stares at me with a ferocity.
“I’m going to come all over your cock. Fuck me hard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I can barely keep my legs steady, because that was hot.
But I obey my lady. I grab her hips with both hands and ram myself into her as hard as I can. She rubs her own clit and I nearly lose it. I can’t come until she does, though. Those are the rules.
I don’t have to wait long. Moments later, her whole body clenches and I let myself go with her. This whole huge empty house soon fills with our screams.
Best. Day. Ever.
Chapter Seven
Meredith
P ulling up to the strip club doesn’t get any easier. Funny how it was so easy weeks ago when there was no stripper boyfriend to make my legs quiver, and no fledgling penis photography business, and everything was just fun and dicks and lots of Jameson. Oh, how the mighty fall.
And by mighty, I mean the unemployed and homeless. My life is a never-ending carousel of horrors right now. At least Rob is pretty great. Sex with Rob is even better.
Not that I’d ever tell him. I’m not even really sure how I got swept up in this. This doesn’t happen to normal, nice girls. They don’t go on accidental dates with a stripper and then accidentally start dating. Normal, nice girls don’t take photos of a wannabe pornstar’s dick. Normal, nice girls don’t pull up to the same strip club like they’ve got a Frequent Membership card.
Nice girls knit scarfs and hats and sweaters for their boyfriend’s neck and head and chest.
Don’t even get me started on the shit Jane has said over the last few weeks. She’s almost gleeful this happened. The dick jokes she and Bobby come up with are bountiful and horrible and—okay—really funny, but I can’t ever tell them that because this is my life they are joking about. Jane isn’t married to a stripper. Bobby is an investment banker or some other boring job that brings in a lot of money and keeps him at the office all day.
He and Jane have office sex. That’s classy. That’s adult-like. Instead, I’m just banging a stripper like a heathen. A stripper that’s woefully good in bed.
I grab the manila folder from my passenger seat and take a deep breath before going in. I wanted to meet at that café he took me to with the amazing croissants, but he had work and I didn’t want to wait to show them to him.
Mostly because—and this is embarrassing—I’m totally proud of how these turned out. Okay, yes, they are shots of a dick dressed up in a knitted sweater and scarf, but I made it look so classy . Like, this is a testament to my skills. If I didn’t want my career to be dictated (see what I did there) by penises, I’d submit these to all the major social media news sites. My name would spread like wildfire.
Also, my name would be attached to penis photography. I don’t think Annie Leibovitz would approve. Or my mom.
I sneak in behind a group of girls dressed for a night out. It’s just after dinner, which means the club is going to be full of people, or more so than when I dropped off Peter’s pictures. It’s less sad going at night than during the day, so, I’ve got that going for me.
The bouncer, whose name I don’t know, gives me a warm smile and waives my entry fee. “He’s waiting for you backstage. Know how to get back there?”
I freeze for a moment. “Who is?”
“Rob. Know how to get backstage?”
Oh dear god. This bouncer knows me. This man, employed by the strip club, whom I don’t know, knows who I am.
“What do you want?” I tease by slowing down, not letting her thrust as hard as she wants. “What do you want me to do?”
“Harder,” she begs. “Faster. More.”
“Are you sure?” I slam my cock into her and she cries out. I back up and do it again. This time, she clenches against me, opens her eyes, and stares at me with a ferocity.
“I’m going to come all over your cock. Fuck me hard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I can barely keep my legs steady, because that was hot.
But I obey my lady. I grab her hips with both hands and ram myself into her as hard as I can. She rubs her own clit and I nearly lose it. I can’t come until she does, though. Those are the rules.
I don’t have to wait long. Moments later, her whole body clenches and I let myself go with her. This whole huge empty house soon fills with our screams.
Best. Day. Ever.
Chapter Seven
Meredith
P ulling up to the strip club doesn’t get any easier. Funny how it was so easy weeks ago when there was no stripper boyfriend to make my legs quiver, and no fledgling penis photography business, and everything was just fun and dicks and lots of Jameson. Oh, how the mighty fall.
And by mighty, I mean the unemployed and homeless. My life is a never-ending carousel of horrors right now. At least Rob is pretty great. Sex with Rob is even better.
Not that I’d ever tell him. I’m not even really sure how I got swept up in this. This doesn’t happen to normal, nice girls. They don’t go on accidental dates with a stripper and then accidentally start dating. Normal, nice girls don’t take photos of a wannabe pornstar’s dick. Normal, nice girls don’t pull up to the same strip club like they’ve got a Frequent Membership card.
Nice girls knit scarfs and hats and sweaters for their boyfriend’s neck and head and chest.
Don’t even get me started on the shit Jane has said over the last few weeks. She’s almost gleeful this happened. The dick jokes she and Bobby come up with are bountiful and horrible and—okay—really funny, but I can’t ever tell them that because this is my life they are joking about. Jane isn’t married to a stripper. Bobby is an investment banker or some other boring job that brings in a lot of money and keeps him at the office all day.
He and Jane have office sex. That’s classy. That’s adult-like. Instead, I’m just banging a stripper like a heathen. A stripper that’s woefully good in bed.
I grab the manila folder from my passenger seat and take a deep breath before going in. I wanted to meet at that café he took me to with the amazing croissants, but he had work and I didn’t want to wait to show them to him.
Mostly because—and this is embarrassing—I’m totally proud of how these turned out. Okay, yes, they are shots of a dick dressed up in a knitted sweater and scarf, but I made it look so classy . Like, this is a testament to my skills. If I didn’t want my career to be dictated (see what I did there) by penises, I’d submit these to all the major social media news sites. My name would spread like wildfire.
Also, my name would be attached to penis photography. I don’t think Annie Leibovitz would approve. Or my mom.
I sneak in behind a group of girls dressed for a night out. It’s just after dinner, which means the club is going to be full of people, or more so than when I dropped off Peter’s pictures. It’s less sad going at night than during the day, so, I’ve got that going for me.
The bouncer, whose name I don’t know, gives me a warm smile and waives my entry fee. “He’s waiting for you backstage. Know how to get back there?”
I freeze for a moment. “Who is?”
“Rob. Know how to get backstage?”
Oh dear god. This bouncer knows me. This man, employed by the strip club, whom I don’t know, knows who I am.
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