Fuck, I’m not tipsy—I’m hammered. Didn’t notice till now. Friend’s birthday dinner with my man and his girl. Pre-drinks at home, whisky shots. Restaurant aperitifs, then red wine that hits like fire. Now I stagger in the freezing cold. They drag us to this classy strip club nearby. Quiet street, discreet door. Heat blasts me inside. Coats off, seated ringside. Champagne arrives. Fuck it, party’s on.
Lights dim. Pro stripper teases, perfect body. Applause roars. Then amateur contest. Chubby girl wiggles, quits early. Next one dances hot, strips to lingerie, chickens out. ‘Pussy!’ I mutter. Friend’s girl challenges: ‘You do better?’ She flags the host. My man and his buddy laugh. Setup? They know I dress sexy. Heart races. Booze burns. I grab the host’s hand, stumble onstage.
The Fever
Spotlights blind. Cameras project every inch on screens. Belt first—red slash on black wool. Zip it off. Boots next. Dance to that Nine 1/2 Weeks beat. Skirt drops, thick tights cling. Chair helps peel them slow, legs bare. Red thong peeks. Pull off sweater, caraco underneath. Twist free. Crowd cheers. Caraco up, arms high, spin it away. Now thong and bra. Turn back, slip straps, unhook. Arm holds tits. Whip it off—breasts bounce free. Roars erupt. Heart hammers.
Thong last. Hands on hips, sway. Tease down, flash ass, up quick. Front flash—pussy glimpse. Full spin, bend, kick it off. Naked. First time ever. Blush burns cheeks. Host parades me, ass and slit on display. Pulse thuds. Man’s grin fades—he knows I’m all in. Back to table, nude, kiss him deep. Hand grazes my ass. Sit on his lap, skin electric.