The clock’s screaming at me like a
pissed-off drill sergeant—six days left to pull three grand out of my ass, or
my precious BMW E21’s history, locked in that trap house deal with Jamal and
his crew. I’m Mira, 18 and a fuckin’ wildfire, a trans girl who’s been owning
this body for two years—5’6”, 125 lbs of pure, slutty venom wrapped in curves
that kill. My outfit’s a weapon tonight—tight black crop top hugging my small,
perky tits, no bra, so my nipples poke through like little rebels against the
fabric. A red leather miniskirt clings to my plump, juicy ass, riding high to
flash my long, toned legs, pale ivory skin shimmering under the dim lights of
my fifth-floor shithole apartment. Black thigh-high stockings grip my thighs,
silky and sleek, and four-inch stiletto heels—shiny black—click sharp as I pace
the scratched hardwood, my dark, wavy hair bouncing below my shoulders. My
heart-shaped face—high cheekbones slicing the air, straight nose flaring, full
lips painted red—tilts as I scroll my cracked phone, big brown eyes with lashes
that could slit throats hunting for a lifeline. My tiny cock and balls are
tucked tight in a black lace thong, a secret under the skirt, and I’m fuckin’
desperate—flat broke after that deal to save Aiden, my car's now on the line.
I’m sucking down a cigarette, smoke curling
past my glossed lips, when I spot it online—“Part-time dancers wanted at
Velvet Pulse, strip club. Holiday rush, no experience needed.” My full lips
twitch into a smirk. Dancing? I’ve got the goods—long legs, a juicy ass that
doesn’t quit, and tits that tease—and I’m not above shaking it for cash. I stub
the cig out in a chipped ashtray, grab my purse, and dial the number. A gruff
voice picks up—Ricky, the owner. “Yeah?” he rasps, sounding like he’s gargling
gravel.
“Mira,” I say, tossing my wavy hair back, my
voice low and sharp. “Saw your ad. You need dancers?”
He chuckles, a wet, sleazy sound. “You got a
body for it? No hourly pay—$50 a dance, you keep half, plus tips. Get your ass
here in an hour.” I grin, my high cheekbones catching the light. “On my way,
asshole.” Click.
Velvet Pulse is a neon-soaked dump
downtown—faded red velvet curtains drooping like tired eyelids, floors sticky
with spilled beer, bass thumping through the walls like a heartbeat on meth. I
strut in, heels clicking loud over the pulsing beat of some synth-heavy track,
my pale skin flashing under the strobes, crop top squeezing my perky tits,
miniskirt barely holding my juicy ass in check. Ricky’s behind the bar—late
40s, white, balding with a greasy comb-over plastered over his scalp, a
potbelly straining a black button-up. He’s maybe 5’9”, stocky, with a crooked
nose and hazel eyes that crawl over me like flies as I saunter up. “Well, fuck
me sideways,” he says, leaning forward, wiping a glass with a rag that’s seen
better days. “You’re a goddamn knockout. Name?”
“Mira,” I purr, batting my lashes, my brown
eyes glinting as I toss my wavy hair, full lips parting just enough to tease.
“Here for the gig. You said tonight?”
He nods slow, his gaze sliding down my long
legs in those stockings, lingering where my pale thighs peek from the skirt.
“Yeah, doll. Dressing room’s that way—find somethin’ hotter than that getup.
Floor’s yours after. Don’t fuck it up, and you’ll clean up nice.” I flash a
cocky grin, my heart-shaped face glowing under the neon, and strut to the back,
hips swaying, feeling his sleazy stare glued to my plump ass the whole way.
The dressing room’s a chaotic
shithole—mirrors smudged with fingerprints, costumes flung over chairs, the air
thick with cheap perfume and hairspray. I dig through the racks, ditching my
crop top and skirt for a silver bikini top—shimmery, barely covering my perky
tits, tied loose so my nipples tease the edges—and a matching thong that digs
into my juicy ass, leaving my pale cheeks bare and begging. I keep the
thigh-high stockings and stilettos, slick my lips with gloss, and fluff my wavy
hair, letting it cascade over my shoulders like dark silk. My reflection stares
back—high cheekbones sharp as blades, straight nose proud, full lips wet and
red, brown eyes sparking with a mix of nerves and steel. I’m a fuckin’ vision,
and it’s time to hustle.
I hit the floor as the music shifts—a slow,
grinding beat, heavy with bass, vibrating through my bones. The club’s
alive—dim lights casting shadows, drunk bastards hollering over the thump of
the speakers, dancers twisting on poles like snakes. My long legs carry me
through the crowd, heels clicking in time with the rhythm, my plump ass
swaying, silver thong catching the strobes as I weave between tables. It’s a
fuckin’ breeze—my pale skin draws eyes like moths, my perky tits bounce just
right under the bikini top, my wavy hair brushing my bare shoulders as I flash
smirks and winks. I don’t bother with every detail—most are sweaty, forgettable
pricks—but a few stand out, and those are the ones worth spilling.
First notable’s a fat white guy—Harold,
mid-50s, gray hair thinning into a sad halo, blue eyes glassy with cheap booze,
stuffed into a rumpled suit that’s seen too many late nights. “Hey, handsome,”
I purr, leaning in close, my wavy hair brushing his shoulder, the music’s slow
pulse urging my hips to sway. “Fancy a dance?” He nods, practically drooling,
and I lead him to a private room—red walls flickering under a single bulb, a
cushy chair that smells like stale cologne, a curtain that’s more suggestion than
shield. The beat picks up, sultry and deep, and I straddle him sideways, one
long leg draped over his lap, my plump ass grinding slow against his thigh, my
pale skin brushing his suit. My perky tits hover near his face, the silver
bikini top slipping just enough to tease a nipple, my full lips parted as I
breathe hot against his ear. “Like that, huh?” I murmur, rolling my hips to the
rhythm, feeling his hands twitch, desperate to grab. Ten minutes of that, and
he’s panting, sliding me a $50 bill I tuck into my stocking, a $10 tip slipped
in after. “Fuckin’ tease,” he mutters, grinning sloppy as I strut out, heels
clicking, my wavy hair swaying.
Third guy’s a wiry Latino—Carlos, late 30s,
5’10”, black hair slicked back, brown eyes sharp under a gold chain that glints
with every move. He’s in a black polo and jeans, leaning back in the private
room chair, smirking as the music shifts to a faster, dirtier beat. “You’re a
fuckin’ knockout, chica,” he says, voice smooth as I approach, my pale thighs
flexing in the stockings. “Dance for me.” I nod, kicking one leg over the
chair’s arm, facing away, my plump ass hovering over his lap as I bend low, letting
my wavy hair spill forward, then snap back up, grinding slow against his
tenting jeans, the bass thumping through us. My silver bikini top shifts,
flashing a nipple, my perky tits swaying as I twist to the rhythm, my full lips
curling into a smirk. “Shit, you’re good,” he mutters, eyes locked on my juicy
ass, then leans in closer. “How much for somethin’ extra, huh? A little happy
ending?”
I pause, my brown eyes narrowing, lashes
fluttering as the music pulses around us—desperate times, quick cash. “Two
hundred tip, ten minutes,” I say, voice low, my pale skin brushing his shirt as
I lean in. “Whatever you want.” He grins wide, fishing two crumpled hundreds
from his pocket, tossing them on the table. “Fuck yeah, deal.” I sigh
inside—reluctant as hell, but I’m in too deep—and untie my bikini top slow,
letting it slip off, my perky tits bouncing free, pale and firm, nipples pink
and stiff in the dim light. He unzips, pulling out a six-incher—dark, straight,
thick at the base, the head wet with pre-cum—and pats his lap. “Sit on this,
sexy.”
I straddle him facing him, my long legs
folding over his hips, stilettos dangling as I guide his cock to my hole, thong
pulled aside, my pale thighs trembling in the stockings. “Fuckin’ hell,” he
grunts as I sink down, the stretch sharp and raw, my plump ass settling onto
his lap, the music’s beat urging me to roll my hips slow and deep. My tiny cock
brushes his stomach, and he freezes—“What the fuck, you’ve got a dick?”—then
laughs, smacking my ass—crack—red flaring on my pale cheek. “Kinky as
shit, I love it.” I grit my teeth, my wavy hair falling over my face, and ride
him harder, my perky tits bouncing, nipples grazing his polo as he thrusts up,
hands gripping my pale hips. “Take it, you tight little slut,” he growls, the
chair creaking, my full lips parting with a reluctant moan as he pounds me to
the rhythm, short and fast.
He pulls out after a few, jerking quick, and
sprays hot cum across my pale stomach, dripping down to my tiny cock, soaking
the thong’s edge. “Goddamn worth it,” he pants, zipping up as I grab a tissue
from the table, wiping the mess off my skin, my brown eyes glinting with a
tired smirk. I tuck the $50 and $200 into my stocking, fix my thong, and tie
the bikini top back on, my juicy ass swaying as I strut out, heels clicking
over the pulsing beat, ready for more.
Sixth guy’s a white dude—Greg, mid-40s,
6’0”, broad with a beer gut spilling over his belt, sandy hair receding, green
eyes hazy with whiskey lust. He’s in a flannel shirt and jeans, reeking of
booze as I lead him to the private room, the music slowing to a heavy, sensual
grind. “You’re a fuckin’ dream,” he slurs, slumping into the chair as I
start—back to him, my long legs spread wide, bending low so my plump ass hovers
over his lap, rolling slow to the beat, my silver thong glinting, my wavy hair
brushing my bare shoulders. My perky tits sway under the bikini top, the fabric
slipping as I arch back, teasing his chest with my pale skin. “Shit, girl,
you’re killin’ me,” he mutters, hands twitching, then grins sloppy. “Two
hundred to fuck you?”
I nod, my heart sinking but my face cool,
peeling the bikini top off again, my perky tits bouncing free as he pulls out a
thick seven-incher—pale, veiny, curved up, leaking steady. “Get over here,” he
grunts, and I climb onto the chair, kneeling facing away, my long legs
straddling his thighs reverse-cowgirl, thong tugged aside as I lower onto his
cock, the stretch deep and rough, my plump ass bouncing on his lap to the
music’s slow thud. “A fuckin’ dick?” he barks, surprised, then growls, spanking
me—crack—my pale cheek stinging. “You little freak, I’m pissed—but I’m
still fuckin’ you.”
“Shut up and do it,” I snap, my wavy hair
sticking to my neck as he grips my hips, thrusting up hard, my perky tits
jiggling, my tiny cock flopping against my thigh, leaking onto his jeans. He
flips me off, shoving me to my knees on the floor, my stilettos scuffing as he
bends me over the chair’s seat, ramming in again doggy-style, the beat pulsing
fast now, my plump ass quaking, my pale skin bruising under his grip. “Take it,
you dirty cunt,” he snarls, spanking me—crack—my juicy ass rippling, his
balls slapping my thighs wet and loud. He unloads inside me, hot cum flooding
my hole, dripping down my pale thighs as he pulls out, leaving me panting,
thong tangled at my knees, stockings stretched tight. I grab a tissue, wiping
the leak from my thighs, my brown eyes hard as I tuck his $50 and $200 into my
stocking, pulling my thong up, bikini top back on, and strut out, heels
clicking to the next beat.
The air in Velvet Pulse is thick with sweat
and desperation, the bassline of a filthy, grinding track vibrating through my
bones as I strut back onto the floor. I’m Mira, 18 and a fuckin’ storm, 5’6”,
125 lbs of pure, slutty chaos—my small, perky tits straining the silver bikini
top I’ve tied back on, nipples teasing the edges with every sway, my plump,
juicy ass barely held by the matching thong, pale ivory skin slick under the
pulsing strobes. My long, toned legs flex in black thigh-high stockings, torn at
the thighs from Greg’s rough paws, and my stiletto heels—four inches of shiny
black—click sharp over the sticky floor, my dark, wavy hair a sweaty cascade
below my shoulders. My heart-shaped face—high cheekbones slicing the light,
straight nose proud, full lips glossed red—draws every eye, my big brown eyes
with lashes that kill glinting with a mix of exhaustion and grit. I’ve danced
for six so far, fucked two, and I’m nowhere near done.
Back in the dressing room between sets, I
switch it up—ditch the silver getup for a black lace bra, sheer enough to show
my perky tits through the fabric, nipples pink and stiff, paired with a tiny
black G-string that cuts into my juicy ass, leaving my pale cheeks bare. The
stockings stay, silky against my long legs, and the stilettos keep clicking as
I fluff my wavy hair, slicking my lips with fresh gloss. The mirror throws back
my reflection—high cheekbones sharp, full lips wet, brown eyes sparking—and I’m
ready to rake in more, the music’s slow, sensual beat calling me back out.
Ninth guy’s a wiry Black dude—Malik, early
30s, 6’1”, lean and cut, dreads tied back under a flat cap, dark eyes
smoldering as he leans back in the private room chair. He’s in a black tee and
jeans, gold watch flashing as the track shifts to a deep, throbbing rhythm.
“Fuck, girl, you’re a stunner,” he says, voice smooth and low, watching my
plump ass sway as I approach, my pale thighs brushing his jeans. I start slow,
facing him, one leg hooked over his shoulder, my long leg stretching high as I
grind my juicy ass against his chest, the G-string glinting, my wavy hair
brushing his face. My perky tits press against the lace bra, teasing his nose
as I roll my hips to the beat, my full lips curling into a smirk. “Goddamn, you
move good,” he mutters, hands twitching, then leans in. “What’s it cost for
more, huh? Wanna feel you.”
I pause, my brown eyes narrowing, lashes
fluttering as the music pulses—three grand’s the goal, and I’m still short.
“Two hundred tip, ten minutes,” I say, voice husky, my pale skin grazing his
tee. “You pick how.” He grins, tossing two hundreds on the table with a flick
of his wrist. “Shit, let’s do it.” I untie the lace bra slow, letting it slip
off, my perky tits bouncing free, pale and firm in the dim light, nipples stiff
as he unzips, pulling out an eight-incher—dark, straight, veiny, the head thick
and wet.
“Lie back, sexy,” he grunts, pushing me onto
the chair, my long legs splaying wide, stilettos pointing up as he yanks my
G-string aside, exposing my tight hole and tiny package. “Fuckin’ hell—a cock?”
he laughs, surprised, then smirks, spanking me—crack—my pale cheek
stinging red. “That’s hot as shit.” I grit my teeth, my wavy hair falling over
my face, and he kneels between my thighs, spitting on my hole—hot,
thick—shoving two fingers in, stretching me quick and rough to the music’s
beat, my long legs trembling in the stockings. “Already loose, huh? Someone’s
been busy,” he mutters, grinning nasty as he lines up, slamming his
eight-incher in, raw and deep, the chair creaking, my plump ass quaking, my
perky tits bouncing wild, nipples scraping the air.
“Take it, you sloppy little slut,” he
growls, pounding me to the rhythm, my pale thighs shaking as he grips my hips,
switching to short, brutal thrusts, his balls slapping my ass loud and wet. He
flips me onto my side, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other pinned under
his knee, and rams in again, the angle deep and wicked, my juicy ass jiggling,
my tiny cock flopping against my stomach, leaking onto the chair. “Fuckin’ wet
hole,” he grunts, spanking me—crack—my pale skin burning, cum from
earlier clients dripping out as he unloads, hot and thick, flooding my ass,
spilling down my thighs as he pulls out. I grab a tissue, wiping the mess from
my pale skin, my brown eyes glinting as I tuck his $50 and $200 into my
stocking, pulling the G-string back into place, bra dangling loose as I strut
out, heels clicking to the next pulsing beat.
Twelfth guy’s a white trucker—Dale, late
50s, 5’11”, burly with a gray beard matting his jaw, blue eyes bloodshot,
flannel shirt unbuttoned over a hairy chest, jeans stained with grease. The
music’s a slow, dirty grind as I lead him to the private room, whiskey reek
rolling off him. “Goddamn, you’re fine,” he slurs, slumping into the chair as I
start—kneeling on the floor in front of him, my long legs folded under, my
plump ass hovering as I lean forward, grinding my perky tits against his lap,
the lace bra slipping to flash my nipples, my wavy hair brushing his thighs. I
sway to the beat, my pale skin brushing his jeans, my full lips parted as I
tease. “Fuck, girl, you’re somethin’,” he mutters, then grins crooked. “Two
hundred to fuck that ass?”
I nod, my gut twisting but my face steady,
peeling the bra off completely, my perky tits bouncing free as he pulls out a
seven-incher—pale, thick, curved down, pre-cum dripping steady. “Get up here,”
he grunts, and I climb onto his lap, facing away, my long legs straddling his
thighs, G-string tugged aside as I sink onto his cock, the stretch deep and
raw, my plump ass bouncing to the music’s slow thud. “Holy fuck—a dick?” he
barks, shocked, then growls low, spanking me—crack—my pale cheek flaring
red. “You’re a nasty little surprise, ain’t ya?”
“Just fuck me,” I snap, my wavy hair
sticking to my neck as he grips my pale hips, thrusting up hard, my perky tits
jiggling, my tiny cock leaking onto his jeans. “Shit, this hole’s sloppy—how
many you taken tonight?” he laughs, nasty and rough, flipping me off his lap
onto the chair, my long legs up high, stilettos in the air as he stands,
slamming in, my plump ass slapping his hairy gut, the beat pulsing fast now, my
pale skin bruising under his grip. “Take it, you used-up cunt,” he snarls,
spanking me—crack—my juicy ass rippling, his thick cock pounding deep,
unloading hot cum inside me, dripping out messy as he pulls away. I grab a
tissue, wiping the leak from my thighs, my brown eyes hard as I tuck his $50
and $200 into my stocking, G-string snapping back, bra fixed as I strut out,
heels clicking over the thumping bass.
Fifteenth guy’s a clean-cut white dude—Mark,
early 40s, 5’10”, lean with short brown hair, hazel eyes sharp, in a polo and
khakis like he’s lost from some office. The music’s a slick, sensual track as I
lead him back, my pale skin glowing under the strobes. “You’re fuckin’
gorgeous,” he says, voice smooth, sitting stiff as I start—standing over him,
one stiletto planted on the chair’s arm, my long leg stretching high, my plump
ass swaying as I grind down slow, the G-string glinting, my perky tits bare and
teasing his face, my wavy hair brushing his shoulder. I roll my hips to the
beat, my full lips smirking as he stares, transfixed. “Christ, you’re good,” he
mutters, then clears his throat. “How’s about a private show—extra?”
I lean in, my brown eyes glinting, lashes
fluttering. “Two hundred tip, ten minutes,” I murmur, my pale skin brushing his
polo. He nods quick, pulling two hundreds from his wallet, setting them neat on
the table. I sigh—five happy endings in one night’s pushing it, but I’m
desperate—and drop to my knees, my long legs folding, stilettos scuffing as he
unzips, pulling out a six-incher—pale, straight, slim, the head pink and wet.
“Suck it, babe,” he grunts, guiding my wavy hair as I lean in, my full lips stretching
around him, taking him deep, the salty taste hitting my tongue as I bob to the
rhythm, my brown eyes watering, lashes wet.
“Fuck, that mouth,” he groans, thrusting up
slow, his slim cock sliding deep, making me gag, drool spilling down my chin
onto my perky tits, soaking my pale chest. “A fuckin’ cock down there?” he
gasps, spotting my tiny package as my G-string shifts, then smirks, reaching
down over my back and spanking me—crack—my pale ass stinging. “That’s
fuckin’ wild—I’m into it.” He pulls me off, spit stringing thick, and flips me
onto the chair, my long legs hooked over his shoulders, stilettos dangling as
he slams his six-incher in, the music’s beat urging him deep, my plump ass
quaking, my tiny cock flopping on my stomach. “Goddamn, this hole’s
wrecked—sloppy as fuck,” he mutters, nasty and turned on, pounding me hard, my
perky tits bouncing, my pale thighs trembling as he unloads, hot cum flooding
my ass, dripping out messy as he pulls away. I grab a tissue, wiping the leak,
my brown eyes sharp as I tuck his $50 and $200 into my stocking, G-string back
in place, bare-chested as I strut out, heels clicking to the fading beat.
Eighteenth guy’s a quick lap dance—some
balding white prick, late 30s, 5’9”, sweaty in a cheap suit, no extras, just my
plump ass grinding over his lap facing him, my long legs straddling, bare tits
teasing his face as the music winds down, a fast, dirty track that syncs my
hips. He slips me $50 and a $20 tip, tucked into my stocking, and I’m done—18
clients, five happy endings, my body aching, my stockings bulging with cash.
I stumble to the dressing room as the club
quiets, the last slow beat fading, pulling on my red leather miniskirt over the
G-string, my pale thighs trembling, my perky tits bare till I grab a spare tank
top from the rack—black, tight, hugging my curves. I’m counting nothing
yet—$50s and tips stuffed in my stockings, club’ll take their $25 per dance
when I clock out—when the bouncer barges in. Tony, late 30s, white, 6’2”, built
like a fuckin’ tank, shaved head gleaming, brown eyes hard, in a black tee and
jeans, arms crossed over his thick chest. “Word’s out you’re lettin’ clients
fuck you,” he growls, voice rough as gravel. “That’s against the rules, girl.
Could get you fired.”
My brown eyes narrow, lashes fluttering as I
stand, my pale skin slick with sweat, G-string tight, tank top clinging. “Fuck
off, Tony,” I snap, tossing my wavy hair back, my full lips tight. “I’m pulling
in cash—don’t screw me over.” He steps closer, smirking, his bulk looming over
my 5’6” frame. “Hundred bucks and a quick taste, maybe I don’t snitch.”
I groan inside—reluctant as fuck, my ass
already raw—but fish a crumpled hundred from my stocking, slapping it into his
hand. “Fine, you prick,” I mutter, dropping to my knees, my long legs folding,
stilettos scuffing the floor as he unzips, pulling out a thick
eight-incher—pale, veiny, fat head dripping. “Suck it good, slut,” he grunts,
grabbing my wavy hair, shoving me forward. My full lips stretch wide, taking
him deep, gagging hard as he fucks my throat to the faint echo of the club’s
last track, his balls slapping my chin, drool soaking my perky tits through the
tank top, my pale face flushing red, my tiny cock twitching in the G-string.
“Fuckin’ hell, that’s it,” he groans, thrusting rough, unloading hot cum down
my throat, dripping past my lips as he pulls out, zipping up with a smirk.
I wipe my glossed lips with a tissue,
standing shaky, my plump ass throbbing, stockings stretched with cash, tank top
damp with spit. Tony pockets the hundred and saunters out, and I grab my purse,
stuffing my earnings inside—18 dances, five $200 tips, minus Tony’s bribe. I
slip into my miniskirt, my pale thighs quaking, and strut out, heels clicking
through the quiet club, my wavy hair a tangled mess, my heart-shaped face
defiant despite the grind. Outside, the air’s cool, and I slide into a cab,
$1275 in my purse after Tony’s cut—$450 from dances post-club fee, $900 from
tips. It’s a solid chunk—two grand left to scrape, and I’ll fuckin’ claw my way
there, one dance, one fuck at a time.
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