Gemma and I soon discovered that working in a strip club, albeit for only one Friday evening every fortnight, had its unexpected sides that we never anticipated when we started our amateur appearances. This account recalls some of the more exciting things I experienced as a twenty-two-year-old student stripper.
Firstly, Gemma and I never hit it off with the regular performers. They were older and more than a little peeved that Brian, the club’s owner, and his wife had decided to advertise for more and younger talent. I was told that Gemma and I were the only responses received and, to be honest if we had been aware of what the job advertised entailed, we probably would not have applied.
The other performers were ‘professionals’ working regularly, but some still maintained full-time day jobs. They were none too impressed by the sudden appearance of two students younger than themselves who acted naturally without being plastered in layers of mascara and other makeup and considered the whole escapade nothing but a giggle. Gemma and I thoroughly enjoyed our Friday evenings at the club. In contrast, most appearances were a bore and drag to the other, more experienced strippers, which certainly did not improve the situation.
Thankfully, Gemma and I were friendly, outgoing young women, and we tried to rise above any animosity others might have occasionally shown toward us. We could both see their problem; here we were, two fun-loving, giggly girls taking a two-hour slot and the money that went with it from them.
Moreover, the fact that we were young, pretty and popular, possibly because of our unsophistication, exacerbated the problems. To them, stripping was just a job entertaining, luring old men who had sneaked away from home to ogle at them as they flounced around with nothing on. To Gemma and me, stripping was a hoot that was fun for us and brought pleasure to the guys and occasionally girls watching. What the other performers hated, we loved. Brian had quite a task trying to appease his other performers once we arrived.
“Do you have any advice for us,” we asked one of the girls during our second appearance.
“Yes, luvvies,” she responded, “get lost.”
“But why?”
“You’re taking our jobs and wages, and you’re not wanted.”
“But Brian hired us.”
“What does he know? Get lost, and don’t ask questions.”
Two of the girls were a little friendlier; however, they still viewed us with an air of suspicion as the tax dodger would the visit of an inspector.
Brian was quite happy for us to be proactive and encouraged us to make up our routines, which were mainly off the cuff, and decide how far we wanted to take things.
The other girls only wanted to show off their bodies, get off stage, receive their wages and get home as quickly as possible, and they hardly ever smiled. Despite our initial reluctance, Gemma and I found that the men attending enjoyed us not just stripping but moving between the tables and encouraging them to touch us if they wanted. Such actions soon resulted in more clientele wishing to visit on Fridays to see the two sexy students bare all. Rightly or wrongly, we laughed, smiled and constantly interacted with the guests.
Initially, Brian asked us only to go topless; however, after a couple of appearances, it was clear that the men watching wanted to see more. After discussion, Gemma and I agreed to strip completely, which gained universal approval as we were both, unlike the other girls, totally natural and unshaven between our legs.
Our next daring escapade was to move off the stage and perform our acts on the club floor closer to the punters before eventually gaining enough confidence to move between the tables, allowing men to feel our assets. This, again, was something frowned upon by Brian’s regular girls, who would never leave the safety of the small stage.
Of course, our actions resulted in guys becoming very animated and often making complete fools of themselves in front of other customers.
Hang Dog Harry, as we nicknamed him, was a man of indeterminate age who looked just like a sad old hound dog with massive eyebrows, big eyes and a seemingly permanently sad expression. Whenever Gemma or I came near, his eyes grew larger, his breathing rapid, and he almost seemed like a dog who had just discovered the largest, juiciest bone of its life. We often wondered what sort of life Hang Dog Harry lived when he was not inside the club.
Stupid Cupid, named after the song, was a younger guy in his mid-thirties. His name came as the result of him having too much to drink one night. He harassed and harangued Gemma during her performance with loud promises of his undying love and offering to pay for sex on a table in front of everyone there. When Gemma came behind the curtain, she rolled her eyes and said, ‘Watch out for the guy on table eight!’
I had already heard the commotion he was causing and had peaked into the room to see what was happening. As soon as I appeared, his affections turned from Gemma to me as he offered to help me undress, walk me around the room and then begged to marry me.
I ignored him for the best part of my performance but finally sidled up to where he was sitting and, using my finger, motioned for him to follow me. I intended to walk him to the door where he could be assisted to leave. However, as he got up from his seat, it was apparent that due to his excited state and drunk condition, he had wet himself.
He began to follow me between the tables, leaving a damp trail behind him and calling, “I love you, I love you!”
As we neared the door, he collided with an empty chair, made a grab for me, missed and sprawled headlong on the floor. His calamity caused merriment all around, especially as he was dragged away, still looking lustfully at me and reaffirming his offer of love and marriage. Neither of us had heard of the song Connie Francis sang in the 1950s; however, when Brian played it, the title ‘Stupid Cupid’ seemed very appropriate to our poor friend.
After that fiasco, whenever Brian or his wife got cross about something, One of us would repeat, “I love you, I love you,” and the owners would crack up in fits of laughter.
Mr White stood out from the crowd whenever he attended, which was often, by his usual dress of white flannels and shirt. A few of us at uni played Cluedo and took his nickname from Mrs White, one of the suspects in the board game. This man was, we surmised, around fifty and usually attended with friends who seemed to change regularly. Once Gemma and I started to meet clients privately after our performances, we expected Mr White to be among them every time he visited, but he never was. He seemed content to watch us intently and pass on platitudes whenever we were in earshot.
“Beautiful, just beautiful.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“You have a body to die for.”
We used to smile as we debriefed, travelling back to our accommodation in the early hours. Clearly, Mr White offered his praise according to who was naked and close to him.
“He said he loved my full breasts tonight,” Gemma commented with a smile.
“That’s a laugh,” I responded, “He told me little was best and that mine were delightful.”
On another occasion, Gemma commented, “Mr White told me tonight that he thought I’d make the best lover he had ever had.”
“Oh really,” I replied as we moved off from the traffic lights, “He told me he thought I’d be a tiger in bed and provide the hottest sex anyone could give.”
McDonald was a younger man, who we discovered was twenty-eight. I cannot say about Gemma, but I used to look the crowd over to find the three or four best-looking guys so that as I danced, jigged and gyrated, I imagined making love to them. It helped me concentrate and perform to the best of my abilities, not that my dance moves were anything special.
McDonald usually visited once a month, and we picked him out as hot property and a guy we would love to see privately as we teased each other as to which of us he fancied the most.
One night, when he had not appeared, and I was driving us back to the student’s residence, Gemma suggested we stop at a McDonald’s drive-through for a bite to eat. I pulled in, and we ordered and paid before moving on to the collection window. As soon as we pulled up, I spotted him standing, filling our cups with Mcflurry. As he handed them to a female assistant, he caught sight of me and stopped dead.
“Hello,” I said in my light Scottish accent, “missed you tonight.”
The girl holding our order looked back at her colleague in surprise.
“Had to work,” he replied rather forlornly.
“Oh,” said Gemma, leaning across and looking up to see who I was speaking to, “Hello.”
“Both of you?” he replied weakly. He then turned to some of his male colleagues and said, “Look. It’s the girls I told you about from the club.”
The restaurant was quiet at one in the morning as three other male faces appeared behind the bemused female employee.
“Do you mean the two strippers?” one asked.
“Yes. That’s them.”
‘Hey, they are good lookers,’ another responded.
“Will you get your kit off for us?” The third asked excitedly.
“We might do,” Gemma replied with a twinkle in her eye, “Why would you want us to do such a thing?”
“Crumbs,” the enquirer replied, “I guess I’d want to see you both naked and maybe more.”
“More?” I asked, joining Gemma’s teasing.
“What are you all talking about?” the young female member of staff asked as she stood, still holding our order, surrounded by the four young men.
“These are two sexy strippers who work at the club down the road,” McDonald replied.
“Strippers?” the woman questioned incredulously.
“We are students at the university,” I corrected.
“But they strip every Friday at the club,” McDonald added.
“Only once a fortnight,” Gemma cut in.
“Anyway, they strip for guys,” He enthused.
“Don’t you think I could do that?” his not-unattractive colleague questioned.
“Probably,” McDonald replied, “but these two girls actually do.”
“If they could teach me, I’d do it for you,” she added.
“For all of us?” one of the other men questioned hopefully.
“Well….” The young lady’s voice died away.
“Will you teach her?” McDonald asked.
“If she passes us our order, it might help us consider the matter favourably,” Gemma responded playfully.
“Oh! My! Err! Sorry,” the girl answered, “I forgot about your order.”
“What are you both doing now,” McDonald asked urgently.
“About to eat our takeout,”
“I mean after that.”
“Go to bed.”
“We all finish our shift in half an hour, so how would you like to go to bed at my place?”
Gemma looked at me and said, “I’m game if you are Rach.” I was, indeed.
So it was that thirty minutes later that we provided a lift to McDonald and his female colleague while the other three young men walked the half mile to McDonald’s house.
The two of us were under no delusions about what would take place. I knew Gemma wanted to spend time with McDonald, and I was happy with that as I felt I could have plenty of fun with the other three lads. I could not quite see where the girl, called Michelle, would fit in. Things were just about to become a little more complicated.
It transpired that Michelle and McDonald were in a relationship that had never really gotten off the ground. McDonald had been bugging her to emulate Gemma and me and strip for him and his friends, which she was too shy to do, hence her question as we collected our food. Now he had the two of us and wanted us to show her what to do. We also knew he and his friends would like a little more than a peep show.
Michelle seemed emboldened by our presence, and the three of us formed a line in the small living room of McDonald’s small rented house, with Gemma leading and Michelle and me following her example as we slowly and seductively stripped for the four excited guys.
When we got to our underwear, fear suddenly caught Michelle as she froze while my friend and I removed our bras to much admiration. If truth be known, Michelle had more going for her than either Gemma or myself with her assets, looks and, when clothed, her outgoing personality.
The poor girl covered her bra with her arms and her hands, clutching her shoulders. We distracted from her embarrassment by removing our knickers and moving closer to the four guys spellbound watching us. With all eyes off her, Michelle suddenly gained the confidence to follow our lead and strip naked, too. Suddenly the guy’s eyes moved as one from us to her, resulting in her trying to cover her breasts with one hand and her pussy with the other in acute embarrassment.
Again, we came to her rescue as Gemma went to McDonald’s trousers while I tried to take care of the other three with my hands and mouth. McDonald was clearly enjoying himself as Gemma’s mouth set to work on his erect cock aided by one of her hands working at its base and the other inside his trousers stroking his balls.
Poor Michelle stood about like a lemon as the rest of us got down to action for the next thirty minutes.
Suddenly, with guys and girls all naked, sweaty and, in places, damp and full, she declared that she, too, desired some of the action.
“I wanted to be the first to give him a blow job,” she said accusingly to Gemma but looking at McDonald.
“You never offered to give me one before,” McDonald responded crossly.
“You never asked.”
“But you’d never strip naked when I asked you to.”
“You always asked me when your friends were around. Now, this woman has done what I wanted to do.”
“Well, go ahead and do it,” McDonald implored, “I’ll gladly take another blow job.”
“But you’ll be all covered in her salvia and your seamen,” Michelle complained.
“I’ll wash for you,” he offered and quickly disappeared.
Gemma gave a half look in my direction as if to ask what she had done wrong. I signalled that she could engage with one of my three charges, which she happily did.
Meanwhile, Michelle started pleasuring McDonald by taking his cock in her mouth, and as she did so, I could see her colleagues taking an ever greater interest in her actions and physique.
She was indeed a wholesome girl when out of her work clothes. She possessed large, rounded breasts, beautiful skin and an incredibly pretty face. I felt that she might be asked to perform oral sex again on others as the evening wore on. All her colleagues made no bones about being attracted to her.
Gemma disappeared with her guy into one of the bedrooms, as she always preferred one-on-one, leaving me to placate two distracted men who, despite my best endeavours, seemed more interested in Michelle’s attention to McDonald than mine to them.
I finally decided to stop and join them in watching Michelle’s work and McDonald’s reactions as they interacted together, seemingly oblivious to the fact they were being watched. When Gemma and her man caressed, kissed, groped and fucked each other with wild abandon, lost in their private world of love and lust as the five of us looked on.
Gemma and I dressed and decided to sneak out when the two lovers departed upstairs to continue their activities. We bid a swift farewell to the other three guys and returned to our accommodation.
Occasionally, we would stop by the drive-through and see one of the ‘gang’ to discover how things were progressing. Then, one day, about eight months later, Gemma and I received a card through the post. It was a wedding invitation. McDonald and Michelle were getting married, and we attended. It was a happy day tinged, for me at least, with a touch of sadness that I had never discovered what McDonald was really like in bed.
One night, after our appearance at the club, Brian, the owner, approached us.
“How would you two girls enjoy playing out a little scenario one night,” he inquired.
“Such as,” Gemma enquired.
“I’ve just been away and attended an all-girls mud wrestling event,” he explained. “It was a lot of fun to watch and, by the looks of it, to partake in too.”
“Sorry,” Gemma piped up, “I know Rach might enjoy that sort of messy activity, but it’s not my thing.”
“If you’d let me finish, Gemma,” Brian scolded with a bright smile, “I had no plans for you to do anything like mud wrestling.”
“Oh.”
“No. Just a little catfight between you two.”
“What for?” I asked, a little disappointed that mud wrestling was off the agenda.
“A bit of fun. Something different. The element of surprise.” Brian replied enthusiastically.
“So you want us to fight each other?” Gemma questioned suspiciously.
“Well…” Brian responded, pursing his lips, “It’s just an idea I had that I thought you might be interested in trying.”
“As long as I win,” Gemma enthused.
“Suits me,” I responded, “I’m hopeless at being dominant.”
“I’ll give you such a bashing,” Gemma teased.
“No, no, no,” Brian quickly interjected, “nothing like that. I thought of a long, drawn-out affair with you holding Rachel across a table to have her bum smacked by some of the clientele.”
“Thanks,” I said, “so you want us to fight, Gemma to win, and me to endure some public BDSM?”
“Is that not okay with you, Rachel?” He answered, looking a little crestfallen, “I mean, after all, you have done some bondage and things in other places.”
“I was only checking that I’d got things right,” I replied. “I think I’m happy if Gemma is.”
“Come on, Rach,” she responded, slapping me playfully on my back, “Better get practising.”
I’m sure Brian never realised what preparations we two girls would go to to ensure the night’s events were perfect. We didn’t intend to play fight by grabbing at each other and giving light slaps. We sought advice from those who could help: a judo club, some from the boxing club that I had attended and one guy who was big into karate. We didn’t want to learn all the intricacies of each event, just the basics, so we could make things look authentic.
Two visits to the university judo club gave us a basic grasp of how to throw or trip someone; however, we realised that we required some matting on the floor to succeed. It soon became apparent as we practised, usually on a playing field close to the campus, that Gemma had a greater ability than I to get me onto my back. I, in turn, excelled in the punching game, having had several lessons during my naughty trips to a local boxing club. (To learn about those encounters, please read The Girl with the Golden Gloves and Rambo Rachel Hits the Canvas).
Neither of us knew a thing about karate other than that it seemed to involve chopping actions with the side of the hand that transferred destructive power into whatever the trained hand contacted. After one visit to a local Martial Arts venue, we decided against further lessons as we felt we had enough skills in our armoury to carry off a realistic fight without complicating matters.
Six weeks after Brian’s suggestion, we had made up and practised a fight routine that we thought looked good enough to be taken as authentic. One of Gemma’s male admirers, of which she, like me, had a few, told us after watching our masquerade that if wrestlers could pull off fixed fights, so could we.
He nicknamed Gemma ‘The Gouger’ and me ‘The Rebel’, names at which we both laughed. As he was something of a wrestling ‘know-all’, he showed us how to play slap and punch, as he said, ‘playing dirty’ without actually hurting each other. His tricks were much easier to work than the complex and dangerous things we had been shown in the karate club.
On the night in question, it was decided that I would ‘steal’ Gemma’s outfit and go on before her, only for her to discover the ‘theft’ and storm out to regain what was rightfully hers. The difficulty was that she was a size twelve and I an eight, so I looked more than stupid in her get-up. The problem was rectified when Brian agreed to purchase two identical dresses in the correct sizes that could be switched once Gemma regained hers from my body and punished me accordingly.
Out I strolled in front of the usually packed audience, all sitting around at the tables waiting for the two sexy students to do their stuff. I have never been a good dancer, so I used to walk around the tables teasing customers while slower, seductive music played in the background. It worked well, and I’m sure some guys actually thought they would get off with me right there on the tables or wooden floor as I naughtily provoked them by sidling close or stepping over their laps. As I was at the far and dimest end of the room, I heard a roar that sounded more like that of a lion robbed of its young than a fellow female student.
“NOOOOOOOO! What the… Who’s stolen my outfit?”
Everyone went silent at this sudden intervention, and even the music died away. Suddenly, Gemma appeared from behind the curtain in just her underwear and looked directly at me.
“You dirty thieving RAT,” she bellowed, “That’s my dress!’
“I know, Gemma,” I stuttered, “I forgot mine and will return it when I’ve finished.”
“You’re ALWAYS stealing my stuff,” She bellowed, jumping off the little stage and walking towards me through the customers.
“I, I, I can explain,” I mumbled while backing away in apparent fear.
“I’m sick of you taking, borrowing or using my stuff. You are nothing but a stealing whore!”
By this time, we were halfway back down the room and on the piece of thick carpet that Brian had arranged to put in place two weeks previously.
Gemma made a grab for me and caught my hair as I turned to flee. This was not planned, and I screamed out in real pain.
“Now, ladies,” one of the guests at a nearby table interjected.
“Shut up and keep out of this,” Gemma retaliated, still gripping my hair tightly, “She needs to be taught a lesson.”
As she let go of my hair, I turned and tried one of the fake punches we had been shown, and surprisingly, it came off rather well, with Gemma stumbling backwards as though I had really hurt her.
In retaliation, she came at me, and we embraced in what must have appeared to be mortal combat as Gemma sought to obtain her dress from my body.
“I want my dress back NOW”, she shouted, trying to undo the lace bow above my breasts that kept it in place.
Then she caught me with her own play punch, and I fell, as I had been taught, onto the floor, holding my chin. Gemma lept on me, slapping me reasonably hard as I sought to protect myself and fight back.
“Stop it, you two,” someone else attempted to intervene.
“Get lost,” Gemma retaliated with enough venom to silence our would-be peacemaker.
With my friend’s assistance, I pushed her off and got back on my feet before she grabbed me again and held me in a rather impressive headlock while pulling my dress off my tits.
“You should be locked up, you thieving toad,” she hissed.
As she relaxed her grip, I broke free and turned around to face my attacker, and we caught each other’s arms as we had been taught at the Judo club. Gemma placed her foot behind mine and threw me onto the carpet, where I landed with a little more force than was intended. My friend straddled me and pulled the dress off me down my legs, followed by my thong.
“RATBAG,” she proclaimed viciously, “GET UP!”
She twisted my arm, and to relieve the pressure, I had no option but to obey. Once standing, Gemma manoeuvred me to a table where she bent me over with my bum exposed.
“Someone hold the bitch while I teach her a lesson,” she shouted.
To our surprise, no one answered her call. We had planned that Gemma would give me a barehanded spanking on my bum with guys holding me in position.
“Come on,” she encouraged, “This thieving scumbag needs to be taught not to steal ever again.”
Still, no one moved. We had performed our brief catfight so well that not one punter suspected that it was all an act. No one wanted to become involved.
After several more futile attempts to solicit others to hold me down, Brian came to our rescue.
“Girls, girls,” he called as he hurried into the room. “Enough of this.”
“She started it,” Gemma replied vengefully, still playing her expert role as the wronged victim of a serious crime.
Brian took us both by the wrists and led us to the front of the room before the small stage area.
“Right, you two, stop this nonsense and make up,” he commanded.
“We looked at each other and went as though we were going to embrace when Gemma suddenly spat fiercely in my face.
“Thieving Bitch.”
This action took even me by surprise as it was not pre-planned.
“STOP IT NOW,” Brian bellowed with such force that the hairs on my head stood on end.
Silence descended on the room as everyone pondered our public quarrel.
“I have a confession to make,” Brian stated, “that this little charade was all planned and staged by these two girls. Didn’t they do well?”
As Gemma and I hugged each other, a ripple of applause grew into a larger show of appreciation. Our little escapade had taken in everyone, so we were pretty pleased with our efforts.
Brian was thrilled with the feedback and, as a result, purchased a proper judo-type mat so that once every eight weeks, Gemma and I could stage a catfight involving us stripping, slapping, smacking, tripping and falling. Gemma started to enjoy her dominatrix role while I, of course, enjoyed being her stooge and taking the punishment she gave.
We tried to add an exciting extra each time we fought, such as me drinking a litre of water straight off poured into my mouth by Gemma via a funnel someone held in place.
On the next occasion, she stuck it up my bum before adding the water.
On two occasions, Brian borrowed an inflatable swimming pool to have a mud fight after I had persuaded Gemma to try it. I adored these filthy, sticky, muddy, messy sessions; however, Gemma, much more sensible than me, was not so happy getting dirty, and Brian found the cost of the clay used to make the mud exorbitant. Hence, the mud wrestling between us ceased.
I did manage to twist Brian’s arm into allowing me to do a solo act in the pool, enabling guys to pour buckets of mud over me while asking me to play with it in certain areas. As the guys paid extra for the privilege, it covered the cost of the clay. I enjoyed these sessions, but perhaps because they were on a Wednesday and didn’t have Gemma as the main attraction, they were not as popular as our Friday night frolics, so the ‘Mudholes Show’, as they were nicknamed, ended.
One memorable evening, Gemma had performed first (we alternated every fortnight) and, as she came past me, said, “Watch the guy on table twelve with the beard. I think he’s had too much.”
I went out and commenced my routine of flouncing around the tables, lifting my already short skirt and bending low so that eyes could look down my low-cut top in expectation of a soon-to-be fuller revelation.
As I neared the table Gemma had warned me about, I could see a rather large man whose age was difficult to gauge due to his abundant facial hair.
“You want it up you, sweetheart,” he shouted.
I ignored him and continued trying to entertain others who were less forthright but, I guessed, just as desirous to ‘put it up me,’ given half a chance.
“You a dumb bitch too?” he asked as I passed him towards table thirteen. “I’ll give you what you want and more,” he continued. “Bitches like you need big wide hard cocks to stretch you out and let you know who’s boss!”
“Really?” I questioned innocently, noticing that his trouser belt was hanging undone and that his clothing hidden under the table appeared to be in some disarray. I guessed that Gemma’s act caused him to undo certain things to release others. I hoped I was right. “Come on then, hairy,” I bravely continued, “If you’re man enough to get up and give me what I need and more right here, I’m woman enough to take it.”
Looking back, it was a stupid thing to say, although I knew that staff members would come to my aid if my challenge went wrong. I bent over table thirteen and lifted the skirt of my dress to provide an eyeful of my pert bum as though it was ready for his attention. I quickly dropped my thong and wriggled my bum as an added incentive.
“Come on,” I invited, “I’m ready for that big, long, wide cock of yours.”
Up he jumped, knocking his chair over in his eagerness to get to me and take me up my backside. As he started to come towards me, his trousers dropped, he overbalanced and, almost in slow motion, tumbled to the floor between the two tables with his trousers around his ankles and his Y fronts partway down his thighs and no erection in sight.
“I want her,” he kept repeating as he tried to get up again and again, only to fall due to his inebriated condition. Finally, two of the club’s older employees came and, grabbing his arms, pulled him out of the room.
Later, back in the privacy of the tiny dressing room Gemma and I used, Brian scolded me for my outburst.
“What were you thinking, Rachel, challenging someone like that to fuck your bum?”
“I knew he couldn’t do it,” I replied honestly. “He was drunk and half-dressed.”
“That’s not the point. It’s not your place to deal with unruly customers,” Brian argued. I knew he had a point. “Leave it to those I pay to sort guys out like him.”
“Okay, Okay, I’m sorry,” I countered. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Stupid if you ask me. You were asking for trouble.”
“I was asking for cock, actually,” I responded a little too cheekily.
“RACHEL!” Brian retorted crossly, “Be sensible and take some advice. No more smart-ass comments, conversations or invitations with my customers.”
“I’m sorry,” I concluded, realising I had been a little foolish. “It won’t happen again.”
As Brian left, he turned back with a smile, “I must say, though, it was hilarious!”
“That’s you in your place,” Gemma said as we packed our performance attire into our small canvas bags. “How could you have dared that guy to do it?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” I explained, “I saw his belt was undone and decided to say something.”
“What would you have done if he’d reached you?” Gemma asked as we walked toward her car.
“Why, I’d have let him take me up my backside,” I responded with a twinkle in my eye.
“Hmmm, knowing you, Rachel, you’d probably have just remained leaning on the table, enjoying every moment.”
Two weeks later, as I waited nervously in my room after our show for that night’s clients (please read Cash for Cunt Confessions to learn more about other similar encounters), I opened the door to the first knock and froze in horror. Standing before me, holding a massive bouquet of flowers, was Hairy Face himself.
The look of dismay on my face registered with him immediately.
“I know you will never want to see me again,” he said blandly, “but I wanted to apologise for ruining your performance last time and making such an ass of myself.”
I struggled to know how to respond.
“I’ve brought you these,” he said, thrusting the flowers toward me, “And I’m very sorry, and you and your friend are gorgeous. Goodbye.”
As he walked away, I felt a sudden urge of compassion for the poor fellow.
“No. Wait,” I said.
He stopped, turned and looked at me.
“Come in here.”
He walked back silently and entered the room, looking at me sullenly. I wanted to say something to him but could not think quickly enough to get the right words.
“Thank you. They are beautiful.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“We all make mistakes,” I answered, “I’ve made loads.”
“Not getting drunk and trying to fuck a pretty girl less than half your age in public,” he explained.
“No, but…” I wanted to say more but knew I had clients to satisfy.
“Write your number on there,” I said, grabbing a piece of torn paper from my handbag. “I’m busy right now but want to thank you properly for apologising.”
He eyed me suspiciously as he wrote his name and number on the paper. “Are you on the game?” he asked.
I nodded as I ushered him out of the room and down the corridor. “I’ll call you,” I said.
“Are guys going to come and fuck you?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you more when I call.”
When I told Gemma later that night, after we had satisfied several men’s sex cravings, she was incredulous.
“Why ever do you want to call him?” she asked, “he’s just a dirty old man who drinks too much.”
“But I feel sorry for him, Gem.”
“Go ahead, but I don’t want to be involved.”
That night, I hardly slept, wondering if I was a total fool to ever think of phoning someone who had behaved so stupidly. I was handed a leaflet from Help the Aged while shopping the next day. That word ‘help’ made up my mind. I had to call.
I’m not sure that Philip, although for some strange reason, he told everyone he was called Fill with an ‘F’, knew what to say when I told him who was calling him.
There was a moment’s silence after I said, “Hello, this is Rachel from the strip club.”
I only hoped that I had dialled the correct number, and thankfully, I had; otherwise, things could have ended very embarrassingly.
After an awkward few minutes of strained and stunted silence, I bit the bullet and asked if he wanted to meet, so that afternoon, I ended up sitting in a rather seedy coffee shop listening to the man’s life story, which was rather sad. He was fifty, worked for the post office and rented a house with two other men of similar age. He apologised that he could not invite me around because three men sharing one place meant it required some sorting and cleaning.
Over three cups of coffee, a slice of dry lemon drizzle cake, and an ice cream sundae, I listened as Phil told me how the three guys lived and visited strip clubs far and near to get their sexual thrills.
Later that week, I was surprised to receive a call from Phil inviting me to meet his other lodgers in a restaurant with a much better reputation than the café. Two friends accompanied me to ensure my safety; however, I knew I would be fine once I had been introduced to Ray and Don.
As we started dessert, Phil finally popped the question I was sure had been on all their minds.
“Rachel, can we ask a favour?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can we pay you for sex?”
“Why me?” I asked rather mischievously.
“You’re the only prostitute we know.”
“And the prettiest.”
“We have gone out looking for women many times, but we return disappointed because the ones available are so ugly,” Don explained.
“With respect to all of you,” I countered, “you’re not exactly Tom Cruise’s.”
All three looked crestfallen.
“Is that a no?” Phil asked, “I’m not surprised after my escapade the other week.”
“I never said ‘no.’ I was pointing out that things can be relative. What did you want to do with me?”
“Sex, of course. We would want to fuck you.”
“Forgive Don’s English,” Ray chipped in.
“Just plain sex?” I inquired.
“What do you mean?”
“There is more to sex than just sex,” I commenced to elucidate, wondering how many university students had to explain such things to men in their fifties. It wasn’t that they didn’t know about these practices; it was more that they had never thought offers of more than using a woman’s pussy would ever come their way.
“So, are you offering us your arsehole, cunt and mouth if we want to use them?”
“Yes,” I replied, not for the first time, wondering if I was too brazen.
“But we have to pay?”
I smiled as I replied, “You have to pay for quality these days. I’m trying to pay my way through university, and these little jobs help me do that and run my car.”
It did not take a degree for all three to see that the offer of a twenty-two-year-old woman to be fucked by three single men in their fifties was not to be passed up.
After some conversation, they agreed to give me a considerable amount if I spent a day with them, not just as their sex toy but helping them get their house in order. Before agreeing, I went to judge the lie of the land and looked around the bachelor pad. It was in some state; however, being the spirited girl I am, I accepted their suggestion.
The night before I was due at their house, Phil called with an idea.
“Could we have you working around the house in chains, Rachel?” he asked. “We thought it would be good to have your ankles chained, like old-time convicts. Your wrists would be chained to each other with enough slack to allow you to work.”
“That’s okay by me,” I agreed, “It will add a bit of extra fun and spice to the day.”
And so it was that the next day, I turned up early at the home of three bachelor men to be their sex slave cleaner for the day. Once I was inside the house, I let the men remove my clothes and underwear and have a good look at me. They seemed to appreciate the goods on offer, especially when I bent over the table.
“Come on then, Phil,” I said, “I’m now ready for that big long wide cock of yours that you offered me before.” He did not require any second invitation as he undid his trousers, pulled his cock free and thrust it deep inside my expectant pussy.
Surprisingly, all three men were initially much gentler with me than I had imagined. I guess they did not wish to scare away their cleaner at such an early juncture.
I was personally not attracted to any of the three men, and so I figured that the strange sensation that led to a full-on orgasm might take some persuasion. I knew I was there just for their pleasure; however, I hoped in return, something might spark my body to respond positively during the day.
Once all three had enjoyed using my warm, tight, moist cunt, I stood with legs apart and arms outstretched as chains were wrapped around my wrists and ankles, then fastened with padlocks.
I then systematically worked through the house, stripping beds, filling the washing machine, sorting, dusting, tidying, and vacuuming. As I did so, I was followed by all three guys who looked like dogs following their bitch in heat. They all kept their clothes on, but each had found an implement to encourage my good behaviour. Ray had a wooden spoon; Don found a fly swat, and Phil, on my recommendation, had a leather belt, all playfully and regularly swung in my direction.
With two bedrooms tidied, clothes put away or made ready for washing and clean sheets on the bed, I lay down and opened my legs as an invitation for round two. No one spoke a word as they gazed at my hairy muff and commenced undoing belts and buttons and lowering zips.
I guessed it was an unspoken rule that Phil led the proceedings, and he lowered himself onto and into my damp and waiting pussy. This time, he thrust harder as I lay, still with my chains between my arms and legs, grunting as he sought more pleasure for his labours. Soon, he was in the zone and pummelling me like a twenty-year-old until, with an explosive groan, he shook, stiffened and then collapsed onto my naked body, seemingly exhausted.
‘Hurry up,” his friends encouraged, “we want a turn.”
As soon as Phil had removed himself from my body, his place was taken by Ray, who was so ready to cum he had difficulty controlling himself before he had pushed into my now lubricated cunt. It seemed seconds before I felt him fire what felt like a substantial load into my now well-used pussy.
Don was on top of me, grabbing at my tits and thrusting excitedly as I closed my legs to provide greater friction against his cock as it freely moved inside me. He seemed oblivious to my assistance as he alternately fondled and sucked my breasts while keeping a rhythmic motion until he suddenly stopped, stiffened, sighed, and shook as his cum flowed deep into my whore hole.
This second session had taken less than half an hour as the men had warmed to their opportunity, pumping me wildly and filling me quickly. As I stood to continue my cleaning efforts, my pussy was leaking semen. Still, though, I had not experienced orgasm despite closing my eyes and imagining my clients as handsome students. I realised I needed to redouble my efforts to gain some self-satisfaction.
I was amazed at how dirty and chaotic the house was, as clothing was lying everywhere, requiring washing, drying and ironing. I also discovered many unwashed cups and plates in the bedrooms, occasionally still with a half-eaten biscuit. I was unsure that the rooms had ever been vacuumed since the men had moved in eighteen months before.
When I went into the bathroom, I could hardly believe the extent of the sludge line along the side of the bath over which hung the shower. The sink was little better, and the loo looked like it required ten bottles of bleach to have any effect. The tiled floor was so dirty my bare feet stuck to it as I moved around.
There was no mop in the house and only a packet of disposable dishcloths, which I used on my hands and knees to make the bathroom a little more hygienic. Seeing me scrubbing in this position certainly got the men’s attention as they enjoyed using their varied implements across my exposed bum.
It took nearly an hour to make the bathroom presentable, during which time an idea I thought might be fun formed in my mind.
“Right,” I commanded, having finally finished scrubbing the bath for the fifth time. “Humans next!”
I turned on the shower, moved towards Phil, and commenced undoing his shirt buttons. Surprisingly, he pulled back, almost in fear.
“Oh, come on,” I teased, “Clean bathroom and now clean bodies.”
The three men stood looking at each other in panic as if they were about to face some snarling lion in a Roman arena.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Do you want to take ALL our clothes off?” Phil asked.
“Of course.”
“And watch us wash in the shower?”
“No.”
Ray breathed a sigh of relief.
“So we wash ourselves in the shower,” Don stated.
“No. I’m going to wash you in the shower,” I explained.
When they heard this, I thought the men would turn and run down the stairs and out of the house. They genuinely looked terrified.
“You want to see us naked?” they asked.
“I can’t wash you with your clothes on, can I?” I explained.
“So you want us all to take our clothes off?”
“No. I was going to take your clothes off and then your underwear before I start washing you all under the shower.”
There was total silence on the landing and terror on the men’s faces.
“Of course, I’ll understand if you have scabies or some other nasty skin condition, you don’t want me to see or others to know about. Otherwise, line up here.”
Phil, Ray and Don jumped into line as though they were army recruits and I was their sergeant major.
“We never thought you’d want to see us naked,” Ray confessed.
“I don’t,” I replied honestly as I recommenced undoing the buttons on Phil’s shirt, “I want to see you all clean and tidy.”
Once I had Phil naked and in the shower, I started washing him down but paying particular attention to his nipples, balls, cock and bum. His initial tension soon disappeared as the warm water and my ministrations with plenty of shower gel relaxed him, and he started to enjoy the proceedings.
“What the…” he asked, suddenly pulling away from me as I inserted a soapy finger up his anus.
“I’m doing a thorough job,” I assured him as I started again, “Inside and out!”
Ray had to hot-foot it out to a local shop for more gel and cleaning materials while I got to work on Don. The whole venture took much longer than I imagined as each of my employers enjoyed the experience far more than they had imagined as I washed, massaged, scrubbed and dried them.
The next problem was that not one of them had any clean clothes to put on. Apparently, they had two weeks’ supply each, which they washed only when nothing was left. We closed the curtains so no one could see us all naked as I reloaded the washing machine with a coloured wash on a quick cycle.
I still had the downstairs cleaning to complete, but I felt I needed to spend more time on what I was being paid to do. I knelt and, lifting Phil’s elongated penis, started work on providing a long slow seductive blow job. At least, that was my intention.
I discovered later that none of the three men had ever received a blow job previously. This revelation possibly explained Phil’s sudden explosion of cum into my mouth, which took me entirely by surprise.
Phil plopped himself down on an easy chair as Ray immediately took his place without giving me time to spit Phil’s load out. Ray and Don took longer, possibly because they knew what to expect. I looked up as I worked their cocks with my hand, tongue and mouth. They closed their eyes and looked asleep, enjoying a sweet dream.
With the men satisfied, I commenced working through the hallway and kitchen with the new cloths and cleaning liquid Ray had purchased. The kitchen was worse than the bathroom, with sticky grease and grime everywhere. I knew that I, too, would require a shower when I completed this mammoth task.
The men assisted me in pulling out the cooker, fridge and washing machine so I could scrub the tiles below. The whole operation of washing, scrubbing, cleaning, wiping and rinsing the kitchen, its cupboards, services, floor and sink took me two hours, by which time I was jiggered.
I fell exhausted onto the settee in the lounge and lay there, still chained and naked.
“It’s like a new house,” Don stated as he looked into the kitchen.
“Can we hire you every month?” Phil asked.
“No,” I replied, smiling, “you can tidy up daily from now on and keep the place clean and fresh. Sorry I can’t do the lounge, but I’m not Wonder Woman, I’m afraid.
“What you have done is brilliant, Rachel. Thanks so much,” Ray added, “sex with the cleaner, it couldn’t be better.”
“I’ve not had an orgasm yet,” I complained. “Would you like to see me have one?”
“Yes, of course,” they answered almost together.
“Then follow my instructions,” I answered, “and I’ll see if it works.”
We went to the largest bedroom, and I knelt across the bed to allow them to try anal sex with me.
Strangely, only Phil wanted to attempt to breach my tight backside, and after lubricating me with gel that I had brought in my bag, he commenced to push his substantial appendage into my bum hole. Phil stretched me hard as he entered, and I could see Ray and Don getting more animated with their cocks in hand the more I groaned more from pain than pleasure.
Once he felt he was in deep enough, Phil began to thrust hard and, due to the friction caused by the tightness of his entry, soon blasted a load of his cum into my back passage.
“Now tie me down,” I commanded, “and use that belt across my backside.”
“What?” Phil asked somewhat incredulously.
“Whip my backside with that belt, and I’ll try and orgasm for you,” I explained.
“Whip you?”
“Yes, please.”
“I might hurt you.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“But why do you want me to do that to you?” Phil argued.
“Because a little pain can make me orgasm.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, don’t believe me, and you won’t see me orgasm. I’ve spent the day trying to please you, so please allow me to get a little satisfaction from the day, too.”
As there was nothing to fasten my chains to on the bed, I lay face down, spreadeagled and waited. The belt landed lightly across my bum.
“Harder, please,” I ordered.
“Harder?”
“Yes, please.”
Eventually, I felt the sixth attempt was about the correct strength, and I knew that a few more such strikes might get my bodily response working. I concentrated on believing I was with three hunky twenty-five-year-olds instead of three slightly overweight, hairy fifty-plus men.
Suddenly, as the twelfth swing of the belt landed across my reddening backside, my organism broke free, and I violently shook in delight as something akin to a static surge flowed through my body.
“Whoa!” Phil said.
“Fuuuuuuck,” Ray responded.
“Flippin heck,” Don retorted.
Breathing deeply, I lifted my head and shouted, “YEEESSSSS!”
It took a while for the spark and tingle to fade as I squirmed on the newly made bed.
“How come,” Phil asked, “The belt worked when all our fucking of you didn’t?”
“Beards turn me off,” I replied cheekily, “and pain turns me on for some reason. Simple as that.”
“Do you really get off on pain?”
“Yes, I do, but please don’t ask me why because I don’t know. I only know that for whatever reason, a little pain sends my body into orgasm mode.”
Phil, Ray and Don did pay me generously for my sex and shine service, and I never really expected to see them again. However, I did.
The following Friday, as I performed at the club, I caught sight of three men I thought I recognised. As I moved around the room, gradually removing items of clothing, I tried to work out who they were. Then it dawned on me. They were Phil, Ray and Don, but all were now clean-shaven. The change was remarkable; all three looked younger and much fitter without facial hair covering.
The following week, I was invited to visit them for tea after lectures as they wanted to show me their house. I was impressed as it was clean, tidy and welcoming. The food, which they had prepared from scratch, was good too.
There was something else good that evening, even for me; however, I will allow my readers to imagine what that might have been.
