Fill: She Was a Showgirl (1/3)
anonymous
September 14 2011, 04:59:38 UTC
Vegas showgirls were, for the most part, basically the same. They put on airs, deemed themselves too good for the pole. They looked down on those girls in the strip clubs. After all, getting your tits out for strangers who paid for their seats and not with money stuffed in a garter or g-string, well, that was art. He found, though, that most of them were even more willing to whore themselves out, to sleep their way to the top. To become the boss’s pet or to make head dancer, or in the case of his show, Demon Queen. It was useless, though, that position was taken. Not that they didn’t try, and not that he didn’t fuck them when given half the chance.
The showgirls got his attention in different ways. Numbers applied to his skin with his own eyeliner, knickers stuffed in the pocket of his black leather coat (that was a favorite, happened more than once). And some were more direct, like this one, who, when the show ended, slid into his private lift after him, just as the doors were about to close.
He didn't know her name, but she was lovely. Dark like Ginger, and tits and legs for miles. Promising. He raised an eyebrow at her as she pushed the emergency stop button. She said nothing, only smirked as she fell to her knees, undoing his trousers more deftly than he was ever able (tight leather was tricky!).
Between her clever mouth and watching her heaving corseted breasts, he was hard quickly. But just as quickly he got bored. It was too wet and she started flipping her hair about unnecessarily and moaning around his cock like a porn star. He sighed. Is this what women like her thought pleased men like him? His whole world was made of illusions, when it came to fucking, he like honesty.
God, he needed a drink.
He reached out and started the elevator again. The movement jarred her and she pulled away, looking at him questioningly.
“Problem?” she asked, with a musical, indistinguishable accent.
“Been a stripper?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Well I don't want the lap dance version of a blow job, all right?” He pulled her roughly to her feet.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
“Might as well. You've done this already.” He indicated his erection. “Come on,” he said as the doors dinged open.
He didn't look back as he strode into his flat proper. “Bed's that way.” He pointed absently and heard her heels click in that direction.
He threw off his coat and wig, kicked off his shoes, and grabbed a bottle of Midori from the bar. He took a long swig and hop-shimmied out of his trousers before heading, naked, to his bedroom.
Peeling off his fake facial hair as he walked, he found her waiting on the bed, on her stomach, idly flipping through one of Ginger’s magazines.
“Did I say you could touch anything?”
She tossed the magazine aside and flipped onto her back before she scooted to the edge of the bed. Her eyes, rimmed with four times more eyeliner than his, smoldered back at him in a practiced stare. She reached beneath her satin skirt and whipped her knickers off, without even upsetting her heels. She tossed them at him and he let them fall.
“Touch me then,” she said, hiking up her skirt, parting her legs, and leaning back on her elbows.
He eyed her warily. “None of that porn star bullshit?”
“Just your hand. Fingers, inside me.”
Demanding little tart. But he was happy to oblige her. Women often had a thing about his hands. He didn’t get it, personally, but he didn’t mind. He was very tactile himself. He slid to his knees by the bed and admired the view of her shaved, almost demure cunt. He half expected it to have fangs.
She was glistening wet already. And when he delicately touched her he confirmed it. “You didn’t get this wet from half a crap blow job. Does doing my show turn you on?”
“You do.”
He smirked and slid two fingers easily inside her. She lifted her hips against his hand and when she groaned this time, she seemed to have gotten the message; it sounded genuine. He plunged his fingers rapidly in and out of her, his other hand taking random swipes at her clit. Her writhing against him, cursing in whatever language was her own, was beautiful, filthy, and the sexiest thing he’d seen in days, weeks maybe.
Fill: She Was a Showgirl (2/3)
anonymous
September 14 2011, 05:01:10 UTC
“Fuck,” she gasped. “More.”
He shrugged and added a third finger, leaning to lick at her clit. She yelped and wailed, and he dearly hoped his girlfriend would stay out late like she’d told him. The nearly orgasmic showgirl on their bed might cause a row.
“More, more,” she demanded again, and he was about to pull away and reach for a condom, when she continued. “More fingers. Your hand. Your fist,” she said breathlessly.
Huh. Fisting. Not something he did every day. He smiled. Points to the filthy showgirl. He did like variety. His cock approved as well it seemed, getting painfully hard as he slowed his fingers and carefully inserted a fourth finger.
“Oh Goooood.”
He snorted, pleased with himself. She was positively drenching him with her… excitement. “Ready?”
“Yesyesyesyesyes.” Her hips stilled but her head tossed back and forth on the bed, anxiously.
Slowly he pushed his thumb inside her, the walls of her cunt so delightfully tight around him, and began to curl his fingers. When he’d formed a fist, he slowly withdrew, and then pushed back in, loving the feel of her from the inside, the way she was stretched and swallowing him. He loved that, a few moments later, when she came, screaming, he felt her pulsing against his wrist.
When she’d relaxed, he pulled out of her with a pop, swatted her thigh as he went to grab a condom. He stood over the bed, foil packet in hand, contemplating how he wanted her. She looked up at him with tired, sated eyes.
“My ass,” she said, licking her lips.
He raised both eyebrows at her this time. It made sense, he supposed; she was a bit… overextended, elsewhere. Generally anal didn’t interest him, unless he happened to be with a bloke, which he hadn’t bothered with since becoming Fright Night’s Peter Vincent, but whatever Lola wants, etc. He shrugged again.
“Turn over,” he said.
She did, crawling onto all fours, leaning on her elbows, arse in the air. He climbed up behind her and rolled the condom on, being careful not to stimulate himself too much in the process. He was nearly ready to burst. He slid his fingers into her cunt again, gathering the copious moisture there and spreading it around and inside her puckered hole. She pushed back against him, moaning wantonly. God ,she really did like his hands.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed inside her pussy for a moment, coating himself and the condom in even more lubrication and then positioned himself at her other entrance.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” she advised, her voice muffled by a pillow.
“You’re a bit filthy aren’t you?” he replied, gratefully, as he thrust in, swiftly as he dared.
Fill: She Was a Showgirl (3/3)
anonymous
September 14 2011, 05:02:07 UTC
She laughed into the pillow and pushed back to meet him as he began to move inside her. “Do you like it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer; he was busy concentrating on moving in and out of her, on not exploding within her too quickly. He knew Ginger talked him down to the showgirls when she was pissed off at him, he didn’t like to add fuel to her flames. He fucked most things that moved, yes, but he liked to think he was showing them a good time while he was at it.
But he was so far gone already, and she was so tight around him, and the softness of her round arse against his bony hips, and the sounds of their bodies slapping together… well, it was all a bit much. He came with a long low groan, and pushed her down against the mattress as he collapsed above her.
He pulled out when his senses returned, and ditched the condom in the bin by the bed. He reached for the flask he kept by his bedside and took a long pull of the disgusting green liquid within, breathing heavily through his nose.
The girl whose name he still didn’t know rolled over and it occurred to him for the first time that she was still, for the most part, clothed. He hadn’t even played with those tits he’d so admired earlier. For some reason the ridiculousness of this bothered him. Because it reminded him of his own ridiculousness, which he tried not to think about if he could help it. He wanted her gone. They both came, she got what she wanted. Why was she still here? When she reached for one of his cigarillos and lighter from the other side of the bed, that was the last straw. No one but he or Ginger could smoke those.
“Give me those, I said not to touch anything!” he snapped at her.
She made a noise of disgust, but handed them over.
He widened his eyes at her, imparting a clear message.
“What?” she asked.
“We’re done. Fuck. Off.” Wasn’t it obvious?
He lit his smoke and she hissed at him again, but climbed off the bed, fetching her panties from wherever they’d fallen earlier.
“Fuck you Peter Vincent.”
He blew a smoke ring in her general direction and took another drink.
Re: Fill: She Was a Showgirl (3/3)tayberhecateSeptember 14 2011, 05:51:03 UTC
When she reached for one of his cigarillos and lighter from the other side of the bed, that was the last straw. No one but he or Ginger could smoke those.
Oh, I love that bit! I love that Peter will sleep around, but still holds Ginger higher than his other girls; it's so in-character.
The showgirls got his attention in different ways. Numbers applied to his skin with his own eyeliner, knickers stuffed in the pocket of his black leather coat (that was a favorite, happened more than once). And some were more direct, like this one, who, when the show ended, slid into his private lift after him, just as the doors were about to close.
He didn't know her name, but she was lovely. Dark like Ginger, and tits and legs for miles. Promising. He raised an eyebrow at her as she pushed the emergency stop button. She said nothing, only smirked as she fell to her knees, undoing his trousers more deftly than he was ever able (tight leather was tricky!).
Between her clever mouth and watching her heaving corseted breasts, he was hard quickly. But just as quickly he got bored. It was too wet and she started flipping her hair about unnecessarily and moaning around his cock like a porn star. He sighed. Is this what women like her thought pleased men like him? His whole world was made of illusions, when it came to fucking, he like honesty.
God, he needed a drink.
He reached out and started the elevator again. The movement jarred her and she pulled away, looking at him questioningly.
“Problem?” she asked, with a musical, indistinguishable accent.
“Been a stripper?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Well I don't want the lap dance version of a blow job, all right?” He pulled her roughly to her feet.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
“Might as well. You've done this already.” He indicated his erection. “Come on,” he said as the doors dinged open.
He didn't look back as he strode into his flat proper. “Bed's that way.” He pointed absently and heard her heels click in that direction.
He threw off his coat and wig, kicked off his shoes, and grabbed a bottle of Midori from the bar. He took a long swig and hop-shimmied out of his trousers before heading, naked, to his bedroom.
Peeling off his fake facial hair as he walked, he found her waiting on the bed, on her stomach, idly flipping through one of Ginger’s magazines.
“Did I say you could touch anything?”
She tossed the magazine aside and flipped onto her back before she scooted to the edge of the bed. Her eyes, rimmed with four times more eyeliner than his, smoldered back at him in a practiced stare. She reached beneath her satin skirt and whipped her knickers off, without even upsetting her heels. She tossed them at him and he let them fall.
“Touch me then,” she said, hiking up her skirt, parting her legs, and leaning back on her elbows.
He eyed her warily. “None of that porn star bullshit?”
“Just your hand. Fingers, inside me.”
Demanding little tart. But he was happy to oblige her. Women often had a thing about his hands. He didn’t get it, personally, but he didn’t mind. He was very tactile himself. He slid to his knees by the bed and admired the view of her shaved, almost demure cunt. He half expected it to have fangs.
She was glistening wet already. And when he delicately touched her he confirmed it. “You didn’t get this wet from half a crap blow job. Does doing my show turn you on?”
“You do.”
He smirked and slid two fingers easily inside her. She lifted her hips against his hand and when she groaned this time, she seemed to have gotten the message; it sounded genuine. He plunged his fingers rapidly in and out of her, his other hand taking random swipes at her clit. Her writhing against him, cursing in whatever language was her own, was beautiful, filthy, and the sexiest thing he’d seen in days, weeks maybe.
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He shrugged and added a third finger, leaning to lick at her clit. She yelped and wailed, and he dearly hoped his girlfriend would stay out late like she’d told him. The nearly orgasmic showgirl on their bed might cause a row.
“More, more,” she demanded again, and he was about to pull away and reach for a condom, when she continued. “More fingers. Your hand. Your fist,” she said breathlessly.
Huh. Fisting. Not something he did every day. He smiled. Points to the filthy showgirl. He did like variety. His cock approved as well it seemed, getting painfully hard as he slowed his fingers and carefully inserted a fourth finger.
“Oh Goooood.”
He snorted, pleased with himself. She was positively drenching him with her… excitement. “Ready?”
“Yesyesyesyesyes.” Her hips stilled but her head tossed back and forth on the bed, anxiously.
Slowly he pushed his thumb inside her, the walls of her cunt so delightfully tight around him, and began to curl his fingers. When he’d formed a fist, he slowly withdrew, and then pushed back in, loving the feel of her from the inside, the way she was stretched and swallowing him. He loved that, a few moments later, when she came, screaming, he felt her pulsing against his wrist.
When she’d relaxed, he pulled out of her with a pop, swatted her thigh as he went to grab a condom. He stood over the bed, foil packet in hand, contemplating how he wanted her. She looked up at him with tired, sated eyes.
“My ass,” she said, licking her lips.
He raised both eyebrows at her this time. It made sense, he supposed; she was a bit… overextended, elsewhere. Generally anal didn’t interest him, unless he happened to be with a bloke, which he hadn’t bothered with since becoming Fright Night’s Peter Vincent, but whatever Lola wants, etc. He shrugged again.
“Turn over,” he said.
She did, crawling onto all fours, leaning on her elbows, arse in the air. He climbed up behind her and rolled the condom on, being careful not to stimulate himself too much in the process. He was nearly ready to burst. He slid his fingers into her cunt again, gathering the copious moisture there and spreading it around and inside her puckered hole. She pushed back against him, moaning wantonly. God ,she really did like his hands.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed inside her pussy for a moment, coating himself and the condom in even more lubrication and then positioned himself at her other entrance.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” she advised, her voice muffled by a pillow.
“You’re a bit filthy aren’t you?” he replied, gratefully, as he thrust in, swiftly as he dared.
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He didn’t answer; he was busy concentrating on moving in and out of her, on not exploding within her too quickly. He knew Ginger talked him down to the showgirls when she was pissed off at him, he didn’t like to add fuel to her flames. He fucked most things that moved, yes, but he liked to think he was showing them a good time while he was at it.
But he was so far gone already, and she was so tight around him, and the softness of her round arse against his bony hips, and the sounds of their bodies slapping together… well, it was all a bit much. He came with a long low groan, and pushed her down against the mattress as he collapsed above her.
He pulled out when his senses returned, and ditched the condom in the bin by the bed. He reached for the flask he kept by his bedside and took a long pull of the disgusting green liquid within, breathing heavily through his nose.
The girl whose name he still didn’t know rolled over and it occurred to him for the first time that she was still, for the most part, clothed. He hadn’t even played with those tits he’d so admired earlier. For some reason the ridiculousness of this bothered him. Because it reminded him of his own ridiculousness, which he tried not to think about if he could help it. He wanted her gone. They both came, she got what she wanted. Why was she still here? When she reached for one of his cigarillos and lighter from the other side of the bed, that was the last straw. No one but he or Ginger could smoke those.
“Give me those, I said not to touch anything!” he snapped at her.
She made a noise of disgust, but handed them over.
He widened his eyes at her, imparting a clear message.
“What?” she asked.
“We’re done. Fuck. Off.” Wasn’t it obvious?
He lit his smoke and she hissed at him again, but climbed off the bed, fetching her panties from wherever they’d fallen earlier.
“Fuck you Peter Vincent.”
He blew a smoke ring in her general direction and took another drink.
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Oh, I love that bit! I love that Peter will sleep around, but still holds Ginger higher than his other girls; it's so in-character.
And that was very beautifully filthy. <3 >:3
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