“There are two futures, the future of desire and the future of fate, and man’s reason has never learned to separate them.” — John Desmond Bernal
“They’re talking about banning cigarette smoking now in any place that’s used by ten or more people in a week, which, I guess, means that Madonna can’t even smoke in bed.” — Bill Maher
Candy Breedlove raised her leg to the steel pole, flashing her vagina for all to see. To her it was just a job; to the horndogs in the audience it was sexual art. James Boyce stood at the back, away from the other men, appreciating Candy but not adoring her. That wouldn’t be wise if he planned on seducing her. And he did. He most certainly did.
The full moon was out as the patrons of Xanadu, the strip club, shuffled out into the dark. There was a darkness in the men’s hearts, too, a shadowy effect caused by the sexual hunger of an insatiable appetite which could never be appeased — either because they had a frumpy wife, or no woman at all. James Boyce was different. A successful player, he could have won awards for his treatment of chicks: they loved him for his time devoted to them and the energy of his many pursuits. But he was a purist. James liked strippers and prostitutes and porn stars the most. The best money he’d ever spent was $2,000 to sleep with one of the hottest porn actresses in the business. She’d done things expertly to him that would blow the mind of the average Xanadu-goer. She liked him too. She’d given him her card and offered to service him for half the price if she was ever in town again. So James knew he was good.
But he wanted this stripper, Candy Breedlove. He wanted her for free. Sometimes it was acceptable to pay for sex, especially if you wanted convenience, but most of the time a woman responded best when she was had for free. Sex was special when it came with emotions, even fake ones that were littered on the ground like rose petals. James knew this from his many, & varied, dealings with the weaker sex.
Candy was toweling her sweaty face dry and talking, naked, to the Xanadu DJ. The DJ was a little punk with spiky hair and shifty weasel eyes. James disliked and distrusted him on sight. But Candy obviously liked him strictly because he was the DJ. Anyone with a little authority — even a bartender, for example — was approved of by the inferior sex. And Candy was quite typical.
She was also hot as hell, with huge tits and natural red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down to her upper breasts. It was obvious to James she had taken large breasts that were naturally big and enhanced them with silicone implants. But the silicone amount wasn’t gratuitous and the effect was almost natural, coming laden on a pillow of bitch-fat. But James Boyce had a discerning eye and could tell the surgeon’s handicraft. But God love her, she did look good, with wide hips and a flat tummy you could bounce a quarter off of.
James intercepted Candy when she was on her way to the changeroom.
“Hey,” he interrupted her. “I liked your moves. Very graceful. My name’s Jim. I’m a connoisseur of exotic dancers.”
Candy stopped dead in her tracks, looking puzzled and bemused. “I’m just a stripper, Jim. You can skip the ass-kissing way of talkin ’bout me.”
James stepped back, into the shadow. All you could see was his feral eyes, which gleamed with intelligence and amusement. “Point taken. Can I escort you to your dressing room?”
Candy snorted. “Why? Is there muggers about?”
“No, I just like being on the arm of a beautiful woman.”
Candy flushed with a little pleasure at the intensity of the direct statement. “Ooo you’re a good one. Did your mother kiss the blarney stone in Ireland?”
“I’m not Irish. I’m German. I come from a long line of proud Nazis.”
“I like that. The Nazis were the good guys, in my book. Fuck the Jews, and fuck the homos,” Candy said, enlightened up to her tits.
She began walking again. James swept in beside her, out of the shadows. Boldly, he took her forearm in two hands: [cool, unsweaty] of his own. It was called kino escalation among pick-up artists in the know; you raise a woman’s arousal level by naked physical contact. He “accidentally-on-purpose” brushed against one breast with the crook of his arm. She let him touch her. His act of dominance was kinda reassuring, in a way. At least he wasn’t a drooling beast with no self-esteem or self-confidence, like the majority of them.
Outside the changeroom, James paused.
“I’d like to come in,” he said.
“No,” she said flatly. “Forget it. No way. I’m no tramp.”
“Of course you’re not. But I’m curious to see what a stripper’s home-away-from-home looks like. Do you decorate it, for example? Do you hang furnishings?”
“I do not,” Candy Breedlove demurred. “But if I show you around for 2 minutes, do you promise to get out of my face?”
James Boyce remained silent for a long moment, an answer in itself.
“O — kay,” Candy said, nervously, taking a key out of her shaved pussy and unlocking the door.
He followed her in without waiting to be invited.
The room was huge and brightly lit, filled with couches and a makeup table in front of a mirror with lightbulbs marching around it in a rectangle form. James Boyce had of course seen strippers’ changerooms before. He’d fucked 2 strippers in his life, and counted the experiences as some of the highlights of a long and much-variegated life. But both strippers had been black, and Candy Breedlove was white. Fucking a white woman who stripped would be the piece de resistance to a fine player’s career.
“Here we are,” Candy said aimlessly, folding her hands and unfolding them.
James slid the edge of his hand, flat, between her tits.
“Umm … you really shouldn’t be doing that …”
James gripped the right breast and dropped his left hand to her clitoris. He expertly fiddled with the little pink nodule above her love box.
“Ummm … ooooh … that’s nice, but you gotta go, mister, Jim … My manager’s gonna be around any minute and he’s a jealous little — oof! — prick. Oof! Ooof! Baraw! Raw raw roof roof woof woof woof!” Candy said, barking like a dog.
Keeping one hand on her clitoris, James Boyce untied his tie with his free hand. He wrapped the tie around her neck and pulled her close forcibly for a kiss. She responded, but with some reluctance. She was hardly won over yet. This was one tough dirty angel to crack.
Inhaling sharply, James released Candy, and she fell to the floor. In a tangle of limbs, she sat on her broad ass, pouting. “Why’d you stop?”
“No point in going on if I have to rape you.”
“I’ve been raped before,” Candy muttered. “It’s not something to joke about. It wasn’t fun.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. How old were you when you were raped?”
Getting up, Candy ran a hand through her scarlet hair. “I was 14. It was at a house party. I’d been drinking too much and I got flirty. I get flirty when I drink. (I feel like I’ve been drinking now.) 2 guys chased me down the house steps and took me right there against the stairs.”
“You instigated the rape, didn’t you?” Calmly staring at her.
“What? No! What do you think I am, some kind of slut? Get out of her before I call the police!”
“You wanted the experience of sex with 2 guys but you wanted it in a certain way. You had your mind set on 2 jocks, perhaps?”
“How’d you know? They were football players. Pricks.”
She had forgotten all about her “threat” to call the police.
James leaned his face close to hers, breathing fumes of minty chewing gum on her skin. She tingled at that. “I like you,” he whispered. “I can’t promise to ravish you like they could — I’m older — but I know things 2 sixteen-year-old boys would never dream of understanding.”
“Like what?” Candy said, hypnotized, as if she were a beer hall patron in 1928 listening to Adolf Hitler speak, waiting for the market to drop out of the bottom so that she could rush to the voting booth and vote Him in …
“I know how to suck titties.” And James slurped one large, erect nipple into his mouth. He tongued it in a particular way that guaranteed female arousal. Candy moaned luxuriously. She put her hands out to push him away, and yet ended up with her palms on the back of his head, encouraging him to move closer, do more.
James stripped off all his clothes and his erection sprang free. Candy put her mouth to his organ. Her open lips took in his powertool all the way.
James rudely thrust his penis deep in her mouth, rotating his hips, making her gag. “Mmmffllmm!” she said, trying to say don’t do that. He didn’t care. He was going to have her now whether she liked it or not.
He picked her up and carried to one couch. Dropped her like a sack of potatoes. She landed hard on a sprung coil of steel in the backing below the cushion and said ouch. He climbed in after her.
Holding his cock in one hand, wet with male precum, he gingerly inserted himself in her HOO-HAH! The feeling of going in was exquisite — tight walls welcomed their Conqueror with a yielding girl’s natural unreticence.
They began fucking, Candy bucking back against James’s impassioned thrusts. As the rutting continued, filling the air with the scent of united sex, James kissed her neck, breasts, and lips. “I love the way you move,” he breathed in her hair. “Squeeze your pussy muscles for me.”
Candy Breedlove obliged. James Boyce felt the exquisite sensations running from his penis up his spine and into his mesmerized brain. Watching her tits slop back and forth with the force of his impacts was an enlightening experience any Zen Buddha with a hard-on would have approved of. The thrusting continued for 5 more minutes, then James couldn’t take it anymore.
He pulled out of her. Candy gripped his wobbly erection with one firm hand and pumped on the shaft, careful to maintain contact with the glans of the cock. He shot loads of cum onto her naked, broad thighs and belly: [flat]. She sighed as he came. It was good enough for her.
All in a night’s work.
Dark Sport 