01-PUSSY WRECKER

Roxanne Flair.

I spun around the pole, my body glistening under the hot stage lights, the bass thumping through my bones like a second heartbeat. The lace bra barely covered my nipples, and my thong rode high between my cheeks as I arched back, legs spread, hips rolling slow and sinfully.

The crowd was a sea of hungry eyes—men and women alike, mouths open, hands clutching drinks or the stage edge. They groaned and cheered, but I felt their stares like slick fingers on my skin.

Among them, one man sat perfectly still in the shadows. No drooling. No shouting. Just those dark eyes locked on mine with a raw, knowing need that hit me low in the belly. I’d seen lust a thousand times in six years. This was different. This was hunger that understood me.

The music ended. I slid down the pole one last time and slipped backstage through the grabbing hands and desperate fingers brushing my thighs. My heart still raced from the performance.

In the changing room, the door burst open.

“Roxanne,” the manager said, eyes wide. “VIP wants you. Private booth. He’s offering serious cash—said he’d buy the whole damn club for one night with you.”

My phone buzzed on the counter. Richard. Again. I glanced at the screen and sighed, jaw tight. Asshole.

“Fine,” I said, voice steady even as heat pooled between my legs. I followed the manager down the dim hallway.

He opened the door and I stepped inside.

It was him. The quiet watcher. Up close he was devastating—sharp jaw, silver threading through his dark hair like expensive silk, broad shoulders filling the leather booth. The door clicked shut behind me, locking us in.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and raspy, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

My pussy clenched instantly, slick and aching. Business, I reminded myself. Just business. But something in me already wanted more than one night. He was fucking hot!

I didn’t waste time with words. I moved to the music still pulsing faintly through the walls, rolling my hips, sliding my hands over my body, peeling the bra straps down slowly while he watched. He sipped his vodka, eyes never leaving me, that same controlled need burning hotter.

His bulge strained hard against his pants. It was obviously massive.

I cat-walked over, dropped to my knees between his spread thighs, and reached for his belt. The leather whispered as I pulled it open. When I freed his cock, it sprang heavy and thick—beer-can girth, veined, longer than any I’d handled. The weight of it in my hand made me gasp.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, tilting my head up. “What do you think of the cock in front of you, pretty slut?”

“It’s fucking handsome,” I whispered, staring up at him with lust filled eyes. “Just like its owner.”

“Good girl. Now worship it first.”

I obeyed. I pressed my lips to the thick base, kissing the heavy shaft, dragging my tongue slowly along every pulsing vein from root to swollen head. I nuzzled my cheek against its heat, inhaling his clean, masculine scent mixed with the faint trace of vodka.

My hands cupped his heavy balls, massaging them gently while I licked and kissed every inch, moaning softly so he could feel the vibration. I sucked one ball into my mouth, then the other, swirling my tongue, lavishing them until they glistened with my spit. Then back up the shaft, long, slow licks, eyes fluttering up to meet his.

I tried to take him. My lips stretched painfully wide around the fat head. Saliva spilled immediately from the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chin onto my tits as I bobbed shallowly. I couldn’t get even half of him past my lips. The stretch burned so good. I sucked hard on the head, tongue flicking the slit, while my hands stroked the thick length I couldn’t swallow.

He dropped his glass. It shattered somewhere behind me. Both hands fisted my hair roughly.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Don’t you fucking break eye contact.”

He thrust up, driving into my throat. I gagged hard, throat convulsing around the invasion, tears flooding my eyes instantly. He didn’t stop. He continued rather with deep, punishing strokes that made my throat bulge. Wet, obscene sounds filled the booth as he fucked my face, using my mouth like a toy. I kept my eyes on his, mascara running, choking, drooling uncontrollably, my pussy juice soaking my thong.

When his cock swelled even thicker, he pulled out with a wet pop.

“Stroke me,” he ordered, voice rough. “Make me cum on those pretty tits.”

I pumped him fast with both hands. He leaned down, yanked my bra cups down, freeing my breasts. Thick ropes of hot cum shot across my chest, painting my nipples and cleavage. I moaned at the hot feel of it.

He bent lower and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make me cry out.

Then everything exploded.

Cum still dripping down my tits, he rose like a predator. In one fluid motion he lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing, my back hitting the cool surface of the booth table. My thong was ripped clean off with a sharp tear that made me gasp. He lined up that monstrous cock and slammed into me in one brutal thrust.

The stretch was vicious. My pussy burned as my walls were forced apart around his beer-can thickness. He buried every inch balls-deep, bottoming out against my cervix with a wet slap.

I screamed, a raw, broken sound that echoed in the small room as the sweet-pain feeling crashed through me instantly. My pussy spasmed wildly around him, squeezing, fluttering, trying to adjust to the impossible fullness.

“Fuck—yes!” I cried, nails digging into the table.

He spanked my ass hard, the crack loud and stinging. “Take it. All of it.”

He fucked me like he owned every inch of my body, with long, punishing strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me. Each thrust made my tits bounce and my toes curl tight. The wet, filthy sound of his heavy balls slapping against my soaked pussy filled the booth. I was drooling on the table, moaning shamelessly.

He pulled out suddenly, my pussy gasping at the loss. He began tapping his thick inches against my clit, rubbing it against my vulva at every tap. The slap slap sound mixed the music pulsing through the walls.

“Fuck me… please—” broken, needy moans escaped my lips at every tease.

Like that was all he wanted, he quickly lifted my legs, and flung them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him drive even deeper. He pounded me mercilessly, hips snapping forward with raw power. I felt my orgasm ripped through me so hard my vision whited out.

“Fuuuuck!” I screamed, pussy gushing around his thick shaft.

He slapped my tits, hard enough to make them sting, then pinched and twisted my nipples while never slowing his brutal rhythm. “Look at you,” he growled, voice raspy and dark. “Cumming like a desperate slut on a stranger’s cock.”

Pleasure and pain blurred together. I couldn’t think—only feel.

He pulled out again with a wet pop, strode quietly to the booth seat and sat back down on it, one shoulder hung heavily over the seat.

His right index finger curved downward as he motioned toward me. I stood up with wobbly feet, and staggered forward.

“Ride me,” he growled.

Before I could straddle him properly, his hands gripped my hips like iron as he slammed me down onto his cock again and again.

I began bouncing on him, my juices running down his balls, my clit grinding against his base with every brutal drop. He thrusted up to meet me, destroying me from below. I lost count of how many times I came—three, four, five—shaking, sobbing incoherent words between broken moans, tears and sweat mixing on my flushed skin. My pussy was swollen, throbbing, yet still greedy for more.

He flipped me again, this time bending me over the table from behind. One strong hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my head spin. The other cracked against my ass repeatedly, turning it red and hot. He railed me harder, deeper, the wet squelching sounds obscene.

“Such a greedy little whore for my cock,” he growled right against my ear, breath hot on my neck. “This tight pussy was made to be wrecked.”

I came again, harder than before, vision blurring at the edges, my walls clamping down around him like a vice. My legs shook uncontrollably.

Finally, he buried himself to the hilt, roared like an animal, and flooded me with thick, hot spurts of cum. Pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock as he stayed buried deep, grinding against my cervix.

We collapsed on the booth seat together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. My pussy ached, pulsing with aftershocks, thoroughly wrecked and leaking his seed down my thighs.

He recovered first. Calmly and controlled. He dressed quickly, not even breathing hard anymore. A thick cheque landed on the table with a soft slap. Without another word, he unlocked the door and walked out.

I stayed there a moment longer, legs too weak to move, chest heaving. When I finally stood, I limped out of the booth, thighs sticky, pussy sore with every step. Two of the other strippers were in the hallway. They smirked as I passed.

“Pussy wrecker,” one muttered loud enough for me to hear. “She’ll be walking funny for a week.”

I ignored them and made it to the dressing room on shaky legs. My phone was buzzing again. I picked it up.

Forty-nine missed calls from Kelvin now, my goddamn stepfather.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I felt dizzy. It spelt real danger. The kind that didn’t stay in the club.

Hands trembling, ignoring the deep, throbbing ache between my legs and the cum still leaking out of me, I threw my things into my bag and ran.