Stripping and Sucking to the Beat
Title: “Burlesque Blues: A Salacious Strut to Sin”
In the sultry shadows of a dimly lit boudoir, she begins. Her name, we are left to imagine – perhaps Cassandra, Roxanne or Delilah. Names steeped in seduction, dripping with desire. The camera zooms in on her ruby red lips, plump and pouty, glistening with a sheen of violet lip gloss that matches the deep-plunging negligee clinging to her ample curves.
She tosses her mane of raven hair over one shoulder, glossy tresses tumbling down her back in an inky waterfall. Those eyes, hooded and smoky, gaze straight into the lens with a smoldering intensity reserved for the most forbidden of lovers.
She moves, undulating like a snake charmed by the pulsing dance beat thrumming through the speakers. Honey-gold limbs snake out from beneath a bundle of crimson silk, peeking out here and there, teasing and denying all at once. She’s a honey trap, luring men in with the sweet promise of pleasure, only to entangle them in her sticky web of lust.
Her hands roam her body with an almost reverent touch, worshipping the mountains and valleys of her hourglass form. Palms dance across taut abs, fingers cares the undersides of heavy breasts, tips of manicured nails trace the delicate lines of collarbones. Each touch ignites a spark, setting her skin ablaze, making her writhe with need.
Next to her on a velvet chaise lounge rest her weapons: a pair of sheer gossamer stockings, a lacy garter belt, a confection of lace and satin that barely qualifies as a bra. She picks up a stocking, rolling it sensuously between elegant fingers, before cocooning one long, lissome leg in the sheer black material. She draws it up slowly, glidingivate your hands with her own, writhing against you as the pulsing beat reaches a fevered pitch.
Her breasts, heavy and round, heave with each breath. Areolae, dark and large, peek out over the cups of her bra, begging to be devoured. She reaches back, unclasping the flimsy garment with one flick of a wrist, letting it fall away to reveal creamy, translucent flesh. The rosy peaks of her nipples strain towards you, begging for the hot cavern of your mouth.
She traces a finger around the faint negotiations of lips in the shape of the traditional video ‘N’. A peek behind her, the shadow of an ass that any man would sell his soul to knead. She takes a Revel-ing strides toward the camera now, a hunter moving in for the kill, swaying her hips seductively with every step. “La verge d’une 35-25-35,” she purrs, old 78 records scratching under the headphones.
Fake hair falls over her shoulder as she shrugs out of her bra slowly on both sides, allowing the flimsy material to slip from her fingers onto the polished hardwood floor. Full, heavy breasts spring free, nipples taut and begging for attention. One breast in each hand, fingers sinking into overly generous mounds of flesh, she sighs and smirks in a way of a dance. A wicked, tapered finger traces over a brassiere strap, down exposed ribs, and then back up to detain itself inside the cup of the bra. Her lips hover inches from your hungry face, exhaling fragrant, wine-scented breath that fogs the lens. God help you if you can’t deliver.
A wicked grin crosses her features as the music changes. It gets more powerful, more primal. It’s raunchy, dirty, raw…. Just like her. She locks eyes with the camera and starts to thrust her hips, the motion making her breasts jiggle obscenely. She gyrates wildly, hair flying, beads of sweat misting her skin.
The tempo builds to a heady crescendo and she can’t hold back anymore. One hand slides down her body to rub frantically at the apex of her thighs. Low, animalistic moans tumble from her parted lips. Her pacing grows frenetic, harsh pants leaving her heaving chest. Strings of curses and half-sentences slur together. Her hips now thighs slam forward into your face and she clenches her eyes.
She pulls her hand away after a long time spent pleasuring herself, and she thrusts the fingers coated with her juices towards the camera. She then leans back a little, revealing the wrists she was tied to the chair with minutes before. They bear the red marks of the fallen ropes.
Finally, after an eternity that seems only a few minutes in the blur of passion and lust, she utters “Jouir…” in a sexy French accent that finishes the video. She breaks contact with you then, throwing her hair back as she places the date 1975 under the credits. She places her rose-scented negligee back on, sitting back in the chair to adjust her makeup in the mirror.
She leans down and says in a gravelly tone, “Come again. Same time. Tomorrow.”
And with that, you are left dazed and wanting, a slave to the seductive sirens of the screen. You’ve been led on a wanton dance of desire, stripped bare, and left gasping for more. But this is no mere video – this is an experience. A sinful indulgence that leaves you aching, yearning, craving another fix of the carnal caress of her saccharine stare.
So here’s to you, dirty diva. May your garters always stay up, may your lipstick never smudge, and may your dance card always be full. Spin me round again, mistress of mirth and mistress of mayhem. Our secret, naughty communion continues…
