Martinasmith goes to the stripper club to get a whore show for her
Title: “A Night at the Den of Sin: Martinasmith’s Lewd Liaison”
subsection:
by Vegas Suzette
Sweat glistened on brown skin in the dimly lit strip club as one woman, Martinasmith, peeled off billed and pasteboard dollars to tuck into the G-string of another. It was a lewd, lurid scene indeed. Sin was the currency of the night, money tit for tat for the carnal ministrations of breast and brownie. Through the haze of cigarette smoke and hardbodied bodies, Martinasmith’s gaze darted, hunting, craving, searching- for just the right sin to satisfy her succubus sized lusts.
Which one to take tonight? The club churned with a menagerie of womanly delights, from nubile nymphet to ripe, hourglassed MILF. Martinasmith’s eyes alighted like a fly to honey upon one particularly exquisite specimen unwinding upon the central stage. Ah, Nereida, she is the one!
The leggy Latina was carved from perfect caramel, all supple curves and succulent nef. Her long, raven tresses tumbled down bronzed shoulders, framing a face like an Aztec goddess- high cheekbones, full lips, black almond eyes that flashed with both innocence and wantonness. She shucked her garish, sequined costume doll-like, baring creamy breasts tipped with rosy nipples, a narrow waist tapering to generous hips and a thatched vee of darkness above her prize.
“Vamos, señora!” Nereida cooed, crooking a manicured finger at Martinasmith. “Join me. Dance for me, si?”
Martinasmith could deny her nothing. She strode forward, mindlessly tossing a fistful of bills onto the stage. The air positively vibrated with sexual tension as she reached Nereida, took her proffered hand. Like she had been guided by an external force, Martinasmith followed the stripper’s lead, undulating her hips, rolling her shoulders, letting the thrumming rhythm seep into her flesh and bone.
“Yessss, just like that,” Nereida hissed, reaching out to palm Martinasmith’s breasts through her shirt, fingertips grazing stiffening nipples. “Such lovely breasts, so soft…”
Electric jolts shot through Martinasmith and she let out a low moan. She wanted to feel that warm, toffee flesh against her own, wanted to taste the salt of her skin, dowse herself in her musky essence. As if sensing her hunger, Nereida shimmied close and took Martinasmith’s face between her hands, pressing their lips together in a searing, open-mouthed kiss.
The stripper’s tongue played over Martinasmith’s, mapping every ridge and hollow. The stiff tips of her velvet nipples rubbed maddeningly against Martinasmith’s peaked buds and she threw her head back with a gasping cry. Muted shouts of encouragement rose from the edges of her awareness and she realized with the removed clarity of a fever victim, that they were still in the strip club, in front of gawking onlookers. It only spurred her on.
Nereida seemed to sense this, because in the space between heartbeats, she swung around and bent over, bracing her hands against her ankles and presenting her shapely backside. “Es túa, sen
