Emily at Chatte

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Emily pulls the curtain behind her, practically in Nick’s face, but it’s ok, really, because he has his money and his tip and now it’s just the two of us.

The curtain is heavy enough to muffle the pounding of the music from the main floor. She guides me to the plush couch, where I sit down. She takes a couple of steps back. I try to be polite and focus on her deep brown eyes but my own eyes can’t avoid taking in the body standing before me.

She unzips her white boots and steps out of them, her bare feet petite against the dark carpet. She crosses her arms to pull the shoulder straps of her white teddy down, releasing her breasts, larger than her small frame might indicate, with small, dark nipples.

The one-piece drops to her feet and she takes a step forward. She pauses as I pull my pants down, releasing my rigid cock. Then she climbs onto my lap, straddles my thighs, takes my dick, and begins stroking it. Then, to my surprise, she guides it into her soft, warm pussy.

She whispers mecidiyeköy escort into my ear, her Russian accent thick. “Don’t come inside, ok?” Then she lowers herself until I am completely inside her.

I’ve never been a strip joint guy. All through my marriage, though, every evening, just as I got off the highway a mile from home, the sign would be there, staring me in the face, tempting me: CHATTE. And then, in smaller letters: Gentlemen’s Club.

My first time there was the afternoon the judge dissolved my marriage.

“Yes…yes,” Emily whispers rhythmically as we fuck. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, her lips pressed against my ear. Our bodies push against each other in time, her pussy tight, wrapped around my hard cock.

I explore as much of her as I can with my fingers — her shoulders, her nipples, her smooth, soft belly, her ass, her feet. She responds by moaning softly at every touch. It’s probably an act, but I am lost in the moment.

Within şişli escort a month of my first visit, I was a regular. Nick, the manager, would greet me with a handshake at the door; Candy, the bartender, would have my beer ready before I got to my seat; and a few of the girls would come and chat with me between dances. Vanessa, Diamond, usually Emily.

Emily was an older dancer, closer to my age than the other girls. She told me her real name, Anya. She was divorced and had a daughter who thought Anya had been a waitress for the past two decades until her husband broke the news to her as a parting gift.

I told her about my life, my job, my marriage, and its failure. If I had shared as much with my wife, I might have still been married.

I was uneasy, though. Emily worked a job where she HAD to listen and seem sympathetic.

One time she gave me a quick kiss before she went on stage. After she left, I said to myself, “You know, I think she actually likes me.”

I didn’t realize Candy had heard. “She probably does,” she said. “She’s got feelings like everybody else.”

The next time I came in, today, I brought a fistful of money and asked Emily for the VIP room.

My hands are gripping Emily’s ass as I stroke into her. Her face and tits are flushed; her moans are getting more intense. I begin to pull her off me.


“I’m about to cum.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, breathlessly, and comes down hard on my cock. I explode inside her, filling her, my cum and her juices overflowing and soaking me.

As she puts the one-piece back on, I see my come dripping from her onto the carpet.

She blushes. “I’m leaving now anyway. My shift is almost over. Are you going to have another drink?”

Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the bar drinking a Stella. I hardly recognize Emily as she comes out of the dressing room and steps up to me. I don’t know how to react. We’ve made love, but it’s part of the game here, isn’t it?

She embraces me. “I’ll see you later, ok?” I feel her hand slip into my pocket. Then she walks down the bar and out into the parking lot.

In my pocket is a folded sheet of paper. I pull it out, open it, and read.

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