The stage. The
blinding lights. The cheering crowd of
men, all of them there to worship you and only you as you stride out on stage,
high heels clicking. You’ll be the
center of your own little universe, a universe contained within Dave’s Titty
Tweaker just outside Fort Lauderdale, between the Chick-Fil-A and the
Fuddruckers.
As you take your position, permitting each of your
assistants to secure your legs in stirrups, then spread them apart to reveal
your vagina. Your pussy will have seen
better days, but to hear the cheering crowd, it’ll be the freshest god damn
thing this side of Whole Foods. The
smile that comes to your lips will be genuine as you nod at the crowd and
murmur into a microphone held by one of the younger girls to your lips.
“Let’s get this started.”
You’ll fire the first fig out of your vagina right into a
glass of scotch held by an exhausted looking man in a suit and tie just back
from the stage. He’ll smile and laugh
and sip the whole thing down in one gulp, taking care not to actually swallow the
fig that came out of your pussy. The
second fig will land on an empty plate towards the middle of the club,
eliciting a fresh series of hoots and laughs.
Your third will make it all the way to the back, catching a young
landscaper who couldn’t be a day over nineteen in the chest and prompting him
to immediately take off his shirt.
The rest of your performance will follow this pattern,
beyond the pattern of threes, where you precisely deliver fruit from your pussy
into a thoroughly engaged strip club audience.
By the end of the evening, your vagina will be sore and your kegels will
be drained, but you’ll know, really know, that you put on the best damn show
that any of these people have seen. At
least, since your last show, when you were slightly younger, less sad, firmer,
and less strung out on cocaine. But that
was like a week ago, at most.
Congratulations Fig Queen!
No comments:
Post a Comment