Moonshine Dancer

The soft, sensual music was only in her head; she glided softly down the pole, the cold steel against her warm, soft skin causing shivers to traverse her spine. She landed on her back, her legs up in the air; she licked her fingers sensually, then began playing with her pussy. Throwing her glance at the small one-way windows on the wall; she could see nothing, but, she knew there were people behind the windows, staring at her lustfully.

Slowly, she let the straps of her short, tight dress fall off her shoulders; she stepped out of her dress, wearing now only her high heels, and once more she firmly grabbed the pole, wrapping her legs around it, as she swirled about, her back arched to showcase her breasts to the viewers.

Her heart raced in excitement, as she crawled down on the floor, holding her ass up in the air; every time felt like the first time. She reached for her pussy once again, fingering herself tenderly while on all fours. As she increased the pace, she rested her head on the floor, moaning loudly, and fairly theatrically, in the small room.

She used both hands to stimulate both her pussy and clit, rubbing and fingering; repositioning herself on her back, legs spread wide in the air, offering an even clearer view to the unknown spectators. She bit the corner of her lips and glanced over at the windows, eager to make each spectator momentarily believe they were the sole cause of her excitement.

In her mind, she pictured the different faces that might be hiding behind the windows, seeing no one in particular, only strangers masturbating to her show, strangers burning with desire to take her.

Suddenly, she came and a phantasmagoria of joy erupted in her head; her legs began to tremble, as she continued to rub her convulsing cunt. Her moans turned genuine, as for a few moments she was rendered breathless and unable to control her movements with the precision her dancing routine normally incorporated.

The red light above the black curtain in the corner of the room blinked thrice; faintly stumbling on her high heels, she picked her dress up from the floor and walked through the curtain, and away from the peeping glares.

"Hey, Fey," Yvonne quickly embraced her still flushed from the dance friend, "good show!"

"Thanks," Fey smiled faintly. "Are you up?"

"No," Yvonne shook her head. "It's my day off, but..."

"You couldn't stay away, huh?" Fey smirked.

"Something like that," she replied with a sad smile. "So, what are you up to tonight?"

"All I need right now is to go home, relax... rest, for tomorrow."

"Same old shit every day, huh?"

"As long as it pays the bills," Fey shrugged her shoulders, quickly kissed her friend on the cheek, and hurriedly changed into her everyday clothes, so she could walk back home without giving pedestrians false expectations.

* * * * *

Fey leaned on the kitchen counter, reverently holding the tall glass of cheap whisky; the scent was strong, and somewhat tainted, but, after the first long sip, it felt as if heaven had flooded through her veins.

She could not help but smile, as she caught a glimpse of her neighbor peering through his window, staring intensely at her as was his wont; she lit a cigarette and walked around her one-bedroom apartment, completely naked, feeling the young man's intense stare piercing her. She had never acknowledged him, always trying not to look at his window for more than a second, in fear of scaring him away.

Being lustfully watched had a wildly tingling effect on her mind and body and therefore did not want to miss her most regular observer; others in her neighborhood of tightly-packed tall condominiums were too looking on at her, but, that young man living right across the small, dark alley separating the two buildings was the most faithful, and consistent.

When she put her glass down on the coffee table, she made sure she bent deep, theatrically; her legs slightly spread and she remained in this position for a few seconds, far longer than the simple task required.

Hers was a rundown neighborhood forgotten in time, where its residents refused to embrace progress; peep-shows (like the one she worked for), underground strip-joints, bars where a beer cost a buck, and bums and hoodlums were the norm. There were no fancy nightclubs for the youth, no proper mass transit, the streets had not been repaired in at least a decade, and the only bookseller of the area was confident Céline was still alive—and had On the Road on the window advertising it as brand new masterpiece.

In spite of these circumstances, Fey was fairly comfortable in her small, low-rent apartment, with her exciting job, as well as with her peeping neighbors; due to her work, she was rarely harassed on the streets—everybody knew her boss and everybody was terrified of him. It was usually someone new in the area, or a lost passerby, that would catcall her, or, make improper advances at her outside of her working hours, which usually resulted in the offender being jumped by Mr. Hughes' omnipresent henchmen.

She sat down on the only armchair of the apartment, facing the window, and kept her knees apart; she turned the TV on and had a long snort of whisky. She lit a new cigarette with the old one; a new cloud of grey smoke rose in front of her face like a veil, then quickly turned into thin air.

She rubbed her sore neck and quickly peeked outside her window; aside from the young man across the street, visibly masturbating furiously while trying to hide behind the white curtain, a few more of her neighbors were at their windows and excitedly discerned a few gazes directed her way.

It was showtime, she realized; and she didn't mind if this one was for free. It was for her own pleasure and, most importantly, there were no restrictions, nor obligations. It could last for as long as she wanted and could be anything she wanted; her fascination over being watched was definitely what initially drove her to working at the peep-show, but, she never really liked the controlled environment and the strict rules to which she had to adhere.

At home, however, it was a completely different ballgame; she put the half-full glass down at the coffee table and ran her finger along her skin, waves of cold shivers traversing her spine. She swirled her finger around her erect, light pink nipples, copped her breasts sturdily and squeezed; leaning her head backwards, opening her mouth wide open pretending to moan, but, producing no sound.

Fey was getting wet—through her half-closed eyelids she discerned at least five spectators behind five different windows on the condominium across the street—and she lowered her hand to her burning cunt, rubbing her clit slowly, as her moans gradually turned real, her body shivering...

She could hardly discern the faces of her spectators, but, she didn't care, she envisioned them jerking off and slipped a finger in her pussy, making a 'come over' gesture inside her, her back arched and her muscles tensed, both of her hands now working on her pussy; she had soaked the armchair's cushion, sitting on a poodle of her own cum, working faster on herself, driving two fingers in and out of her cunt, rubbing her clit fast and hard, biting down her lips and grimacing, eyes shut, and her orgasmic scream rang loudly in the tight confines of her apartment.

She slowed down the pace, still playing with herself, her hands were sticky and wet and she still convulsed; enraptured, she licked her fingers off, opening her eyes to ensure her spectators were still there—and they were. Thus, she sucked her fingers off sensually, slowly and with methodical movements, picturing them masturbating for her; finally, she leaned back on the armchair, her legs still spread and turned her focus on the TV, to the old black-and-white movie on the screen, while still panting in complete satisfaction.

* * * * *

Down at the drugstore, she met her most faithful viewer. She offered him a broad smile, as they stood close to one another at the vegetable section; the man looked away embarrassed, desperately trying to keep his focus fixed on the tomatoes he was holding.

Fey's smile expanded, as she grabbed a long cucumber—initially intended for her bag, and subsequently her dinner salad. She held it firmly with one hand and stroked it with the other, slowly and sturdily, in fascination staring at the now crimson-faced young man.

An old man abruptly stopped his cart and remained petrified, with an astonished look illuminating his exhausted facial features, while Fey continued to jerk the cucumber; she hardly acknowledged him, her sole focus at the moment being the young man she so adored to tease from across the street and now had the rare chance to do so in an even closer proximity.

She took the tip of the vegetable in her mouth and swirled her tongue slowly around it, wrapping her soft, full lips around it... the old man dropped his wife's shopping list, and his jaw, and watched in sheer disbelief (and utter joy), while even the cashier abandoned his place in order to come nearer.

Fey giggled, as she noticed the amassing crowd, everyone staring at her—everyone, that is, except the young man who had spent many a nights watching her behind his curtain.

She took a step closer to him; she heard his heavy breathing, noticed the crimson color of his cheeks, his bright blue eyes still fixated on the tomato in his hand. She pushed the cucumber deeper in her mouth, swirling it with her hand, wetting it with her lips, her hazel eyes beaming.

With the cucumber down her throat, sucking it off slowly and noisily, pushing the tip against the inside of her cheeks before swallowing it all down, then pulling it back out, her eyes fixed on the scarlet young man unable to look, walk away, or in any other way react, she lifted her short dress over her ass, revealing her nakedness—a collective gasp echoed inside the store, as everyone had seemingly frozen.

Fey slapped the dripping cucumber against her pussy and rubbed the tip on her clit, allowing herself to moan—not loudly, but deeply, just enough to be heard by everyone and to let her sounds enflame their loins—and teased herself with the cucumber, pushing the tip against her cunt.

Her knees almost buckled, when she thrust the vegetable in her—at first, only the tip, then a bit more, and a bit more afterwards—as she leaned over the counter and ran her tongue along her lips, her stare intently fixed on the young man stealing glimpses of her from the corner of his eye, unwilling directly to look... suddenly, two rough hands grabbed her from behind and forced her to pull the cucumber out.

"All right, Fey," the tall, robust man in an old-fashioned checkered suit said with a stentorian voice, "time to go. Show's over, folks!"

Everyone quickly, and shamefully, looked down on the floor, flushed, and several people nervously, and absentmindedly threw things in their carts and baskets—things they, in seconds, put back on the shelves.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Fey?" the man demanded, pushing Fey out of the store. "Mr. Hughes has explicitly told you to stop putting on shows in public, for free."

"It was the heat of the moment, Stan," she protested, struggling to walk with her arms held tight behind her back. "It won't happen again, I just... lost it. Please, let me go, please," she cried.

"Sorry, hun," Stan said apologetically. "You know I can't do that; he won't hurt you, and you know it. He only wants to scold you; but, if I let you go and he finds out... losing my balls might be the lightest of punishments awaiting me."

"Don't be so dramatic, Stan, you know he loves you... OUCH!" She let out a big, loud cry, as he twisted her arms.

"Sorry," he whispered in her ear, "more of Mr. Hughes' women around; we don't want them thinking you're getting off lightly—could spark a fucking riot!"

"You could just tell me to cry," she whispered scornfully in his ear. "You didn't have to actually hurt me."

"Seemed a lot easier, and more realistic, this way."

"You dumb brute," she mumbled under her breath.

Stan pushed her in Mr. Hughes' office and hurriedly briefed his boss on the situation; Mr. Hughes nodded, then gestured Stan—and the other guard in the room—out of the office.

Fey once again marveled at Mr. Hughes' childlike face, cleanshaven, with short, dark brown, curly hair, light green eyes, and kind features—it was his face that had been the doom for many of his former competitors and wishful swindlers; they had all thought Mr. Hughes to be an easy to trick and step over man, when, in fact, he was as ruthless as they come.

"Mr. Hughes, I'm sorry, I..." Fey began to apologize, but, one simple gesture of his hand was enough to stop her mid-sentence.

"Fey," he cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead, "it's the third time you've been caught doing such a thing in public; look," he sighed heavily, "I know you're an exhibitionist, that you love having people watch... it's why you're my star, after all!

"Your shows have a whole different vibe than those of the others; you enjoy what you're doing. It's not just for the money. And I appreciate it; I really do. You must believe me," his half-smile made Fey's skin crawl. "Unfortunately," he continued in a suddenly turned-stern voice, "I must punish you; third offence," he repeated coldly. "If I let you go lightly again, the others will not appreciate it one fucking bit."

"Mr. Hughes, don't... you know that... when I do such things in public, there are more people coming down to our shows. It brings people in!"

"Yes, but, for how long?" He continued in his steady, cold voice. "First time, it was good advertisement. I let it pass. Second time, I gave you one last chance to get yourself together. But now... if you keep doing it, people will stop coming to the shows; why pay to see something they can see at the drugstore, or, in the streets, or anywhere else for that matter?

"They need incentive to spare some of their hardearned money, which they don't have in abundance to begin with, to come see you put on a show, Fey. And if they can get the same show for free, then... they can save their nickels and dimes for something they need more.

"Do you see where I'm coming from? Do you understand why I need to punish you this time?"

"I guess," she nodded, lowering her gaze to the floor. "I just... I'm really, terribly sorry, Mr. Hughes."

"That's good," he said, "but, not enough. Not this time."

"What's going to happen?" She asked in a shaky voice.

"To you... nothing," he approached her and put his arm fatherly around her shoulders. "You see, I can't whip you, or let you come to harm in any physical way; you are, after all, my star attraction. People don't want to see a scarred woman dance, you know?

"On the other hand, psychological pain can be just as, if not more, devastating."

He guided her out of the office, down the stairs... Fey quickly realized they were heading toward the overboard observation room for the peep-show; her heart suddenly sank, when countless thoughts of what was about to happen crossed her mind in a sequence resembling a bad acid trip.

"As I've said," Mr. Hughes said, pointing to the large window overlooking the peep-show area, "I can't let my star get physical hurt, but... her best friend, on the other hand..."

Fey gasped and tears welled up in her eyes, as she saw Yvonne in the podium sandwiched by two tall, muscular, black guys; petite Yvonne almost invisible between the two huge men, one pulling her head viciously, the other choking her, both banging hard her holes, stretching her out—the room Fey was in was soundproof and therefore Yvonne's screams could not be heard, yet, Fey could clearly sense them in her head...

She could feel Yvonne's agony (and potential concealed pleasure), as the men drilled her, clearly instructed to go as hard as they could, probably harder than they could (or else), and strange men were sitting in their booths, watching in fascination at the unexpected show, shocked and enraptured, fervently masturbating to Yvonne getting ravaged—one man slapped her on the ass, her whole body shook violently—tears were rolling down her eyes—and Fey simply watched, Mr. Hughes holding her head steady, forcing her to look at her punishment, pulling her hair brutally, whenever she as so much half-closed her eyes...

The two men finished inside Yvonne and hurriedly walked out of the room, leaving her still on her knees, dripping sperm from both gaped holes, panting heavily and alone... two new guys walked in, again muscular, tall, dwarfing Yvonne, and with their huge members already erect, ready to split tiny Yvonne in two... they penetrated her—no foreplay, no preparation—raw and Fey could tell from their faces they were overly anxious to please Mr. Hughes.

It went on and on for more than two hours, and Fey was forced to stand there and watch, her feet aching in her high heels, her heart in her stomach, and her mind numb, as she watched more and more men walk in the room, use Yvonne as savagely as they could (some slapped her, others punched her, spat on her, pulled her hair, twisted her nipples), and walk out, only to be replaced by others... when the last two men walked out, Yvonne was a cum-covered mess curled up on the floor—spunk dripping in abundance from her gaped holes—silently sobbing in her arms.

"So," Mr. Hughes said in a calm voice, "you see what happens, when you break my few and highly reasonable ground rules? Besides, Fey," he sighed in disappointment, "I don't have that many rules, do I?"

"No, you don't, I..." her words were muffled by her tears and sobs, as she continued to stare at her friend.

Another girl walked in and helped Yvonne out of the showroom; that same girl waltzed back in and swirled around the pole dressed in only her underwear and high heels, her blank gaze telling everything she was (not) thinking.

"Now," Mr. Hughes turned Fey's face toward him by the chin, "if you break the rules one more time, your friend will pay for it, again. And this time, I won't be so lenient and kind, understood?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hughes," Fey nodded and sniffled.

"Good girl," he offered her a wide, kind smile—she was once more astounded by the quickness with which he could alter his facial expressions and, seemingly, his emotions. "Now, go check on your friend... and don't worry," he yelled after her, as she was already rushing to the door, "she already knows she was punished for your mistakes!"

* * * * *

"Honey, I'm really sorry," Fey was holding Yvonne's hands tight, "I didn't know, I couldn't imagine..."

"It's alright," Yvonne responded in a dreadfully rusty voice. "Wasn't that bad," her lips curled into something resembling a smile.

"Honey," Fey took her in her arms, embracing her friend warmly. "If I knew he'd do this to you, I wouldn't, I..."

"You still would, Fey," Yvonne said, without judgment or scorn. "It's who you are, what gets you off," she pulled back and stared into her friend's eyes. "And it's okay; as I've said, it wasn't that bad... thankfully, I like it rough, and Mr. Hughes probably doesn't know it," she winked at Fey; suddenly, they both burst into dry chuckle.

"God, I wish... I couldn't help myself, you know? When I saw that young man in the store, I just felt like... he's always watching me... even now," she nodded towards the window—true enough, the young man was indeed looking on, partially hidden behind the curtain.