I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ve been off-the-rails horny for weeks. I don’t mean, “I want sex,” kind of horny; I mean constantly dripping, everything makes me need an orgasm, no matter how much I get, I need more kind of horny. This is partially because my boyfriend is so wonderful; partially because my friends are so wild that I’m the prurient, conservative one. Part of it is growing up with hippie, swinging parents that embraced and celebrated sexuality. Most of all, my problem is me. I finally have everything I’ve ever dreamed of and the freedom and support to indulge my primal impulses. Pandora’s slutty box has been opened.

There’s no drug so addictive as being celebrated for being slutty and crazy, no greater pleasure than being rewarded for going insane with lust. I’ve become a lust-glutton; that’s two deadly sins for the price of one. While my journey began the moment I met Glade, my boyfriend, I think the straw that broke the bimbo’s back was when I took him to the strip club a few weeks ago. If anything gave me the green light, it was our visit to the red light district.

I forget exactly why I decided to surprise him. I think that either I was going emotionally insane or he had just been so perfect, which he always is, that I wanted to do something special. I do recall being so horny that I masturbated constantly all day, trying to think of something crazy-special. I wanted to get him so turned on that he’d rip off my clothes and pound me hard and fast, releasing gallons of cum into me, on me, all over me. Just the thought of it had me so wet that I was fucking myself with everything around his house. My toys, kitchen utensils, tools, you name it; anything vaguely phallic was tested for pleasure, sometimes more than once.

Hired guns, paid, by me, to get him all worked up, seemed, at the time, to be a perfect idea. Young, nubile, limber, and sexy bodies grinding on him, while I watched, seemed like a stroke of genius. They make their living selling the promiscuous, sex-kitten vibe. I’d dress to thrill, tip them enough to give him “extra special” attention, and he’d be putty in my hands. I gave out a maniacal laugh as I fingered myself to the thought of my nefarious plan.

I’m not sexually naive, but I’m not exactly the type of woman that hangs out in strip clubs. I seldom ever watch porn. I have, however, been to a strip club a few times in my life. I knew what to expect.

The important thing was to dress and act in such a fashion that allowed me to compete with professional sluts. Not that strippers are sluts, mind you, but that is the packaging and the sales pitch; the fantasy is the product. Rather than try to match them, point-for-point, I went with a softer, more natural, slutty vibe.

Teasing my hair into soft, flowing, draping curls, I got my hair just perfect. Heavy base foundation, covering my freckles because they’d stand out like mud specks in the mood lighting, was a smooth canvas for my warpaint. Dark, blood-red lips, outlined in black, with just a hint of deep charcoal blush accenting my cheekbones, and dark, smoky eye shadow, with lots of mascara, made me look like a flame-haired sexpot. Not bothering to shower despite my day-long masturbation marathon, I pulled one of the oldest tricks in the books.

Running my hands over my sopping pussy until they were soaked, I rubbed my sex juices all over my body. The nape of my neck, my cleavage, and my forearms got second and third doses of my liquid sex. Covering my copulins with just a bit of musk made me smell like I just fucked the entire Trojan army, instant sex-appeal for manly men and, surprisingly, women. I covered my nudity with a pale green, stonewashed, cotton dress. It was a bodice dress with a zig-zag pixie hem, stopping a few inches above my knees.

The jagged hem had plenty of gaps, all of them allowing my bare thighs to show when I walked or sat. The color matched my moss-green eyes well, and it was almost the perfectly complimentary color to offset my hair. The bodice-top portion allowed me to tighten or loosen it as I saw fit with front ties and a waist cinch. Tight in the waist, to show off the roundness of my ass from behind, and loose up top, so I could jiggle and bend with my too-small breasts appearing to be much larger and more round than they are, finished up my wardrobe. Simple flats shod my feet. Even that bitch in the mirror thought I looked hot.

Both looking and smelling like sex unleashed, I finished up the preparations. Where I live, the all-nude strip clubs are bring-your-own-bottle. I chose four bottles of honeyed wine, infused with green herbals as a kicker. Feeling nervous about what I had planned, I also ate a few herbal green edibles. Yes, I can go sexually crazy, but sometimes I like the carefree, tingling that accompanies such recreationals to enhance the mood.

Saying he was surprised when he got home is the understatement of the century. By the time he opened the door, I had worked myself up into a sexual frenzy that eclipsed my previous state. I was splayed out on the couch, my dress pulled up, moaning like the slut I am, with my favorite purple double-headed dildo, called Barney, buried in each hole as I fingered my clit.

I didn't even stop masturbating when he came in. “Hi, aaah, honey, mmm, are you, ah, fuck, I’m going to cum again, ready to go out?”

Pulling Barney out of my swollen, heated cunt, licking my cum off of it, I made a show of moaning and fingering myself until I had licked it clean. Springing up, giving him a big, wet, passionate kiss, I pulled him out the door. He was dressed in a deep purple, satiny button-down, tapered to show off that inverted triangle body of his, and loose, pleated slacks. He was clean, smelled like a magical forest, and so devastatingly handsome that he didn’t need to change. A not-so-quick drive into, then across, town, and we were at our destination. It was a weeknight; there were very few cars in the parking lot.

Popping yet another edible, leaving him to grab the bottles, I skipped towards the door. The strip club was a low, squat single-story brick building with a small awning. The interior was a decent attempt at low-brow class. Emerald-painted half-walls, emerald full walls with foiled accenting and trim, and white-lined stages dominated the place. The mood lighting was dark with a predominance of black-lighting, giving everything a sexy glow. Dark carpet and a long bar finished off the interior. There were a few rows of tables, lots of chairs up near the stage, which featured a catwalk-style outcropping, and some booths lining the back walls. A lithe, buxom black woman with legs like ebony pillars was finishing up her set.

Near the bar, on my left, sat a group of three men in business attire. They looked at me excitedly as I paid the door person, who looked like a dancer, and asked for fifty ones. Their looks turned to disappointment when they realized that I was a patron, not a dancer. Two younger men, college-age, sat against the stage, obviously drunk but loudly behaving themselves.

I chose a small booth up against the far wall on my right. It was set back from the main floor, far enough that nobody would be leering at me if I didn’t want them to. There was a half-wall that separated the booth from the rest of the place on the near side, concealing below-the-waist activity from all but whoever was on the stage. The far side of the booth was partitioned off by a small doorway, arched and covered by a pair of black, velvet curtains. I later learned that it led to the private dance area.

The booth was a semi-circle of puffy, comfortable vinyl with a high back, perfect for lounging. The table was bolted to the floor almost two feet away. I couldn’t recline into the soft back of the booth and comfortably reach the table. If I wanted to lay my hands on the surprisingly-clean table, I needed to “scooch” way forward. I could use this to my advantage.

A quick experiment demonstrated that I could let my back recline against the back of the booth while moving my hips forward, all under the guise of trying to reach the table. This allowed my legs to spread invitingly. I could “accidentally” show my lack of panties quite easily. Naughty potentials danced in my mind.

The manager, a blond woman seeming to be in her forties with huge breasts and a fake tan that glowed in the light, was tending bar and trading shots with a cute little brunette dancer. Glade went to the bar to pay for some cups. You bring in your own booze but need to buy the cups and ice from them.

Watching him from behind, as he leisurely strolled toward the bar, hinted that my task would be easy. The manager eyed him up; the woman manning the door eyed him up and down; the sexy black dancer paused in her efforts to collect her tip-dollars and then put on her sexy smile and strutted herself over to him. I saw him smile at her, her laughing and touching him, then he shook his head to the negative and pointed at me. I smiled and waved.

He quickly returned. Stopping before our booth, complimenting me on how amazing I looked, he seated himself directly beside me, allowing me to place my hand on his thigh. Pouring us each a red Solo cup of wine, he slowly sipped his while I gulped mine down, knowing the herbal infusion has quite the kick and always makes me uncontrollably horny. It was sweet, tasty, with just a hint of earthy green goodness. I slammed my empty cup down and it was immediately refilled.

“What if I didn’t want more? You know how crazy I get when I’m on your magic wine.”

Glade laughed loudly enough that heads turned. “Then you wouldn’t have grabbed four bottles.”

The cute brunette dancer took the stage. She was short and perky in a cute, sexy, nerd kind of way. Smooth skin, a delightfully youthful body with full breasts, and short, brown hair in a pixie cut gave her a combination of wild and innocent looks. She was dressed in some sort of cosplayer outfit with nerd glasses; it suited her nicely, quite sexy.

The drunken frat-boy types at the stage threw their last remaining dollars on the stage and exited. I watched her, mesmerized by the way she moved. She was a good dancer, sensual. However, with only ourselves and the few businessmen near the bar, who weren’t paying her much if any attention, she seemed to be merely going through the motions.

Emboldened by my off-the-rails arousal and the weed-infused wine, I sprang into action. Feeling so horny that my heart no longer pumped blood, only heated desire, I fished out a few dollar bills and got up. I could have easily exited to my right but chose, instead, to go around to the left. Of course, with him seated and me on my feet this meant that he had a great view up my skirt. Bending further forward than needed, feeling the somewhat cool air on my thighs, then up my skirt, I knew that my bare ass and heated, dripping pussy were right in his face.

I “model walked,” placing each foot directly in front of the other with every step, to the stage. This makes one’s hips swing enticingly and shows off your behind quite nicely. Seeing me approach, the cute brunette dancer smiled and stripped off her anime, cosplayer dress with one, fluid motion. Beneath the dress, she wore a white bikini outfit. Similar in appearance to a bikini swimsuit, but cut perfectly to enhance her body, it had thin straps running across her torso, connecting the top and bottom pieces. The tiny triangles of cloth glowed in the blacklight, giving her a divinely sensual look.

I gave her what I hoped was a sexy, accepting smile, approaching the stage, dollars in hand. Shooting me a seductive look, her dancing became more animated, more wanton. Crawling on her hands and knees before me, licking her lips, she stared into my eyes. My pussy gushed. Turning onto her back, she spread her legs, still staring at me, smiling hungrily. Parting her thighs and gyrating herself closer and closer, hands simulating masturbation, cupping her breasts, she positioned herself so that her legs enshrouded me. Clasping her ankles around the back of my neck, she drew me towards her; this forced me to bend forward, into her, the back of my pixie-skirted dress riding up, showing off my thighs and part of my ass. Nobody but my boyfriend could see. I heard his uproarious applause.

Pulling herself into a seated position, not releasing me from captivity, she drew me in closer, running her hands down my sides. Her hands stopped their caresses, running down her parted legs to her barely-covered snatch. The thin material outlined the part between her pussy lips showing a faint hint of pubic hair beneath.

I stared at her with longing until her gestures gave me the hint that she wanted me to tip her by placing the bills in her bikini bottom. I did so, feeling her hand cover mine as she thrust her groin into my hand. Her skin was smooth, hot, slightly sweaty from being under the lights, and I gasped aloud in pleasure. Her pubic mound felt like liquid fire.

“See him?” I gestured back towards our booth with my head, smiling broadly. “When you’re done, please come over and give him a naughty dance. I’m trying to get him all worked up.”

She laughed at that, smiled adorably, pulled my head into her tight, round, bountiful cleavage, and kissed me, stopping to blow her hot breath into my ear. I shivered a little. I winked at her, turning to go, our hands lightly caressing each other’s arms in parting. Our intermingling fingertips felt electric.

“That was so hot,” Glade erupted upon my return as I shimmied back into my seat. His hot, manly hand caressed my inner thigh as I moved past. “I couldn’t help but notice how your smooth skin glows in the light.”

The dancer came over after her set, not even bothering to put her outfit back on. The way she stood there, nude, so brazen, so comfortable, made me more than hot for her.

“What’s your name, handsome?” she asked him, chuckling at his name. “Well, Glade, you might have a funny name, but you’re fucking hot. Sit back and spread your legs.”

She gyrated to the music, standing between his legs. Bending over at the waist, turning towards me, she smiled at me as she thrust her amazing ass towards his face and twerked a bit. Then she moved towards me and forced my legs apart. Running her hands up my inner thighs she stopped when she discovered my lack of underwear. Kneeling, giving me a sudden understanding of exactly why the table was placed so far away, she gazed at my bare pussy, then up at me, licking her lips. I tipped her heavily.

She gestured at Glade’s drink and he nodded. She took a sip and smiled. “That’s yummy. Makes me tingle. Is that blunt in there? Awesome.”

Turning to me, she said, “My name is Jasmine if you want a VIP dance.” She bounced away, smiling. I heard my boyfriend laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“She took my drink.”

The second dancer, a long-haired blond, thin with very round, small breasts, muscular legs, and a very well-toned ass was next. She had a vicious, primal, savage-in-heat look about her and was covered in tattoos. She danced to hard rock and humped the pole as if she were in cat-like heat. Once more, I quaffed my herbal-infused wine, feeling a major wild, happy buzz, and approached the stage.

She called herself Bentley, making me wonder why strippers name themselves after cars, and already knew I was without panties. As soon as I approached the stage she grabbed my dollars and placed them on the stage. Taking my hands in hers, she thrust them over her small, firm boobs, immediately reaching under my dress. Her hands played with my pubic hair and inner thighs while we rocked to the music together, me feeling her up in public. Her “special dance” at our table was sluttier and more wanton on Glade; she crawled on top of my lap and writhed on top of me, groping my tits and kissing my neck. She also took my wine; word had gotten around.

Glade once more approached the bar to get more cups. I quick discussion with the manager, me getting nervous as she stared in my direction, was quickly followed by the both of them approaching.

“Yes, it’s pretty easy to make,” I heard my boyfriend saying, “THC dissolves in alcohol. Just let it steep in wine for a few months, a week or so if you use moonshine, and flavor with mulled honey, spice to taste.” He handed her one of the unopened bottles. She filled the newly-vacant space with a small stack of red plastic cups.

“Hi, I’m Lisa,” she said to me. I was relieved; I thought that we were about to be in trouble, not the good kind.

A quick handshake, knowing smiles, and a sultry wink were exchanged. She took the bottle, telling us that any other cups were on the house, and headed back to her perch behind the bar.

Glade shrugged, “Small place, word travels fast. She’s a fan of pot.”

I kissed him as wantonly, wetly, and passionately as I could. I was rewarded with feeling that monster cock of his come to life beneath my caressing fingers. The three businessmen chose that moment to leave the club, leaving us as the only patrons. We chatted about the previous dancers a bit, sexual tension washing over me the entire time.

The third dancer took the stage; she immediately caught my eye. She was tall and sinewy with long dark blond, natural hair that flowed in loose waves down her back. No tattoos, except a small butterfly on her ankle, she wore a thin crop top, nipples visible beneath it, a lime thong with shoulder straps, and high-top tennis shoes. She had an amazing ass, heart-shaped, round, and muscular while still being feminine. I usually like my women to have curves and notable breasts, but she did not. Gaunt and skinny, with her muscles writhing fluidly beneath her smooth skin, she reminded me of a panther on the prowl. Her breasts were tiny, what I used to call “mosquito bites.”

However, how sexy one is, has almost nothing to do with their outer shell; it’s all in personality and confidence. She was a lioness, a goddess-driven force of sexual nature, a sex-starved vixen with an untamed mane of hair. Just seeing the way she walked across the club, all confidence, poise, and power, made me want her. My nipples hardened at the sight of her. My already-soaked pussy emanated heat and lust. I could hardly breathe. My left hand was rubbing Glade’s cock through his pants; when I spied her, I instinctively increased pressure and tempo.

Made solely for me, she began her dance to eighties hair metal, Poison, and attacked the stage viciously. She danced only for us, stripping topless almost immediately, her eyes locked with mine all the while. I could almost feel her lust, felt an immediate desire for her. She was hypnotic.

In a sexual trance, I approached her, drooling, zombie-like. Before I even reached the stage she gave me a sincere smile and said, “I know what’s up, and the girls are already stoned on your wine. Give me some and I’ll get him hard for you for free.”

Because I wanted to feel her body against me, touch her, drink in her scent, I still held a few dollars aloft. Her hands made fists in my hair as she sat in front of me, legs spread wide, her thong so thin that her pussy lips were peeking out, and thrust her tiny, sexy tits into my face. Pulling me up, she nuzzled my neck, licking and nibbling on it, as one of her hands dropped under my dress.

I was bent over the stage railing, my ass fully on display. My legs parted instinctively as her hand sought the promised land. Her fingers lightly caressing my inner folds, she whispered, “You’re so wet,” into my ear and broke our embrace. I stumbled back on shaky legs, watching her suck on her fingers.

Pulling up my skirt to expose my nude, wet, dripping pussy to her, then Glade, I climbed over him and filled an empty cup for the dancer. She didn’t even bother finishing her set; she just stripped nude, ran her hands over her pussy, and jumped off the stage, approaching us.

Downing the drink as she stood before us, she smiled, saying, “That’s fucking good,” and began to grind in front of my boyfriend.

I had the most incredible view of her ass. She moved as if she were in the throes of an orgasm, as if being sexual was her true nature. I reenacted my “move forward and spread your legs” trick under the guise of grabbing my newly filled wine. The immediately-dismissed thought that perhaps I should slow down because I was flying high, came into my head. I drank, then freed up a hand to check the wetness between my legs.

“I’m Tori,” she said loud enough for us both to hear. Rather than stand there like the others, she put one hand on each of Glade’s shoulders and climbed on top of him, straddling him. Watching her body pulsate on top of him was too much for me.

Convinced that I was wet enough, my fingertips decided to check on my clit. It was as sensitive as ever; soft moans escaped my mouth as the jolts of pleasure mingled with the tingling sensations of the special wine. Glade heard that and saw me sitting with my legs spread, one hand busy on my dripping cunt. It was exposed, but nobody but him or Tori could see me.

The lithe blond lowered herself until she was writhing on his lap. Her hips rocked back and forth, grinding on his cock. She wasn’t afraid of a little contact; she was literally humping his cock. My free hand emulated her, fingers moving in and out of my geyser-like cunt, matching her actions. Rubbing my clit hard and fast, my fingers fucking myself, and watching her grind on my boyfriend in public was so slutty and hot that my hips began to buck; an orgasm neared.

“Oh my fucking god,” she shouted, climbing off of him, her face a mask of shock. “Is that thing fucking real? It’s huge.” She dropped to her knees in front of him, forced his legs open, and crawled between them. Her hands began groping at his cock, outlining the length and girth.

“How do you fuck that thing?” she asked me.

She held her arm up against it. “It’s as big around as my fucking arm. Fucking Christ,” she shouted. “Jasmine, come check out his cock.”

She stared in amazement, eyes hungry, and went on and on about his cock. “That’s the biggest fucking dick I’ve ever seen. Look how fucking wet you made me.” Her fingers disappeared in her snatch and came out soaked.

After that, we were the most popular guests in the history of strip clubs. Over the next hour or two, no other clients came in. The strippers all hung out at our booth, sitting beside me, beside him, getting sloshed on weed-infused honey wine. Hands groped everywhere, especially that impressive package he carries around. Free lap dances were given; I even received some pointers.

I also received my fair share of attention from sexy, lusty dancers. Once the ice was broken, they were more than friendly with me, more than lusty with me. Pressure had been mounting for me to take the stage; the only problem I had with that was that I felt shy about getting on the stage in the company of professional dancers, paid to act sexy and that I absolutely cannot dance.

Lisa, the manager, chose that moment to approach us, her requisitioned bottle in hand, partially empty. I figured that she was coming over to put a stop to our increasingly rowdy and lewd antics. We had moved well beyond the R-rating, approaching triple-X.

“Since we don’t have any customers,” she addressed everyone. “I’m going to go into my office and have a few drinks. Come get me if you need anything.” Plucking a cup from our dwindling stack, she turned and headed to the back.

“Go on stage and dance,” they persuaded, over and over.

“Tell you what,” I said, thinking of something to put a stop to their cajoling. “I’ll do it, only if Glade strips on stage first. Plus, I’ll need help because I can’t dance for shit.”

Glade laughed at that, then met my eye. “I’ll do it.”

Applause erupted from all the girls while the black one, Raven, jumped up and ran to lock the door. “Maestro,“ he addressed nobody in particular, “Play some hair metal for me.”

With music cued, he took the stage, his long hair waving with his movements. We rushed the stage, them with dollars in their hands, me smiling and laughing. He danced well, seductively, emulating their earlier moves, shoving his ass in their faces, pretending to fondle himself, this huge grin on his face the entire time. Unbuttoning his shirt, showing off his well-sculpted torso, he teased them with his shirt, touched them, humped them for tips. He strutted about on stage like a rock star, the women eating up every second.

Unzipping his pants as the second song, Pour Some Sugar On Me, began, he teased them by flashing his ass, bending over, pantomiming pulling his pants down, barely showing the beginning of that monster cock of his.

They chanted, “Take it off,” “Show me some skin, baby,” “Strip, bitch,” “Come to momma,” and, “Show that cock.” Myself, I plead the fifth.

Never one to disappoint the ladies, Glade turned around and shimmied out his pants. Jumping around naked, his trousers held in front of him to tease, he caressed them with his hands, seduced them with his eyes, and mesmerized them with his self-defacing, charming style. On top of that, he looks amazingly hot in the nude. Finally letting Tori grab his pants--she’d been trying to rip them away--he allowed her to pull them away, unveiling his manhood to their eager eyes.

The dancers stopped their loud cheers and lewd comments, ceased pawing at him in hyperbolic exaggerations of what the male clients do. You might think I’m being dramatic, but his cock is abnormally big. When flaccid it is about the size of an impressive erection. At half-mast, it’s long, thick, and huge. When fully aroused it’s downright intimidating, too thick to close your fingers around, too long to fit inside you. Taking that monster in your mouth is, likewise, an epic feat.

He was at slightly larger than half-mast, spurned on by horny strippers and horny me. As soon as he showed that magic staff of his, the jeers and cheers stopped. Eyes grew wide; mouths went agape. For a brief moment, time stopped.

“That’s fucking huge,” Tori screamed out as she reached out to stroke it. I began fighting down jealousy, began laughing. Glade laughed at my antics and just jumped off the stage, the tree trunk between his legs bouncing nicely. The man has no shame.

“I’ll need my pants,” he said to Tori, holding out his hand, while Bentley, the tattooed blond, just stared at his cock with longing. She resisted, but he gave one of his pussy-dripping, roguish, crooked smiles and she relinquished her prize.

As if some decision were made, Tori and Jasmine grabbed me and forced me onto the stage. I tried to resist but let them pull me up. I didn’t so much dance as I swayed to the music while one of them caressed and fondled me as the other one stripped me nude. Trading playful kisses, our hands exploring each other, I forgot about the situation and just let my mind and body melt into the moment. I felt so dirty, so taboo, so delightfully sleazy that my body surrendered top raw, animal, lust.

Lips pressed against mine, hands squeezing my breasts and behind, more hands between my legs, I was a hair's breadth from succumbing to passion. Luckily, the song ended, causing me to come to my senses. I picked up my dress, shrugged into it, and took the two stairs off the stage rather than jumping.

Seeing my boyfriend, that huge lump of manhood barely hidden by his pants, sexy shirt open revealing his pussy-drenching chest, I decided that it was time to leave. I no longer cared if he was all worked up; I was in a state of primal heat.

“Time for us to go home and fuck,” I announced.

“Not so fast,” Tori lamented. “I promised you I’d get him all worked up for you. One more lap dance.” She didn’t wait for me to respond in protest. Tori reached out, grabbed his package, and led him back to the booth by the cock.

Forcing him down, she wasted no time, straddling him, grinding on him with abandon. Tori had her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her nipples sticking out like hard nubs. Her hands clutched Glade’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. Tori’s hips humped up and down his cock, leaving telltale signs of her wetness. Breathing raggedly, moaning, her taut stomach pulsing, thighs clenching, she bounced up and down on his clothed cock, grinding her mound over it with force.

“I think she’s actually getting off on him,” Jasmine said to me.

“I know, right?” one of the others said. I didn’t know who because I was stunned.

“Of fuck, oh fuck,” she yelled out as her body went into a long series of spasms. Her hips kept pumping back and forth, grinding her clit against his manhood, but the rest of her was uncontrolled.

Stopping, looking startled, the stripper just stared at him, smiled meekly, kissed him on the lips, and then slowly turned on her heel and walked towards the back of the club, into the dressing room. She winked at me as she passed; her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling.

We gathered up our stuff, except for the last bottle which they jealously guarded, hugged them all goodbye, and left.

“Did you see that?” Glade asked me as we left. “She did a great job of acting like she was having an orgasm.”

“I think she came on your cock, that’s what I think,” I corrected. “I’ve gotten myself off, before, by grinding on things. I could tell. I’ll show you as soon as we get home.”