The strip club

Didn't have much to work with for this particular fetish, but hopefully it covers what was requested.

Allen's Bachelor Party

The bouncer looks back down at the license, then up at me. Back to the license, back to me.

I smile. “Grew a beard,” I say, then clear my throat so it wouldn't sound so cracked and nervous.

“Uh huh.” He squints a little, looking at the birth date. “You're too young,” he says. Then he smiles. “Fakes aren't usually too young.”

He thinks it's fake. I could deny that it's fake. But that's what he wants. “I'm nineteen.”

“You don't look it.”

I furrow my brow and feel the glue pulling against my skin. “I look older than I am,” I say.

“Yeah.”

I lean back and cross my arms, balancing my weight on both legs to stop my hip from popping to the side. “You going to let me in or not?”

“Give me your hand, pal.”

I hold out my hand with my fingers already in a fist. Don't want him touching my hand any more than he has to.

“Thin wrists,” he says as he stamps a big red U onto the back of my hand.

“Go fuck yourself,” I say, ripping my hand away from his.

He laughs, then signals for me to go in.

I walk past him, pay the cover, and go out to the main floor. There are a dozen little stages here and there, with girls wearing various stages of practically nothing sliding around the poles. I head to the big stage, the main stage. Then I take a seat and pull out some cash.

It doesn't take long to get attention. It's true what they say; strippers will not leave you alone. They come over and talk to me, they run a hand across my neck, put a hand on my shoulders. I can't just shrug them off; that would call down too much attention. I don't want attention, not yet.

When they ask if I want a lap dance, I smile and tell them I'm waiting for someone. It won't take long, they promise me. I don't want to miss him when he gets here, I say. He'll wait, they insist.

It's not until I explicitly say I don't want one, not until I get a little bit rude, that they finally walk off. But I occasionally toss a dollar on the stage in front of me. I'm still paying, I'm still taking part in things. Not just sitting there like a gay dude stuck at a bachelor party.

A song passes, and a new stripper gets on the stage. I order a coke, and get charged three times a reasonable price for it. I toss the straw aside and take a sip, careful not to get my mustache too wet. It's barely eleven yet.

It's beginning to itch.

There's a bachelor party over there. Every so often, one of the guys points out the groom, buys him a lap dance, something like that. The groom looks happy but embarrassed. Makes me wonder if he knows what's coming.

He gets pulled back to the champagne room again and again. I glance over when he comes back each time, looking from him to the clock. Midnight keeps getting closer and closer.

The strippers in the meantime aren't bad. Nothing to write home about. Mostly flat chested, nice legs, athletic. But the same moves over and over again. I want to roll my eyes, but I know better. Real men don't do that. So I watch, as if I care.

Then, at midnight, she comes on the stage. Her frame is barely over five feet, but the boots add another nine inches. Her makeup can only be described as severe, and her hair is pinned up with chopsticks. She steps onto the stage with a corset, a thong, and those boots. Those thigh high leather boots laced all the way up the front. Looks like it would take half an hour just to get them on; no way she's taking them off on stage.

But she isn't a stripper. You can tell from the black leather gloves that go nearly to her shoulders and the riding crop dangling from one wrist. And you can tell by the way she walks.

She's introduced as Mistress Wong. Kind of racist, I suppose. But maybe that is her name. She looks more Japanese than Chinese, though.

It's midnight, and that makes it Mistress Wong's hour of power. That's what they say. She's going to bring two guys up on stage and she's going to tease and torture them for her whole hour. All she needs is volunteers.

The bachelor party goes nuts, practically throwing the groom up onto the stage. I sheepishly raise my own hand. I don't want to seem too eager, but I still want to get picked.

The Mistress points at both of us and tells us to get up on the stage. She tells me to bring my chair.

“Tell them your name, you worthless scum,” she says to tomorrow's groom.

“Allen,” he says. “My name is Allen.”

She pushes him into the chair and turns to me. I open my mouth, but she holds up her hand. “No one asked you to talk,” she says. “You will serve me by helping me with Allen.”

I nod and fight the urge to say 'yes mistress.'

“Good slave. Go and get my bag from the back of the stage.”

In the bag is a bunch of rope, and Mistress Wong instructs me on how to tie Allen to the chair. I wrap the rope three times around each wrist, then twice more around the wrists as a pair, and around the individual arms again before running the rope around the legs of the chair. I tie the rope off back around the binding of his wrists; no way he's going anywhere.

Mistress Wong then tells me to bind his ankles, and so they get similar treatment.

Once Allen is good and tied down, she starts tapping him with the crop, lightly slapping his face, up and down his chest, and, of course, his crotch. If she touches his dick with her hand, that's prostitution. But she can spend a whole hour slapping it with a crop.

First, though, she turns to me. “I want you to strip,” she says. “Strip down and give my newest slave a lap dance.”

Allen looks at me, his eyes running from my work boots up over my jeans with the very obvious bulge. He looks at the over shirt I'm wearing, the sweatshirt over top, and eventually he gets to the scraggly beard, the thick eyebrows, the big glasses and the greasy hair.

“Mistress Wong?” he says. “I don't want a lap dance from him.”

She slaps him across the face with the crop. A lot harder than she's done before. Not enough to leave a mark for his wedding, but enough to scare him that she might. “I didn't ask what you wanted,” she says. “Now be quiet, or I will gag you.”

“I'm not gay.”

She shakes her head, then snaps her fingers at me and points at the bag. I pull out the gag, and she pushes it into his mouth and ties it around the back of his head. The rest of the bachelor party goes crazy, laughing and screaming, throwing money onto the stage.

Then Mistress Wong looks at me again. “I said strip,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

So I pull my feet out of my boots, kicking them awkwardly aside. I reach down and start to pull off my socks, hopping in place to get them off.

Mistress Wong knocks me down.

“Not like that, idiot,” she says. “Do it sexy.”

I get back up, one sock still half off. She glares at me, and I nod.

I pull the sweatshirt up over my head slowly, one side then the other, gyrating my hips as I go, but careful not to let anything come untucked.

Music starts, the sexy jazz making it almost impossible not to dance. Allen looks at me with horror on his face as I move over and straddle his lap. I can hear him whimpering, especially when I realize that he's getting hard. I smile and bend to one side and pull off my sock.

Allen misunderstands the reactions. When his friends laugh and cheer, he doesn't realize what they saw. He just sees the sock I drop in his lap. Then he sees the other sock after I lean in the other direction. He doesn't look down, doesn't see my bare foot. Might have saved himself some grief if he did.

But he refuses to look at me. He refuses to look when I stand back up and start to unbutton my shirt. He doesn't notice that when I take it off, my shoulders go with the shirt. He's focused too much on not seeing that he doesn't see what's in front of me.

I reach down and undo my belt, then unhook my jeans and lower the zipper. I pull the jeans open for Allen to see, but he won't look. I smile as I pull the pants down, bringing the obvious bulge down with them.

He closes his eyes when I step out of the jeans, shakes his head when he hears the jeers and catcalls of his friends when I kick the pants towards them.

I pull off my undershirt and toss it at him. “Open your eyes, Allen,” I say. My voice is throaty, but higher than he probably expects. He gets a confused look on his face, then opens one eye, just a little bit.

Enough to see me slowly unwrapping my breasts. It feels so good to get that binding off. Once it's loose enough to fall on its own, I let it just unravel, feeling the cloth slide down my skin as I go to work with the most painful part.

His eyes are on my breasts as I rip the fake beard and mustache off my face. Which is good; he doesn't see the look of pain as I do it.

I pull off the heavy glasses and then peel the bushy eyebrows off my face. Then I run my hands, my manicured hands with long fingernails, up to my scalp and pull the greasy hair wig off.

He's still gagged, but looks like he's enjoying himself a lot more when I shake out my real hair. This time, he doesn't struggle nearly as much when I straddle him. This time, the whimpers have a very, very different connotation when I give him the lap dance.

Finally, he understands the hoots and hollers from his friends. He stops struggling and just enjoys it.

Mistress Wong winks at me.

I put one hand on the back of Allen's neck and lean back, pushing my legs out wide to keep my balance, and look out at the club. The girls who tried to give me a lap dance are standing there having one of two reactions. They are either shocked, jaws on the floor, or they are laughing hysterically.

I pull back up and push my breasts into Allen's face. This will be a night he never forgets.