Chapter 70 A tale of an African stripper (3)
POV: Zuri
The room fills with wet sounds, my soaked pussy taking him, his balls slapping my clit, my broken moans.
He reaches forward, gathers my braids in one fist, and pulls my head back so he can growl in my ear.
“This what you wanted, Queen? Ten grand worth of dick?”
“More,” I gasp. “Give me twenty.”
He laughs darkly and fucks me harder.
I lose track of time.
Of everything except the thick cock dragging along every nerve inside me, the way my clit throbs every time his body meets mine, the filthy things he mutters in that deep voice how tight I am, how greedy, how he’s never letting this pussy go after tonight.
I come again shattering, pussy clamping down so hard he curses and has to still inside me for a second.
When he starts moving again, it’s slower, deeper, grinding against my cervix until tears leak from the corners of my eyes.
“Gonna fill you up,” he warns, voice ragged. “Mark this pretty cunt so every man in this club smells me on you tomorrow.”
“Do it,” I moan. “Own it.”
Three more thrusts and he buries himself deep, groaning my name like a prayer.
I feel every pulse as he comes, hot and thick, flooding me until it leaks down my thighs.
We stay locked like that, him draped over my back, both of us panting for what feels like forever.
Eventually he pulls out slowly, watches his cum drip from my swollen pussy with possessive satisfaction.
Then he tucks himself away, straightens his tie, and drops another fat stack of hundreds on my ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Same time next week,” he says. Not a question.
I smile into the cushion, body wrecked and singing.
“Bring more,” I whisper.
He chuckles, slaps my ass once, hard enough to leave a handprint, and walks out.
I stay there on my knees a little longer, feeling his cum slide out of me, mixing with the oil and the money already stuck to my skin.
Queen Zuri doesn’t just dance anymore.
She rules.
And the kingdom just got a new king who pays in cash and orgasms.
Next week can’t come soon enough.
A week later, I’m still sore in the sweetest places when I walk back into Club Mpty.
My thighs rub together and I feel him that thick stretch, the way he claims me every single step.
I haven’t washed his scent off completely on purpose.
Every time I shower, I leave a little trace between my legs, like a dirty secret reminder.
Tonight the club is packed wall-to-wall. Word got out. They all want to see if the Queen got dethroned in that champagne room.
I’m wearing a red micro bikini that makes my skin look even richer, darker, and more expensive.
My ass eats the bottom whole. My nipples poke straight through the top like they’re daring someone to touch.
I’m halfway through my set, dripping sweat and money, when Rico appears at the side of the stage again. He doesn’t even wait for the song to end.
“Booth Three. Same gentleman. Says bring nothing but that pretty smile.”
The crowd boos when I walk off early, but I don’t care.
Ten grand last week turned into fifteen in my bank account after the club’s cut. I’m already calculating what twenty-five could do.
Booth Three is different tonight.
Darker.
Candles flickering.
A single bottle of something old and French chilling in ice.
And him, my king in the black suit leaning back like a lion waiting on dinner.
But he’s not alone.
There’s another man sitting beside him. White.
Tall.
Blond hair slicked back, ice-blue eyes, expensive watch that probably costs more than my mama’s house. He looks like Wall Street learned how to sin.
My steps are slow. I don’t do two-at-once. Not ever.
That’s a hard line.
The Nigerian told me his name is Kayode last week, but I still think of him as King lifts one hand.
“Relax, omalicha. He’s not here to touch. He’s here to watch… and to make you both rich.”
The white guy smiles, slow and sharp. “I’m Victor,” he says, voice like chilled vodka. “And I want to buy you, Zuri. Exclusively. For thirty days.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Baby, nobody owns this pussy for a whole month.”
Victor doesn’t blink. He just reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a black Amex centurion card. Place it on the table like it’s a winning poker hand.
“Five million dollars,” he says calmly. “One month. You belong to Kayode and me. Anywhere. Anytime. Any way we want. You say no, we walk away friends and you never see either of us again. You say yes…”
He lets the silence finish the sentence.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard my tits shake.
Five million.
I could buy Mama the best doctors in the world.
Buy myself out of this club forever. Buy an ocean-view condo in Accra and never shake my ass for tips again.
Kayode watches me, eyes hooded. “He’s serious, Zuri. And I already told him yes on your behalf… if you want it.”
Victor leans forward. “We start tonight. A private jet leaves in three hours for my estate in Saint-Tropez. You’ll want for nothing. Clothes, jewelry, privacy, pleasure. All we want is you naked, willing, and ours for thirty days.”
I look between them. Kayode’s dark gaze is pure hunger.
Victor’s eyes are a cold calculation wrapped in lust. Both of them are hard already; I can see the outlines straining against their trousers.
Five million dollars.
I think about the stage. The sticky floors. The grabby hands. The nights I go home smelling like cheap cologne and broken dreams.
Then I think about being naked on a yacht in the Mediterranean, legs spread while these two beautiful, dangerous men take turns ruining me in every language money can buy.
I lick my lips.
“Safe word?” I ask.
Victor’s smile turns feral. “You won’t need one.”
Kayode stands, walks over, and cups my chin. “But if you ever do, say ‘Queen’ and everything stops. You walk away with every penny earned up to that second. No questions.”
I stare into his eyes for a long moment. Then I reach down, untie my bikini top, and let it fall.
“Book the jet,” I say.
The red bottoms come off next. I stand there naked except for the sweat and the red stage lights still clinging to my skin.
Victor exhales like a man who just won the lottery.
Kayode scoops me up like I weigh nothing, carries me to the couch, and sits me on Victor’s lap facing away from him.
Victor’s hands immediately go to my breasts, testing the weight.
Kayode kneels in front of me, spreads my thighs wide, and licks a slow stripe up my already-soaked pussy.
“First rule,” Victor whispers against my ear while Kayode starts eating me alive.