Chapter 68 A tale of an African stripper (1)
Zuri
My name is Zuri, and when I walk into Club Mpty at eleven-thirty on a Friday night, the whole room already knows what’s coming.
The lights drop to a low, pulsing violet, the bassline crawls up through the floor and settles between my thighs like a second heartbeat, and every eye turns to me.
I like that part the most, the moment they all stop pretending they’re here for anything except me.
I’m wearing nothing but a thin gold bikini tonight.
The top is two tiny triangles held together by strings that bite into my skin just enough to remind me I’m alive.
My breasts are heavy, round, the color of dark chocolate kissed by honey spill over the edges like they’re trying to escape.
The bottoms are even smaller, a strip of shimmering fabric that disappears between the fat cheeks of my ass.
When I move, the material shifts and flashes skin, skin, skin. I know exactly what I look like.
I spent an hour oiling myself in the dressing-room mirror until I gleamed like wet obsidian.
The DJ knows my song by heart. The second those opening horns hit, I step onto the main stage and the spotlight finds me like it’s starving.
I let it drink me in. I roll my shoulders back, arch my spine, and my tits bounce slow, deliberate, hypnotic.
A low groan ripples through the crowd. Good. That’s the sound I live for.
“Make it rain on Queen Zuri tonight, gentlemen,” the DJ purrs into the mic. “You know she earns every damn dollar.”
I smile, slow and filthy, and mouth the words thank you to the room. Then I start to move.
My hips roll like I’m riding something thick and invisible.
I drop low, thighs wide, ass brushing the pole, and come back up in one liquid slide.
The oil catches the light; every curve glistens.
I hook one leg high around the cold metal, spin slow, let my breasts sway heavy and free.
The bikini top is already fighting a losing battle.
One string slips off my shoulder on purpose. I pretend I don’t notice. The crowd does.
I turn my back to them always with a power move and bend forward, palms on the stage.
My ass is a perfect heart shape, two plump globes barely covered.
I make it bounce, left cheek, right cheek, both at once, a slow clap of flesh that echoes over the music.
The first bills start floating down.
Tens.
Twenties.
A couple fifties.
They flutter against my skin like warm confetti. I stay bent over, letting them land on the small of my back, the cleft of my ass, the backs of my thighs.
I reach back with one hand, spread myself just enough for the string to sink deeper, and the cheers turn feral.
When I straighten and face them again, I peel the bikini top away completely.
My breasts spill free with a soft, heavy slap against my ribs.
They’re so full the weight pulls them slightly to each side, nipples thick and dark and already hard.
I cup them from underneath, lift, squeeze, let them drop so they jiggle for the front-row wolves.
A hundred-dollar bill lands right on my left nipple and sticks there.
I leave it.
I like wearing their money.
I drop to my knees in the center of the stage, legs spread wide.
The thong is soaked now; I can feel it clinging to my pussy lips, outlining every fold.
I run two fingers down the front, pressing the fabric in so they can see the shape of me.
My clit throbs under my touch. I’m not faking it, I never fake it. The hunger in their eyes is real, and it makes me drip.
“Zuri, baby, turn around again,” someone shouts from the shadows.
I give them more than they asked for. I get on all fours, back arched deep, ass high in the air.
I look over my shoulder and bite my lip. Then I reach back and pull the thong to the side, just for a second just long enough for them to see the glossy pink hidden between my dark lips.
The roar that follows shakes the walls. Money explodes onto the stage like a storm.
I crawl through it, slow and catlike, letting the bills stick to my oiled skin.
My nipples drag across twenties and hundreds.
I roll onto my back in the middle of it all, legs butterflied open, and start touching myself for real.
Two fingers slide under the thong, circle my clit once, twice, then dip inside.
I’m so wet the sound is obscene even over the music.
My hips rock up to meet my own hand. My other palm kneads one heavy breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make my pussy clench around my fingers.
The men are standing now, pressed against the stage, hands full of cash.
I lock eyes with one tall, light-skinned brother in a silk shirt, gold chain glinting.
He’s staring like he’s never seen anything holy before.
I crook a finger at him. He steps forward and showers me.
Hundreds rain down in a thick stack, sticking to my belly, my thighs, the sweat between my tits.
I moan loud, shameless and fuck myself faster.
Another man joins him. Then another. Soon it’s a downpour.
Bills cover me until I’m lying on a carpet of money that smells like ink and lust.
I roll my hips, riding my fingers, breasts bouncing with every breath.
My thighs start to shake. I’m close, so close, and they know it.
They always know when I’m about to come for them.
I pull my fingers free, slick and shining, and lick them clean while staring straight into the crowd.
The taste of me floods my mouth sweet, salty, raw.
That does it. I arch hard, back bowing off the stage, and come with a broken cry that silences the whole damn club for one perfect second.
My pussy pulses so hard I feel it in my throat.
Juices soak the thong completely, dripping down to mix with the oil and the money beneath me.
When the tremors finally fade, I sit up slow, breasts swaying, skin painted in cash.
I blow them a kiss, gather a handful of bills, and rub them across my nipples like I’m polishing trophies.
Then I stand, legs still trembling, and give one last twirl slow, regal, untouchable even while half-naked and dripping.
The lights dim. The music fades. I walk offstage barefoot, leaving a trail of wet footprints and crumpled money behind me.
Back in the dressing room, I’ll peel the soaked thong off, count my blessings six grand tonight, easy, and laugh when my legs still won’t hold me steady.
Because every time I step out there, I don’t just dance.
I own them.
Every single one.
And they pay me beautifully for the privilege.