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Taylor
Itiptoe through the halls of Club Z, an exclusive gentlemen’s club in New York City. The pile carpeting is soft under my heels, making it difficult to walk, but there’s no way I’d be caught wearing flats in a place like this. It’s not that I hate sneakers, ballet slippers, or even Crocs. It’s just that at Club Z, pretty girls are here for a reason, and you don’t want to be caught looking dull and un-sexy by a billionaire.
As I wobble down the hall, I take in my surroundings because everything about Club Z is luxurious, from the carpet, to the antique furniture, to the Old Master paintings on the walls. Some of this stuff looks like it could be from a castle in Europe, and unable to resist, I test out one of the ottomans in a small seating area. Oooh, bouncy. It’s a deep red circle with gold fringe that sways as I bump up and down, and I giggle. This would be amazing for some dirty times with the right man, and they should seriously consider stocking these in the main lounge.
Then again, Club Z is a no-holds-barred place, so maybe this ottoman has already been used, right here in this spot. Surreptitiously, I check the fabric for come stains or some other filthy indication of use, but of course, there are none. The red velvet is pristine because Club Z has a meticulous cleaning staff, and would never let something like that happen to the expensive furniture. Ah well.
Still bouncing up and down, I happen to glance over at a circular wooden table with a vase of flowers on top. Goodness. The flowers are some exotic species that reach six feet in the air, their lilac petals stretching to the ceiling. A sweet scent fills the air, and I’m sure these flowers were imported from Holland, Colombia, or some other far-flung location. Even crazier, Club Z constantly gets deliveries of fresh flowers, and I stare at the bouquet ruefully. Shit, this arrangement probably costs more than my weekly paycheck. After all, I make good money at the club, but most of it is from client tips. The men are more than generous, and that’s what pays my bills.
I know it’s scandalous working as a hostess, but it’s better than what I was doing before. As an urchin from the streets, I don’t have much of an education. As a result, I was a cashier at a Mickey D’s before I landed this gig, and no, it wasn’t fun working for the Golden Arches. I’d wear the headset and take orders from the drive through, but you wouldn’t believe how many people are cranky if we ran out of Oreo McFlurries. Seriously, I was genuinely afraid of violent confrontations when I had to tell customers that we were out. There were days when I wondered if I should have on a bullet-proof vest beneath my uniform because Oreo McFlurries werethatpopular.
But now, I no longer smell of grease and fries 24/7. Instead, Club Z has provided me with a comfortable lifestyle, and I like doing what I do, actually. The men are gorgeous, handsome, and very generous. Plus, the club protects us by screening potential clients rigorously, and always provides a safe space and security as we work.
Sighing, I run my hands over the soft fabric of the ottoman. I should be grateful for my new lifestyle, and I am. But old habits die hard, and I can literally feel my fingers twitch as they caress the velvet material.
After all, my past is checkered. When you grow up poor, you do what you need to in order to survive, and as a child constantly shuttled between different foster homes, I was never above eating thrown-out leftovers or shopping at Goodwill. It gets worse though. By the time I was a teenager, I was parked in a group home, and for protection more than anything else, I got in with a posse of street-wise girls. You can guess what happened. We were all from neglectful families, and some of the girls had been fending for themselves almost from they moment they were born. As a result, we were a guild, so to say – a guild of innocent, sweet-faced thieves, to be exact.
The girls were clever and experienced. The taught me everything they knew about our craft, including how to recognize a prime target; how to distinguish between a money clip and a wallet; how to distract the victim and of course, how to “release” the victim from his possessions. Once the deed was done, we’d return to the home and share our spoils, marveling at how easy the con was. Okay, it wasn’t exactly a con; we were engaged in crime, and generally deserved to go to jail even as sixteen year olds.
But I left that behind after leaving the group home. I wanted to start anew, thus the job at McDonald’s as part of my attempt to “get straight.” Then came Club Z, and I can say truthfully that I haven’t pickpocketed a man in ages now. Years, even. But still, my fingers twitch when I spot expensive items, and right now is no exception.
Don’t do it, Taylor, the voice in my head whispers.You’re past that point in your life.
Still, when my eyes land on a pair of silver candlesticks on a nearby table, my blood begins to scream in my veins.
Don’t do it, the voice hisses in my ear again.You’re not a petty criminal anymore.
But it’s drowned out by another voice that whispers,What’s the harm? Club Z has so much already. They’ll never even notice it’s gone.
Oh shit. The urge is so strong, and like a woman in a trance, I get up from the ottoman and approach the gleaming candlesticks. I’m just looking. It’s not a crime to look, right?
Slowly, my fingers trail over the pewter columns. These must be worth a fortune because they look to be made of pure silver. Each candlestick is about ten inches high and two inches in diameter. There are no protrusions or nubs, so they’re merely elegant columns, slick and shiny.
But how would I get them out of here? If I bump into someone, it’ll look weird to have a candlestick in each hand. I suppose I could say that I’m taking them to be cleaned, but that reason sounds lame, even to my ears.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes, and with one last look around to make absolutely certain I’m alone, I giggle before lifting up my skimpy skirt and squatting a bit. OMG, this is so wrong and I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I am, and quickly, I pull my thong to one side, strapping it over one big butt cheek. Then, I pick up one of the silver candlesticks, running my fingers over the cold metal. Oooh, this is going to be a little chilly, but here goes.
Quickly, I notch the head of the candlestick at my pussy opening and begin pushing. Unph! It feels good actually, and my head drops back with a breathless gasp as the smooth silver begins sliding into my vaginal passage. Goodness, this is quite the turn on, and I gyrate my hips a bit, enjoying the glide of the cylinder.
Within moments, the candlestick’s buried in my pussy. It feels full and slick, and I jiggle up and down a little as a test. Fortunately, the candlestick stays lodged, and I can only hope that this thing doesn’t slide right out while I’m walking. Mission accomplished.
But as I turn away, something makes me look back, and sure enough, it’s the second candlestick beckoning to me. The gleaming implement practically cries out, begging me to take him too. OMG, should I? But how?
Yet I know exactly how because I’ve done this before. Quickly, I lift my skirt again, and spread my legs in a v-stance before picking up the candlestick. But instead of positioning the head against my pussy opening, instead, I reach around back and notch it against my ass. Yes, the rectum can be a secure means of transportation, just ask any inmate in an American prison. I’ve never been behind bars, but I know how it’s done.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and then push out with my bottom, pretending that I’m going to the bathroom. My pucker opens a bit, and quickly, I increase the pressure with my hand. The head of the candlestick pops in as my sphincter relaxes, and within moments, I’m sliding the huge candlestick into my butt.
Yes, this is wrong. Yes, this is insane. Yes, this is dirty. But am I going to regret it? I think not. Instead, the enormous implement is now buried fully within my rectum, and I can feel the two silver cylinders jostling against each other through my thin vaginal wall. Goodness, I’m stuffed so full right now. Who would have guessed?
Then, with a secretive smile, I begin strolling down the hall like nothing’s wrong. The two cylinders rub against one another internally, but it makes for a delicious tingle that runs through my cunt and ass, even as my eyes sparkle and I walk funny
How can stealing feel so good?
A giggle escapes my lips as my cheeks flush. Of course, I’ve taken bigger in both of my secret spaces, but there’s an element of the forbidden here that makes my nipples hard even as I stroll nonchalantly down the hall. Then, I turn a corner and the door to the women’s lounge appears before me. Perfect. I’ll just get these to my locker, where they’ll be safe and sound, before looking up a reputable pawn shop. There must be a fence somewhere who will take these off my hands right? And all for a pretty penny … or so I hope.
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