The bonus seemed easy, and Reagan accepted it without thinking it all the way through.
The piece of paper was of an expensive, elegant stock, and written on it in a neat, masculine hand were the words, “$750 for Kisses to dance for us, nude.”
Reagan had licked Bunny’s pussy, completely naked, in front of the whole club, for only $400 (even if that hadn’t quite been what that request had actually asked for). Stripping and dancing seemed like less work for significantly more money.
But when 6 pm came around, and the “babies” went home, and Reagan took the stage in front of the audience of relaxed, well-dressed men, she suddenly realised the problem – she couldn’t dance.
“Ah… hi,” she found herself saying into the microphone, in a small voice. “My name is Kisses, and I’d like to dance naked for you tonight.”
There were appreciative chuckles from the audience – *approving* chuckles, and that made Reagan eager to please the men – but at the same time, it only made her more nervous.
At the bar, Bunny queued a pop number on the sound system – “My Body, Your Choice” by Sex-Kitten – and the seductive opening chords began to play. Reagan felt her heart racing with anxiety and the apprehension of shame.
She could dance well enough for a club, of course – which involved little more than swaying suggestively in a way that emphasised her hips and tits – but she was being paid to *dance*. There were no other club-goers around to hide amongst. The lights may not have been bright, but they were nowhere near as dim as the average nightclub. And *everybody* was looking at her.
She tried to sway with the music. She was wearing a tight tit-hugging top, buttoned in front, along with a short skirt, white stockings, and schoolgirl shoes. As she swayed, she began to unbutton her top, and let it fall away to expose her bra-less tits.
There was some light applause in the audience. Someone up the back of the room said, “Now, that’s an excellent pair of fuckbags.” Someone else said, “I wish my wife looked like this little slut.” Reagan blushed, and felt her cunt wetten, and knew that both of these comments would be going in her approval book once the show was over.
But now the song was getting faster, and Reagan had no idea what to do. She tried an awkward little step with her feet, but it felt wrong, and out of time with the music. She tried to pretend she hadn’t done it, and instead turned around to poke her ass at the audience, as she began to work her skirt down her hips.
“My body, your choice. Men know best, I’m just a whore,” crooned Sex-Kitten over the driving beat of the song.
“Shake that ass,” called someone from the audience. “Give us a show!” cried someone else.
Reagan jerked – and her skirt, which she had been trying to slowly work down her hips in a seductive manner, fell straight to the floor in a single motion, revealing her white panties.
She didn’t know what to do next. It was too soon to just pull her panties off, surely? And suddenly she wasn’t sure she *wanted* to remove her panties. She felt stupid and useless. Here she was, working in a gentleman’s club, and she couldn’t even do a sexy dance. She was a fraud – an impostor. She was a little girl playing in a woman’s world.
She was aware she was just standing still – not even moving.
“Dance!” called out someone. And then someone else joined in. “Dance! Dance!”
She bounced up and down on the spot, trying to jiggle her tits. She wasn’t even matching the rhythm of the music now.
“Dance!” came another voice – and now the whole crowd were chanting. “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
It was too much. She was mortified – and not in the fun way she had experienced up to that point. She wanted to hide. She wanted to die.
Instead, she turned and ran, fleeing from the stage, into the employee area. The door banged behind her. On the empty stage, the song played on.
Bunny found her in a corner of the staff changerooms. She was balled up in the corner, her knees up against her naked tits, her arms wrapped around those knees. She was crying.
“Kisses, honey, are you okay?” she asked, kneeling by Reagan’s side.
Reagan just shook her head.
“I went up on stage and gave those men a piece of my mind,” said Bunny. “We do the bonuses because we choose to. They’re lucky we want to perform for them. They had no business making you feel like that, and I told them if it happened again, people would have their memberships revoked.”
Reagan sniffed, and made a choking sound. Bunny handed her a tissue, and Reagan took it, and blew her nose.
“You don’t have to do any more work tonight,” said Bunny. “And if you want to, when I leave, you can go home with me.”
That sounded good to Reagan – but also humiliating. She didn’t want to be hiding here all night, with everyone knowing she was a failure, who couldn’t even dance, who had imploded on stage rather than pleasing the customers. She didn’t know how to say all that, though, so she just nodded at Bunny.
Bunny paused, as if unsure if she was going to say something – and then apparently decided to say it. “Also, honey,” she said, “there’s a customer who wants to apologise to you. I’d normally just tell him to back off, but he’s got a long history of being well-behaved, and he says he knows you, and he says he might actually be able to help.”
“Who?” asked Reagan.
“A gentleman by the name of Riggs?” said Bunny.
Reagan felt her pussy throb. Her second reaction was that she didn’t want her guidance counsellor Mr Riggs to see her like this, in tears and humiliated. She wanted to send him away.
But she didn’t, because that was only her *second* reaction – and her first reaction had been a surge of relief, and gratitude. Mr Riggs would make it better. Mr Riggs would look after her. Mr Riggs was exactly who she wanted to see.
And so she nodded, and Bunny left, and a moment later Mr Riggs walked in, in his expensive suit, so much nicer than what he wore to school.
He pulled up a metal folding chair, and sat next to Reagan, his knees and hips near her head.
“Are you Reagan or Kisses?” he asked.
Reagan looked up at him. There was an expression of deep concern and empathy on his face.
“Either,” she said.
“Well, then, to Reagan – I am so sorry that happened to you tonight,” he said. “You did nothing wrong, and you were trying your best to please everyone, and you didn’t deserve to have a terrible experience like that. You are a wonderful and giving girl, and I wish I could go back and change it.”
She let out a choking sob, and, unable to help herself, rested her head against Mr Riggs’ leg, and tried to breathe deeply and calm herself.
Mr Riggs’ hand rested on her head, and then began to slowly stroke her hair. It was the most wonderful thing that Reagan had ever felt. It made her feel safe, and loved, and like she was going to be okay. She pressed herself tighter against her guidance counsellor’s leg, and looked up at him with big, vulnerable eyes.
Mr Riggs smiled. “And to Kisses – you look sexy no matter what you’re doing, whether you’re dressed or naked, dancing or standing still. You have amazing tits, but you also have an amazing smile, and I could get just as turned on watching you reading a book fully clothed.”
And Reagan suddenly realised that Mr Riggs *was* turned on. She could see the tent in her pants, only inches from her face, and somehow it made her feel *good*. If she could give her guidance counsellor an erection when she was crouched on the floor, her face streaked with tears, then maybe she *wasn’t* useless.
She had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss Mr Riggs’ cock through his pants – but she wasn’t *that* much of a slut, so she just bit her lip and blushed.
Instead, she said, “I don’t belong here. I can’t even do a sexy dance.”
“Any girl who wants to learn to please men belongs here, Kisses,” said Mr Riggs. “But if you really want to improve your skills, I might be able to help.”
She looked at him, waiting for more.
“I know you’re struggling with money,” said Mr Riggs. “I could pay for classes. To help you learn to dance… and strip, and… other things. I think you could become truly exceptional, with the right education.”
Reagan laughed, despite her tears. “Like… slut training?” she said.
Mr Riggs laughed too. “Nothing so crude,” he said. “Plenty of women want to learn how to do a striptease, or how to pole dance. It would be entirely consensual, with qualified women teaching, and you stop when you want to stop. I’m just offering the money and the connections, if you want to take advantage of it.”
“Why?” asked Reagan – and she meant it. Right there and then, she didn’t know why anyone would want to help someone as useless, embarrassing and impoverished as herself.
Mr Riggs kept stroking her hair. “Because I like you,” he said. “Because you’re pretty. Because you make me smile. But also, because you’re going to do something for me – if it’s something you want to do.”
Reagan already knew she wanted to do it. She wanted to do something – anything – for Mr Riggs, to gain his approval, to be useful for him. “What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’m offering is to be your patron,” said Riggs. “And that’s a special relationship, more than you have with the other members of this club. It will mean that you’re especially attentive to my needs, and my pleasure, and you take a special interest in seeing that I’m happy. It might mean that sometimes you receive special offers of bonuses, just from me.”
“Okay,” said Reagan – but she felt more than okay. She wanted this badly. She wanted to have a special place at Mr Riggs’ feet. She wanted to be personally responsible for making him happy.
“Well, if that’s something that you want, Reagan,” said Mr Riggs, “then there’s something you have to do tomorrow, here at the club. When the clock turns 6 pm, you’re going to bring me a drink, exactly on the the turn of the hour. And you’re going to bring it on a serving tray – and there’s going to be something else on that serving tray.”
“What is it?” asked Reagan.
“Well,” said Mr Riggs, still stroking her hair. “That’s up to you. You’re going to choose. But whatever it is, it’s going to be intimate to you, and it’s going to be something that you’re scared to give me, and it’s going to be something that indicates that I have control over, and over your life, for as long as you want to give it to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Reagan – but she didn’t. Or at least, she didn’t know what she was going to give him. But she felt like she could work it out, by tomorrow night.
“Good girl,” said Mr Riggs – and it felt so good to hear him say those words that Reagan couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward, and kissed his cock through his pants.
Mr Riggs laughed, and pushed her away gently. “You’re vulnerable tonight,” he said. “I don’t want that from you until you’re safe enough to offer it freely.” But she had felt his cock twitch as her lips touched it, and she knew that he would have liked to let her kiss it longer, and harder.
She went home that night with Bunny, after the club closed. Bunny offered her simple cuddling – but Reagan wanted more, and instead they spent the night in furious, sweaty lesbian sex. They kissed, and sucked at each other’s tits, and plunged their tongues into each other’s cunts.
Reagan let Bunny film it again, and made her promise to show it to her boyfriend – but it was Mr Riggs that Reagan was thinking about. Mr Riggs watching her lezzing off. Mr Riggs’ cock, hard inside his pants.
She came so hard she screamed, and it was a good thing she was incoherent, or Bunny would have heard that it was her guidance counsellor’s name that she was screaming.
When the next night came, she was more nervous than even when she had been about to dance. But it was good nerves – excited nerves.
Mr Riggs arrived early, at 4 pm, but ordered only soft drink. Another girl brought it to him. Reagan was too nervous to make eye contact, or even go near him.
But slowly the minutes passed, and finally 6 pm came. The “babies” went to the changerooms to dress in street clothes and leave, and Reagan prepared a gin and tonic for her guidance counsellor. She placed it carefully on a silver tray, and then placed her offering to Mr Riggs beside it, and covered the offering with a metal cover.
Slowly – blushing redder than she had ever blushed before – she made her way to Mr Riggs’ table.
“Good evening, Kisses,” he said.
“Good evening, sir,” said Reagan. “I brought you a drink.”
She set the tray down at his table.
“Good girl,” said Mr Riggs – and again, that phrase made Reagan warm in all the right places. “And what’s under the tray?”
“The things under the tray are for you, sir,” she said. “For as long as you want them.” She bit her lip – paused, asking herself if she really wanted to do this – and then went ahead. Because she did want to do it. She really, really did.
She lifted the metal cover.
Under the cover were three separate items.
The first needed no explanation. It was a pair of her panties. The pair she had been wearing, up until only a few moments before.
“My panties, sir,” she said. “From now on, you may choose whether I wear them or not.”
Riggs said nothing, only smiled – and she couldn’t tell immediately, but she thought it might be a surprised, delighted smile.
The second thing was a foil of pills.
“My birth control, sir,” she said. “If you don’t return it to me, I’ll stop using it.”
This was the thing that had made her most scared – and as soon as she had thought of it, and been terrified, she knew it was the right thing to offer to Mr Riggs.
And the third thing…
“And this is my phone,” she said. “It has no screen lock and I have made no alterations to it. You can access all my photos, my messages, my social media accounts. You can look at every part of my life. You can install whatever software you like.” She blushed again. “If you look in my video gallery, you can see what I was doing all last night with Bunny.”
Riggs was silent for a long moment. Reagan held her breath.
“I accept,” said Riggs. “I accept these offerings. I’ll be your patron, Kisses.”
Reagan felt herself breathing quickly, and hadn’t realised how scared she had been that she would fail to please him.
“Thank you, sir,” she said – and she couldn’t believe how pathetic and desperate she sounded. “Thank you. Thank you.”
He looked at the three items on the tray – and then pushed the birth control back towards her.
“I don’t need this,” he said. “And you don’t need a baby. Keep taking this, please, Kisses.”
Reagan smiled, and took the pills gratefully.
He picked up the phone, and put it on the table beside the tray. “I’ll look through this tonight,” he said. “You can have it back when I leave. I’m going to install some software on it so I can keep tabs on you – but you’ll know it’s there. If you ever want me to stop being able to see what you’re doing, you can ask me to remove it, or simply stop using this phone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Reagan. The thought of Mr Riggs being able to see every photo she took, every message she sent, felt scary – but also good. Like there would be someone watching out for her, keeping track of her – approving of her.
“And as for these,” said Mr Riggs, picking up her panties, “I think I’ll keep them.” He balled them up and put them in his pocket. “Don’t wear panties again, anywhere, unless I tell you to. Do you understand, Kisses?”
“Yes, sir,” she breathed.
“Good girl,” said Mr Riggs.
And after the disaster of the dance last night – the humiliation, the self-doubt – Reagan once again felt that she truly, genuinely was a good girl.
And she knew she would do anything to keep that feeling.
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