Organized crime has suffered another drawback, but the masterminds are still well established. Politicians are helpless against the world-spanning organization that has secured the monopoly on Dragon technology. Should Jo leave it to mankind to shake off this yoke, or should she risk her life again for others who wouldn’t lift a finger for her sake?
There was only me and the pole. I stepped out into the spotlight, focused on my target and hesitated. Straight stance, chest forward, the pelvis tilted back, I placed every step individually and deliberately, let my body turn and sway in tense expectation.
If I had heard bored murmurs from the dark auditorium upon my entrance, there now was deadly silence. I had got them!
But that didn’t count. There, right before me, the pole waited, promised unrestrained pleasure—but should I dare? My hand outstretched, the fingertips only centimeters away, I paused, didn’t dare the last step. No!
Oh, I wanted to feel this hard pole between my tits, my legs—as if subconsciously, my hands ran along where the pole should be, over my tits, over my labia.
One step closer, and my body touched the pole—almost. I raised one leg, the knee almost chest-high, and balancing in this one-leg position, I directed the free leg around the pole, let my lower leg’s calf run up and down without touch.
This exercise pulled my labia nicely apart, now allowed the spectators a first view on my wet gaping pink. Yes, I’d all too gladly press this wetness onto the hardness before me, my longing facial expression told.
But my counterpart didn’t show any reaction, didn’t answer my longing—had to be seduced first. So I presented myself to the pole. Here, see my tits, firm and round, here, see my excitedly hardened nipples. Here, see my slender waist, my round hips.
See, my ass is only there for you, and see how wet the bridge between my holes is. See how my lips open wide when I spread my legs. See how wet I am, how ready for you!
Still you’re ignoring me. See, I’m opening for you—my fingers pulled my labia wide apart, and then I reached inside with my other hand—and now sample my nice taste! Oooh, that’s the taste of pure passion!
Why don’t you reply to me? In not only mocked despair, I suddenly threw myself against the pole so fiercely that it trembled in its anchors. This might be the last time I could freely follow my passion, might be my Last Meal, and yet I was alone with my longing.
Come, don’t be so cold and denying. I’m giving myself, take my sacrifice! One knee jerked up, wrapped around the pole, helped me to press my pubes against the metal, then I rubbed against it, moistened my unwilling counterpart with my wetness. More!
Slowly, I stretched my free leg up. One foot on the floor, one foot pointing up to the ceiling—in this split, I showed my wide open pussy to the spectators, and then pressed it against my stiff partner again.
Then I dropped to my knees and began to lick my juice away. Do you feel how lovingly my tongue treats you? With increasing voracity, I ran up and down the pole, licked, sucked, pressed my lips against it—even tried to bite it.
All in vain. So I was left to demonstrate to my counterpart—and to the audience—what he missed. I leaned back, forced my hand into my crotch and rubbed, massaged, penetrated myself deeply, faster and faster, moaned with lust, and finally came with a loud cry and spraying wetness.
I heard a wheezing echo from the parquet. There, someone seemed to have reached a climax, too. So I allowed myself to drop down on my buttocks, take a few deep breaths and only then patiently lick my hand clean.
“Plain folly,” a deep voice said out of the dark. “Girl, you’re a gas—I never saw anything like that before. Top class!”
“Thanks,” I uttered.
“You like that, don’t you?”
I had to smile. “Actually, I prefer a full auditorium, and at the end of my show, you shouldn’t be able to see the floor under the sea of sperm.”
The speaker laughed out loud. “You’re right! What’s your name?”
This was the moment of truth. I rose, stood straight, and focused on the silhouette in the dark.