Strip-O-Gram

The doorbell rings on his birthday, and in walks this blonde bombshell in heels and barely-there lingerie. "What’s your poison?" she purrs. He points at the pole she carries like a secret. No songs tonight. She climbs it like she owns gravity, spinning, sliding, every inch smooth muscle under silk skin. The metal groans with her moves, thighs wrapped tight, ass flexing in hypnotic swings. She drops low and then pops up again, cheeks clapping back to the beat, a filthy grin over her shoulder. When her underwear hits the floor, she turns toward him. Takes two steps, straddles his lap in one liquid motion, and sinks down. He fills her fast—wet heat that wraps him like a fist. Her hips roll hard. She rides with purpose, twerking against his thighs, ass bouncing, clit grinding every down-stroke. Sweat beads on her tits, her hair sticking to her jaw, moans punching out between clenched teeth. He grips her waist, slams up to meet her, every thrust chasing the next slap of skin. The room stinks of sex and perfume. The only soundtrack is flesh hitting flesh and the wet noises she makes when she grinds down again, faster, hungrier, owning the moment like a prize she came here to collect.