Stripper's Teasing Edge

The velvet curtain dropped behind them and the bass from the main floor became a dull, distant pulse. Miriam locked the VIP door with a soft click and turned, twenty-eight and already in command of the small room, the low red lamp catching the sheer black lace that barely held her breasts. The cups were more suggestion than cover, dark nipples visible through the mesh, the underwire pushing the full weight of her up until the lace strained. Matching panties sat low on her hips, a scrap of the same black lace stretched over a shaved pussy, the cleft already darkening the fabric. Garters clipped to stockings that ended mid-thigh. She had not bothered with a robe.

Tobias stood just inside the door, twenty-two, regular enough that the hostess no longer asked his name, cash already counted and left in the envelope on the table the way she liked it. His hands hung useless at his sides. He looked at her the way he always did, like the air had been taken out of him.

“You booked the hour,” Miriam said. Her voice was low, unhurried. “You know what I do with it. You want that, or you want something polite?”

“I want what you do,” he said at once. “Please. I want you to take it. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Then get on your knees.”

He went down before she finished the sentence, carpet rough under his dress pants. She crossed the short distance and stood over him, the heat of her body close enough that he swayed. One heel nudged his knee wider. She did not touch him yet. She let him look.

“Hands behind your back,” she said. “You don’t touch yourself. You don’t touch me until I put you somewhere. If you need to stop, you say red. Anything else, you take.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “I won’t touch. I won’t stop you.”

She smiled, small and mean, and dropped into a crouch so they were almost level. The lace between her thighs shifted. She could smell herself already, warm and sweet, and she knew he could too. Her palm settled over the front of his pants and stayed there, not stroking, just covering the thick, desperate shape of him. He jerked like she had shocked him.

“There you are,” she murmured. “Already this hard and I haven’t even started.”

She traced the outline with two fingers, slow, following the ridge from base to the damp spot spreading at the head. The fabric was thin enough that she could feel the pulse. She pressed her thumb along the underside and dragged it up, then stopped just short of the tip and held. Tobias made a broken sound and his hips tried to chase her hand. She took it away.

“No,” she said. “You don’t fuck my hand through your pants. You sit there and let me decide how much of this you get.”

She did it again. A long, lazy stroke over the cloth, pressure just enough to make his cock jump, then nothing. Again. The wet spot grew. She hooked a nail under the waistband and tugged the fabric tight so the shape of him stood out obscene and obvious, then let it go slack. His breath came in little hitches. She leaned in until her mouth was near his ear and her lace-covered breast brushed his shoulder, and she palmed him once more, grinding the heel of her hand down until he whimpered, then pulled back and stood.

“Look at you,” she said. “Twenty-two and shaking because a woman in lingerie won’t even unzip you. That’s pathetic. Say it.”

“It’s pathetic,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m pathetic. Please, Miriam. Please touch it for real.”

“Not yet.” She circled him, the silk of a stocking whispering against his arm. Every pass she let her fingers drift over his cock through the pants, a ghost of contact, then denied him again. The tension sat in the room like heat. She watched his throat work, watched his bound-behind-his-back hands flex and stay where she had put them. Good boy. Needy boy. Exactly what she had come in here to use.

She stopped in front of him and slid one strap off her shoulder. The lace cup sagged. Her breast spilled heavier into the open air, nipple tight. She didn’t offer it. She only let him see what he wasn’t getting while her other hand returned to the throb in his pants and squeezed, once, hard enough to make his eyes flutter, then released him entirely.

“Stay,” she said. “And watch.”

Miriam stepped back until the low couch caught the backs of her thighs and she sat, knees apart, the black lace pulled taut between them. Tobias stayed on his knees where she had left him, hands still locked behind his back, chest rising too fast. She hooked two fingers under the crotch of the panties and drew the soaked fabric aside. The air hit her and she exhaled. Shaved smooth, lips already glossy, her clit swollen and peeking from its hood. She had been wet since she saw his name on the book.

“Eyes on me,” she said. “You look away, I stop, and you go home like this.”

“I’m looking,” he whispered. “God, Miriam, you’re so wet.”

“I know.” She dragged two fingers through the slick and held them up so the lamplight caught the strings between them. Then she brought them to her mouth, tasted herself, and smiled at the way his cock jumped untouched. “You want this. You’re not getting it until you earn the asking.”

She set her fingers on her clit and circled, slow, the way she liked when no one was paying her to rush. The pad of her middle finger found the left side of the little pearl and pressed, rolled, lifted. A soft sound left her throat. She didn’t perform it. She used it. Her other hand spread her, holding the lace out of the way so he could see every glide. She dipped lower, pushed one finger into herself to the first knuckle, then pulled it out shining and went back to her clit. The rhythm stayed lazy. She was not trying to come. She was trying to keep herself right on the bright edge and make him watch the drip run down toward her ass and soak the couch.

Tobias shifted on his knees. His hips gave a helpless little thrust into nothing.

“Don’t,” she said, without looking away from her own hand. “You move like you’re fucking the air again and I’ll make you sit on your hands for the rest of the hour. You want a taste, you beg for it. Properly.”

“Please,” he said at once. “Please let me taste you. I’ll be good. I’ll stay on my knees. I won’t touch my cock, I swear, just let me put my mouth on you.”

She added a second finger at her entrance and fucked herself shallowly, the wet sound loud in the small room, then withdrew and smeared it over her clit in tight circles. Her thighs trembled. She eased off before the climb could crest, breathing through it, denying herself the same way she denied him. The ache sharpened. She liked it. She liked him watching her like it.

“Again,” she said. “More. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m a needy boy,” he said, the words tumbling. “I’m on my knees for you. I need your pussy in my mouth. Please, Miriam, I’m begging. I’ll lick whatever you give me. I’ll stay there as long as you want. Just one taste. Please.”

She laughed, soft, and pinched her clit between two fingers until her own hips jerked, then let go and panted. Another edge. Another drop of slick sliding down. She could see the dark patch on his pants had spread halfway down the shaft. He was leaking for her and she hadn’t even opened his fly.

“You sound frantic,” she said. “Good. Get frantic. I like you stupid with it.”

“Please,” he said, and it broke. “Please, please, I’ll do anything. I’ll worship it. I’ll keep my hands back. I’ll thank you. Just let me taste. I’m begging you on my knees. I’m begging.”

She held herself there another long moment, fingers circling, breath shallow, cunt clenching around nothing, right at the lip of coming and refusing it. His pleas filled the room, raw and repetitive, getting worse every time she moaned and stopped. When his voice cracked into something close to a sob, she finally stood, panties still shoved aside, and walked to him. She took his hair in one fist, not cruel, just certain, and tilted his face up.

“Open.”

He opened. She set the soaked lace against his mouth first, let him feel how ruined it was, then pulled it fully aside and pressed her bare pussy to his lips. The first contact made her hiss. His tongue came out desperate and broad, and she ground down on it, taking the lick instead of waiting for it.

“There,” she said. “That’s what you begged for. Now you stay.”

She fucked his mouth in short, commanding strokes, rolling her hips so her clit dragged his tongue, then angling so he had to push inside her. She held his head and set the rhythm. When he got too eager she pulled back until only the tip of his tongue reached her, made him chase, then sank down again and rode the flat of it. His hands stayed behind his back. His cock strained, untouched, and every time she looked down she saw him aching and used that ache to keep her own pleasure mean and slow.

“Good,” she murmured, grinding. “Eat it. Don’t you dare come in your pants. You stay on the edge with me.”

She pulled off his mouth with a wet sound, strings of her slick shining on his chin, and looked at the wreck of him. Tobias’s lips were swollen, his eyes glassy, his cock a rigid line in his pants that twitched every time he breathed. Miriam stroked his hair once, almost tender, then reached down and finally opened his belt.

“Hands stay back,” she said. “I’m going to take this out so I can play with it. You still don’t touch it. You still don’t come. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” he rasped. “Please. I’m so close already and you haven’t even—”

“I know.” She unzipped him, worked his pants and briefs down just far enough, and his cock sprang free, thick, flushed dark at the head, a bead of precome already welling and sliding down the underside. She wrapped the sheer black lace of her panty crotch around him instead of her bare hand and gave him one slow pull. The silk-mesh dragged over the sensitive skin. He shouted, hips bucking, and she stopped dead.

“Edge,” she said calmly. “That’s all you get.”

She pushed him backward until his shoulders met the couch and climbed over him, turning so she faced his cock and her pussy hovered above his mouth. Then she lowered herself. His tongue found her immediately, grateful and frantic, and she sighed as she settled her weight, not enough to smother him, enough to own the angle. She reached back, gathered his leaking cock in the lace again, and stroked him in time with the roll of her hips.

“Tongue inside,” she ordered. “Deep. Hold it there.”

He obeyed. She fucked down onto it, slow deliberate strokes, feeling him curl and press, then lifted until he was licking air and used the pause to squeeze the head of his cock through the lingerie until another pulse of precome soaked the lace. She smeared it down his shaft and let go. He whimpered into her cunt. She sat again, deeper, and rode.

The room filled with the sounds of it: wet mouth, her breath, the soft slap of lace against his stomach when she bothered to touch him and the sharper sound of her stopping. She alternated without mercy. A long grind that buried his tongue, her clit rubbing his nose, her own pleasure climbing; then she rose, turned her hand, and edged him with three tight strokes that stopped the second his thighs started to shake. She watched his cock jump in her lace-wrapped fist, angry and denied, and smiled down her own body at the sight of his mouth chasing her when she hovered just out of reach.

“You want to come,” she said. “I can feel it. You’re throbbing like you’ll die if I don’t finish you. You’re not going to.”

“Please,” he got out, muffled, the word vibrating against her. “Please, Miriam, I’m begging. Just a little more. I’ll stay hard for you after. I’ll do anything. Don’t stop this time.”

She laughed and sank onto his tongue again, fucking his mouth in long strokes now, forward and back, using him like something she owned. Her free hand went to her clit. She rubbed it in fast little circles inches from his eyes, close enough that he could see the shine, the way her fingers slipped, the way her stomach tightened. She kept his cock in the lingerie and stroked him at a cruel, inconsistent pace, never quite enough, always pulling off when his breath broke.

“Look at me,” she said. “Watch me get myself off on your face while your cock leaks all over my panties and gets nothing.”

He watched. She could feel his eyes on her fingers, on the clutch of her cunt around his tongue. She rode harder, then softer, then stopped moving her hips entirely and just held his mouth sealed to her while she masturbated, clit swollen and slick under her fingertips, orgasm hovering and refused. Twice she brought herself to the shaking point and backed off, thighs trembling, a frustrated sound in her throat. Each time she rewarded the denial by edging him worse: a twist of lace over the head, a thumb pressing the slit, a stroke from base to tip that ended in an open hand and empty air.

Tobias was whimpering steadily now, little broken pleas between licks. “Please let me come. Please, I can’t, I’m going to, Miriam, please, I’m begging, I’ll be good, I’m your needy boy, please don’t stop, please don’t—”

“You can,” she said, and lifted off his mouth so he had to hear her clearly. His face was a mess of her. She stroked him once, felt him surge, and let go. He cried out, cock slapping his stomach, nowhere near finished. “You can take more. You wanted me to take what I want. This is what I want. You aching. You begging. My pussy on your tongue and your cock in my lace and neither of us done until I say.”

She lowered herself again and set a slower rhythm, fucking his mouth in deep, rolling strokes while her fingers worked her clit in plain sight. She kept him denied. She kept herself denied. The hour didn’t matter. She would use all of it.

She lost count of the edges. Four, five, more. Each time Tobias’s cock swelled harder in the black lace, veins standing, precome slicking her fingers through the mesh until the fabric clung and every stroke sounded obscene. Each time she felt the tell, the way his stomach went rigid, the way his tongue went sloppy because he couldn’t think, and she opened her hand and left him throbbing in the cool air while she ground her clit against his mouth and took her own climb back down from the brink. Her thighs burned. Her nipples ached against the sagging lace. She was soaked to the tops of her stockings.

“Miriam,” he sobbed, when she gave him a breath. “Please. I can’t hold it. I’m going to come if you touch me again. I’m begging you. Let me. Let me come while I taste you. I’ll thank you. I’ll get on my knees every time. Please, I’m so close it hurts.”

She looked down at him, at the wrecked, grateful, desperate face between her thighs, and something in her chest pulled tight and hot. She had taken the hour to keep him here, right here, and she was done pretending she didn’t want the end as badly as he did.

“Hands stay where they are,” she said, voice rough. “You come when I come. Not before. You feel me start and you let go. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes. Please. Thank you.”

She wrapped the soaked lace around his cock again, bare fingers layered over the mesh so he got both, silk drag and skin, and she started to stroke him for real. Long, firm pulls from base to head, twisting at the top, thumb smearing the constant leak. At the same time she dropped her full weight onto his mouth and ground, no more hovering, no more teasing lifts. Her pussy smeared over his tongue and lips and chin. She fucked his face in hard, hungry strokes, clit catching, cunt clenching, and her other hand flew on her own clit in tight, ruthless circles.

“Now,” she gasped. “Eat me. Don’t you stop. Don’t you—”

The orgasm hit her like a shove. She cried out, loud, unpretty, and ground down hard, hips jerking, pussy pulsing against his tongue while she rubbed herself through it, wave after wave, thighs shaking around his head. She didn’t let up on his cock. She stroked him through the clench of her own coming, lace and hand milking him, and she felt him break under her.

He came with a muffled shout into her cunt, cock kicking hard in her fist. The first spurt striped his stomach and her wrist, hot and thick. She kept stroking, kept grinding, kept her fingers moving on her clit while the aftershocks rolled through her. Another pulse, another, her lingerie-clad hand working every drop out of him, squeezing up from the base, thumb pressing the underside, wringing him until he was shaking and oversensitive and still giving her weak little spurts that soaked the black lace completely. She rode his tongue until her own orgasm finally loosened its grip, until she was panting and sensitive and reluctantly still.

For a moment the only sound was both of them breathing.

She lifted off his mouth slowly. His face shone. His cock lay spent in her fist, still twitching, the lace ruined and translucent with him. She gave him one last gentle milking stroke, gathering what was left, and let go. Then she stood, legs unsteady, panties crooked and soaked, breasts bare where the cups had slipped, and looked down at the man on the floor.

Tobias stared up at her like she had hung the moon. Spent, grateful, already aching in the way that meant he would book again before he left the parking lot.

“This,” she said, voice steady again, “is exactly how a needy boy should worship me. On his knees. Mouth open. Cock in my hand when I decide you’ve earned it. You don’t touch yourself on the way home. You wait for me. Next time I’ll make you wait longer.”

“Yes, Miriam,” he whispered. “Thank you. I’ll wait. I’ll beg again. I’ll do whatever you want.”

She fixed her straps with unhurried fingers, stepped back, and nodded at the door. He dressed with shaking hands, kissed the air near her thigh when she allowed it, and left the way he had come, aching already for the next hour she would grant him.

She locked the door behind him and sank to her own knees, tasting his name on her tongue like the only thing she had ever begged for.