There aren’t many income opportunities in the city’s most neglected neighborhoods. But there are a few, if you’re willing.
Hi there! Call me kinkbuffet. I chose that username because I have a broad variety of kinks and fetishes. Some I’ve experienced in some form, some I hope to, and some I’m sure will remain fantasy. Eventually I expect I’ll write about most of them, but this is just the fifth story I’ve ever published. (Notably, this story is NOT a continuation of any previous one.) My biggest goal is to avoid most of the common tropes in amateur erotica, so I hope you find these different but in a good way. I also plan to write from different perspectives – gender, age, relationship status, even race. My narrator will change based on who can best tell the story of each different kink. Who am I really? Well, that’ll be secret, for now. Feel free to leave your theories in the comments. I can be reached at this same username at gmail, also.
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Tamayra woke up on the floor mattress that still smelled like her little brother’s juice box and her mama’s cheap body spray. Twenty-one. The number sat in her chest like a coin she could finally spend.
The apartment was already loud. Mama was arguing with somebody on the phone about the EBT card. Two younger siblings were fighting over the last of the cereal. Nobody said happy birthday. Tamayra threw on the only decent pair of jeans she owned, a tank top that strained across her soft belly, and the worn-out slides she used for everything. She took the bus downtown without telling anyone where she was going.
The club sat on the edge of the red-light stretch like it was trying not to look cheap and failing. Velvet ropes, valet parking, a sign that cost more than her mama’s monthly check. Inside it was cold and dark and smelled like money and floor cleaner. The owner was a thick-necked white guy named Vic who looked at her the way men look at something they already know they can use.
She told him she wanted to dance. He looked her up and down—round hips, soft stomach, dark skin, the faint shadow of hair at the edge of her waistband—and almost laughed. Then he named the numbers. Costume. House fees. Stage fees. Money she did not have.
Tamayra did not blink. She said she could work it off. Vic took her to the back office, locked the door, and told her to take her pants off.
She did.
Her pussy was already a little wet from nerves and the air conditioning. Thick dark hair covered her mound and ran down the insides of her thighs. Vic made a sound in his throat like he hadn’t expected that. He didn’t bother with much talking after that. He bent her over the desk, pushed into her bare, and fucked her hard enough that the cheap wood creaked. He came inside her without asking. Pulled out slow so she could feel it leaking. Then he wrote her name on a clipboard and said she started that night.
That was how Tamayra got the job.
The first weeks were ugly in the useful way. Most of the girls were slim, waxed, light-skinned or mixed, the kind the regulars already knew how to want. Tamayra was none of that. She was soft. She was hairy. She was dark. She danced barefoot because the club heels made her ankles swell and because the wood stage felt honest under her soles. For a time, she didn’t seem to garner as much attention as the more traditional slutty-barbie-doll types. When the men eventually started taking notice, it was the hair between her legs first. Then the feet. Then the way she let them look a little longer than the other girls did.
Word moved the way word always moves in that world. A couple of older white regulars started asking for her by name. Then a thread appeared on a local board: chubby Black girl, hairy, dances barefoot, will let you finish inside if you tip right. The thread got screenshots. The screenshots got sent. New faces started showing up on weeknights just to see if it was true.
She learned the private-room math fast. The house took its cut. Everything extra was hers if she was careful. So she was careful and also not careful at all. If a man paid enough, she let him touch wherever. If he paid more, she squatted on him in his lap. More still, she let him stay in after he came. She would sit on his lap after, barefoot, his mess running down her thigh while she counted the bills. No anal. She said it once, clearly, and meant it. Everything else was a conversation about numbers.
By the end of the second month she had a small rotation that felt almost like a schedule. The insurance adjuster who liked to eat her out before he fucked her and always left an extra hundred because “the hair makes it real.” The two friends who came together and took turns, one watching while the other finished in her. The quiet guy who never talked much but always asked her to press her soles against his chest while he came. Rent still went to Mama. But there was cash in the lining of her bag now, and men who asked for her specifically, and a reputation that made the other girls look at her sideways.
Last night was the first time the reputation felt like it might swallow her.
It started ordinary. Tuesday. Slow until it wasn’t. A private room booking came in under a fake name and a real stack. Three men. Mid-thirties, dressed like they had offices and wives and the kind of money that does not need to announce itself. They had read the thread. They wanted the full thing.
Tamayra took them to the back room with the couch and the bad lighting. She danced first, barefoot on the thin carpet, turning slow so they could see the hair when she bent. One of them asked if it was true she let men finish in her. She named a number. They paid it without haggling.
They had her on her back first, one holding her thighs open while another pushed in bare. The third watched and stroked himself and talked, telling the others how fat and wet she was, how the hair looked soaked already. When the first one came he stayed buried and ground against her until it overflowed. They switched without allowing a moment to wipe up. The second one slid in through the first man’s mess and fucked her harder, slapping her soft belly, telling her to keep her feet on his shoulders. She did. He came deep and laughed when it ran out around his cock.
The third one wanted her on all fours. She went. He held her hips and used her like the room was empty except for the sound of skin. When he finished he pulled out and pushed back in just to watch it leak down the dark hair on her pussy and drip onto the floor. Then they made her sit up and spread so they could look at it. One of them took his phone out. She said she charged extra for that. He paid.
They stayed longer than the house time. Somebody brought more cash. Somebody else put his mouth on her after two loads were already in her, which made her jerk and grab his hair because she had not expected to like that part. By the time they were done her thighs were shiny and her feet were planted on the carpet in a small puddle that was not only sweat.
She showered in the dancers’ bathroom after, water running down the same body that had just been used like that, and counted the money twice. It was the most she had made in one night. By far.
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