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From: Rajah Dodger <rajahdodger@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Pole Position [MF, romance] by Rajah Dodger
Lines: 146
Date: Sat, 30 Jul 2011 04:10:11 -0400
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Pole Position

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2011

     Life's tough since the refinery shut down.  Matt has a job
part-timing at the garage, but that barely covers the mortgage.  And
his wife Becky, well, there aren't a lot of ways to earn money with
only a high school diploma.

     But there's always the Pit Stop.

     She starts by dancing and waitressing six shifts a week, then
eight shifts when management notices the clients like her, and extra
work when the racetrack's busy.  Matt doesn't like it, not by half,
but these days a paycheck's a paycheck.  Or in Becky's case, singles,
fives, tens and the occasional twenty.  He doesn't come down and watch
her at work after that first week -- she says it makes her feel dirty,
and Matt doesn't like seeing the way the other men look at her.  He
knows what they're thinking, damnit.

     But it's not *that* kind of club -- not like the ones downstate,
with their "special rooms".  And anyway Becky always comes home to
Matt, and what she does in the sack with him, well, he'd have to be
made of stone to say no to her.  He's lucky, and he knows it.

     Still, he's sitting at the back of the club today with a gimme
cap tugged down hiding his face.  He watches as a couple of dancers
take their turns on the small stage, each one putting her bikini top
back on when they leave to make the rounds of the tables.  He finishes
his beer and sets the bottle down when a long-nailed hand slides over
his shoulder and he smells a mixture of sweat, cigarettes and cheap
perfume.

     "Hey Matt, what brings you out to our little place?"

     It's Connie -- five-nine, big-titted, and well-padded where it
counts.  She settles her ass on his leg and slides a moist kiss across
his lips.  "Things a little slow at the garage today?  You decide you
want the businessman's special?"  She rubs her thigh against his
crotch and leans into him, blocking his view of the stage and giving
him instead a view into her strained bikini top.  She reaches between
them and tugs the bottom of her bikini down, just so he can't miss any
of it.

     Connie says, "You know that driving spot's open whenever you want
it."  She emphasizes the word "want" with her hand squeezing his
crotch.  Connie's husband Lou has a small racing team, but that's not
the kind of driving she's talking about.  Lou's got a trucking firm
that runs things out to the backwoods.  Guns.  Meth.  Whatever makes
money -- small town, open secret.  Matt doesn't want any part of that
job, but Connie seems to have her eyes set on him.

     "Sure you don't want some of this, big boy?  Becky's a sweet
little thing but she can't really give a big man like you what *I*
can."

     The club rules officially say no touching.  But the police never
come past the front door, and anyway those rules only apply to the
paying customers.  Connie's fingers can do pretty much whatever she
wants them to.  It takes an effort for Matt to detach her from his
lap, and by then he's already missed his wife's first set.

     Becky's gliding around the stage topless as Lynyrd Skynyrd pulses
from the speakers.  She's the classic fresh-faced Southern girl --
strawberry blonde hair, freckles all over, especially noticeable on
her breasts as she presses them around the pole.  Her nipples are all
puffy -- Matt can tell she's enjoying herself.  Between Connie and
Becky, he's getting awfully tight in his jeans.  His breath catches as
she walks the front edge of the stage, leaning forward and swinging
herself at the men in the front tables.

     Becky picks up the bills from the stage floor as the music ends,
plucks several more from her G-string, and wriggles her rear at the
applauding men before putting the top on and starting her rounds at
the far side of the room.  Matt takes the opportunity to make a
discreet exit, a mixture of arousal and guilt going with him to his
pickup truck.

     He really shouldn't have gone to the club.  But sometimes, a
man's just got to be sure.

     A cold shower and another beer at home helps.  It's too empty and
too quiet in the house, and Connie had been right without knowing it
-- Matt's boss had cut his hours earlier.  He turns on ESPN and
watches a rerun of last week's featured race.  The camera focuses on
one car and he shakes his head.   Women drivers in NASCAR - the whole
world's just gone upside down.  That reminds him -- the circuit comes
to town this weekend, so Becky's going to be working extra shifts for
sure.

     Another beer, then.  And maybe a nap -- there's a few hours
before she gets home from the club.  Yeah, a nap is a good idea.
He'll just close his eyes for a bit.

     It's like he never left the club, ZZ Top echoing in his ears and
cleavage pressed into his face, womanly weight rocking across his lap.
 He rocks back, his cock rising to the occasion.  If this keeps up,
his jeans are going to be a mess but he doesn't want to stop.

     "Mmmm, you like that don't you?  You want a real special lap dance, baby?"

     Matt's eyes blink open.  That's Becky's voice.

     And indeed, that's Becky straddling his lap, the sheets pushed
down to his feet, her breasts swinging over his face.  "I saw you at
the club today.  You looked so cute trying to hide in the back."  She
leans down and slides her nipples across his, dragging through his
chest hair.  "I hope you don't mind I didn't start dinner for us yet.
I kind of thought you might have a different kind of appetite."

     Becky twists her hips, trapping his erection under the firm
curves of her bottom and the thin cotton of his boxers.  He shudders
and stiffens, pushing his pelvis up against her.

     She slides off that ridge, drawing a groan of disappointment from
Matt, but her cool fingers open his boxers and pull him out into the
air, dancing from base to head.  Her lips tease, but that's not how
she wants him.   Instead she holds him upright, and slides herself
down clasping him inside, his pulses amplifying hers.  "Oh God," he
says, as Becky does something with her inner muscles.  "I'm ..."

     He can't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to as his body
tells Becky everything she needs to know.  The smile on her face is
positively angelic as her thighs flex against him.  Matt's fingers
claw at the bed sheets and tears flow as he gives up his all, lost and
drowning in the beauty and love of his wife.

     Somewhere amidst the creaking of the bed frame and the slapping
of flesh, Matt hears Becky's special squeal, and she comes down atop
his chest wriggling inside and out, her kisses dancing over his wet
face, cleaning the tracks of his tears.

     For a long time, there's no sound other than the pounding in their ears.

     "Becky," he starts.

     "Ssshh," she says, putting a finger to his lips.  "If it's about
the garage, I heard about it.  We'll manage, Matt.  We always have."

     Now his tears come full force, sobbing openly, shaking as she
strokes his cheek.  There's so much he'd tell her, if he could only
say the words.

     But Becky knows that already.

/END/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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