Part 1 primal fucking - sex story

I don’t know if it was the thunder or the flapping

blinds that woke me.  Now that I think about it, I had

shown her the view of the ocean from my 14th floor

condo during the “tour.”  Being a single guy in Miami,

the bedroom having the balcony facing the ocean was

just a chance thing. 

Right.

Even with the air on and a steady wind blowing (it is

never still this high up) in was to warm to be under

the covers.  We were both naked.  Her body was shaded

in contrasts, light from the bathroom, the moon rising

over the storm, and shadows - some which were on her

skin, some in it.

Damn.  If you can’t be good, be lucky.

Here I am, an average guy, crappy record at

relationships, reasonably ok looking, working and

playing hard in sin city.  And not getting a lot of

ass. 

It was not a problem of quantity; there are more women

ready to fuck on any given night here than there are

in all of the Midwest. No, the problem was quality. 

As in the qualities I was missing: No ready trust

fund, I work hard for my money.   No ready supply of

drugs, not unless you count fine tequilas and

scotches.  And not ready to provide a sweetheart the

marriage she needs to stay in the US, and bring over

the other 26 members of her immediate family.

So when the guy’s were going to hit a strip club known

for its loose interpretation of the rules, I was down.

 Yea, I knew I was going to blow a couple of hundred

at least, but for here in Miami, that is what I would

have spend by the third date, easy.  At least here I

could see the good before I spent more than twenty

bucks.

More thunder called my attention back to the open

door.  Lightning in the clouds held it there.  Ever

looked at a thunderstorm from the same level? I

stepped out onto the balcony to take in the view. 

The air was not notably cooler, but the wind was

starting to whip up and I felt the sweat chill my

body. Yea, I am an honest 8″, but in this breeze no

one would ever believe it. 

Well, my guest might.  If she trusted her memory.

Considering where I picked her up and what I had to

drink, I was pretty sure I wanted to stick to my

memory for just now.

The place advertised 75 girls dancing.  40 would be

more like it.  But a real nice selection.  Latina

(obviously), in flavors like Brazilian, Colombian, and

Cuban,  black girls from all over the Caribbean and

US,  good old American girls, and lately some

Russians. 

Short, tall, “Why is she working” fat, rail thin.

Real boobs in all sizes, fakes standing up at a D cup

and larger.  The girls worked the floor in little and

danced in nothing.  Only lap dances were given with

bottoms on. 

This one was just what I liked, petite, natural B

cups, dark hair to her shoulders, legal age but not

showing any wear just them.

I had seen her on the stage shortly after we got

there, but lost track of her after her set.  I passed

on three or four offers for a lap dance, instead just

enjoying the show and the last of happy hour.  One of

the guys spotted her again before I did. 

Actually what he saw was a little blond off to one

side of the main stage, working a group of guys up for

some lap dances.  You had to admire her technique.