Striptease.338
Copyright© 2025 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 1
Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Zombie apocalypse. Supplies are running out, and a small survivor settlement hangs on the edge. For their survival, a young woman must leave safety behind and enter a wasteland crawling with zombies, deadly predators, and ruthless bandits. Every step is a fight for life. She's no Green Beret. No special forces soldier. She's just a strip dancer. But she refuses to give up.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Zombies Masturbation AI Generated
I shift my weight, feeling the leather vest press against my chest.
The edge of my short skirt brushes my thighs. The bra holds my breasts firmly, nipples grazing the fabric with each small inhale. My legs coil beneath me, tight and ready, and a warmth pools low, teasing and steady.
The room is quiet, too quiet—only a handful of eyes watch, their faces half-lit by the flickering lanterns. Ratty’s drumsticks tap a slow rhythm, and the thump travels through the boards into my feet, up my legs, a vibration I can feel along my spine.
I imagine how I’ll move, how each tilt, each sway will pull them in, make them follow, make them respond. But beneath the excitement, a knot of worry clenches my gut—I need enough tonight, enough to pay for a roof over my head.
I step onto the small stage, feeling the floor firm beneath my boots. Every movement is precise—hips rolling, shoulders tilting, arms tracing lines through the air.
I catch the flicker of a few faces, but they’re not watching—glasses clink, conversations hum, eyes glued elsewhere.
No one notices me. The silence of their disregard presses against my skin, a tension settling low in my stomach and spreading through my thighs, but I keep moving, letting my body follow Ratty’s slow drumbeats, controlled, deliberate, testing the rhythm, showing everything anyway, even if no one cares.
I grin to myself—soon, I’ll get them moving.
Slowly, I let my body roll with the rhythm, each movement deliberate, teasing. My fingers brush the leather of the vest, pausing at the first button. One by one, I undo them, feeling the slight resistance, the fabric shifting against my chest.
I arch back and flip the vest over my head.
It falls to the floor with a soft thud, sliding across the boards. My arms float in the air for a heartbeat, chest lifting, spine stretching, the quiet thump of the drum underfoot guiding me, and still no eyes meet mine—yet.
I sway my hips, letting my body rotate with the rhythm.
Fingers trace the waistband of the skirt, undoing the buttons one by one, the leather sliding over my thighs.
I pivot, turning my back to the room, bending slightly as the skirt slips down, teasing against my skin. One foot steps aside, balancing, and I roll backward.
With a flick of my foot, the skirt arcs through the air and lands somewhere in the room. Every muscle hums from the motion, my chest rising with each breath, thighs tightening, spine stretching—my body alive in the dance, even if no one notices yet.
I feel a tremor deep in my stomach, my fingers twitching, anticipation tightening through me—the promise of triumph just out of reach. I spin to face the room, hips rolling smoothly, chest lifted, and catch ... nothing.
No eyes, no sparks of attention—everyone absorbed in their drinks, their chatter, their own little worlds. The empty air presses against my skin, brushing along my arms and back, making my muscles tense and fingers curl slightly.
Still, I keep moving, waiting for the moment I can pull them in.
A flicker of fear snaps through me, quick and sharp. My heart hammers against my ribs, my breath catching and rushing in shallow gasps.
Hey—look at me! I scream inside, every pulse screaming: I am woman! I am life! I am dance!
My hands tighten on the pole, gripping the cold metal, and I lift myself, feeling the stretch of muscles in my arms and thighs, the taut pull along my stomach and spine. My legs wrap, and I begin to spin, twisting with precision.
The drumbeats underfoot echo through me, guiding the motion, while my body hums with tension, thrill, and the raw need of being seen—or of demanding to be seen.
I let my hands glide over myself, tracing my stomach, sliding along the curves of my hips—outside, then inside. My palms wander up to my breasts, rolling the weight in my hands.
I trail my fingers along my neck, over my shoulders, feeling the heat flare in my skin.
My ears burn, warmth spreading across my cheeks, every nerve alive, every muscle humming, every small touch sending sparks down my spine and through my thighs. The pole supports me, but my body carries the rhythm, alive, teasing, responding, demanding.
The tremble in my legs grows, a shaky pulse running from my hips to my knees with every shift of weight as I steady myself.
OK. I will do it!
Desperation presses tight in my chest, and my fingers fumble at the clasp of my bra. I turn away from the room, shoulders tense, breath quick and sharp as I unhook it. The straps loosen, the cups slipping in my hands.
I pivot back toward the room, holding the fabric against my breasts, tips stiff under my palms, and sway my hips in slow, taunting circles. I lift one cup just a little, teasing, offering, inviting—waiting for even a single gaze to snap toward me. But the silence pushes against my skin like a cold wind, and still no one looks.
I let the bra slip from my fingers and flick it away, pretending it’s a choice and not a last, desperate gamble.
Cool air hits my breasts, and my nipples tighten even more.
I step into the beat, letting my breasts sway with each turn, each slow roll of my shoulders. I arch, twist, give them every angle—soft curves, firm motion, the full rhythm of me. I move like the whole room is watching, even though I know no one is.
My breath snags. Panic pushes up my throat, hot and shaking. In the blur of lantern light and shadows, I hook my fingers under the side ties of my panties. The little knots feel impossibly small, slippery under my trembling touch. I don’t pull—not yet. I just hold them, feeling the thin fabric stretch against my hips as if it knows I’m close to crossing a line I swore I wouldn’t.
The room still doesn’t care. And that indifference crushes me harder than any fear of being naked.
I slide my hand between my legs, just a quick touch through the thin fabric, and feel the warm, sticky dampness waiting there.
It startles me—how ready my body is, how fast the heat built up while they sat there like wooden dolls.
I’m already wet ... and they don’t feel a damn thing? Rage and shame twist together, sharp and breathless.
Fine. OK. I’ll do it. I’ll give them everything.
I grip the side ties again. I pull. Or I try to.
My fingers won’t move. My hands shake so hard the knots blur in front of me. My chest locks up, my breath catching high and thin. I want to tear the panties off—I’m sure of it—but my body freezes, every nerve shouting no even while my mind screams.
Now.
I tell myself again and push on, letting my body keep moving to the beat.
The drum pounds in my skull like a hammer: Take them off! Take them off! My hips sway, my shoulders roll, every muscle taut, every nerve strung tight. My fingers hover over the ties, trembling. The motion of the dance feels both impossible and necessary, like I’m building up to some edge I can’t quite reach—but the drum keeps pounding, relentless, hammering the words into me.
I whisper to myself, my pulse hammering in my ears. I bend, twist, try to grab the ties again, but my fingers won’t obey.
They tremble, clumsy and useless, sliding over the knots. My thighs quiver under me, chest tight, stomach knotted with frustration and heat. I try again, over and over, each movement precise but failing, and the drum in my skull keeps pounding: Do it! Do it!
Every beat echoes through my arms, through my legs, through the tips of my fingers, and still ... nothing.
Tears streak down my cheeks. My body refuses to obey—legs trembling, arms heavy, spine stiff.
I can’t move anymore; I freeze mid-step, caught in the coil of my own frustration.
The drum stops. Silence slams into me, heavy and complete, pressing against my skin. Every nerve hums with the sudden emptiness, my chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, the heat and tension still trapped inside me. I am still. And for the first time, the room feels impossibly, crushingly empty.
My hands shake as I gather the clothes, fumbling with the leather and fabric. I move toward the donation tin, each step heavy, my heart skipping in my chest. The world feels muted, distant, and every beat of blood in my ears makes the moment sharper, colder, and impossibly real.
Ahead, the old metal tin for the collection reflected a small bit of light. Ember walked to it and looked inside. The light showed almost nothing: one old 9mm cartridge, a small piece of hard bread, and a single sugar cube.
A heavy wave of tiredness hit her. This is not enough. Not enough at all. A deep loneliness filled her chest, cold and steady, reminding her that no one here saw the strength and life she had just given them.
The saloon was quieter now. The last sounds of the evening still hung in the warm, smoky air. Ember walked slowly toward Ratty, holding the small tin with the night’s earnings. Her hands shook a little, her legs hurt after every jump and twist, and her shoulders were heavy with exhaustion. She kept her eyes on the floor.
Ratty’s sharp voice broke the silence. “Hey—look at this,” she said, leaning back in her chair. Ember set the tin on the table, but Ratty grabbed it at once. Her fingers were cold and quick as she lifted the ammo, the hard piece of bread, and the tiny sugar cube. She turned them in her hand with hungry interest.
Ember’s chest tightened. Her shoulders dropped under the mix of shame and tiredness. She swallowed and tried to steady her hands.
“Here,” Ember said quietly. “This is what we made tonight. I thought ... maybe we could split it fairly.”