Striptease.338
Copyright© 2025 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 6
Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 6 - 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
The drums are slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat I no longer control.
I step onto the stage and the first wave of heat rolls through my belly.
Let them look. Let them burn.
I open my vest. Cool air hits my nipples and they tighten so fast the sting shoots straight between my legs. Yes. Look how hard they are for you.
I let the vest fall. My breasts feel heavier than ever, skin prickling under fifty hungry stares. Power. Pure power.
I peel down my shorts. The seam drags across my clit and my knees almost buckle. Inside, one hard, hungry clench. They can’t feel it, but I can. And they know.
Only the soaked cotton is left. Every tiny movement rubs my swollen clit until it throbs in time with the drums. I am dripping. I can smell myself now, sharp and unmistakable.
I squat wide. Cool air kisses my slick folds. A thick drop slides down my thigh. Watch it fall. That’s what your eyes do to me.
I climb the pole. Cold metal presses between my lips, slides along my clit, and my walls flutter wildly, begging. One more slide and I’ll come right here.
I slide down slowly, thighs shaking. My right hand moves without permission, drifts down, hovers an inch above my mound.
Do it. Spread your legs wider. Open yourself with two fingers. Rub your clit until you scream. Let them watch you come apart. Let them see you own every filthy second of it.
My fingertip brushes the slick skin, so close to the swollen bud that screams for contact. My pulse thunders in my ears.
I want it. God, I want it so bad I can taste it. I want to show them I’m not their toy; I’m the one who decides when I come and how loud.
The room is dead silent, waiting, begging me to cross the line. My hand trembles.
But the old voices slam in like a door kicked open:
Whore.
Slut.
Easy meat.
They’ll never see anything else again.
They’ll say I finally dropped the last pretence.
Fear tastes metallic, bitter, familiar. It wraps around my throat and squeezes.
One stroke. Just one. I’m already naked, already dripping. What’s left to lose?
Everything, the fear whispers. Everything I’ve fought to keep.
My fingers freeze. I can’t breathe. I want to scream, to cry, to come, to disappear; all at the same time.
The drums stop.
In the sudden silence my hand falls to my side, empty. I straighten, arms high, back arched, legs wide, every pulse between my thighs visible to the entire room. Heat roars. My clit throbs so hard I taste blood where I bite my lip. Inside, my walls clench in desperate, furious waves: open-close, open-close, faster, stronger, punishing me for the cowardice.
Take a good look. This is what your hunger does to me. This is how close I came to giving you everything.
I stand in the centre of everything, smiling like a queen who has almost, almost, torn the last chain off herself. One day I will finish what I started tonight. One day the fear will lose.
But tonight it still holds the leash.
I step off the stage, naked, dripping, victorious, and absolutely furious with myself.
The alley is waiting. And so is the next step.
I don’t pick up my clothes.
I walk straight through the stunned crowd—naked, dripping, chest heaving—my eyes locked on the big guard by the door. Boone. The quiet one with the scarred knuckles and the shotgun he never needs.
He stares at me like a rabbit caught in lantern light.
I stop a foot away.
My voice comes out low, rough, almost a growl.
“I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
A beat of silence.
Boone’s mouth opens, closes. His pupils are huge.
He manages one hoarse word:
“ ... Yeah.”
I grab his wrist—thick, warm, trembling—and pull.
He follows like a man on a rope.
I slammed through the swinging doors, the cold night air hitting my overheated skin like a whip. My nipples tightened, my thighs shivered, and the shock only sharpened the throb between my legs. My clit jerked once, painfully, and I swore it made my whole body ache in anticipation.
Boone’s back slammed into the rough brick wall with a thud. I didn’t wait. I was on him before he even drew a breath. My mouth crashed into his, hard and hungry, tasting cheap whiskey and the salt of his lip where he’d bitten it watching me dance. His beard scraped my chin, burning in a way I liked. My tongue forced its way in, claiming him, tasting, testing, taking. He made a helpless sound, half-moan, half-surrender, and it only made me want him more.
My hands went straight for his belt, metal clinking. I felt his cock straining against his denim before I even touched it, thick, rigid, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The zipper slid down and heat poured over me. I shoved pants and underwear down in one rough motion; he sprang free, slick and heavy against my stomach.
He was shaking. I could feel it in his wrists, in the tremor that ran up his thighs when my bare skin pressed to his. Every frantic beat of his heart pulsed under my palm as I pinned him harder to the wall. Between my own legs, the ache roared. My clit throbbed violently, and I could feel every ridge of the brick through his shirt. My walls fluttered, open-close, desperate, begging to be filled.