Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Confessions 1 | Mystery Man

Customers call me Victoria. Friends call me Vicky. And if you’re reading this, you must be a friend. In my line of work, mystery keeps them coming back, and it’s the key. Show little and tell less. Plus, you have to keep ten feet between your heart and their pricks. Safer that way. I’m an exotic dancer and these are my erotic confessions.

Vicky Valentine's Erotic Confessions

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Confessions 1 | Mystery Man

Chapter 1 – No Place For Pioneers

I’m an exotic dancer. Customers call me Victoria. Friends call me Vicky. And if you’re reading this, you must be a friend. I work in a well-known gentlemen’s club called Private Dancer in Portland, Oregon. But honestly, deep down, I’m haunted by a past that won’t let me go. Like the wise man says—I’ve been around. I lived a while in Angeles City in the Philippines. I was a bar girl at the Butterfly Problem, the most infamous casa bar in Balibago District, the brothel area, but that’s a different story. And once not too long ago, I caught a serial killer. Yes, that’s right. I’m also an amateur sleuth, a Jill-of-all-trades master of none. Once I even tried amateur porn, but I’ll leave that tale for another day.

Today, however, I’m going to reveal a different juicy erotic confession from my past. It started with me at the midnight shift. He entered like an aristocratic gent, an outdated patriarch from some long dead kingdom. The suit he wore looked too expensive for the dive bar. The coat was too fancy for slumming. His hair, too cool for school. Among his odd get-up, his tie was the most extreme—it held a crazy brocaded pattern upon it, and it looked made of gold. A well-groomed man, a nice Mark (see my first adventure for what “Mark” means). But his ermine fur jacket gave me the creeps.

I’ve had my share of weirdos. It comes with the territory, but this guy was fucking strange. His black-eye stare reminded me of a famished hyena—hungry but not for the sandwich. Maybe for blood. Before I could think more about the man, a voice roared through the club. “Ladies and Studs! Bitches and High Rollerz! Meet the Luscious… Miss… Victoria… Valentine!” Applause ensued.

On cue, I strolled through the crowd with poise and leapt onto the darkened stage. I faded into the shadows as the applause trailed away. I readied myself near the pole, and like every dance, my heart raced. A hush came over the crowd. A moment of silence enveloped the space. Finally, the beat started as an aggressive rap tune shattered the sound system. My body swayed with ease to the hard-hitting bass as I strode to the front. I skipped a few steps to my right. I stopped. Standing before the aristocratic weirdo, I tilted my head as if challenging him to look away. His eyes caught mine.

I danced with nimble moves. Some were athletic. Some resembled a psychosexual ritual; every impulse of my body made his eyes hornier as he responded to my sultry movements. My calm exterior shattered as I became less inhibited, almost bestial. Fingers explored hidden parts of my body like tiny pioneers exploring new lands. Places pioneers shouldn’t go. Like always, the dance liberated me—freeing instinctual parts of myself that I couldn’t reveal in other day-to-day situations. What else can a woman do?

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It started slow. First, I shook my hair around like a molting peacock. I smeared my makeup on my cheek with the back of my hand; these guys love besmirched chic. Soon, my silver bra and panties flew into the crowd in nippy motions. Men went wild for my whirling ass and taut legs. They cheered. Whistled. Hooted and hollered. Clapped like it was the best fucking dance ever. Like always, I gave them my all. Gyrating my luscious hips faster to the backbeat, I pressed my beautiful tits together with my hands. Fingers rotated around nipples. One hand came down to conceal my vagina. A rogue finger ground into my gash. I stopped hard to a pause with the music. Waited. The moment hung in the air. I scanned the crowd like a cunning predator, like a pulp barbarian on the prowl. Lust filled their eyes. The music resumed. I danced slowly at first, letting the rhythm build before letting loose. My succulent breasts bounced around with each hip gesticulation. My belly button churned about like a lost ship on a turbulent sea. When I turned sideways, I noticed one guy staring at me with intensity. Hand on crotch, he rubbed himself through his pants. His tiny erection made me feel sexy.

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