In the highly flattering thread "Pictures that remind me of Sarah" is one of someone who looks much better than me, apparently about to dance with hanging ropes. Which reminded me of this story I wrote long ago, during the fitness pole dancing craze.
Pole Dancing
The club goes wild as the professional pole dancers finish their performance.
The lights remain on the pole, in the centre of the small stage: a small pool of brightness in the dark club room.
My friends at my table clamour for the return of the male strippers from earlier - we are all a bit wild, not quite drunk but lively, letting ourselves go on a rare night out together celebrating years of friendship.
I am not listening to the compere on stage, but I do hear the words ‘charity auction’ and my friends’ hands push me to stand, and then to stumble towards the stage. People are clapping, cheering, I am confused but I grab at my drink to gulp it down then allow myself to be ushered, by my friends first then by people at tables I pass, to the stage.
The spotlight is blinding and I blink and shade my eyes as the compere explains: the auction is for a dance. I feel my face flush as I realise I am the object of the auction: but I keep quiet and smile shyly, thinking that to dance with someone is not much of a hardship, and will raise money for a good cause - and I like dancing so it might be nice. I feel embarrassed when the compere asks me to twirl around, but I do so, feeling very self-conscious at the wolf whistles and shouts in response.
I can’t believe the bids being shouted out: my face burns, I remember a time as a student, being ‘auctioned’ for charity - and that was only a date, not a dance and not in such a wild setting. My mind is in a whirl - and the last drink, gulped down, hasn’t helped. Looking out from the spotlit stage I can’t see my friends - just vague dark shapes of waving hands, and a wash of cheering and hooting as the bidding rises, then stops: I peer out trying to see the highest bidder but the compere takes my hand, raises my arm like a prize-winning boxer, and calls for the bidder to come forward for their dance. But no-one does: instead, a male voice calls, from near the back: “dance with the pole!” and the audience laughs, cheers, hoots even more than before. The compere hesitates: someone mounts the stage and whispers in his ear, confirming that the voice is from the winning bidder; he turns to me, whispers: “are you OK with that?” and I find myself nodding, even though I can feel the hot flush rising to my face.
I hesitate as he leaves me at the pole - the spotlight blinding, reflecting off the polished steel.
Tentatively I reach out one hand, rest it on the cold metal. A hush falls on the room. Placing one foot at the base of the pole, I let my body fall forwards, my hand on the pole causing me to twist, wrapping around the pole. The cheering is a wave of sound, drowning out all else so that I feel almost as if I am alone in the midst of a crowd. The pole is cold where my bare legs wrap around it - cold and hard. I remember my two sessions of pole dancing for fitness, how we were told to just let our bodies fall, twisting and wrapping on the pole: it comes back, naturally, easily - I forget the audience, lose myself for long moments in the physical feel of movement. I clasp the pole tight: its cold metal hardness presses against my body: pushing between my small breasts, through my t-shirt top: it is sensual, erotic - the feel of something between my breasts, sliding; I hug it close, bending and straightening my knees to slide my body up then down the pole, keeping it closely pressed between my breasts. I feel hot - the room is a wall of meaningless noise, someone has started to play thumping music, I am winding myself round the pole, swaying from it, returning again to slide it between my breasts. I feel so hot: the pole feels so cold; I can feel it suddenly, chilled against my tummy where I am bared by my top riding up, separating from the waistband of my skirt. The cold metal feels oddly erotic against my hot bare skin: I slide, feel the top ride up more, press more of my skin to the pole. It becomes a desire - an obsession - I want that cold to cool my heat - need it. I do not think - I stand back from the pole, cross my arms in front of me, take hold of the hem of my t-shirt with both hands and lift it - up, over my head, up and off. Then, quickly, urgently, I wrap my body against the pole again so that its cold thickness is between my now bared breasts, cooling them - cold and hard against my body. But my heat continues to rise - almost unbearably hot. I am lost, totally, now, in these moments: the room is just a wave of sound, the light is blinding, I see nothing except the shining pole.
I try to climb it - shinning up as one does a rope. But I slide back down, no matter how firmly I clasp my arms and legs around it. Sliding down pulls my panties up, uncomfortably, into my cunt lips: “a wedgy” I think, clearly, incongruously, to myself and I smile. But the panties make it uncomfortable, they are in the way. Removing them, I hear the meaningless roar rise to a crescendo - likewise when my skirt joins them so that at last I am naked - fully naked - wrapped around the cold steel pole, sliding my bare skin on it. I try again to climb it, but slide back down - and on my next effort my own cunt juices lubricate the pole, make it slippery, so that I slide down earlier.
It is no longer a pole, to me - it is a cock: a giant thick steel cock - and I am trying to fuck myself on it. I clutch it, grasp it between my thighs, haul my body up it, feeling its insane hard thickness slip between my breasts, slide in my soft cunt lips. I need it so much, this huge cock - I am climbing it, wrapped naked around it, making love to it, feeling it slide and slip and tease me towards orgasm. My body clamps around the pole, clutching it to myself, humping myself against it, dragging myself up it. I am trying to climb the cock, you see - climbing the cock so that I might lower myself, wetly, onto its gigantic cold hard thickness; impale myself on the huge steel cock, fuck myself on it.
There is only the cock, now - the steel cock, and me, fucking it - nothing else. the noise subsides in my mind to a dull meaningless roar, the room vanishes into its own darkness, only the cock exists - the cock, and my desire to fuck myself on it. My orgasm is intense - my whole body snakes, writhes, thrashes, shudders. The pole is so slick with my juices that I can no longer hold myself on it, and my body slides, limply, to the floor, lying, naked, sweaty, until someone gathers me up and carries me backstage, and the audience cheer and stamp.