Force of Nature || Outlander

1 | I Was Never Funny

ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴜɴɴʏ

Warning: sexual content ahead!

Force of Nature | I was never funny

  Outside the club, a sea of expectant faces swarmed in anticipation. They were here for a night of laughter, a temporary escape from their mundane lives. They were here for me--their beacon of mirth, their comedic genius. But they had no idea of the entirely different kind of performance happening backstage. Nestled within the quiet seclusion of the green room, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, was an intimate dance of a different kind. The dimly lit room, with its soft shadows and hushed whispers, could make anyone feel like the star of their own seductive narrative. It was a far cry from the counterfeit allure of a neon-lit strip club. This was genuine, unscripted, and breathtakingly real.

  My back pressed against the cool surface of the vanity, I was captive under Martha's spell. Her fiery hair a stark contrast against the room's muted palette, she was a force to be reckoned with. Her tongue traced a path down my neck, igniting a trail of fire that had me gasping for breath. Her hands, meanwhile, were on a daring expedition up my skirt, seeking the treasure that awaited them.

  Evidence of our hasty escapades lay scattered around the room, discarded and forgotten in the heat of the moment. My lipstick tube, for instance, had embarked on a solo journey, rolling off the edge of the vanity and plunging into the abyss below. The sight was almost comical, and I had to bite back a giggle.

  One leg hitched over the edge of the dressing table, I granted Martha all the access she craved. Her hand, now an expert in mischief, managed to muffle the soft moans that inadvertently slipped from my throat. Our mirrored reflections showcased her mastery, an artist rendering sheer pleasure, her touch expert, electrifying.

  Our secret rendezvous were always tinged with an element of risk, a dash of exhibitionism that added a unique flavor to our encounters. The constant possibility of discovery heightened the thrill, like a forbidden fruit that we couldn't resist tasting. Suddenly, Martha stills her movements, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror. "You love it when I fuck you from behind, don't you, dirty girl?" Her voice is a low, seductive whisper that sends a shiver down my spine.

  My breath hitches, and I nod, my reply muffled by her hand. Her smug grin is reflected in the mirror, a testament to her dominance. I'm helpless under her touch, a willing participant in our game of illicit pleasure.

  Just as I was teetering on the edge of a pleasure-induced precipice, a knock on the door jerked me back to reality. "Sasha? Are you in there?" Milton Stripp, the club's owner, had impeccable timing. Panic surged through me, a tidal wave threatening to drown my senses.

  "Fuck!" I hiss, trying to untangle myself from Martha. But she only chuckles, pressing a finger to my lips.

  "Relax, Sasha. Let's give the old man a show he won't forget," she whispers, her green eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Before I could protest, the door swung open, revealing Milt, a man whose discomfort at catching us in the act painted his face a shade of crimson I hadn't thought humanly possible. His exclamation, a blend of shock and disbelief, seemed to echo off the walls. "Jesus H. Christ on a bike!" His Jersey accent thickened with his shock. "Are you two out of your goddamn minds?"

  Martha straightens up, pulling her blouse back into place. "Just blowing off some steam, Milt."

  "If I had a dollar for every noise complaint I've gotten about you two," he started, his eyes darting between us. "I'd be richer than Bill Gates! I'm not shooting a porno here, folks."