As we keep our blog running, we gain followers and supporters from all over the world! One of them is Olivia Olivia  (@lovenatureolive) / X who kindly offered us the continuation of her story to be published! Please read it and again give your feedback and comments – they will be very much appreciated and supportive! And tell if you her want her story to be continued further – even more spicier and even more sexier!Â
The moment my brain finally sent the clear, unmistakable signal – this is your situation, say yes – everything began to move at dizzying speed.
I still had no real idea what the job actually looked like, but the manager didn’t seem bothered by that at all. She led me out of her office and down a short corridor into a cramped dressing room. She handed me a tiny, tight dress covered in gold and pink sequins and a pair of towering platform heels. I changed quickly while she explained that I could just watch the other girls tonight… though she’d prefer if I tried going on stage myself after seeing one performance.
I agreed. More on autopilot than with any real awareness. It felt as if I were watching a film about myself rather than living it.
That wasn’t the end of the emotions that night – it was only the beginning.
In that dress and those shoes I looked… cheap. The kind of cheap you recognise immediately in certain clubs: the girl you know you’d never introduce to your parents, but who could learn every inch of your bed. That was the image they had dressed me in.
I stood there uncertainly, watching a dancer finish her set and leave the stage. Then I felt a firm hand on my back – a strong push. My legs started moving before my mind could catch up. I heard whistles and a few crude, sexually charged comments about my body. A powerful wave of heat rushed through me, as if every single pair of eyes in the club had suddenly locked onto my skin. I focused only on not tripping in those ridiculous heels.
Somehow, I made it.
I stepped onto the stage without falling.
The stage is not a forgiving place to keep your balance. It wasn’t just the spilled drinks, glitter, and debris scattered across it – it was the perfectly flat surface meeting the perfectly flat soles of my platform heels. All I could focus on was not falling.
On top of that came the emotions: raw nerves, burning shame, and a strange, unwelcome thrill that twisted through me. I danced. I undressed. I couldn’t really see the men, but I heard them – whistles, shouts, crude compliments every time I slipped the sequined dress off my shoulders. I moved as if floating on some strange, chemical wave of adrenaline, barely conscious of my own actions.
I had never danced on a pole and I wasn’t about to try tonight. I touched it, gripped it for a second – it was slick with sweat. With no experience and these heels, I would have slid straight down. Instead, I only used it for support when I arched my back.
The lights helped and hurt at the same time. The stage was brightly lit so every inch of me was visible, while the rest of the club remained in soft, shadowy darkness. It made it almost impossible to see the faces watching me as I moved through sensual, flowing motions I hadn’t even known I could perform.
I kept my panties on. That was the rule the manager had made clear.
When the third song ended, I gathered my dress and bra from the floor, quickly slipped them back on, and stepped off the stage. I could feel eyes following me even more intensely now.
The manager was waiting nearby.
“Good,” she said. “Now it’s time to work the floor. Walk around, flirt, talk to the customers. Try to sell private dances.”
She explained it simply, almost like a sacred commandment:
“If they buy one, you take them to a private room. There you dance just for him. You take the panties off. Sit on his lap, grind against him, don’t be shy. Let him touch your breasts. That’s how the money comes.”
The instructions were short.
That didn’t make the job easy – quite the opposite.
Being on the floor, especially as a young, clearly inexperienced girl, caused much more commotion than being on stage. I couldn’t complain about a lack of interest – or drinks.
Apart from the house fee, the percentage from private dances, and tips, the club also made money – and so did we – from drinks. If a customer bought me one, I got a cut. The dream, of course, was for someone to order the most expensive bottle of champagne, but that almost never happened. My own drinks, as I had arranged with the bar, were always non-alcoholic.
Right after my first stage performance and the conversation with the manager, I was swarmed. Within minutes I had more drinks in front of me than I could possibly handle. At one point I felt so saturated that even one more sip would be too much. Still, the question kept coming: “Can I buy you a drink?”
I would bring the glass to my lips, barely letting the liquid touch them, and keep talking. We talked about everything – my clothes, where I was from, what I thought of London, music, art, sport… and, of course, sex. The men wanted to talk, and I didn’t have a single moment of peace. All the while their eyes moved openly over my breasts, my arse, my legs, with zero shame.
It still hadn’t fully sunk in: I’m a stripper now.
And then another man appeared. He didn’t offer a drink. He was direct.
“How much for a private dance?” he asked. “You looked fucking amazing on stage, but I want to see you move without the panties.”
That was how I was invited to my first private dance. In the most “romantic” way possible.
If you’d like to hear the next part of my story, just let me know in comments!
(To be continued?)