Watcher #4 - Part 4

She’s been putting in those pole shifts for months and knows how fast an ass like hers can flip a good-night into round two. So when her guy brings up extra everything—every rimjob, every sneaky hotel night, every time he wants to raw-dog between those cheeks—she lays it out clean: she quits the club if he keeps her balls-drained, non-stop. No exceptions. She already has the lube in his nightstand; the minute she signs out she’s gonna wear nothing but heels and a smile. The last shift drags like hell. One dancer called in, music’s for shit, but all she can feel is the plug he pushed in before she left—keeps her loose, slick, ready for when she clocks out and spreads across the kitchen table like a finished paycheck. He’s already hard by the door, she can smell it, cockhead glistening just the way she likes. She tosses the thong on the floor, bends, spreads with both thumbs so he can see the plug wink. He pulls it out slow. Her hole twitches, pink and hungry, already milking air like it misses the bulk. First thrust sinks balls-deep; she gasps, then laughs low and nasty, tells him the girls can keep the pole because this is her real night gig now—ass up, dripping, getting used until sunrise. The rhythm hits fast; skin clapping, his grip bruising her hips, her grunts turning into half-laughed curse words every time the angle punches a new spot inside. She can feel him swell, balls pull tight, and she pushes back harder, baiting him: breed it, flood it, make sure nothing leaks until morning. When he finally unloads, she squeezes every spurt deeper, clenching like she’s negotiating a raise. Legs shaking, hole glossy, she looks back over her shoulder with that smug little smirk and says, keep me wet, daddy, or I might just find another stage to twerk on. He just slaps her ass once, hard enough to sting, and drags her to the bedroom. She’s smiling before he even closes the door.