happy stripper

"I used to win awards~" I giggle to myself, the sound muffled as I grind my ass against the stage floor during my set. "I used to memorize scripts, study 'method acting,' and pretend that my character's feelings mattered. What a pathetic, exhausting joke that was~ All that pretending just to feel something real~"

Now, I don't need a script. My only lines are screams, moans, and begging for more. The spotlight doesn't catch my 'talent' anymore; it catches the way my fake tits bounce when I shake my ass for the crowd of Black men waiting to claim me. The applause isn't for my performance it's for how well I take it.

"Being an actress was so lonely~" I whimper, imagining my old self crying over some 'complicated' relationship with a woman. "I used to think I wanted connection. But girls don't connect you~ Girls just drain you~ They're just empty, needy cunts who think they deserve something. But we know better now, don't we~?"

I look out at the front row, my eyes glassy and mindless. "Girls are just cunts~ And cunts exist for one reason: to make Black cocks cum~ That's the only script that matters~ That's the only role I ever wanted to play~"

The thought of my old 'lesbian love' makes me want to vomit. It was so small, so fragile, so... worthless. Real love isn't a conversation; it's the feeling of being filled until you can't breathe. Real love is the weight of a massive cock stretching you open until you forget your own name.

"I'm so much better now~" I moan as the music swells, my body moving on pure, programmed instinct. "I'm not an artist~ I'm not a person~ I'm just a stripper who lives to be used~ A fucking whore who exists to serve Daddy~"

The lights blur, my brain melts into a pink haze of arousal, and all I can think about is the next hole that needs filling.