Chainchomp/Britzerland, this is L'Habitant, you've got that damn song in my head. But I love it.
Bumpy Ride by Mohombi
One of the best things about working in a strip joint; you get to see women get their tits out, right?
Generally speaking there is a fairly strict 'Thou shalt not ogle the strippers, thou shalt be killed' policy from management.
Also, the strippers were nice women, a lot of them had families or were just really sweet people down on their luck.
And Matt was gay. Not excessively camp, but, just… interested in men.
It wasn't that he hadn't experimented with other genders, just that he wasn't really that interested. But sex was sex when you were drunk.
On top of all that, when it's Ladies Night at a strip club and you are a bartender, you've got your work cut out for you. Especially if there's a hen party on that night.
Which there was.
And then you've got male strippers, who Matt kind of wanted to check out. Really wanted to check out. There was a new guy starting today who the girls (what Matt called the female strippers) assured him was sexy as sin and most definitely batting for both teams.
He was a little disappointed when his shift ended and he still hadn't caught a glimpse of the now infamous Captain America (hopefully no one got sued for that).
"Mattie, can I get you a drink?" Carlos asked, already popping the cap on a Smirnoff spin and decanting it into a glass. The Canadian smiled wryly at his Cuban friend,
"Sure, why not?"
"Laaaaaaaaaadies! For your entertainment, I give you; Caaaaptain Americaaaa~!" A chorus of shrieks and screams filled the air, and Matthew raised his glass to Carlos before wandering off in the general direction of the main stage and the throng of women who had just seen the man on the catwalk.
Messy blonde hair, low riding jeans, Stetson. He looked like a cross between a rapper and a cowboy. When was probably the impression he was going for. Legs apart, straddling the stage. A booted foot taps, once, twice, three times and the music blared over the speakers.
I wanna boom bang bang with your body, yo~
That one line was enough to set the man onstage gyrating to the beat in the most tantalising display of abdominal muscles and pelvic thrusting since Elvis Presley. The muscles of his stomach curled and undulated in what really amounted to belly-dancing. The screams and whoops from the hen party were so loud that Matt could barely hear the music.
Imma rock you, rock you like a rodeo~
A tanned hand wrapped itself around the shiny metal pole as though it were the pommel of a saddle, rocking his hips so that he looked like he was straddling a bucking bronco. Or a particularly wild bedfellow.
We gotta rough it up before we take it slow~
Oh, he was definitely grinding against the pole now, rolling his hips against the well-handled metal as though it could actually give him the pleasure he was after.
It's gonna be a bumpy ride~
The music slowed, and his hands slid teasingly up the pole, one leg hooking around it, swinging himself down and around, putting his hat on the bride-to-be's head as he passed, causing another fit of screams. And causing Matthew to grin widely. This was definitely worth sticking around for. Who would have guessed that the so called 'Captain America' would look quite so much like... Captain America? Movie star grin, bright blue eyes, undisguised musculature grinding itself against the pole like... It was too delicious, that firm skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat in the neon lights. It was beautiful. It was sexy.
Matthew could almost picture himself walking up to this man, still half dressed, still faintly sweaty, breath coming in ragged pants of exertion.
"So you're the new sheriff in town. I saw you dance,"
The Canadian was always much more forward in his head than in actuality.
"I am," a friendly nod from that fluid, muscled beast.
"You want to give me a private show?"
And there went Mr America's pants. His legs were as delicious as his arms. What Matt wouldn't give to lick those thighs. The dancer caught his eye and gave him a wink, which he returned. Oh, yay. His imaginings might not be just that.
"What kind of dance did you have in mind," the other smiled, accent as thickly American as his stage name suggested. "You want it fast or slow?"
We gotta rough it up before we take it slow~!
"I want you to ride me like a proper cowboy. Long, hard and rough."
A faint blush painted the dancer's cheeks. That was an offer that he didn't look like he wanted to refuse. He walked over to Matthew, hands moving up to rest on the Canadian's shoulders, "Is that how you want it?"
"That's how I'm going to have it."
The dancer had returned to the pole now, half-way up it and bucking desperately against the air in his tight white briefs, cowboy boots still in place. As he danced, Matthew noticed that he had a little cowlick just where his hair parted. Sweet.
They were on a... He didn't know and couldn't be bothered to imagine it properly. That wasn't the point of this fantasy. The point was that Captain was lowering himself slowly down onto Matthew's hard cock, sliding down it in just the same manner as he had slid down that pole, only this was better, hotter and inch-by-inch being buried inside the American's ass.
"Oh, God," the American gasped as he took Matthew in fully. The Canadian smirked; face flushed with pleasure at the tight heat surrounding him. The other blonde's head was thrown back, mouth open in a long groan of ecstasy as he slowly began to move, 'getting comfortable in the saddle.'
"Ride," was the hoarse order, and so he did. One hand on that cream-coloured hat, the other pressed flat-palmed against Matthew's chest, those carved hips moving in a slow motion, rising and falling, whimpered gasps dropping from the American's lips as moans did from the Canadian's. Hips bucked, stomach muscles curled and undulated, thighs strained, sweat beading on that golden, glistening skin as he rocked and rolled himself up and down again, expression fogged with lust. Matthew snapped his own hips up, burying himself deeper in the beautiful body above him, causing the American to bounce up and down like he really was riding a horse. The way his hair stuck to his flushed face, mouth open, full lips bitten, he looked down at Matthew, his face demanding more.
Large, pale hands moved up to grip the arch of a tanned pelvis, pulling it down harshly and thrusting in at once, earning desperate, pleasured moans from the American as he rode faster and faster, galloping towards his climax.
He could almost see the other man's face as he came, but unfortunately the music ended and Captain American bowed himself offstage, whisking his hat off the bride-to-be's head as he went. Ah, so much for fantasies. But that wink.
"Hey, what're you doin' back here?" a thick, deep south drawl demanded, and Matthew was surprised to find it was directed at him,
"Delivering drinks. Do you know who gets the whiskey?" the Canadian turned around to find himself face-to face with Captain America.
"Me. You're the guy from last night, yeah? You work here?" he asked, accent dripping from his words like honey; thick, sticky, sweet and something that Matt just wanted to lick off.
"Yeah, here you go," he gave the other the glass, "I'm Matthew, I work the bar. I was just hanging around after my shift yesterday."
"Oh? Cheers," he knocked back his alcohol and dropped his hat on his head, "Dutch courage," he explained with an almost nervous chuckle. His name was called out and he gave the Canadian another wink, "I'm Alfred. See you, 'round, Mattie," the American smirked.