Some weekends when I did not have one of my clients arranged for a Friday or Saturday evening or night session, I would invariably find myself at the underground goth club we all called home. Some of those instances I would fill in as one of the go-go dancers there, usually this would be when Mistress R was hosting some special event there.

Positioned around the club’s main dance floor were risers on top of the soundsystem speakers, where club patrons would jostle for space to dance and show themselves off. On each corner were iron cages, four in total, in which a dancer, or a pair of dancers, could be locked inside. These cages would be manned by professional dancers on the club’s payroll – or someone from Mistress R’s coterie, when the subject matter inside them required a more risqué or perverted nature.

Twice I did duty inside the dance cage. The first time I was just dressed my ‘normal’ self. To keep my stamina and energy going for the two to three hours I would spend in constant motion, I required a few drinks to get my blood sugar pumped up as well as drunk enough to weaken my inhibitions in a public environment as this. I recall enjoying the sensation of being inside the cage, the sensation of knowing you were the attention of unknown number of watchers, and the helplessness of being unable to have refuge from those times when people on the outside would put their hands through the bars and try touch and grope me. Sometimes I let them, sometimes I did not.

My second dance session inside a cage was for a club-wide fetish night special event. Patrons gaining entry, beyond prior personal invitation issued, had to adhere to a strict fetish dress code. The evening vibe oozed raw sex, sensuality, kink, and perversion. For this event, I was paired up with a woman dancer and both of us were naked except for matching latex masks, stay-up black stockings, and heels. I have no clue who she was, never got her name and never saw her face, but we quickly established great chemistry between us.

Two people inside the cage made for cramped space, and we could only stand up with one of us positioned in front of the other. As we took in the energy of the music and the crowd around us, our arms wrapped and writhed and slithered around each other, as she would move her hands around my exposed, hard penis and my body, as I then worked her small but firm breasts and occasionally fingered her vagina when she was positioned in front of me. When she was behind me, she would reach around and make sure I was hard – sometimes stroking me off to the point of dripping my load. At one point we somehow managed to get one of her legs up enough that I could get some of myself inside her from behind, before quickly slipping out. A few times my attention on her would be broken and I would then look around us, and notice the curious and enthralled faces looking up at us as we danced our mutual, spontaneous sex show. When we were finally released from our dance jail, both of us were soaked from each other’s sweat and body fluids, as well as exhausted from being forced on our feet for so long.

From her movements and confidence, I felt that she probably had experience as a stripper, while I myself felt both shy at my exposure in public – but also aroused, too, as this would have been the greatest number of random people to see me naked or in a sexual situation at any given time.


* * * * * * *

The closest I ever experienced during my time involved with Mistress R with actually being whored out, as in not having a say regarding the clients, were two instances when I filled in as a paid dancer at the club.

Most Saturdays at the club, in the invitation-only level overlooking down on to the main dancefloor levels, Mistress R would have a few of her crew working as paid, private dancers who could be bought for more intimate one-on-one contact – either for single songs, or for set periods of time. The private area had its own small dance floor as well as another two iron cages for dancers to be put on show. Clients would be handed various coloured tokens, that indicated number of dances or time length, which they would then present to their desired dancer.

Mistress R insisted on some strict rules: we were not allowed to remove our clothing and we were not allowed to talk at all to our partner, even if they asked us something. All we could do was smile, nod, or convey our answer from our motion, actions, or with our eyes. Lastly, we were not allowed to kiss on the lips.

Often these particular dancers were new to Mistress R’s employ and new to the business, often being shown off for potential future sex work to clients in attendance. If she was unsure whether a particular boy or girl had what it took mentally and emotionally for sex work, she would try them out as these dancers to see how they could cope being groped or whatever light physical contact was allowed.

In my own case, I just offered to help fill in a vacant spot a couple of times when she was short for private dancers. Many of the details between those two nights in question are now blurred together. I think overall I danced with around nine partners, but only four of them – two bad and two good experiences – do I still have any memories. All but two I danced with, were males. For selection Mistress R would have an assortment of feminine women, firm men, and in between and out in left field, which is where I fit in.

For this particular role, Mistress R asked me to dress as slutty and sissy-boy feminine as possible. I believe the photographs of me in my ‘sissy slut boy action’ album were taken during those two nights. Much like my experience inside the main dancefloor cage, I expected I would be subject to a lot of groping – which is why I wore my shortest, tightest skirt, to accent my firm tight ass.

Two guys in particular were absolute perverts trying to push boundaries beyond what were permitted – and one of them actually scared me a lot. All the while we slow danced together, he was grabbing my ass and kneading it hard with his hands, hard enough it began to hurt. At the same time, he was telling me all about how I was a little faggot boy and if he saw me outside when I left at the end of the night, he was going to drag me off to the alley, rape my ass until I bled and beat me up like I was his bitch, and stuff like that.

Now, from the smell of his breath I knew he had been drinking a lot, so part of me wondered if this was just him talking up his fantasies or that he thought I perhaps liked and got aroused hearing that kind of aggressive talk – but there was just enough nastiness edge and anger in voice to make me wonder too if his threats were actually serious. When I did leave that night, I never did see him waiting for me, but I still made sure I was in the close company of Mistress R and her majordomo M, whom I stayed real close to, he wondering why I was holding on to his arm until we got to her car.

However, there was one guy on my first night who was the complete opposite.

He was around ten or fifteen years older than me, and when he walked up to me with his token in hand (for an hour), I would never have guessed from his appearance that he in any way held any sort of attraction to men. I think he was Italian or Spanish, judging from his look and accent – and was stylishly dressed in a designer black suit. He was outstandingly gorgeous, exuded masculine style, strength, and importance. I could sense he was ‘somebody’, and from overhearing later talk, and the crowd he kept around him, my suspicions felt confirmed.

He treated me with sincere respect and dignity as we held our bodies close to each other. My heart fluttered whenever he touched my lower back or ass, and I did not want to let him go. When we took breaks between dances, he would put his arm around my waist as we stood at the bar, him talking to others, and no one batting an eye that this guy had his arm around another man, dressed in a skirt, corset, and black lipstick. Once, I remember he had his hand resting flat on the lower part of my corseted back, and I gently pushed it down slowly but firmly to my ass and gave his hand a squeeze, trying to indicate my own attraction and desire for him.

During one dance, we could feel our bulges pushing into each other’s. I had my head on his shoulder, purring away so happy and content as he gently kissed and tongued my ear. I kept hoping that Mistress R would tell me at the end of the night that he wanted to hire me for more than just dancing. I wanted him so very badly. I would have gleefully slept with him, sucked him, offered my ass over to him, whatever it was he wanted from me, I would have given him in a heart-beat… but to my disappointment the request never came. I thought about breaking my silence but I suppose my professionalism got the better of me. At the time I felt if it was meant to happen, it would happen – but looking back days, months, years, later, I wish now I had spoken up. Even today, years later, thinking about him makes me hard (such as I write now) and I often stroke off in bed or in the shower thinking about him.