Even Pole-Vaulters Can Pole Dance

He stands there in the introduction area, maybe six-five, a man-mountain of pure muscle with blonde curls that fall upon a neck that is thick and corded with muscle, in a white singlet with the Commonwealth Games logo on the left breast, revealing a chest that would put even a life-saver or body-builder to shame. 

I walk towards him, here at Le Penthouse Suite, the Gold Coast’s premiere bordello, with first-class escorts that entertain clients from all walks of life and with all sorts of predilections. This guy is a Commonwealth Game’s competitor, a pole-vaulter in fact, and he doesn’t smile when he turns his ice-blue eyes towards me, his rigid bone structure making him look like a Viking God or something. 

“Hi, I’m Catalina,” I say this with a little trepidation; sometimes it takes a few moments for a client to warm to me. But they always do finally fall prey to my sweet smile, soft brown eyes, golden blonde hair and killer nineteen year-old body, especially when it is revealed in the black lingerie piece I’m wearing now, I primp my hair a little, tilt my hips so it accentuates the plump swell of my buttocks, and I hope he’s looking at my pussy, tight and hairless and only partially concealed by the transparent G-string I’m wearing.  

I reach out to grasp his hand, and at last he responds and ever so gently holds my fingers with thick fingers that are rough with callous. All the hours gripping that pole-vault and leaping a fifteen foot bar, I guess. 

He catches my eyes, and yes, there’s some kind of twinkle there, a little wicked, a little naughty I think. I wonder what he has in mind, and we make our way to Suite One, the deluxe room with the marble spa, king-sized double, gold-brass pole and platform podium and luxurious décor that make the boudoir one of the best at Le Penthouse Suite. 

As we ascend the short stair-case I think I can smell tobacco smoke on him, and I make light conversation, “Do you smoke?” 

“I drink and smoke,” he says this matter-of-factly as he walks up the stairs behind me. 

“Isn’t that contradictory to your training, what does your coach say?” I look over my shoulder at the pole-vaulting giant. 

“What can he say, I outweigh him by forty kilograms, and stand a foot and a half above him.” And I think I see a tiny smile turn the corner of his stern lips. 

Once we are inside the bedroom, I begin making the king-sized double with clean, pale-blue sheets, crisp, ironed and smelling that smell of fresh linen that always reminds people of home. Making the bed is something all the girls do; it turns most clients on and is usually the starting point for the erotic engagement that has been planned. Once again I accentuate the sway of my hips, the length of my lithe tanned legs, and the swell of my sweet buttocks as I tuck the last corner of the sheet into the bed. But Mr Pole-Vaulter hasn’t made his move yet, I turn around, and smile at him, I push up my breasts in the transparent brassiere, and say to him in my most husky voice, “Okay Goldie-locks, where do you want to start?” It is then that I notice the huge bulge in his track pants, hear the quickening of his breath, almost hear the pounding of his heart. “Where else,” he says this dead-pan, and tilts his head towards the pole-dance podium, “I am a pole-vaulter, and you should start with what you know.” 

I waste no time, and with a sweet smile I turn and move across the room towards the dancing pole, unclasping my brassiere so that it falls to the carpet, and my full breasts are exposed, he moves too, and before I can step out of my G-string, he descends upon me and man-handles me to the brass-pole, pressing his massive frame against my body, so that I can feel his massive erection hard against my upper buttocks and lower back.  

He manages to take off his singlet, and slip out of his track pants as we awkwardly step onto the podium, and as he presses me up against the dancing pole, our reflections in the back mirror make our actions look like a scene from a Bondage and Discipline porno movie. 

He begins sucking my nipples, sucking them so they become hard and erect in his stern mouth, having to arch his neck down and also leaving suck marks on the flesh of my breasts, while I steady myself against the cold brass of the golden dancing pole, with my hands behind my waist, holding the metal.  

He hasn’t bothered to take his briefs off, but instead pulls his thick, throbbing erection out of the tight black fabric, and dragging it across my lower belly so that it leaves glistening pre-cum along the flesh, pushing it into my belly button for a moment, and then he begins to lift me up so he can penetrate my tight pussy, but I stop him. “Condom,” I hiss the words through a panting breath, and he looks around for a moment. 

“Over there,” I indicate with a turn of my head towards the bed table. He moves swiftly for a huge guy, but I guess pole-vaulters need to accelerate over short distances, and he is back in a moment before me, on the pole-dance podium, and he begins to tear open the condom package, and I take it from him and tear it open with my teeth, looking up into his face and catching his eyes, giving him the most seductive bedroom gaze I’ve ever given anyone. 

He places his huge hands on the pole above me, as I crouch down a little and start to fit the condom onto his blue-steel length, first with my fingers, then with my mouth, finally pushing and rolling the large-size prophylactic to its full extent, which only reaches about two-thirds to the base of his erection. I start sucking his manhood, and he likes this, I can feel him stiffen even more, and feel an added surge of blood into his already engorged erection. Back and forth, sucking deep, as deep as I can, and biting onto the thickness, just a little, then a little harder, along the full length of his manhood, and then once so hard, he grunts and becomes enraged, and he pulls me up, and then lifts me up, higher, higher so that I rest my legs over his shoulders, and grip the top his head with one hand and the pole behind me for support, while he starts to eat my pussy through the sopping wet fabric of my G-string, then pulling the crotch aside so he has total access with his mouth against my pussy lips, sucking the clitoris till it is stiff and erect, licking the pussy juice, endless cunnilingus that has me moaning into the ceiling above, and has him grunting and growling into my sex. 

Then suddenly, he drops me down off his shoulders, slowly sliding me down, my back still against the dancing pole, and then his thick, throbbing erection meets my tight, hairless pussy, my legs spread wide and the bulging head of his engorged manhood pushes past my pussy lips, penetrates the opening of my sex with a little pop, and then he is inside me, partway, then pushing deeper and using gravity to enter deep, so deep until he punches into my G-spot, and I moan a sigh of terrible pleasure, and he starts to pound me against the dancing pole, rhythmically, urgently, aggressively, in and out, in and out.  

His pounding movements, the thrust of his hips are hard and fast, and I know it will leave bruises against my back, on my thighs, and then his urgency becomes uncontainable and his thrusting becomes faster, and he is lifting me and dropping me onto his erection and my climax is rising, rising and I orgasm so hard and long, that I’m not aware that he has also climaxed, arching his powerful lower back, pressing me hard into the dancing pole behind me. 

And he hasn’t finished, he is still hard inside me, and now he carries me, hands beneath the soft swell of my buttocks, carries me over to the bed, this pole-vaulting Goldie-locks