Strippogram Sex Girl

I’m currently working as a strippogram sex girl, and I’ve done some strange things dur¬ing my time with the agency, like the odd spot of mudwrestling, but the more bizarre event I ever took part in was a ‘gungea-thon’ at the local rugby club. You know what rugby players are like; any excuse to see a girl with very little on, and when the boss at the agency said they wanted a few girls who were prepared to get covered in gunge and lose most of their clothes in the process, I said I’d give it a go. All money raised on the evening was going to the local hospice, so it wasn’t as though I was making a fool of myself for nothing.

The idea was that men would pay £1 a time to buy a custard pie, which they would splatter us with. Anyone who wanted to see us take an item of clothing off before we took a pie would have to pay a tenner for the privilege.

I was the first girl on stage, and the money started rolling in once they got a look at my 38D tits, almost falling out of a low-cut top, and my long legs in their fishnet stockings. The first man who paid inevitably went for my tits, pushing the cold, gooey pie into my cleavage. My nip¬ples stood up at the sensation, thrusting against my see-through black bra. The second target was my round bum. I bent over, my skirt was raised and the pie land¬ed heavily against my panty-clad cheeks. I was loving every second as he rubbed the creamy pie against my bum.

A ten-pound note was thrust into the beer glass in which contributions were collected, with the instruction that my top had to come off. Now my breasts were on show as they strained against my flimsy bra, and another couple of pies were smashed against my chest to dribble down my body. Another tenner and my skirt was off. I was asked to sit down this time, and part my legs. The target this time was my pussy, and I shuddered in delight as I was flanned though my panties. By now, I was starting to get really turned on.

More money was put in the glass, with the demand that my bra was removed. I feigned coyness, but part of me was lov¬ing it. I turned my back, unfastened the catch on my bra and whipped it off. When I turned round again, I jiggled my big boobs shamelessly at the audience, who bayed for more. A couple more pies were plastered on my tits, while one was dumped without ceremony on the top of my head.

All I wore now was my stockings, sus¬penders and tiny panties, and the boys wanted those knickers off. I did as they requested, teasing my panties down tan-talisingly slowly to reveal that I had care¬fully trimmed my cream-splattered pubes into the shape of a heart. At the sight, they went mad, and I was soon being hit with pie after pie while I flaunted my body, bending over so they could plaster my pussy and arse with goo.

At last, my turn was over. One of the bar staff, who was tall, blond and particularly cute, said he’d help me carry my clothes to the changing room. Once there, I pounced on him, rubbing his cock through his trousers while kissing him. He soon responded, stripping off his clothes so he could press his body against my messy one. We fucked in the shower, his cock thrusting rapidly into me under the steamy spray, and it wasn’t long before we were both coming.

Between me and the other girls who got gunged that night, we raised several hundred quid, so everyone benefited: the rugby players got a great evening’s entertainment, the hospice got a decent donation, and I got a lovely bloke who I’m still seeing to this day.