Skip to content My little sister, Maya, had been like that since she figured out what a body could do to a man, and nobody in the house had managed to talk her out of it. She was nineteen, still living at home because college was a waste of time. Five-four, dark blonde to her shoulders, hazel eyes, a small mean mouth, and a body that made the cropped shirts pointless. Full tits, narrow waist, an ass that filled the shorts. She dressed like a dress code was a personal insult. Cropped shirts, shorts that climbed when she reached for a glass, torn mini jeans and bikinis. Mom called it confidence. I had been calling it what it was for a while, at least in my own head. My little sister was a slut, and she had been auditioning for the job for years without ever standing on a stage.
I was twenty-three, and the only reason I knew what that job actually paid was that I worked the door in Nevada. Velvet Rope sat two bus stops from the house, a strip club. I had gone in at twenty-one looking for bar work after a warehouse lay-off. The guy at the front took one look at six-three and the shoulders and asked if I could stand still for eight hours without starting a fight I could not finish. I said yes. He put me on the door that Friday. Black shirt, earpiece, a list of people who were not coming back in. Four nights a week since then. I walked drunks out, boyfriends who thought the rules were a suggestion, and girls who had frozen on stage and needed the alley more than they needed another song. I knew what a decent Friday paid the ones who could dance. I had said the number out loud once, tired and stupid, at the kitchen table. Maya had been listening.
She brought it up on a Tuesday, which meant she had been sitting on it. Mom was at her sister’s. I was on the couch in the door shirt, trying to eat before a shift, when Maya came down in a tank and those shorts, barefoot, phone in her hand like she had already written the conversation.
“I need you to get me in,” she said.
“In where.”
“Velvet Rope. Dancing. The floor, not the door. You work there. You can say my name to the manager without it sounding like a stranger walked in off the street.”
I looked at the tank and then made myself look at her face. “No.”
“Dean.”
“No. You’re nineteen, and you’re my sister, and I’m the bouncer. I’m not walking you into a room I get paid to keep calm so you can take your clothes off for singles. I throw guys out for less than what you’re asking me to arrange.”
She sat on the arm of the couch, and the hem of the shorts rode up when she crossed one leg over the other. “I already take them off. I just don’t get paid. You said the new girls clear four hundred on a Friday if they can actually dance. I can dance. You’ve got the job that opens the door. Use it.”
“I got that job because I’m big and I don’t drink on shift. Not because I recruit. You can grind on a playlist in your room. That is not a stage, and it is not a stranger with his hands where they should not be. You freeze once and they laugh you out, and then I have to pretend I don’t know you on the sidewalk while I’m the one wearing the earpiece.”
“So don’t let me freeze in front of them.” She leaned in, and the neckline of the tank dropped far enough that I could see the inside of one breast, pale, the edge of a nipple. She did not fix it. “You’ve watched me at parties. You know I don’t freeze. You just don’t want to be the brother who got his sister a job taking her top off.”
“I don’t want Mom getting a call because my sister stripped at the club I bounce for.”
“Mom isn’t going to get a call if you don’t make one.” She sat back, and the tank settled, but the picture stayed. I could feel the shift in my own body and hated it. She was my sister. The tank did not care. “You told me half the girls they audition can’t find the beat. You stand at that door and watch them fail. So audition me. Here. One song. If I suck, I drop it. If I don’t, you talk to him. You don’t have to beg. You just have to not say no when he asks if you know me.”
“You are not giving me a lap dance.”
“Why? Because I’m your sister, or because you think I’ll be bad at it?”
“Both. And because I’m not a customer, Maya. I’m the guy who keeps customers from doing exactly what you’re describing. I got hired to stop lap dances from turning into a problem, not to be the problem.”
She smiled, the party smile, and hooked a thumb under the strap of the tank. She pulled it off one shoulder, then the other, slow enough that it was a choice and not a shrug. The shirt stayed up, barely, caught on her chest, and when she breathed I saw more than I was supposed to. “You’ve been looking since I sat down. That’s the job. If you can’t watch me for one song without making it a speech, then you’re right, and I can’t do it. If you can, you owe me the conversation with your manager. He already trusts the guy on the door. I’m just asking you to use that.”
I should have stood up and gone to work early. I stayed, because she was already crossing the room to the speaker, already picking a song with a bass line I recognized from the floor, already glancing back to see if I had moved to the chair. The strap was still down. She was still my sister. I was already in trouble, and the music had just started.
It was a slow club track with the bass already in the floor. I sat because standing felt like a louder yes. Maya waited through the first bars, then crossed the rug the way the girls at Velvet Rope crossed a room when they wanted a table to forget its drinks, hips loose, eyes on mine, the tank still slipping off both shoulders.
She took her time on the first pass. One hand lifted her hair, the other trailed the back of the chair, and her thigh brushed my knee on the way past, warm through the shorts, gone before I could decide what to do with the contact. On the way back she turned, and the shorts climbed over an ass I had spent years not looking at in hallways. She checked the angle over her shoulder, and the look she gave me belonged to the job she wanted, not to the kitchen we were standing in.
“Hands stay on the chair,” she said, over the music. “You told me that was the rule.”
“Maya, this is not an audition.”
“Then keep your hands where a customer keeps them, and let me finish the song.”
She stepped in between my knees. The tank came up and off in one clean pull, no snag, and underneath was a black bra I had never seen in the laundry, low in the cups, pale skin above the lace, nipples already tight enough to show through it. She set the shirt across my thigh and left it there while she rolled her hips to the bass, close, not quite sitting, one hand on my shoulder for balance. Weight, then a drag away, then weight again. The shorts were thin enough that I felt the heat of her every time she settled, and my cock thickened against the jeans before I had any say in it. She felt the change. Her mouth curved, and she kept the beat.
She turned in my lap so her back met my chest, reached down, and peeled the shorts over her hips and down her thighs, slow, stepping out of them without losing the song. The thong underneath was the same black, a thin string disappearing between her cheeks, and when she bent forward with her hands on my knees the arch put that string and all of that ass against the front of my jeans. She sat back and ground.
I lost the next breath and did not get it back cleanly. She moved like the mirror in her room had been a stage for months, circles of her hips timed to the bass, the string of the thong dragging the length of my cock through the denim, her hair spilling over one shoulder when she looked back to watch my face. She reached behind herself, unhooked the bra, and let it fall into my lap with the shirt.
Bare in the cooler air of the living room, full C-cups, pale, heavier at the bottom, pink nipples drawn tight, the weight of them shifting when she leaned into my chest so I could see them from over her shoulder.
Then she rolled forward again and gave me her ass instead, grinding down hard enough that the chair creaked, slow enough that I felt every inch of the drag.
“You said I couldn’t dance,” she said, voice low, still on the beat.
I had nothing useful to say. My hands stayed fists on the sides of the chair, because the rule was the last thing I was keeping, and my sister was in my lap in nothing but a thong, warm skin against my shirt, working herself along a hard-on the jeans could not hide. She took the chorus faster without getting sloppy, a circle, a drop, a long pull back up the ridge of my cock that jerked my hips despite the chair. She did it again, on purpose, and the sound she made was half breath and half satisfaction.
The song ran out. She stayed where she was, thong pressed to my fly, chest rising, sweat at the base of her throat. I was rock hard, aching, the denim stupid and tight, my hands still locked to the chair because if I moved them I was going to grab her. She looked down at what she had done to me, then back at my face.
“That’s the audition,” she said. “You can tell your manager I froze. You’ll be lying, and he’ll be able to hear it.”
Her thong was still against the fly of my jeans, and she looked down at the ridge she had ground into me as if it were the only grade that mattered. My hands were still locked on the sides of the chair. The customer rule was the last excuse I had, and it was already failing.
“You want the job,” I said. “Dancing in my kitchen doesn’t mean I can walk you into Velvet Rope.”
“It means you can say my name without laughing.” She rolled her hips once, small, and the drag over my cock pulled a hiss out of me.
“I’m not going to help recruit you.”
“Do you want a handjob?” she asked coquettishly.
“Maya. You’re my sister.”
“I’m the one who just danced you hard enough to hurt. Say yes, or tell me to get off your lap.”
I didn’t tell her to get off. She took the silence, slid down between my knees, and opened my jeans with steady fingers. My cock sprang free, flushed dark, wet at the tip from the grind, thick enough that her hand had to adjust before she could close it. She wrapped me warm and tight and stroked once, base to head, watching my face the whole way.
“Hands stay on the chair,” she said with a grin. “You made the rule. Keep it.”
She spit into her palm, slow, and slicked it down the shaft until the stroke went easy. Twist at the head. Thumb smearing what I was already leaking. Her bare tits shifted with every pull, full and pale, nipples still tight from the dance, close enough that the head bumped the top of one breast when she leaned in. I stared because looking at her mouth was worse. A thong was all she had on. My little sister’s fist was working my cock, wet and sure, and the wrongness of it sat heavy and made every stroke land harder. She sped up when my thighs tightened, wrist turning, the sound slick and obvious in the quiet after the song.
“On me,” she said, voice low, eyes on the head. “but only if you say yes, otherwise, I let go and go to my room.”
“Alright fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to the manager.”
I lasted maybe another minute. The lap dance had already done most of the damage. Heat coiled, my hips jerked against the chair, and I came with a groan I didn’t bother to swallow. The first pulse hit the upper curve of her breast, thick and hot. The next striped across both tits, a heavy line over one nipple, another spilling into the dip of her cleavage and running down warm over her skin. She kept stroking through it, milking the rest out of me, cum dripping off her knuckle onto the swell of her chest while I shook and emptied. She didn’t flinch. She looked at the mess on her tits, then up at me, hand still loose around the shaft.
“How’s that?”
“Wow,” I said. “I’ll definitely talk to him.”
She smiled, and dragged her thumb through what I had left on her skin, slow enough that I watched it smear. “Good. Don’t make me audition twice.”
Want to read part 2? My Sister’s Pole Dancing Tryout
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