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The only way you're getting off is on my thigh.

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It was supposed to be a normal lap dance.

It was supposed to be just a regular night at the Creepy Morty.

It was supposed to be just another Rick.

It wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

It was against the set employee guidelines at the Creepy Morty.

No nudity.

No drinking.

No drugs.

And no sexual activities of any kind with the clients.

And God, did Morty try.

He knew there were Mortys that went against that last guideline. Apparently it was common, even if it was frowned upon, but he had considered himself a stickler to the rules. He had left sexual relationships with Ricks (hell, even some Mortys) for his life outside of work. For his after-job time when he wasn’t in danger of being fired.

But it...just sort of happened.

Which made Morty cringe with how typical that sounded.

But...it had started off like any other dancer-customer exchange.

Morty had approached this Rick at the bar, sliding up next to him with a flirty smile and a gentle hand on his arm. Morty had enjoyed watching his eyes widen as he took in the creamy silk of Morty’s outfit and the smooth skin that shimmered under the neon lights. This Rick hadn’t shooed his company away (which had been a theme for that evening, much to Morty’s chagrin) and had offered him a Sprite. He had initiated a conversation with him, asking him if his Rick had told him about this adventure in this dimension that they had pulled off in the most badass way imaginable and Morty had swallowed it all, hook, line, and sinker.

Morty knew what strings to pull and what tricks to play in order to win him some extra coins in his pocket. He knew how to play Ricks like a fiddle until they melted in his hand and he went home with next month’s rent in his wallet.

But this Rick had made him forget that he was working. They had laughed and they shared nostalgia and they learned the differences of their dimensions. It was most fun Morty had had at the Creepy Morty since his first week, and he was losing himself in the throaty chuckle of this Rick and the way he would occasionally get lost in the exposed curves of Morty’s body.

It had him feeling light and sexy. He could feel the undeniable white-hot curling of that damned coil in his gut, and he was falling right down a dangerous rabbit hole.

It wasn’t until Rick had reached into his lab coat to retrieve a wad of twenties that Morty remembered he was still on his shift at the Creepy Morty.

Rick leaned into the crook of his neck and Morty felt his head spin from the musk of cedar and oil emanating from the man. He flushed when he felt calloused fingers wrap the twenties around the band of his shorts, helping the material hike up his leg and expose the curve of his ass cheek and the light stretch marks across his thigh. As Rick pulled back, he didn’t hesitate to trail his fingers across those silver scars, his sharp gaze piercing and not leaving his own.

Morty should’ve just thanked him and moved on.

Morty should’ve just ended his shift early.

Morty should’ve just gone home and wacked off.

But no.

He didn’t do any of those because that would’ve been smart.

Instead he had offered, heart hammering against his sternum, gut flipping those hot coals in his loins, if Rick would be interested in moving their conversation somewhere more private.

He should’ve known.

Fuck, Morty should’ve known by that damned look in those eyes.

It had started off as a normal lap dance.

But it hadn’t felt like a normal lap dance.

The air was too charged. The tension was so thick. The breath between them was too hot.
The hands caressing his flesh had been too much. That bulge against his thigh had him squirming. Those growled compliments had him flushed and panting.

His movements didn’t hold their usual grace. His hips jerked and his hands shook.

The music was too loud. It rang in his ears and the sensual bass was unraveling him.

Those calloused hands… They gripped the soft flesh of his thighs. They slotted thumbs into the dips of his hips, rotating his body for him. They dug into the mounds of his ass, sliding him closer.

It spiraled.

God, it kept going.

It was unraveling, and Morty didn’t even care.

It made him so dizzy, and he loved it.

And throughout the whole exchange, Rick would slip twenties and fifties into the folds of his silk. It was so hard to feel guilty when he was still getting paid. It made it easier to convince him that he was just working. They were still clothed. They hadn’t even kissed yet.

But it was frowned upon for clients to touch the dancers, especially in such an erotic fashion.

And it was getting increasingly harder for Morty to remind himself This isn’t okay. You could get fired. This is a strip club, not a whore house. You are a dancer, not a prostitute! the closer their bodies became, the longer the song boomed in his veins, the hungrier those hands grazed over his skin…

And it was when a particular grind down had Morty whimpering, his hips stuttering against the firmness of Rick’s thigh, that everything seemed to stand still.

He froze, his muscles absolutely rigid, and if his skin hadn’t been pink before, it was in that moment. And when he met Rick’s gaze… Morty couldn’t remember what had had him so anxious.

The blue in Rick’s eyes had almost completely been drowned out with black, reminding

Morty of a solar eclipse. The flare his nostrils gave made his head spin. And he gave another whimper when fingers clawed themselves into the flesh of his sides, holding fast.

Morty’s breath hitched when Rick tilted his head to whisper into his ear. His voice wasn’t even human. It rasped and it growled, reminding Morty more of a starving lone wolf than a human being.

“The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh. I don’t care what I have to pay your cute little ass.”

And the pathetic thing about it all? Morty didn’t even hesitate.

Whining, Morty nodded like his head was about to fall off and allowed Rick’s giant hands to guide him. Those hands balled themselves into the silk of his shorts, rising the material over his ass and making it dig into his crack and against his dick, increasing the friction.

God, he tried to be quiet. He did, he did, he did. But the ferocity of Rick’s rhythm, the filth that dripped from his tongue, and the drunkening thrum of the techno beat of the music was wearing him so, so thin.

Ugh, you’re such a sweet slut, huh? Co-coming up to me in-in that little get up, like-like you wanted me to rip right off---right off of you.”

God, silk looks so---so fuckin’ good on you, babe. I-I can’t wait to---I can’t wait to watch you ruin it.”

Grandpa loves those---those slutty moans of yours, baby. Don’t---don’t hide them. Want everyone to hear whata---what an easy bitch you were for Gr-Grandpa.”

His eyes rolled back and he crammed his fingers into his mouth. He could taste some blood from where he had tried biting his lip to be quiet. Whines were dripping from his lips along with drool as he felt that telltale quiver in his gut. Rick must have noticed the pathetic quickening of his pace because suddenly his thigh was rising with his thrusts, and Morty was falling, falling, falling…

His eyes slammed shut and he slumped forward, his hips stuttering, his body quaking. His hands tore at the lab coat and Morty could hear himself moaning as he tried to hold onto the last couple moments of his orgasm.

Rick had helped him ride it out, easing his rhythm to slow stop. He waited, rubbing Morty’s back and petting the top of his head, until the kid finally glanced up at him, wiping the drool from his chin.

With a smirk, Rick fished out a couple hundred dollar bills from his pocket, delicately wrapping them around the straps of Morty’s cropped cami.