You stood at the appointed spot, dressed as directed.
I was consumed with other matters – couldn’t suitably appreciate your full, round breasts, your exquisite compliance with my requests. “I have some shit to resolve on my phone. Sit tight for ten minutes,” I texted.
“I’m comfortable standing, if that’s ok,” you replied.
“Ok,” I said.
I stationed myself just behind, out of sight of, you. I stared at you as I finished up what I was doing on my phone, admiring you.
I ended my call, and texted you. “Start walking south slowly. Don’t turn around.”
And then, “I’m watching your ass.” I was. Though the crowd was thick, I kept your ass constantly in view as we weaved through the pedestrians, watching as it swayed back and forth, pressing against the tight cotton of your dress. I texted more specific directions. Turn left up ahead. Go into the strip club on the right.
“Check your bag. Text me when you’ve sat down and ordered two drinks. Whatever you want, and a black label, rocks, for me. I’ll be in when my drink is waiting.”
But there was a hiccup.
“No single women” you texted.
“There in a moment,” I replied.
And I was. We checked our bags. We sat down at comfortable seats far back, away from the stage. And we kissed hello, for the first time.
Small talk. About strip clubs, anxiety. Pneumatic tits and the lack of them. (You didn’t see any in the club; I saw a lot.)
We talked about remaking strip clubs – what would your ideal look like? “It would feel safe, comfortable,” you said.
“How would you accomplish that?”
“No men allowed – all girls,” you said.
“What about me – could I come?”
“Oh, ok, sure.”
And suddenly, we had the perfect strip club for both of us designed.
We gauged the talent in the place. Whom did you like? I asked you to walk around and to come back with a report, on whom you found most attractive, whom you thought I would find most attractive.
“Squeeze my knee and tell me it’s gonna be all right?” you said.
You got up and walked around. Moments later, you returned. “I don’t know if this quite counts, but there’s a short-haired brunette I feel like I would like, like I might hang out with.”
You didn’t have one picked out for me.
“What’s your type, to the extent you have one?” I asked.
“It’s really more about attitude.”
We watched a blonde, maybe 5’6”, with fake tits, but tasteful, not huge ones. “Those are fake?!?” You asked me. “Oh yeah,” I said.
The dancer finished her set and came over. She effused over you, and, in particular, over your breasts. She squeezed them and pinched them. She gave you a lap dance. She demonstrated her attitude. You were won over.
It wasn’t long before we were in the champagne room. Money changed hands. Champagne was brought, poured. As were strawberries and whipped cream. Your top was off, and the dancer (Dee) decorated your chest with whipped cream, licking, sucking it off. And more effusion: “Oh my god, your tits. You have the greatest breasts I’ve ever seen. And they’re NATural! Oh my God! Oh my God! I could just LIVE under these boobs.” And so on.
Dee lavished you with attention, fairly neglecting me. I enjoyed the view, and the neglect: Dee was your pick, not mine. (There was little to my liking that night among the dancers. There was one waitress, a petite brunette in a frilly white dress who looked oddly misplaced – like, perhaps she should be serving tea at a little fancy tea parlor, except when she passed in front of a spotlight and the area between her legs became visible in shadows and voids.)
While Dee lavished attention on your breasts, I lowered myself between your legs, kissing, licking your thighs, pressing against your pink cotton panties, slipping my finger, my tongue, under the elastic, finding you copiously wet.
I licked you, sucked your clit a bit. Dee was kissing you, riding you, squeezing you, pinching you. I came up to watch for a bit.
Dee’s effusion continued. “Is there any way to shut her up?” I thought. But I was a bit passive, as I often am rendered in this atmosphere. Somehow whatever dominance I exhibit generally evaporates in the presence of (most) strippers. Dee even laughed, derisively, when we said that I was kinda dominant, that you were submissive to me.
Dee continued to use your body as her stage. She licked you, kissed you, stroked you, fingered you. You were surprised to feel her fingers in your pussy – not unhappy, but surprised.
And then it was over. The strawberries were done, the whipped cream gone, and the hostess announced our time was up.
“I’m so jealous,” Dee said. “I have to go back, and you guys are gonna go fuck!”
She was so right.
(to be continued)