"Of course I don't mind," Anne said, looking at him with her head cocked to one side. "It's your inheritance, you're allowed to blow it."
"You're sure?" He reached over to touch her face, and she leaned her cheek into his palm, her blonde hair falling over his hand. "Even on strippers?"
Anne laughed and kissed his palm. "When did I ever object to you going to strip clubs? You could spend it on hookers, if you wanted to. God knows they can give you what I can't." And at that her phone rang, and she spun smartly in her wheelchair to roll to the desk and pick it up.
He watched her go and heard her greet her mother. Five years now she'd been in that wheel chair, struck down by a driver who claimed to have not seen her bike. They'd found ways to bring their sex life back from the dead, but it wasn't the same, and she'd told him time and again she had no objection to letting him find someone on the side. But he felt disloyal enough with his rare visits to the dark recesses of a strip club, and money had been tight for a long time before his mother had passed away and left him her considerable investments.
The call ended, and she wheeled her way back to him. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are you going to do it?"
He pursed his lips, and nodded. Time to stop ignoring her generosity. "I'll go downtown this weekend, check out the Deja Vu by the market."
"Good. When you get back you can tell me all about it. Now, come here, I know a little friend of yours who needs some attention."
He stood up. "He's not little."
"Believe me, baby, I know." She started to undo his pants.
+++
She made eye contact as soon as he took a seat in front of the stage. The look from behind the big zebra-framed glasses wasn't that of a dancer vying for his consideration, to be the first to claim the right to rent her attention. Her eyes said I see you. I know you.
For an instant he wondered if Anne had called ahead, told them to watch for him, to engage him, but that was ridiculous. Whatever he read in her glance was wishful thinking. She seemed almost supernaturally desirable. Her figure and face and hair fit his ideal so perfectly, even more than Anne, and he knew the only reason this dance had even noticed him was that he might offer her money.
All that separated him from the stage was a little round table, and he sat back, eyes fixed on her. She wound her way up and down the pole like a snake, her hair a dark waterfall that fell almost to the curve of her ass. Her white push-up bra and gossamer thong gleamed in the stage lights.
His penis stirred. Someone came to take his drink order, and without thinking he ordered a Diet Coke. The dancer abandoned the pole and squatted in the center of the stage, right in front of him, her knees spread wide. Looking right at him, ignoring the other men in the sparse audience, she teased the cloth of her bra away from one shapely breast, pinching and erecting her nipple. She stroked herself through the white thong. She licked her lips, slowly, then gyrated to the very edge of the stage, twisted, and stuck out her hip.
He leaned forward and slid a dollar bill into the thin strap.
She faced him again and waved her tits, now both covered again, in his face. "If you want to talk, move to the back row when I'm done," she said, her voice almost lost in the pulse of the music.
His drink came as she rose and backed away, reached behind herself, and dropped her bra on the stage. Gradually her thong came off as well, and then her stripper heels, leaving her wearing only her glasses, somehow as alluring as her breasts, which spilled over her hands as she squeezed them. Squatting again, she wet one forefinger in her pussy and circled each round, brown areola in turn. Then she spun, grabbed the pole and rotated her ass, feet wide apart, showing him everything.
Concealed by the table, he gave his cock a quick squeeze. She clung to the pole, smiled at him, eyes half closed, as if she saw and knew everything, then took a couple of spins around it and pressed her breasts together around it, bobbing up and down, fucking her tits with the gleaming brass rod.
By the time her set ended he'd contributed ten singles, and as she picked up the money and her costume and left the stage, he moved to the back row, bending a little to conceal the bulge in his pants, as if every other male in the place didn't have one of his own. A dig of jealousy washed over him as, dressed again in her bra and thong and heels, with an added pair of wide-mesh white fishnets, she spent a moment talking to another man before sauntering over to him. Again her eyes locked with his, and she moved effortlessly between the tables and chairs until she was able to slide her hand along his shoulders and press a breast to his arm.
Her mouth brushed his ear and her scent filled his nostrils. "I think you and me should to find someplace a little more private." His heart pounded. It wasn't a question or an invitation; she'd done no more than tell him what was going to happen next.
"You have a place like that?" As he spoke, the back of his hand found her knee, and his knuckles moved slowly up her thigh, diamonds of smooth skin bordered by the fine lines of her stockings. She didn't move away.
"I have more than one, but the closest is just back there." She nodded toward a dark doorway.
He rose, and she put her arm through his and guided him toward the back. In heels the top of her head was just above his shoulder, and her swaying hip bumped against him.
The back room was dim and empty, with an empty stage. She sat him down in a larger, plusher chair than any in the front, almost in the center of the room where it was darkest. She pushed the little round table back a few feet and perched on the padded arm of the chair, her breasts so close to his face he could feel their warmth.
"I'm Emmy."
On a daring impulse, he bent forward and and kissed the naked slope of her breast.
She pulled back, just a few inches, smiling. "We gotta be careful. The manager's a friend of mine, but sometimes she watches, and she can be strict." She cast a lingering look at the ceiling before leaning closer again. "The cameras don't cover this spot very well." She leaned in again, her mouth close to his ear, her hand on his chest. "You look like you have things on your mind. Maybe I can help?"
"I think you can."
Emmy uncovered her right breast, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. She took it in her hand and guided it to his face, pressing the softness to his cheek. He turned his head a little and licked her erect nipple, then sucked it between his lips. She gasped a little when he took it between his teeth and surrendered it to his hand. He squeezed the pliant flesh, and when he reached for her other breast she bared it as well.
Then she backed away, smoothly covering herself, and turned her ass to him, slapped one cheek, and backed right into his lap. She rotated it against his hardness and he grasped her hips, her skin cool beneath his palms. Hands on his knees, Emmy ground herself into him, and his hand circled around to her taut belly, seeking the top of the fishnets.
She half-turned her face toward him, smiling, then turned to face him before he could get his fingers far past the elastic waistband. She rested one knee beside him in the chair and pulled the fishnets down below her hips, thrusting her pelvis toward him, inviting. He turned his palm to her stomach and pushed his fingers into her thong.
Her mound was bare and smooth, and his middle finger found her clitoris, but kept going until he found her opening, a hot pool under the tip of his finger, enough to wet his finger without entering her. He returned to her clit, rubbed gently xback and forth over it. She made a low sound in the back of her throat and leaned into him, her breasts mounding against his upper chest, head beside his. Her black hair was a fragrant cloud in his face.
His finger slid down again, poised at her portal.
"Can I?"
"Keep going."
