Women Watching Woman (750 Words)

A short scene I thought might be appreciated in the

750 Word Project 2022

Pink Orchid 2022 for Women-Centric Erotica Challenge

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Lesbian strip-night? Wahey!

The bar's dancefloor faced six curved couches. We all squeezed together. Two female couples occupied other sofas, others behind. Chairs piled in corners proved the crowd was sparse.

The stripper wore a bustier, hotpants, impressive heels. She smiled, seeming to fix eyes on me, raising one leg up the pole, displaying fabulous thighs.

She spun, crouched, glided to standing, pole slipping past her clit. I imagined the usual audience picturing their cocks there...

Another woman gyrated behind, sparkling leotard and Spandex tights hugging her figure.

Hotpants strutted around, greeting everyone. She stood before us, worshipping her body, running hands over her arse and tits.

We grinned back. More music. She bent, massaging her breasts near our faces, and gestured.

Tipping! We'd forgotten. Kat passed a fiver. Phew! I only had coins. You gave beggars coins, but £5 was significant; a week's food. Withdrawing pound notes must've really screwed some professionals' finances.

She was a professional, no doubt. No more cash forthcoming; she squatted before us. Storyteller, audience. "Any chance of a drink?"

Liz responded, "What you having?"

"G&T, thanks." She eyed us, as if expecting - hoping? - we'd remove our own clothes, copying her. "How d'you know each other?"

I indicated: friends, girlfriends.

"Cool. You all like women, yeah?" Nods, some sheepish.

"We wanted to support this club night!" Dani exclaimed.

"Yeah? Excellent. But, not being too blunt, strippers earn from dances. £25, please. Altogether!" More charm. "I'll make it worth your while."

We paid.

She tucked notes inside her corset, tits jiggling, pointing into the gap below. "I accept coins, too. Just sayin'."

New song. She beamed, then turned. We mourned her cheerful face, but became mesmerised. Bent over, her arse drew our gaze, magnet-like. When it began gyrating, we all wanted to grab her.

We didn't. Not just because of the distance.

Legs parted, she fondled her own thighs lovingly, complete with strokes over her pussy, making me yearn to participate.

Smile now reaching her eyes, she observed her entertainment's delighted recipients. She thrust her pelvis forward, approaching, touching herself.

The bra above her corset vanished. We clapped.

Her breasts were rounded, firm; as expected for someone earning money from them. Cute. She whirled, taut bum shimmying, arse exposed, obscured, exposed.

She raised one knee, sideways-on, then t'other. Lifting her nearer leg straight, her hotpants appeared to slide upwards; her foot flicked them into the air.

Fantastic gymnastics.

Nigh-naked, she booty-shook, spun, revealed her shaved pubic zone. More athletic high kicks displayed full pussy.

A great performance.

Erotic? Not really. I wouldn't be taking her home.

Music over, she pushed her tits out, pouting. We applauded, then realised we should tip again. Lucky she took coins! I enjoyed inserting quids in her corset, with her encouragement.

"Cheers, guys." She sat. "My drink? You don't go to strip clubs much, do you?"

Silence.

"Thing is, you're a great audience. You actually like my dancing, my act. It's fun, performing for you. Why I do it! Unfortunately, need cash. Hence working men's nights...

"They all want private dances. Pretending I'm theirs, no-one else's. They all fantasise: they could possess me, with enough cash. So I simper, blow kisses; they'll pay for another dance. And a third. I'll go to another guy, same. Back to the first. Sure, it's avoiding drool and grabby-hands, but twenties are twenties..."

"Really, you don't make money on these nights?"

"Ha! Fifteen punters: 180 quid? House gets half; they ain't getting rich, doorman and barman needing paid! Hardly pays electric bills... Three dancers, thirty each. Tube fare: £10 now - not trusting Night Buses late! Sewing outfits back together, replacing them... It's the dances and tips I live on." She fondled her corset, estimating the contents.

"Fortunately, I'm not relying on you for rent!"

"How often d'you... dance?"

"My days off. I'm chorus for Les Mis - an actual role! I do Tuesdays, Thursdays, matinees, very junior. Course, that's more evenings for other work."

"Do weekends pay best?"

"Not really. Few more wild tips, but then there's more girls working. What you want are regular men, buying multiple dances, every time. Sad sacks who imagine you think they're special." She shrugged.

"Do you feel bad about that?"

"Nah. Used to work in a bookies. This way, they can't waste cash so quick. And they're getting something back!

"Tschuh! If only they'd chat like you guys, they'd get it free." She danced again, for us, nude in corset and heels. "That would mean treating me like a person, not a slot machine. Why I like you."

She twirled again.