Amateur Strip

This is a work of fiction. While some real places and institutions are mentioned or implied, they are used fictitiously here. As far as the author knows, no real person affiliated with any of those places or institutions has done anything akin to what is described in this story. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person are coincidental and unintended.

I apologize but, like many of my stories, this one takes a little time to get going.

I encourage comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable. Thank you for reading.

_____________________________________________________

I hadn't seen Carrie Wagner in about four years. As far as I knew, she was a lawyer in the city in the southwest corner of our state where she and I had gone to college. I was, at the time this story starts, a deputy sheriff in a very rural county in the southeastern corner of the state. Although I hadn't seen Carrie in some time, I thought about her often. Carrie was difficult to forget, although I tried.

I kept a g-mail account I'd had since undergraduate school for old friends to contact me. Most of my friends lived far from me. The longer I stayed in fringe Appalachia, the less I heard from them.

Carrie's e-mail arrived in my inbox on New Year's Day. I was off work for reasons I'll get to. I assumed Carrie's e-mail was just a "Happy New Year." At that point, even those few words would be nice. I opened the e-mail.

"Peter: Please call me. Today if you can. (513) xxx-xxxx. Love. Carrie W."

My memories of Carrie were all good. We'd met during sophomore year of college. I was on the men's swim team, and she was a diver on the women's team. The two teams practiced at the same time frequently and occasionally went to dual meets together. I don't recall exactly how we started, but Carrie and I started talking to each other and something clicked. We had many common interests, and often made each other laugh.

From my point of view, it helped that Carrie was very good-looking. She was about five feet six inches tall and around 120-125 pounds. Her tits were a bit bigger than I'd seen on most female divers, and her thighs were a bit thicker, although that was muscle. Her stomach was flat, and her suits highlighted her tight ass. She had light brown hair with a face that reminded me of the actress who was the female lead in the old movie Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Carrie and I were just friends during sophomore year. Carrie was from the city where we went to college, and I was from a smaller city about fifty miles north. Through the coaches, we both got jobs at the same sports club that summer, so Carrie and I saw each other a lot. The better I got to know Carrie, the more I was attracted to her. For reasons I've never understood, she grew more attracted to me too. We did some things we called "dates" that summer. One of our "dates" late that summer was a picnic in a state park. Our first lovemaking session was outdoors that afternoon. I was hooked.

Carrie was an econ major. I was majoring in criminology. Carrie used to tease me that I was "pretty broad-minded for someone who wants to be a cop." Carrie could be intensely serious. She was serious about her diving, which got her to nationals on the three-meter board her senior year. She was serious about school and was on Dean's list every semester we were together.

What I found to be one of Carrie's most endearing traits was that she could also be wild, to a point. Late in our senior year, after swim season was over, Carrie and I and two other couples who were swimmers snuck into the university natatorium. I say "snuck," but we all had keys. None of us had been drinking. We just wanted to say "goodbye" to our swimming careers. We'd all been doing it since we were young children.

After we walked around for a few minutes, Carrie said, "you know, there's something I always wanted to do." She climbed the ladder to the ten-meter platform. Yelling down to us, Carrie said, "I always wanted to take my suit off up here when the place full." Carrie stripped off her clothes and went to the edge of the platform. "I always wanted to stand here naked and let everyone see me before I made my dive." She did just that for the five of us. Even at that distance, Carrie was very beautiful nude. After she stood for a moment, I suppose imagining what it would be like with a full house, she knelt, put her hands on the edge of the platform, and raised herself into a handstand. She executed what seemed to me to be a flawless dive.

Carrie came out of the pool naked. Instead of toweling off, she came up to me.

"You're dripping on me," I said.

"I want you to take your clothes off Peter," Carrie replied. It was sort of a joke between us that, when she said that in that tone of voice, I always obeyed because it meant we were about to enjoy ourselves and each other. With only a momentary thought about our friends, I stripped to my skin.

"Follow me," Carrie instructed. I followed her to the platform ladder and climbed up behind her. Climbing a ladder behind a naked Carrie Wagner was, to put it mildly, stimulating. When we reached the platform, Carrie said, "there's another thing I always wanted to do up here." She reached down and started stroking my dick, which was already partially hard from watching her on the ladder. Carrie spread her legs slightly. I took the hint and began running my index finger over her cunt lips.

It didn't take either of us long to get aroused. "The platform's too rough to lie on," Carrie said. She put her arms behind my neck, locked her hands, jumped up, and wrapped her legs around me. "You're just going to have to hold me while we do this," she said.

I put my hands on Carrie's bare ass to hold her and stepped backwards until I could lean against the rail at the side of the platform. Carrie pulled down on my hips with her thighs while I used one hand to guide my dick into her. With my weight supported by the rail, Carrie pulled herself up and down while I lifted her ass and lowered it. It sounds cumbersome, but it was a fun way to fuck. We both came. Perhaps not our best orgasm together, but fun.

Another example of Carrie's wild streak starts this story. There had never really been any strip clubs in the city where we went to college. Years before, there had been some across the river in the adjoining state. Those had all been "cleaned up" by the time Carrie and I were in college. For that reason, it was a news item when a large strip club opened just off the Interstate about thirty miles north of the city during the summer between our junior and senior years.

Carrie and I lived together starting middle of our junior year. Late one Saturday afternoon the following summer, we were done with work, had nothing planned for the evening, and were bored. Carrie had the TV on and the five o'clock news ran a story about the strip club, which had then been open exactly one month. "Have you ever been to a strip club?" Carrie asked me.

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Me neither," Carrie said. "Why don't go there tonight? We don't have anything else to do and it should, at least, be good for a laugh." It seemed like a lark, so I agreed.

I had always envisioned strip clubs as ratty dives. This one was clean and seemed well maintained. I expected Carrie would be the only woman in the audience but the audience when we got there seemed to be about a third women. I assumed strippers would be ugly, if not repulsive. The women stripping fully nude on the stage at one end of the room were not gorgeous like Carrie, but they were pleasant enough to look at. My expectations were fulfilled in one respect: the drinks were ridiculously expensive.

I have no problem looking at naked women, but it seemed silly to me since a much more beautiful woman was sitting beside me and I expected to see her naked, and be naked with her, later that evening. Carrie, however, was watching the dancers with rapt attention and seemed to be enjoying herself. Finally, when we both wanted a third drink but realized we'd already spent $ 100 without tipping, we decided to leave.

During the drive back to the apartment, Carrie said, "I wouldn't want to do it as a regular job, but doing it once, being up there on stage, before a room full of people, and taking everything off, showing everyone my bare tits, ass, and cunt, would be really hot." I didn't say anything. After a moment, Carrie probed. "Wouldn't you like to be up there, stark naked, swinging that fat dick of your around?"

I thought about that for a moment. Carrie had a point. It did seem like something which would be a blast to do once. "I think it would be better," I said, "to be up there with someone you love, stripping each other for the audience and showing each other off."

"Damn!" Carrie replied. "That would be so hot! I remember why I like you so well. I love how you think."

Over the time we stayed together, we came back to that night periodically. We called it our "stripper fantasy." We'd invent new details and share what we expected the experience to be like. We talked each other into thinking that the two of us stripping nude together on a stage with an audience was something we really wanted to do. However, that was unrealistic.

Carrie graduated with honors and went to the university's law school. I started on my master's in criminology, and we stayed together for a while. It became clear when we were out with Carrie's new law school friends that most of them had me stereotyped as some rightwing neanderthal because I aspired to a law enforcement career. Some were not subtle about their opinion that Carrie was dating beneath herself. As Carrie spent more time with her law school friends doing study groups, law review, and moot court, she and I spent less time together.

I got my master's a year before Carrie finished law school. I went to the central part of the state for a few weeks to get my state "peace officer" training. I also plastered resumes across law enforcement agencies in the southern half of the state. It was a bad time for local governments as the state legislature had cut the state funds for local government. I must have gotten fifty e-mails thanking me for my interest and saying my resume would be kept on file. I needed money. I spent seven months as a "security officer" at a large local hospital. I stayed away from Carrie. I could imagine the grief her law school friends would give her if the best her long-time boyfriend could do was hospital security guard. She didn't call which, I thought, meant she imagined the same thing.

Not long before Carrie's graduation, I was offered a deputy position with a county sheriff's office about three hours' drive away. I called Carrie to tell her and explain why I couldn't make her graduation. Carrie wished me success in the new job. Neither of us said it, but we both knew we were saying goodbye. I had known it would come. Carrie and I were on very different career paths. I was grateful to have had so much time with her. Carrie Wagner was a special woman.

The Sheriff who hired me had been elected the previous fall. Although he was a native of the County, he was a law enforcement professional. He had spent years with both the federal ATF and the state Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Although he held a political office, Sheriff Monroe was new to the County's politics. He didn't realize he was setting me up because he hired me over the nephew of a county commissioner.

As the most junior deputy, I got the worst shifts. Overnight shifts on Tuesdays, and every Thursday through Sunday. My first 18 months on the job, I worked every single holiday, often double shifts. I volunteered for some of the holiday shifts. I needed the overtime, and it let deputies with families have the holiday off.

I made another unwitting error which made my time in the county more unpleasant. That involved a third party. What turned out to be the final nail in my coffin in the County had happened on my third Christmas Eve in the County. It was around 11:30 p.m. I was patrolling a two-lane road about ten miles from the county seat when a new Mustang came from the opposite direction at high speed. The Mustang was straddling the double yellow and forced me off the road. When I got back on the pavement, I turned on lights and siren, started a pursuit, and radioed for help.

It was good that we had dashcams in our patrol cars. It was also good that state patrol officers responded to do the breathalyzer. The driver blew double the legal limit. The bad thing was the driver was the son of the local state senator.

The County really had only one political party. You were not going to get any elective office without that party's support. The state senator ran the local party. The county prosecutor got out of bed early Christmas morning to sign the paperwork dropping charges against the senator's son. The state patrol had formally made the arrest. The senator didn't have enough clout to hassle them but he needed to crush someone to make the point that his family was off limits. Guess who?

I was working my second shift that Christmas when a text appeared on my official cell phone. The text told me I had a meeting with the Sheriff at 9: 15 the next morning. My shift ended at 9:00 a.m. At least I wouldn't have to drive home and then back to the office.

Sheriff Monroe started our meeting by saying, "Stone, you've been here almost three years. You're one of our better officers. You had Jason Johnson dead to rights. I've seen the dashcam. He nearly hit you and he was weaving, doing 75 in a 35 zone. But Senator Johnson doesn't care. He wants you fired, for cause so your career is screwed. I'm not going to let that prick dictate who works for me. However, the primary is in March. Johnson will run someone against me if I stand up to him. He'll want to show the public I made a bad decision. We both know there isn't much I can do if the city people pull you over in your private car and 'observe' heroin, coke, or fentanyl on your passenger seat." The County's biggest dealers had political connections.

There's an old saying that "when elephants fight, the grass suffers." The Sheriff was warning me that I was likely to be the grass on which he and Senator Johnson fought. The Sheriff was also telling me, without saying it outright, that his political situation would be better if I voluntarily left the County.

Sheriff Monroe took a sip of his coffee. "Peter," he said, "I've looked at your work records. You haven't taken any vacation since you joined the department. You've earned six weeks. Why don't you take a couple of weeks off, with pay, and think things over."

I was put on leave immediately. I thought about going home or going back to where I'd gone to college. I'd lost touch with my old friends and wasn't that close to my family. Besides, I needed to sit still and think out my future. If I spent my leave in the County, at least I wouldn't have any distractions.

I wrestled over whether to call Carrie as she asked in her e-mail. Around 4:00 p.m. that New Year's Day, I turned on my TV. Deciding that I really wasn't interested in Texas playing Florida State in the Rose Bowl, I called Carrie.

I had forgotten that Carrie's voice was always sexy. I was reminded when she answered her phone, "Happy New Year Inspector Clouseau. How are you doing?" Carrie liked old movies.

"What's that song lyric?" I asked rhetorically, "sometimes I think it's a sin when I feel like I'm winning when I'm losing again?"

"What's going on?" Carrie asked more seriously.

I gave Carrie an abbreviated version of my recent adventures. I saved the punchline for last: like it or not, I was in the job market again.

"Jesus, you've been screwed," Carrie replied. "Is it really that bad over there? No, don't answer that. My remaining shreds of idealism probably can't handle the truth. It isn't why I wanted you to call, but I might be able to help you. I do have something I want to talk to you about, but I'd prefer to do it in person. I went out on my own about eight months ago. My office is in Norwood. Any chance you can come over here tomorrow?"

"Sure," I said. "Its not like I have a job to go to."

"How long does it take to get here from over there?" Carrie asked.

"There isn't any really direct route," I said. "Two and a half to three and a half hours, depending on traffic."

"If you're here at 1:00 p.m., that means you're on the road around 10:00 a.m. Is that too early for you?" Carrie asked.

"No," I said. "I'll be there as close to one as I can." Carrie gave me her address to put in GPS.

After we hung up, I was curious what Carrie wanted. That she wanted something was obvious from the fact she wanted to meet in person. She knew I'd have trouble turning her down face-to-face.

When last I'd heard, Carrie worked in the prosecutor's office downtown. The next afternoon, I parked at the curb in front of a two-story 19th Century house. A tasteful sign in the front yard said, "Carrie S. Wagner, Attorney at Law." I went up the steps, across the front porch, and pressed a buzzer by the front door. Carrie opened the door, gave me a quick hug, and said, "please, come in."

We walked through a large room with chairs that was obviously the reception area. An attractive young brunette sat at a desk. "Peter," Carrie said, "this is my paralegal/receptionist/secretary Diane Rast."

The brunette stood up and smiled. She had a nice figure. "Mr. Stone," she said, "it's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh shit!" I said. Carrie and Diane laughed.

I followed Carrie into her office. Carrie's tight slacks suggested that several years sitting at a desk hadn't caused any deterioration in her fantastic ass. Carrie shut her door and faced me. "Damn Peter," she said, "you look just as good as you did in college."

"You look better," I said. She did. Carrie was, if anything, more beautiful than she'd been in school. Something about her face and movements suggested experience.

"Sit down," Carrie said. Instead of going behind her desk, Carrie took the chair next to mine. "About your job situation," Carrie said, "I made some calls this morning. I'm part of a loose group of lawyers who are solo or two-person shops. We're all independent but we share resources. We all do criminal defense or personal injury or both. One problem we all have is that the prosecutors and insurance companies have resources to investigate cases that we don't have. If you can get your private investigator's license, I think I can get you a pretty steady flow of work from about a dozen lawyers."

"I should be able to get a PI license without much trouble," I said. "But that's not what you originally wanted to talk about."

Carrie smiled, then took a deep breath. "Bear with me," she said, "there's a story here. You didn't know Sue Reffler in school, did you?"

"No," I said.

"Sue was a dance student," Carrie said. "I took some dance classes to help with my diving and she and I became friends. We've stayed in touch. She's got her BFA and she's a trained ballet dancer, but she dances at a really high-end strip club in the center of the state, just off the belt road around the city. She says she makes more money than she would as a legitimate dancer, is never out of work, and doesn't have to travel. This is relevant because the man who owns the club where she dances owns another very high-end strip club up in the northeast part of the state. His name is Carl Zoellner."

Carrie took a breath and resumed her story. "Carl made the mistake of hiring a dancer whose boyfriend was a big-time dealer. The Feds caught him. He tried to get himself a deal by getting his girlfriend to say that Carl was running drugs through his clubs. That wasn't true, but the Feds came down on Carl, charging felonies from drug-dealing to money laundering to running a corrupt organization. I'd just left the prosecutor's office, but Sue talked Carl into hiring me to represent him."