You sit in the deserted nightclub, waiting for John to come back down from his office. "Just a couple of minutes," he said, "Gotta drop by work to pick up some papers or the club won't open on Friday. We'll still make it to the game early enough to watch batting practice. Calm down, man!"
You stand up, pacing around the floor, looking at the VIP tables surrounded by curtains that line the dance area. With the lights on the dance floor going, and the sheer curtains closed, the VIPs could be doing anything in there and still watch the hot girls gyrating to the DJ. Shit, you think, and John'll probably one of 'em....he now owns the newest hot nightclub in town; he'll have the pussy lined up the stairs to his office. And with THAT thought, your mind wanders back to the place it's been for a month....the girlfriend that left you out of the blue, after living together for six months.
You collapse back into the chair and begin to wallow in pity again, when the front door swings open, bathing the club in bright daylight. A perfect hourglass silhouette forms in the rectangle of light, and as the door slowly closes, your eyes adjust and focus on the hottest woman you have ever seen. As her hips sway gracefully back and forth, her stiletto heels tap out a rhythmic beat across the floor: a sexual metronome come to life. Even wearing a topcoat, the tautness of her body is palpable through her clothing, and as your eyes finally reach the shapely calves below the coat's hem, you realize she's standing less than three feet from you. You look up, and into the deepest brown eyes--and you almost forget to breathe.
"Hi! I'm Tawnee! That's with two ee's" she squeaks in a little girls voice, thrusting her hand at you. You don't remember putting yours out, but her hand is suddenly warm in yours, pumping up and down. "You're Sam, right?" she asks, releasing your hand.
Before you can correct her, she glances around the empty club, and turns back to you with an almost imperceptible pout on her moist lips. "There's no one else here? Ohhhhhhh, I'm not too late to audition, am I?"
"A-Audition?" you stammer, more confused.
"Yeah," she says, bending to dig in the giant bag hanging from her shoulder. She produces a folded newspaper and reads aloud. "Dancers Wanted -- experienced only, pole work a plus. Ask for Sam."
She thrusts the ad your way, "That's you? Sam, right?"
Your eyes flick toward the circled ad and you realize that she should be at the Strip Club down the block. How did she manage to miss the giant flashing sign that reads "Fat Sam's Titty City"?, you think to yourself.
As you start to speak, she rummages in her bag again. "Anyway , I've got a glossy and a DVD, with some of my stuff on it," she piles the DVD box and the glossy photo on top of the newspaper in your hand. The picture shows her on stage topless, bent over, thrusting her shapely bare ass at the camera, her pussy straining against the flimsiest of thongs—and you realize everything you thought about her when she walked in didn't even come close.
