Part 1 of 2.
All rights reserved. This Work may not be copied, published, republished or posted on any other venue or media, in whole or in part, without the author's express written permission.
Many thanks to my editor, who wishes to remain anonymous. Without her time and expertise, so generously given, this would be less enjoyable reading. All remaining errors are solely the result of my inability to leave well enough alone after she made it perfect. My bad.
This my first story of any kind. Please remember to rate and comment so I can improve.
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My wife, Lynne, is a Southern lady in her prime. She's what's known as 'Black Irish'. Her mid-length raven black hair falls in lustrous waves that, together with her arched eyebrows, perfectly frame the delicate features of her face. Her large brown eyes sparkle when she smiles and have a smoky quality when she's aroused. Her creamy white unblemished skin comes from her pure Irish ancestors.
Her figure is perfect for her 5' 7" height. She has long, shapely legs and a firm, heart shaped fanny that just begs to be patted. Her rosebud-tipped breasts are well rounded with a slight up-tilt of the tips. They wobble and jiggle delightfully when she walks; men get distracted and short of breath when she sashays by. Her small perfectly circular areolas are the delicate pink of springtime azalea blooms in the deep south.
FRIDAY:
My work that day took me to Dublin, Georgia to inspect the books of a small company my firm's client wanted to buy. It meant a long drive down from Atlanta and back for just a few billable hours. Lynne volunteered to ride along and I was glad of her company.
We chatted about bathroom remodeling and vacation plans as the miles slid by until just south of Macon we spotted a billboard touting a 'Gentleman's Club' with an 'All Nude Review' and 'Fine Food'. The first part I believed.
Lynne commented, "I had no idea such places existed so close to home."
I had the presence of mind to not mention that such places existed a lot closer to home. Instead, I asked if she'd like to have lunch there.
"I've never been in a place like that. Have you?" she asked.
"Not in a long time," I fudged. Hey! Three weeks can seem like a long time.
She asked, "What does 'All Nude Review' really mean?" Her eyebrows arched.
"Well, it means the ladies perform on a stage or runway, erotically dancing and removing all of their clothing while the men put money in their garters and cheer to encourage them in their artistic performances," I extemporized.
"All of their clothing," she whispered to herself. I explained that the performers usually kept on their garters and heels.
"Do women ever go there?"
"Sure. All the time," I fudged again. "Anybody can appreciate artistic erotic dance."
Okay, I'm a hound. Have me flogged, I don't care. I sensed opportunity here. My wife is the poster girl for sexuality in the bedroom but I've had little luck persuading her to loosen up and be even a little slutty for me when we are away from home. Hers had been a strict upbringing by parents who had limited her dating and other social opportunities as a teen.
Her clothes have always had the classic tailored look. She always wears underwear. Nice underwear, I admit, but still underwear. I had expected her instant response to my lunch suggestion to be something like 'In your dreams, letch!' so her questions surprised me. I decided to press my luck.
"Tell you what. Let's drop in, you have a drink since I'm driving. We can watch for a few minutes before deciding whether to order lunch. If you feel uncomfortable we'll slide on out and find another place to eat. How's that?" I offered with an innocent smile.
She sat considering- I could almost hear her thinking it over. I noticed the approaching exit and nudged her along with, "This is our exit coming up."
"Okay," she said simply.
We parked and walked to the entrance where Lynne encountered her first serious bouncer. This guy was a little larger than me but not a giant by any means. He was dressed in a tailored sports coat, slacks and a quality dress shirt. His was clean-shaven with dark brown hair beginning to gray at the temples. Although he was about ten years older than us, there wasn't an ounce of fat on the man. A relaxed, confident, smiling man.
As we approached, his eyes scanned me professionally. As soon as he was satisfied that I carried no weapons he turned his attention to Lynne, smiling and nodding.
"Since you're escorting this beautiful woman, there'll be no cover charge today," he drawled, opening the door.
My wife smiled and blushed. "Thank you."
I have no idea where the club found this guy or how much he cost, but hiring him was a stroke of genius. A great investment. He took her from tense to titillated with just a smile and a single sentence. He should give seminars.
We paused just inside the door to get our bearings and let our eyes adjust. The place smelled good, not your average strip joint mix of beer barf, smoke and industrial air freshener. We were in a large room with a wide runway extending from the rear wall. Half moon shaped tables were clustered close around the length of the runway but not so close you had to break your neck to see the dancers and spaced for easy walking between.
Every seat faced the runway. There were circular booths along one wall and a more private area in the far corner of the building through a doorway. The general room lighting was subdued but not cave-like as you sometimes see. The runway had both footlights and remotely operated overhead spot/flood lights mounted. The ceiling was high and black, disappearing into shadow. The sound system was unusually good and the volume wasn't set to vibrate your liver. This was the crème de la crème of strip joints.
The runway was in use. She was a young, smiling brunette with good, but not great, moves. She was early in the first song of her set so was still clothed. I noticed my wife's eyes had locked on the dancer. Good so far.
A hostess approached, appraised the two of us with a smile and a knowing eye, and led us to a table near the end of the runway where we could watch the performance without craning our necks and without putting Lynne so close she might get uncomfortable. Excellent.
A waitress appeared looking hot in formal black short-shorts with loose leg openings, black thigh high stockings, heels and a cream-colored translucent blouse with a deep V neckline and rolled lapels. No bra; noticed that right off. Hard to miss since I could see her dark brown areolas and nipples through the fabric. My wife spotted them too. She blushed and unconsciously licked her lips. Interesting.
Lynne ordered something with a little umbrella in it and I got unsweetened iced tea, partly because I was driving but mostly because I wanted to keep my wits about me. Things were getting curiouser by the minute.
The 'exotic' dancer had completed her first number and had untied her halter-top but was holding it with her arm to keep her breasts concealed. She turned and strolled toward our end of the runway as the waitress retreated and Lynne turned to watch.
Without taking her eyes off the dancer she asked, "Is she going to take her top off in front of all of these men?" At that moment, the next number came through the sound system and my wife gave a little gasp.
"Oh, my, she did it."
I just nodded and grinned, asking, "Would you like to see a menu?"
"Yes, please." She didn't even glance in my direction.
Just as our drinks arrived, two men came out of a doorway from the general direction of the restrooms and sat at the table behind us. From their conversation it sounded like the manager and the bartender.
The younger man was complaining about being short one waitress and the older man said, "Just to make the day perfect we're also going to have to somehow get through tonight with two dancers out. Traci has the flu and the new girl had to take her son for his pre-K physical and interview of all things. The girls we have are good but they're gonna be wilted before the night's over."
"What about calling in one from the weekend crew?" the bartender suggested.
The manager shook his head and explained that being short on stage talent on the weekend would be a bad idea because it would disappoint the local regulars. "Can't have that."
The bartender grinned and said, "You're still in pretty good shape for an old guy. You could dance."
The manager chuckled. "This isn't a comedy club."
After finishing their coffee and going over a grocery and liquor order the bartender went back to the bar. We ordered lunch. The manager went off in the direction of the back.
Meanwhile, Lynne hadn't taken her eyes off the brunette, who was into her third tune and teasing the side ties on her g-string. I could clearly see that Lynne was aroused and, as the dancer pulled away her last itty bitty bit of cover, tossing it toward the rear of the runway, Lynne let out a small 'yip' and clapped her hands over her mouth, wide-eyed.
For at least five seconds she didn't move, breath or speak. Abruptly she stood and said, "Excuse me, please."
I rose, concerned. She patted my chest, assured me everything was fine, and headed toward the restrooms.
I watched the brunette finish her set, put a couple of dollars in her garter and was focused on the last dance of a gorgeous redhead by the time Lynne slid back into her chair, a little out of breath and with a cat-ate-the-canary look on her face. I had lost track of time with all the on-stage distractions.
Our lunch arrived and we ate while the girls kept dancing. My wife watched the women closely but seemed little inclined to conversation, which was fine by me.
