Firsts & Lasts at Bitch Night

As ever, feel free to jump in here. You won't need a ton of context to enjoy the scenes at hand. But if you'd prefer to watch Briony and Dara's relationship unfold in order, start with Firsts and Lasts at the Strip Club, and then at the Dance Studio, and then at the Mall.

In this one, Briony gets to join Dara and the rest of her stripper friends at a gathering they call "Bitch Night." When Briony confesses a serious interest in their profession, she gets the crash course of a lifetime. Expect lots of lap dancing, grinding, pinching, smacking, roleplay, and eventually fingering. This one's entirely f/f. All characters are consenting and over the age of 18.

***

I don't have the kind of parents a girl can bring a girlfriend home to.

Neither does Dara.

What she does have is a very close and active group of friends who hold a biweekly "Bitch Night." Which I'm now invited to. Dara issued this invitation over breakfast in the course of a few casual sentences, and I accepted, all before I had the chance to realize quite how huge a deal this was.

Or, in Dara's estimation, before I had time to "psych myself out."

"The name is just for fun," Dara explained, while I was obsessing over the three shirts I currently had at her place. "It's not about being mean, I promise. It's just a ladies' night where we vent and complain about stuff. Bitch night."

"Yeah, I get it," I said.

"So...?" Dara prompted.

"Are they all... um, work friends?"

"You mean, are they strippers?" Dara cut through my euphemisms. "Yeah. Is that a problem all of a sudden?"

"I just... I feel weird," I scrambled to explain. "I mean, I've probably already met a few of them as a customer. What if they don't want me crossing over into their real life?"

"You're with me," Dara said, as if that settled things.

"And they're all okay with you making that decision for them?" I asked.

"Believe me," said Dara. "You're far from the sketchiest person one of us has brought in. Besides." She grabbed one of the three shirts, possibly at random, and pushed it decisively to my chest. "You got to show me off to

your

friends."

"Did not," I argued, while I pulled on the chosen shirt. "We were all just customers together.

Before

you and I were a thing."

"They still met me," said Dara.

"Yeah, and I'm amazed you still wanted to be around me afterward."

"Come on, they were great," said Dara. "...On average. And now you can brag about me to them whenever you want, and they know who you're talking about. Don't I deserve the same?"

"I guess." I fluffed my hair out of the neckline. "I just don't get why... never mind."

"No, why what?"

I sighed, caught red-handed. "I don't get why you'd want to brag about

me

."

Dara was on me in a second, hands on my face, my neck, my breasts.

"No," she said, catching a nipple between her fingers. "None of that. You are my gorgeous, badass girlfriend, and I don't want to hear another word denying it."

"I remembered that before it was out of my mouth," I said.

"I don't even want to hear thoughts like that rattling around inside your head," said Dara, rolling the nipple tightly back and forth, making it very difficult to focus on arguing.

"Oh, you read minds now?"

"If it helps keep yours clear of that shit, then yes," she smirked and pinched a little harder, "I read minds now. Got that?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, putting my arms around her waist and pulling her closer. I smirked back, until she relented and kissed me.

We were a few minutes late getting out the door, entirely from the difficulty of keeping our hands off each other, and not at all because I was dreading this. Honest.

#

The gathering was in a house, an actual

house

, with a yard and a kitchen island and a sitting room big enough to accommodate the dozen-odd women in attendance.

Dara set down two separate types of homemade salad on the counter to hug the hostess, who I recognized after a moment as Wicked, the curvy devil from the Angel Room club who loved to step on customer's laps with her red stilettos.

She was one of the older dancers, and she looked drastically different in a flowing pastel blouse and subtle makeup. I had the strange feeling that I was trying to make a good impression on a friend's mom.

"You might remember Briony," Dara introduced me.

"...Oh right, the one with the fun hair," Wicked extended a hand to me, and smiled widely. "How did your friend's wedding go?"

"It was beautiful, thanks."

"I hope we didn't get him in too much trouble."

"No, no, it was all aboveboard. You were great."

The next twenty minutes blurred past in a series of similar reintroductions.

With difficulty, I recognized the majority of the guests, and with even more difficulty, most of them recognized me. Others were from different shifts at the Angle Room, or from neighboring clubs along the same street. There was one couple, Lillith and Paisley, who hung around the margins like me, probably recent additions to the clique. Paisley tried several times to start conversation with me, but I couldn't seem to think of anything to say to her beyond yes and no. Lillith said less than that.

Wicked passed around wine, beer, and sodas in the sitting room, and the promised bitching commenced, mostly focused on politics, family members, and local club owners.

It all felt unsettlingly banal, more like the church potlucks of my childhood than the secret meeting of a coven of nocturnal temptresses. The whole group could have been mistaken for a bedraggled teacher's union, if it weren't for all the sexy or cutesy stage names, and even those slipped from time to time.

No one seemed concerned when that happened. No jaws dropped in horror at the possibility that I might have caught someone answering to what was on their driver's license. Using the stage names seemed more habit than anything else, probably one that was safest to keep up, to avoid slips at work.

After a long lament from Paisley about the megalomaniacal tendencies of the owner of a club called the Minx Mixer, there was a lull in the conversation.

Wicked poured herself a second glass of wine, and fixed her eyes on me.

"So, is this one a new recruit?" she asked.

"No," said Dara.

"Well... I'm thinking about," I said.

Dara lifted one eyebrow in surprise.

Everyone else raised

both

eyebrows, and quite a few of them drew their hands together into excited little claps.

"Aw, an itty-bitty baby new dancer!" Lolly exclaimed.

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling my skin heat up, not least from awareness that I was not an itty-bitty anything.

"I mean, I'm sure I'm a long way off from qualifying," I clarified. "But--"

"Bullshit," interrupted Eden, a dazzlingly acrobatic snake-themed dancer I'd seen onstage but never spoken to.

"What is?" I asked warily.

"That thing we all tell ourselves about how being good enough is in the future," said Eden. "It's bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you could use a crash course on the fundamentals, and you'll only get better with practice, but if you're serious about wanting it, you start in days, maybe weeks. Not years."

I shook my head, rushing to correct whatever misconceptions must be in play here.

"Oh, no, I've had literally

two

dance classes," I said. "I'm nowhere near being on the level of anyone here."

"No, you're not," Eden agreed. "Because we've all been doing this for years.

In

a club."

"The first time I touched a pole was my first day on the job," Paisley piped up.

"I

still

barely use the pole," said Sativa. "Makes me too dizzy. The customers like it just fine when I crawl up close and personal to the edge of the stage and jiggle my ass against the floor."

I did enjoy watching dancers do that.

"Okay..." I said, rocking back and forth to take this in. "But like... is there a checklist? There must be some kind of audition, or an interview? What

am

I supposed to know before I start?"

A bunch of voices burst excitedly to life at once, but Sky's was loudest.

"Hold up," she said. "I'll get them."

"...Them?" I asked.

Sky dug through a knapsack at her side and pulled out a pair of sparkly lace-up boots with heels at least seven inches tall, bolstered by platforms at the toes.

"See, that alone is going to take me years to master," I said, hoping it sounded lighthearted.

"Have you tried, yet?" Sky asked.

"I mean, I wore kitten heels to a party, once," I said. "I had to carry them home."

"Try these," Sky pushed them insistently into my hands.

I took off my sneakers and slid my feet into the boots. Like all shoes I hadn't bought specifically for myself, they were a little narrow for my feet, but with the laces adjusted, they were surprisingly wearable.

"Go on!" Lolly clapped again, encouragingly.

I clambered to my feet, immediately stumbled, and had to swing my arms like a windmill to keep from falling. Dara held me around my hips to steady me.

"Press your thighs together, weight on one foot." Sky directed.

"She means the bevel position from class," Dara clarified.

I could do that, though I still wasn't sure how giving myself a narrower base was supposed to make me more stable. I started to tip forward, and Dara tightened her grip.

"Soften your knees a little," said Sky, sounding a lot like Kim, the unladylike dance teacher. "Tighten your abs, and pull your shoulders down and back."

As ever, I clumsily juggled these directions, trying not to drop one part of the posture when I added the next.

"You're trying to pivot your torso back to an upright position," Dara explained. "To compensate for the heels pushing you forward. Your knees are the fulcrum."

It was a little easier to think about it that way. I sank into almost a squat, until I could feel my shoulders settling over my hips, and then stretched myself back as tall as I could without unbalancing them again.

Dara cautiously eased her arms away, hovering them around me in case I faltered.

"How do you feel?" asked Lolly.

"Not like I can dance," I said.

"Twenty seconds ago you didn't feel like you could stand," Eden pointed out. "So cut yourself some slack."

"Try walking to me," Seraph suggested, beckoning with both hands. "One foot in front of the other,

directly

in front of the other, like you're on a balance beam. Don't lift so high, it's just a lazy little drag... that's it," she said, as I fell into the rhythm with my third step or so.

Oddly, in spite of their appearance, the boots didn't feel all that much higher than the three-inch kitten heels I'd tried before. The platform toes gave the illusion that my feet were at a much steeper incline than they really were. And if anything, the form-fitting laces actually made them

more

comfortable than my old party heels. Nothing seemed to be chafing when I moved.

I made my way across the room to touch Seraph's outstretched arms.

"What's next?" I asked.

"Practice, practice, practice," said Sky. "Like, maybe for the rest of the night?"

She quirked an eyebrow at Dara, playful and cajoling.

"It's been forever since I got to be a

guest

at a party with a stripper," said Lillith, prompting a round of agreement sounds.

"It'd be great practice for her," Paisley reasoned hopefully. "We won't judge!"

Dara looked to me.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, babe," she told me, with a conviction that I found spine-tinglingly sexy.

That tingle definitely helped me nod.

"I want to try!" I said. "It'll be fun. And it'll even us up a little. I've gotten to be a guest with almost everyone here."

Paisley cheered, and multi-flavored smiles crept across every face in the room, making me equal parts excited and wary.

"What should we call you?" Lolly asked.

I pretended to think about it for a moment. Really, I'd been thinking about it for much longer than a moment.

I turned the idea over and over on my tongue before finally shaping the sounds, "Do you think people would like... Bombshell?"

"I love it!" shouted Lolly.

"How does it feel to

you?

" Dara asked me.

"I think it fits me," I answered, dizzy with relief that no one had laughed, or taken my hand to explain to me gently why my instincts on this were all wrong. "Everything about me has always been a bombshell that I had to keep from going off in front of the wrong people. Making it my name feels like... like being a bomb isn't necessarily a bad thing. It feels powerful, and kinda hot. And like something I don't have to be super tiny to fit inside."

Dara got up and crossed the room to hug me. I felt bizarrely tall next to her in her ballet flats.

For a moment, I looked down at my girlfriend, with her head resting on my chest, and then at Lillith and Paisley, openly holding hands, and at the rainbow tattoo on Sativa's inner wrist. This gathering might be eerily normal, but it was

not

, in fact, a church potluck. Standing there, I felt like I was both intruding and coming home.

"I think it fits me," I repeated, "but I think it would probably fit a lot of other people just as well. I don't want to step on any toes, if there's already someone in town who's using--"

"It's yours, babe," Dara told me, and reached her hand down to give my ass a gentle caress. "

Bombshell

. Now come back to the couch and give me your first lap dance, yeah? Before someone else calls dibs."

She took me by the hand and led me back to her seat. All eyes followed us across the room.

My pulse was pounding in my head, and in my confined toes. I was still getting used to this kind of touching with Dara, even in private. Her hand still left ghosts of unfamiliar sensation on my ass.

I dragged my feet in small, languid, zig-zagging steps -- it really was easier to keep them close together, so that more of my weight hovered directly above them -- and wondered if I was crazy for thinking I was cut out for this.

I could barely doggy-paddle my way through intimacy, and here I was about to cliff-dive for an audience.

But the edge of the cliff was calling to me, fiercely.

Dara sat back on the couch, arms stretched out along the backrest, legs apart, anticipation in her gaze.

I walked as close to her as I could get, letting the tips of my shoes touch hers, and then stopped to figure out how to continue from there. I listened to the slow, moody pop song playing in the background, which someone thoughtfully turned up for me. I summoned all I could remember of my two dance lessons, and of that one hazy bachelor party where so many of these women had visited me and my friends in our dimly lit retreat.

I let myself fall into the music's rhythm, swaying back and forth as I stripped off my t-shirt and unhooked my bra.

Paisley whooped for me, but it was a brief sound, stifled by a thick, heavy, breathless feeling seeping through the room.

I stopped balancing and let myself tip forward, catching myself on the back of the couch with one hand on either side of Dara.

Our faces were inches apart. A tempting grin broke across her face. But kissing lips was one of the things you

didn't

do during a lap dance.

I held the moment for an instant or two longer, and then straddled her knees, arched my back, and pulled myself higher, surrounding her face with my breasts.

She breathed them in, appreciative and passive, like a good customer, letting me guide the movement, the friction. Even when I brushed one of my nipples right over her lips, she just barely parted them.

I repeated that brush on the other side, while I plotted how to transition gracefully to a new position.

I took a breath and shifted my weight to just my right hand and foot, clenching my abs into a sideways plank, and ran my left hand in a swirling line down Dara's torso. I missed each of her nipples by millimeters, and surprised her, I think, by sneaking a quick touch between her legs.

Then I pushed off from the couch, miraculously managing to stack myself upright without overbalancing, and turned around to show off the second main attraction of such a dance.

My stiff denim skirt was still on, blocking the view, but I made the most of it, taking my time to slide the waistband up and down over the back of my simple black panties to the beat, before finally pushing the whole skirt down and kicking it away.

I ran my hand down the side of my ass, and, before I could change my mind, gave it a slap to set off a volley of jiggles, which Dara insisted were good and sexy and normal.

Dara let out a reverent breath as she watched.

Clenching every leg muscle I had to hold myself up, and pressing my palms into my knees for support, I lowered myself to the level of her lap and rubbed my ass along her thighs.

That move felt strange. Imitative. A little foolish. Like someone playing with a toy version of a tool, without quite understanding how the real thing worked.

Obviously, Dara didn't have a dick sticking up for me to grind on, and I didn't have hips boney and sharp enough to reach her clit with, the way Sky could when she danced for someone who had one.

My ass was wider than Dara's whole lap, and every example I had for how a lap dance was supposed to work involved a smaller person on top of a larger one.

What was I accomplishing like this? I couldn't even lean back to put my face near hers, not without putting my weight on her, which I wasn't willing to do. All I could really do from here was shove my ass toward her, this piece of me that I'd believed for so long to be repulsive, and hope that she took it as a gift, instead of a threat to smother her.

I thought about the first time I'd presented my ass to Dara, after class in the dance studio, and recalled with a twinge of excitement how much better that had been.

What was the difference?

Ah, right.

"You can touch me, if you want," I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder to smile slyly back at her.

That was okay during a lap dance, as long as the dancer said so. As long as

I

said so.

"Well, if you're sure..." Dara teased, placing her hands lightly on the sides of my ass.

We wouldn't be able to do everything we'd done last time, but already, this was so much better than ten seconds ago. Now Dara could communicate, assure me of her enjoyment with a flutter of fingers, instead of leaving me to my grim assumptions.

"Give it a smack," I suggested.

"Really?" Dara asked with more genuine uncertainty, glancing around the packed room. "Here?"

I was nervous, but not as nervous as I was eager to feel that thrill of harmless impact again. To skip right to the good stuff.

"Really," I confirmed.

Dara started as she had last time, with the lightest of taps, and when I gasped happily at the tingling jolt rising up my body, she escalated to crisp, loud, but still gentle slaps.

I soon found myself grinding against her thigh less imitatively, more instinctively.

"You can touch me too," Dara prompted. "However you want."

How much more could I touch her from here?

I rubbed my ass harder against her lap, wishing that part of my body had more dexterity to offer her. Then I became aware of my hands, still holding a death grip on my own knees.

I stood up a little and shuffled my feet a short way apart, far enough to slide one hand back between my legs.

Dara let out a series of happy little yelps when I ran my hand over her pussy, then forward over my own, and back to hers again. She spanked me a little harder, like it was the only way she could make her reaction emphatic enough. I rubbed us both harder, for the same reason.

I'm sure everyone in the room could guess exactly what we were doing down to the smallest move, but my ass taking up all of Dara's lap and more actually acted as a sort of privacy screen, making the touching feel like something gotten away with, under a table, or in a dark back room.