. She scanned the stage. It was empty. The red head was brushing the chest of a man in his late forties with her sweet round ass. Another dancer had made her way into the crowd, a curvy ruler of a brunette cow girl, fringed vest, leather thong and chapped boots. Gwen got the attention of the bar maid and ordered another sunrise. Waiting, watching, she realized that the music, now a top 40 beat , was turned down low. She noticed the DJ, his table opposite the bar, black suit, black shirt, platinum tie, close cropped bright orange hair. The crowd had quieted. They were murmuring, like a theatre of movie goers that had just seen the trailers and are waiting for the feature. If two's company, she thought, and three's a crowd, and four's a... Four's what? Four was fun. So why not push our banging gang to five. Gwen felt the tequila suddenly working just as the bar maid returned with a fresh drink. Hell, why not six, she thought next. No; seven! A good number, seven; stronger than three, but nine was even stronger than seven. Although, nine was venturing into having to bridge greater distances between personalities. Well, we'd establish an interview process in addition to our requirement of a clean bill of health. Then there was twelve, a very popular number: the tribes of Atlantis, of Israel, the Apostles, the Zodiac, clock, months. Whoa, we could beat the world record for most pussies eaten in a single sitting or most women to be in menstrual sync. And then thirteen; no, let's not go there. Goddess, I wish I wasn't alone in this.
Then it happened. The music changed, a familiar jungle beat, and the crowd was up. She stared around, perplexed, stunned by the enthusiasm, the cheers, the screams. Slowly, Gwen got to her feet. Dry ice billowed languorously from the back of the stage. Gwen recognized the song then, Van Halen's Everybody Wants Some, though its opening drum beat was dubbed more than a few measures longer than originally recorded. A vague shadowed figure seemed to be slinking low to the floor from stage right. The crowd went wild, and Gwen saw that the butch and fem persuasion of customer had gathered the stage's faintly foot lit edge.
"Ladies and gentlemen," shouted the DJ above the din, "Spellbound's proudly gives you; Love."
Gwen listened as the song's guitar roared and whined and the crowd shouted together in one ear piercing scream of exaltation. Her eyes riveted to the stage, to the gleaming jack knife form that cut through the dry ice, now illumined red from the stage floor lighting. And there she was, Love; standing no more than five foot four, long subtlely muscular legs, taught body, perfect C breasts, delicately sinuous arms and a magnificent face: universal, ageless, as one might be privileged to see all over the world, in museums or among the ancient ruins of Rome, Greece, Egypt or even Mesopotamia.
Gwen's mouth dropped as she watched Love beguile the crowd, her moves practiced, artful, confidence in every step, from mere pacing to some of the most astonishing acrobatics Gwen had ever witnessed outside of summer Olympics broadcasts. The dancer was dressed in only as much as a set of polished steel colored bikini bottom, chrome cupped chain mail bra and some strategically placed purple feathers would allow. She reminded Gwen of the heroines she used to follow in those rated underground comics: space aged skimpy, all wirery and muscled and curvaceous in all the right places, kicking ass without a single hair straying out of place. Her dancing was incredible, gymnastic, a feat of frenzied control; spirals, twists, summersaults and pirouettes executed in bare feet. The crowd cheered, screaming and boisterous like the audience of some heavy metal band: Love, Love, we want Love! Everybody wants some. How about you?
"She's... black." Gwen spoke aloud, the din snuffing every word, "Did you see that coming? Nope. Not me. I, uh, black, huh? Maybe she's not the one?"
Gwen's eyes wandered through the crowd once more. She thought of the black rose Domenique had sculpted around her pussy's lips, and then re-fixed her gaze onto Love. Our roses are white. Yours is black. If I bring you to Nique, she'll have a heart attack. Gwen thought of the clichés, the stereotypes. She knew she would not otherwise discriminate. Nique though... Could she, herself, desire Love? Gwen stared.
"It can't be anyone else but her." Said Gwen aloud.
She slowly lowered herself back down to her seat, reached for her second drink and gulped more than half of it. Most of the crowd eventually sat back down as well. Gwen continued to watch Love's performance between a few people that remained standing. Multiple layers of bills and what appeared to be 4 by 6 inch red envelopes were spread along the foot of the stage. Love's top was gone. Her breasts, firm and just as richly hued as the rest of her exposed skin, barely jiggled with the force of her dancing. In spite of her rigorous routine, the woman had yet to break a sweat. Her fans screamed as Love swept long arms and legs, sending the money and cards in a tornado that whirled to a pair of shadowed figures that gathered the gifts up in black velvet covered baskets. Gwen, mesmerized, thought of the ancient temples of sacred prostitution. This is a mistake, she thought. I need to get up and leave so that at least one of us is safe.
But, Gwen could not leave. The tequila was warming her, relaxing her, keeping her thoughts within the moment. The performance, the performer, had her immobilized. Love stared over the heads of her fans as she turned her firm ass toward them, and then slowly tugged her bikini bottom to her ankles, revealing a silver glittered thong. Suddenly, she went into a hand stand, worked the bottom from her ankles, let it dangle between the tapered toes of her right foot, and then flung it into the audience. Women screamed. Men shouted. Heads turned. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed the shining brief's trajectory. They watched it land, two tables from the stage, around the wrist of a buzz cut frat boy who was about to drink from the beer bottle that was gripped in the hand of that wrist. A cascade of laughter followed as he drew in a deep breath of the crotch of Love's thong.
Gwen found herself laughing as well; fascinated, immersed: which is exactly why she didn't notice Manny's having moved in beside her nor was she aware that the waitress had stepped in to take her drink away, though it still had a few sips left in it. Gwen, solidly entranced, registered none of it: Manny's proximity, her missing drink or the fact that Love, as her song was reaching its climax, started at a run, jumped off the edge of the stage, tucked herself up into a flying fetal cannon ball of gleaming brown splendor, spun forward thrice in a high arc to land suddenly, square atop Gwen's table on all fours, her long and thick relaxed hair bouncing to a stop, her smile vacillating between relief and satisfaction.
Gwen, her reaction dulled by her being hypnotized and fairly soused, was equally poised to jump from her seat and yet rendered powerless by the potential of her nearly full bladder's burst. She felt wholly embarrassed in the brilliance of Love's spot light. The crowd, of course was still watching and cheering madly. Cooling in her hot seat, the urgency in her bladder leveling off, Gwen peered from spectator to spectator. Gwen could avoid Love's hungry gaze no longer. She stared pointedly, interest, expectation and reservation infused, at the exotic dancer. Love leaned in to speak into Gwen's left ear, and then an odd thing happened. A sudden burst of static charge, forced from some strange invisible friction between them and across the crossed tendrils of their hair, shocked the two women leaving them both quite surprised, flustered and embarrassed. Gwen shouted an apology above the din, smiled, and then reached a hand to make contact with one of the metal legs of her chair, grounding herself so as to prevent another shock. Love observed Gwen with her clear, almond shaped eyes, understood, and then leaned in again.
"Hi Gwen." she shouted; easing in, "It's nice to finally meet you."
Still stunned, red faced, Gwen nodded and smiled nervously. Before Love leaned back, she made sure to graze her nose against Gwen's cheek. Gwen, unable to help herself, also drew in a breath of Love. She recognized Prada's Candy on her as well as an unfamiliar yet pleasant feminine musk, a smell of hot sand, salt and lemon grass. Love suddenly leaned back, sat on the edge of the table, and then went into a split; the backs of her knees riding the edge of the table, lower legs dangling. The exotic dancer leaned back on one arm and gestured to Gwen with the other to unfasten the buttons at the top left and right edges of her thong. Gwen looked at her squarely, holding her gaze. The audience was still in an uproar. Gwen scanned the eager, rapt faces around her, a nervous smile creeping around her lips. You're part of the show now, she thought. Walk away, and you'll have a mob to answer to; never mind Nique. Meanwhile, the DJ was merging a soft piano and acoustic guitar piece out of the Van Halen song's fading end. You're so beautiful, sang the new song's singer: sweetly melodious, lost in his subject's heavenly bounty. Gwen returned her attention to the waiting Love. Then she reached finally, with both hands, watching her own fingers as they unfastened the snaps of Love's thong and let it drop open to the table. Gwen's eyes, the audience's eyes, lingered on Love's holy venus mount. Gwen saw that a pair of women's eyes, were deftly shaved into Love's pubis, making her mound a seemingly all knowing vertically mouthed face. Transfixed and tequila addled, Gwen stared into those eyes and saw Domenique staring back at first, but realized that they were in deed Love's eyes; black masked and rose lipped, Love's smooth milk chocolate frosted pussy, a creamy pink filling gleaming from inside.
Abruptly, Love pushed the thong onto Gwen's lap, gripped the edge of the table, and got into a hand stand. Her back facing Gwen, Love parted her legs into a steady split. The crowd was perfectly silent as Love then lowered her ass toward Gwen's own befuddled, slack, face. Love slowly rolled her shoulders so that her neck rode the table, her open ass clef gradually nearing Gwen's face. In the next instant, the backs of Love's knees were around Gwen's shoulders, the all knowing gaze of Love's pussy hair staring at Gwen eye to eye. As loud as the crowd became in response to the latest spectacle, Gwen suddenly couldn't hear a thing. She was possessed by her own eagerness to breathe Love in. Aren't these guys supposed to be healthy and clean to work in this business? Oh my Goddess, that pussy's mighty close. Smells good; like a vacation inside a vacation. I'm supposed to keep my distance here, she being an exotic dancer and this being a den of depravity. I hear men keep coming back to the right dancer.
The audience clamored for Love. Suddenly, she pulled back, rolled into a ball, spun one hundred and eighty degrees and got back on her hands. Then down again, flipping once, twice, the third time spiraling, switching hands over and under and over and under, then her back on the table, still spinning, roulette wheel round and round until once again Love's implacable, wise eyed pussy stare stopped to face Gwen. Love then sat up, meeting Gwen's stupefied gaze, smiled and reached a hand. Gwen took it. Love gently gripped Gwen's fingers, examined her slender fingers, neatly manicured nails, and then kissed her open palm. Gwen tingled with the softness of her lips, wanting to feel them more in spite of other feelings; the staring crowd, strangers in the audience, in her bed, in her head or laid out before her.
