The lady I'll call Alice gripped my hair and screamed out a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush as her body shuddered in the climactic release of orgasmic passion. I was on kneeling on a pillow beside her bed. Another pillow had been placed under her hips to put her pussy in a more perfect position as I worked my magic on her. It was the first orgasm she'd had in a long time and was also the first time she'd ever allowed another woman to go down on her. I drank her juices greedily and licked the moistness from the delicate folds of her labia before sitting up and giving her that smile that let her know it was time for me to fuck her as only another woman can. Her husband of 30 years was certainly not giving her satisfaction any longer so today she broke down and engaged the services of a pro. Me. I'm a call girl.
I'm not a lesbian. I prefer men, though I'm not by any means exclusive in that preference. I used to consider myself unquestionably heterosexual, but that was before I moved here. That was before I met Snowflake; the hottest stripper in town. Snowflake is her stage name, of course, not her given name. Her given name was shared in a confidence that I will not betray. Besides. I like the name Snowflake. It just suits her. She is unique and without equal.
It was about a year ago that I came to the city and the events fell into place that would change my life. Lacking funds and low on prospects, I went in to a dance club hoping to find employment as a server or an entry level dancer. It was at the close of the first set and the featured dancer was on stage. Her movements were mesmerizing. She had alabaster skin and a smile that hinted of inner fires that raged nearly out of control. Her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders as she danced. Ocean blue eyes looked out over the crowd with a clear radiance. She dressed only in white. As she danced she slowly peeled away layers of clothing, revealing her perfect body incrementally. She treated the dance pole like a lover; teasing it before jumping up to wrap a leg wound it and spiraling downward to the worn hardwood stage. Though she was petite, her breasts were very large. Any larger and her perfect body would lose proportion.
The dancer wore a sparkling snowflake pendant around her neck. It was laced with cut diamonds that reflected the multi colored lights that highlighted her performance. It remained nestled at the top of her cleavage as she danced for the men and women in the club. I would never see her without the pendant. Her abs were firm and well toned as one would expect from an exotic dancer. Her legs were long and flawless. As I stood there watching her I knew that I was seeing someone very special. Had she lived in ancient times she would have been called a goddess.
When she finished her set I sat down at a table and ordered a Diet Coke, which cost five of the last ten dollars in my possession. Maybe this club was out of my league. How could a girl like me compete with someone like her who must suck to herself all the attention in every room she entered without any effort at all on her part? I sipped from the soft drink, stared at the table and began to wish I was back at college; as much as it sucked. My parents didn't even know I'd dropped out yet. They were going to freak out. They would freak out even more if they knew where I was, but I was 19 and tired of living my life by their rules. I had to find my own path.
I knew the manager would be there that night but that he probably wouldn't have time to talk with me. My original intention was to make a good impression and maybe get an interview in the morning. I was wearing my hottest black top which drooped over my 34C's and accentuated the cleavage my push-up bra was working so hard to create. My earrings were diamond studs I had swiped from my mom. I wore my hair lightly curled and had it pulled back to accentuate the diamonds. My abdomen was exposed and a stainless steel heart dangled from my recently acquired naval ring. My shorts were silky and black; long enough to cover, but short enough to accentuate. The closest thing to stripper shoes I had was a pair of black patent leather Ellie's with 4" heels. Looking back, I probably looked like a fresh faced kid who was seeking to life out a secret fantasy. Fortunately my freckles had all faded, but I had a hard enough time passing for 19 so pretending to be 21 was not in my plans.
As I sat there, musing about the situation and contemplating the best way to approach the manager to ask for a job, the dancer walked over and seated herself at my table. "You look lost," she said with an easy smile. "Not exactly your element, is it?"
"Not yet, but I'm hoping," I answered, before looking up. When I saw her I blushed. I didn't know what to say. My mind raced while a score of questions collided in my head. I knew nothing about dancing, and if I was going to have a shot I needed information about the club and about what was expected. Finally I blurted out, "You're beautiful."
Just that. No smooth intro. No insightful commentary. Only the highly obvious observation that she heard a hundred times a night. I was embarrassed, now. I expected her to get up and walk away, or to call me a lesbian or something. She just continued with her casual, friendly smile and said, "Thank you. So are you."
While I considered myself easy to look at I didn't consider myself beautiful. I started to say something to that effect when we were interrupted by the company of three men who had come to the table to offer her money, which she took graciously. She gave each of the men a quick peck on the cheek and a warm "Thank you." Unlike the other dancers, Snowflake didn't go out into the crowd for tips after her show. The crowd came to her. Even now dressed in her "street clothes," which consisted of a pair of designer jeans and a sheer white top, Snowflake captivated attention even over the girls who were dancing their hearts out and taking off everything.
I soon began to relax as we sat and talked. I told her my name was Nikky. She said I should call her "Snow." Everybody did. She had a way of asking personal questions with a sincere interest that put me at ease and let me open up to her. We talked about college, guys, when we each lost our virginity and our favorite places to shop. She didn't interject much into the discussion about guys. Perhaps growing up being the target of everyone's lust had cooled her affections for the male gender.
An hour passed so quickly it seemed like just a few minutes, but she had to excuse herself to get ready for her next set. I watched her dance with a fascination at the way she moved and a growing admiration of her perfect body. Her act was different than the others; somehow much more graceful and with a lot more class. Unlike the other girls, she didn't take off her G string. Leaving that last part of her body encased in sheer white satin only made everyone concentrate on the clothed area even more. Perhaps that was her plan. She could reveal or conceal her body at her discretion. She was, after all, the headliner.
When she returned to the table she bought us each a Tequila Sunrise and a couple of Jello shots. Nobody was going to card us at this point, so I didn't even question it. I was pretty sure she was 21, but barely. It didn't matter. I was convinced that she could order a vial of cocaine and someone would find her one. There was still that little something about her show that had me curious, so I had to ask why she hadn't taken her G string off. All of the others did. Her eyes had a mischievous twinkle when she smiled at me and said, "That's reserved for ladies." It wasn't exactly the answer I was expecting. I know that the stereotype of dancers is that most of them are lesbians, but I guess my perception of lesbians made me think of butch looking girls who wanted to be men. Snowflake didn't want to be anyone but who she was. "Does that shock you?" she asked me.
