Duc Hunt

Sunday afternoon. Killing time in a city, hours away from home, waiting to fly out on vacation the next day. We came up on Saturday, had a nice dinner then visited the strip bar we'd visit whenever we were in town. Three stages, tons of people on a Saturday night. It was one of those girl-friendly places where the women who came with their men would get giddy on lemon drops or wine then get pulled up on the stage by the strippers, crowd cheering as 90's rock played and girls in G-strings pulled off their guests' tank tops and unbuttoned their dresses, the wives and girlfriends suddenly bare-breasted and powerful.

But that was Saturday night. Now the city is quiet. Brunch late enough it qualifies as lunch. Walking through outlet stores, the clock moving slow just like us.

Wonder if the strip bar is open on Sundays, she asks. Phone says it is. So we drive out of city center and head a half-hour outside of the core, taking an exit just where the traffic thins, following a twisty road with trees alternating with convenience stores and the occasional stop sign until we arrive.

Inside looks exactly like Sunday afternoon at a strip bar. Thin crowd, songs are slower. Tables back in place where people were standing a half-day before, with one or maybe two people at each table, mostly if not all men. Dancers sitting on the corner of their stages, talking with regulars.

We sit down near one of the two active stages and I get myself a beer and a tequila shot; tequila and margarita for her. An 80's metal ballad flows into a poppy rap song, followed by more ballads. My wife and I talk about the girls -- who's breasts are real, who's are the nicest, which ones are probably new, which ones are probably barely hanging on - and we talk about the trip we head out on in the morning, breaks in the conversation filled with girls winking at us, prone on the stage, occasionally smacking their own asses when they see us looking back at them.

I bring back a second round as a larger group settles into a few tables, pulling them together to fit everyone around.

Being 20 miles away from our hotel this will probably be our last drink, although I might be able to have one more round since mid-afternoon Sunday isn't exactly the prime time for DUI hunting, I'm guessing.

A few more songs and another change of dancers and not much beer is left in my glass. I don't have to look over at her glass to know it'll be closer to half-full at this point. We start talking about where to eat tonight (both of us thinking near the hotel) and I put a pause on the conversation by getting up for the third beer.

As I stand up the crowded table is looking at two trays of drinks, one an array of beers, mixed drinks, even a white wine while the other is nothing but tequila shots, each with its own lime, glasses and a couple salt shakers all catching some light. Maybe six or seven guys, three or four women, everyone older than us. Probably in their late 40's, some in their 50's with me 30-something and her mid-20's. One guy was standing, trying to get everything handed out. Way too many tequila shots, he says, looking at some of his friends. No way she got it right.

He looks over at me. Probably us, with her sitting at the table just a step behind me, her brown hair cascading around her darkly tanned oval face. Do you guys want some shots, he asks. Free.

I glance back at her and she shrugs her shoulders, says free sounds good.

We go over to the strung-together tables and I see a woman laying on them, one of the guys doing a shot off her, her shirt pulled up exposing her stomach, his mouth taking the lime out of hers, a couple cheers to mark the moment.

Standing guy checks out my wife. She's taller, long legs wearing a white shirt, shorts and sandals. Then he looks at me: wanna do a body shot, too?

She looks at me and I know she's embarrassed but okay with it, probably would be more embarrassed by saying no. She's shy but no so shy that we don't come here. Not so shy that she doesn't let the dancers pull her up and take off her bra on Saturday nights. So, she's fine. We're on vacation, or at least will be tomorrow.

The other woman is lifted off the table by the guy who had the shot. Standing guy hands my wife a shot, says ladies first. He goes to hand her a lime, but she waves him off, shooting me a look. It's a long running joke between us that I need the sidecars but she takes hers straight. She drinks it fast, making big eyes at me as she rolls onto the table then looks up at the lights in the ceiling, squinting for a second as her eyes adjust. A 60's soul song gives the two dancers something to sway to as they slip each other out of their clothes just a few feet away.

As for me, I will need the sidecars, so I motion to standing guy, who is apparently named Dave. I turn to face her. The three circular tables pushed together resemble an 8 that added a third loop. Her hair falling around her, she's surrounded by all Dave's friends, some out of their seats and standing to make room for me on one side of the tables while on the other side many are still sitting, a couple of guys near her head and torso, a couple of women by her waist and legs. One of the women - the one who had just been on the table - picks up her margarita, probably worried any leg movement at all could spill it.

Plenty of advice and questions start getting tossed out. Put the tequila in her belly button last or she'll spill it all. Don't let that shot glass drip on her. Where you gonna put the salt?

Where am I going to put the salt? Neck is how we've usually done it, but she doesn't really like being licked that much. Some issue with saliva. I lean over and lightly and quickly lick her nape, then shake some salt on there, then hand her the lime for her to put between her lips before taking the shot from Dave. I work hard to get most of the tequila right into her belly button, which is very deep. Just a little bit starts running off her left side as she tries to hold still. Tries hard not to shiver or to laugh. One of the woman grabs a napkin and dabs it off as it runs towards her side.

The table starts chanting "go." I grin at her as she closes her eyes and I lean over to take the salt off her neck with my tongue, feeling the rocky salt and her soft flesh on the tip of it. I then quickly push my lips around her navel, sucking the gold water out and swallowing quickly as I lean towards her bee-stung lips to take my lime. Of course, I press my lips too far and get a good deep kiss in as the chanting turns to cheers and she starts laughing with embarrassment and lightly pushes me away. The lime is fully in my mouth, the sour juices and bitter rind on the front of my tongue while the back still deals with tequila echoes.

I give the cheering table a nice bow and reach out to her to help her off the table, but as I do Dave asks if there's any chance he could do one, too. It wouldn't be the first time someone else did a shot off her. And he did pay. I look at her and I can tell she has pretty much the same thought process. As she lays back on the table I watch her breasts jiggle just a little, packed tightly inside a bra and tight white shirt, something the guy sitting less than a foot away from them notices, too.

Okay but no kissing at the lime, she says. Just take it nicely. Dave nods. She starts peeling her shirt back up just below her bra line again and Dave leans over to her right nape, the side closest to us. The one I didn't lick. She moves her head away from him a little. I'm not big on licking, she says. A few people at the table make some ooh sounds. One guys looks at me and says that's not good for you, buddy. I laugh.

Dave says he can't put salt on her neck without licking it. He can put it someplace flat, though. He looks across her body. At her chest. Those aren't flat, she says. Everyone laughs. The guy sitting closest to her breasts shakes his head emphatically, which keeps the laughter going.

Dave goes to put the salt next to her belly button, but where he tries is too far away and it starts falling off, then completely goes onto the table as she laughs, reacting to the table's comments.

I'll just go without salt, he says. It's ok. A few scattered boos from the table and my wife sighs. Ok, she says. She reaches down and unbuttons her shorts and takes the zipper down just a bit, which clears out enough real estate to make enough space. The zipper goes just low enough that you can see where she shaved that morning. She shaves most every day. By now I'm pretty turned on. We had a good night last night and I didn't really think we'd be doing it again today, but now I know we will be later. Gotta get prepped for the fuck-a-day vacation anyway, right?

She's got the table firmly on her side now. Dave makes a little production of blinking pretty hard before he shakes the salt. I'm pretty sure he was working hard to put it as low as he could, but I don't blame him. He hands her a lime, which she puts extremely high up on her lips, so he won't have to claim he had to kiss her to get it. I see her eye me as she does it and I smile to her.

Holding his tequila, he pauses for a moment to get the table to quiet down for his big moment. I'd say he's early 50's, short blondish-brown-gray hair under a pure white baseball cap. Hawaiian shirt and white shorts, also wearing sandals. It's clearly vacation Sunday at the club.

Dave finally pours the tequila into her belly button, much more carelessly than I did. It's running everywhere. She makes a noise as the icy liquid progresses across her skin. Dave leans over and sucks up the salt from her, what, extremely low waist? As he's down there his nose and chin both rest on the bronze metal teeth of her zipper. He then moves quickly to her belly button and sucks in the tequila. Then he peppers his lips across all the excess, now practically running the expanse of her torso, mopping it all up as the table laughs at his frantic movements, her body bucking from the tickles. Then he abruptly heads for the lime, dramatically pausing short of her lips and taking the lime out carefully without making any facial contact. The table erupts and I join in the clapping. She reaches down and zips up her shorts, then takes my hand as I step towards her and help her off the table. She kisses me full on the mouth, her big eyes focused on me as she starts to move away towards our table, turning to join me in thanking Dave and everyone for the fun.

We sit back down, both a little revved up from where we were just a few minutes before. The music seems louder, the lights a little more intense. Somehow getting aroused makes everything clearer and hazier all at once. The dancer at the stage nearest us looks to be lower-to-mid 20's, blonde with a very round face, eyes almost as big as my wife's. Probably the best we've seen today. As she slips out of her glittery bra I hear my wife asking me if we want to go sit at the stage seating. Yeah, why not.

The girl smiles as the two of us sit down, then makes her serious face as she turns her back to us and bends over completely, peeling her G-string down and kicking it gently off to the far part of her stage. She spins on the pole a few times as I pull out some ones and put three in front of my wife and the same in front of me. The girl comes over to my wife and kneels down in front of her. She takes my love's hands and puts them on her cheeks, closing her eyes as she guides them down the sides of her face, her neck, her breasts and her sides, letting go of them as they sit placed on her bare hips, skin giving off that glow that only comes off skin that age. She opens her eyes and smiles at both of us, looking at my wife when she says I'm Megan. My wife tells her her name, I resist the urge to blurt out mine. Megan leans forward pulling my wife's face between her breasts, which are definitely real and a little proportionally big for her body, areolae round just like her face. If she was standing I'd guess she would be about 5'2 or 5'3. But she's still on her knees, now walking on them towards me, scooping up the dollars that were in front of my wife and slipping them into the garter on her thigh; the first bills in there on this mid-day Sunday dance set.

Megan asks me my name and I answer, looking from her eyes to her chest and back to her eyes. Even though they know why we're here I still enjoy that moment, making sure they know I'm looking where most of the day I'm supposed to avert my eyes. Some guys just stare at tits, ass and pussy and don't ever make eye contact. For me one of the best parts is maintaining it while scanning at the same time. I enjoy believing it's an art and it's appreciated by the veteran dancers, but since their job is to feign appreciation it's not really something I can know. She takes my hands on virtually the same sensory tour but routes my palms around the curves of her breasts to each side, as opposed to the over-the-nipple route my wife got to take. Disappointing but not a deal breaker. I get the exact same chest action, my face between them, feeling the soft light hairs of her sternum on the bridge of my nose as her breasts warm my ears and the blood coursing through me.

After her songs we are back at the table when Megan comes around. Some places they ask for another tip, but this club doesn't work that way. She'll offer to do private dances although she knows most couples decline, but she'll still be more than happy for us to buy her a drink, which we do. She takes the seat closest to my wife.

Over another beer for me and a gin & tonic each for the women we learn more about Megan - she's 23, wants to be in air travel or the air force and has a kid. There's no way I'd have guessed about the kid, and I sense she can tell I'm looking at the parts of her body I can see above the table for any evidence. Megan says she saw my wife doing the body shots. Asks her if she's a dancer, too. My wife laughs but stops quickly, being careful not to sound condescending. She covers the laugh by saying she isn't nearly pretty enough to do this, which all three of us know is a lie. Another heavy metal ballad comes on and I consider going to the DJ to request something else, but I can't really think of what it'd be, so I take another sip of my beer, which this time has a lime in it.

Megan tells her she should dance. She could make a lot of money. Wife tells her mostly the truth: we don't live around here, she has a job already, we don't really need the money. We could use the money, of course. Not broke, but these girls make a lot in a very short time. Except maybe on Sunday afternoons. Megan circles her finger on the drink, again offers us - either of us - a private dance. We decline but I tell her she can have another drink if she wants.

Dave, who's clearly had another shot or more, wanders over and sits down at the last chair at the table, between me and Megan. He looks at Megan: Is this the only table you're going to hang out at? Megan laughs and says she's been trying to talk my wife into being a dancer. My wife laughs again and tells Megan to stop, but Dave looks at her and starts nodding. She's right. You could absolutely do this. Turns to his table and yells over, pointing at her: don't you think she could be a great stripper?

Dancer, Megan corrects him, but he doesn't hear her, he's repeating himself over the music. I look over her and give a conciliatory wink and she actually blushes a bit and looks down. Glance over at my wife and she's a little uncomfortable with his yelling, but it's too late: the other table is yelling their career advice, too. I look around the rest of the room at the tables of one or two and wonder if they are losing patience with the family atmosphere.

Megan turns back to my wife. Wanna try? I'll go up with you. She looks over at me. Dave does, too. She'd be great man. I know you think so, too. I glance over at him and tell him to let her breathe, then look back at her. She asks what I think. I tell her I know she would be the best I ever saw up there, then turn to Megan with a quick apology which makes the whole table laugh. Looking back at her I tell her it's totally up to her. If she doesn't want to do it I get it and these guys will lay off. But if she wants to I'll be up there with plenty of ones and maybe even a five. Another laugh.

She looks around the table, over at the stage and back at the table of her brand-new fans. She looks at Megan. You'll go up, too? Megan takes her hand and says absolutely. Dave claps his hands hard and yells out she's gonna do it! His table starts to realize it isn't a theoretical conversation as Megan stands with her hand in my wife's, leading her out of her seat and onto the stage just a few feet away. The DJ - with only one stage active - gets on the PA and says a special dance is coming right up...Megan has made a friend!

By now the rest of us are moving towards the stage, taking the seats around it. With the Dave table there are about twelve or thirteen people around a stage that sits probably sixteen. Megan is still in the outfit she last came to the stage in, a silver bikini with all sorts of mirrors and other shiny things. My wife's white pullover, tan shorts and sandals look pretty conservative next to her, but she looks hot. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, with the big eyes and pouty lips I mentioned before, complete with high cheekbones and a beautiful smile, which she is wearing nervously as they stand and make small talk waiting for the song to end.

When it does the DJ says they'll be giving Stage 1 a break, but over on Stage 2 Megan will be with a special friend. Dave's table shouts her name out as the 90's rap song starts and they both start swaying and dancing, looking at each other. Soon enough Megan says she'll go first as she unhooks her top and tosses it aside, eliciting a few cheers. She faces her dance partner and takes her hands again, running them down her neck and placing them squarely on her breasts as the crowd again cheers, my wife again laughing even as she caresses them. Megan takes her hands again, lifts them up over her head and leaves them there, then continues to sway in place as she reaches down and pulls my wife's top up over her head. She takes the top and takes a step towards me, tossing it to me. Don't let it get dirty, she says. The woman sitting next to me says she's right: it's white. Take care of it.

Dancing in place in a tan bra and shorts, she looked a little nervous while Megan had briefly left her side, but now Megan's back and turns her to face her. Megan moves her face close to to her's, her breasts starting to push up against her chest. She moves her lips within a breath of my wife's lips. More crowd cheering. After a beat, their lips touch. Megan reaches around and unclasps the bra, leaving only their pressed-together breasts holding it in place for the moment. Megan runs her hand up onto my wife's cheek and brought it down her neck, her fingers grasping the bra. As she slowly pulls away from the kiss, the bra falls away, hanging on Megan's fingers, leaving my wife topless.

In preparation for the vacation - a beach vacation - she had been in tanning beds for a few weeks, and the lack of tan lines on her tits was striking. Bronze, large but not too large and with exquisite puffy nipples, they are a sight to see. Last night the crowd got a brief flash as a dancer pulled her bra up during her quick trip to the stage, but today's visitors were getting a much better, much fuller view. I felt myself stiffening.

Reassured by the crowd's cheers again, plus the DJ saying "Oh yeah" over the mic in a Kool-Aid man voice, she finally seems to be growing comfortable up there. The attention turns to Megan as she slips off her bikini bottoms and has my wife to slap her ass, which she willingly did. I actually wondered if that would be it. The song was coming to an end and the crowd was jazzed. I was hoping there would be more but didn't want to press her to do more than she was up for.