Raven Is A Dancer

*****

Disclaimer: This is a fantasy story involving first-degree father-daughter incest.

It does not condone or endorse the practice for real or any of the risks involved.

If the topics of incest, impregnation, or some mild foot play bother you, you might want to read another story.

If you choose to remain, I would like to thank you for your time and really hope you enjoy!

*****

She moved about with deliberate grace despite the discordant din of the thumping bass music. Morphing her body into what looked like a whirling mass of fluid, and yet her curves were on full display. She knew exactly what she was doing. Men and more than a few women were hooting and hollering at her. Making cat calls. Saying degrading things about her, but she just seemed to smile and eat it right up. It's exactly what she wanted from them. Needed even.

Bills were thrown her way. Mostly crumpled up ones, but the occasional big spender with a ten or twenty. She tended to get the bigger bank when she honed in on one lucky, or dare I say unlucky, soul and made him forget about anything else in his life. Not the mortgage or the car payment. Not the kids or the wife. Not anything but the tits in his face and the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Wallets were defenseless to that kind of treatment.

Raven knew that while she could make a decent amount from her dancing, but that's not really what it was about. Sure you push for what you can get and sometimes you get lucky. But the dance isn't the real money-maker. So many girls spend all their time on the pole dreaming of that little girl in ballet class and trying to put on this amazingly choreographed show. They sink all their time into the art of the stripper dance under the guise they can class it up. Make it respectable. As if that's what the people wanted. But Raven knew it was nothing more than an advertisement.

What made her so good was that she picked up on this early on. If you dance like some pink princess, you like some porcelain doll on a pedestal. Breakable. Something people are afraid to touch. Fine china in a shop for bulls. If you dance hard and try to really get into the nitty gritty, really slut it up in an oversexed way, you risk coming off as too aggressive. And we all know how fragile the male ego can be. They need the illusion they are the hunters, not the hunted. Many want to be sold on their own power over women, so why challenge that?

That's not to say there isn't room for the girls who tend to swing or dance on either side of those two poles. But Raven found a way to skew the middle path. The princess that needed rescuing, but with a smutty reward on the other end. Not unapproachable or too plain. Worthy of pursuit. That's what she was advertising. And that's why when she was done with her few songs on that stage, she had a line of men she managed to connect with just waiting to buy some of her time for a lap dance or the champagne room. That's where the real money was earned.

As I sat in the back of the club watching her and sipping a drink, I couldn't help but smile. I'd watched more than a few dancers that night. Some good, some not so much. But there she was, up there and in control. She'd gotten the crowd's attention. They were fired up and holy hell they wanted more. Men waving big bills as she collected her earnings for the dance. Each vying to catch her eye and get some of that personal attention she hinted at.

Now her real work began. Sizing up the folks to not just to see who had the biggest wallet, but who had the gleam in their eye. Who needed it most. Who she could turn into her next raving fan. Because anyone can splurge and be a big spender for one night. Lucrative as it may be in the short term, she didn't want some housewife blaming her for why their husband skipped paying bills so he could party with her. No, her bread and butter were her regulars. The ones that waded patiently through the gauntlet of cleavage and pasties just to find her. She had a head on her shoulders and knew how to play the long game. And she played it as well as anyone.

She slipped into a cami to cover up her bared tits, not bothering putting her miniskirt back on. Just leaving her ass pushing out of that thong of hers. Still, even with all the hustle about her and men competing, she took the time to look back my way. Nodding to me and acknowledging my proud smile. She winked at me and smiled back. Happy her father got to see her in action and in her element. Happy I was there to support her.

*****

There's a famous quote about how "every woman is somebody's daughter." It's a powerful sentiment about how dismissive language towards women can cheapen or lessen who they are. It also contains a reminder that somebody loves them and cares for them. So no matter how crassly you treat one or liken them to a whore, a slut, or worse, it is countered by the warmth and love of their parent.

I believe that's a really beautiful sentiment. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I readily agree with it. However, like most things, nothing is ever so black and white to be absolute. Of course. Yes. You should treat all women with respect on a basic level. That goes without saying. But, I'd suggest there are moments and places where a bit of disrespect is warranted, and even encouraged. Where it's respectful to disrespect them.

Why am I saying all this? Because my daughter is a stripper. I should be appalled by it all. I should protest and tell her there's better way to earn her way. But I'd be lying. She's damn good at it and she's grounded enough to know what she's doing. She knows exactly what she's selling, and knows how to get a guy to believe she's giving them everything without actually giving up all the goods. Sure she sells a sexual fantasy, yet she stops short of out and out prostituting herself. Leaves them with smiles on their faces and ready to come back for more.

I can't pretend I don't wish she found another field to earn her way. Say maybe become a teacher or perhaps get into medicine. But imagine being 26, having all your college debt paid off, and having a nice little nest egg for yourself to eventually get a home or set out on a new career if you find something worth doing. Sure, it took her about the same amount of time to get an Associate's degree that it would have had she pursued a Bachelor's full time. But coming out the other side without being saddled by debt? She might not have some Ivy League diploma, but I'm proud of her all the same.

That's where she is now. How can I complain about that? My young little Robin donned a black wig at the tender age of 18. She flew out of the nest and onto the stage as Raven. Not because she had to. But because she wanted to. That's what I think took the most getting used to. That she chose to take this route herself. Not because it was easy, but because she honestly enjoyed it. Once I managed to wrap my head around that, it was a lot easier to support her.

Her mother, however, never could. Blamed me for turning her on to such a sinful trade. I could have easily pointed the finger back at her. She was the one that insisted on all those dance lessons. Week after week of me taking Robin to the rec center and then to "Fusion Dance Academy" when she really got serious. Don't get me started on how nasty those dance moms were to me. To think I was married to one! Well, not anymore. There was a time I really loved that woman. Though I could never be truly angry at her even at what I perceived to be her most irrational. After all, she brought Robin into our lives.

Robin, for her part, was rather amazing. She's amorphous, if that makes any sense. It's what makes her so good at what she does. She's a difference splitter. Pretty, but in that approachable way. Not too much to the left of the scale as a tomboy or to the right as a beauty queen. Should have been obvious in high school when the dates she'd bring home felt like tonal whiplash. Jocks, nerds, emo's, punks... You name it. I'd have worried if I thought she was really serious about any of them. Perhaps I should have worried because she wasn't!

It was just another sign of her being smart enough to put her finger on that scale to tilt her to either side. What a client wants, a client gets. For example, if someone wants massive boobs or perhaps tiny and sleek peaks, the right push up or minimizing sports bra can allow her to maintain appeal. One type of man chases thongs. Another chases cotton briefs with lil duckies or flowers on them. Every man who seeks her time leaves feeling like a winner, all because she instinctively knew the right tools for the job at hand.

That's a double-edged sword, mind you. It means that only a lucky few of us got to know the real Robin. The caring young girl who wouldn't first choose kill a bug, but would shoe them from the house given the chance. The sweetheart that despite her busy social schedule would still make time to laze about on the couch all Sunday with her ol' man and watch a game on TV. The kind of girl who didn't just volunteer at the shelter during the holidays, but found time to do so all year round... just because she thought it was a nice thing to do.

She'd been dancing for about a month when she decided to tell us. She knew she couldn't exactly hide it. We'd eventually notice she had money. We'd notice the sudden influx of thongs in the laundry basket or body glitter around the shower drain. But she did want to make sure that not only could she go through with it, that she wanted to stick with it too. Again, she was smart that way. She didn't half ass it, but she knew not to burn her bridges on a lark. Of course, when she did tell us my wife and I both initially said, "Oh! Hell no!"

Her mom was obviously more adamant than me. Arguments and blow ups became a regular thing. Dramatic talk about disowning her and sin. It's not like we ever raised Robin with religion. But then our daughter became a stripper and suddenly my wife finds god. I did make an earnest attempt to heal things, but the irony was that Robin was a lot like her mother. Once she set her mind on something, you had to move heaven and earth to convince her otherwise. It wasn't exactly stubbornness. It was resolve. Confidence. While I might have once moved mountains for my wife, I don't think I had that in me anymore. Especially in this case if it meant losing Robin. The divorce wasn't easy, but it made a sad sort of sense in the end.

After the dust settled, I reached out to her. Robin had gotten an apartment and was staying away so as not to aggravate things any more than they already were. We started having lunch together regularly, and she told me she wasn't taking things lightly. She enrolled in the local community college. Wasn't really sure her focus just yet, but she was pushing through with the core stuff she'd need either way. She was toying with physical therapy/biology classes because it meshed well with her dancing, but she also had a soft spot for math and computer sciences which I certainly encouraged in her growing up.

It was tough on her, but she settled into a rhythm and it started to become easier over time. Weekends at the club plus two or three weeknights as needed. Sleep until about 10-11 AM. Afternoon classes. Not a full course load, but enough to keep momentum. Then back home to study or prep for work as needed. Her nights off were sometimes a bit random, but I had to hand it to her. She made it work. There was a sort of regimen in the chaos.

We kept in touch regularly with our lunches and even started hanging out on weekends some before the club opened. We never really talked about her dancing. When I'd bring it up, it was always framing it with the idea that I'd help and support her if she wanted to stop, but she always said she didn't want to. Shortly after she turned 22, I brought it up as I tended to do, but she called me on it. Said flat out that she didn't think I really understood what she did or why she liked doing it. I had to admit she was right.

Turns out she wanted to do more than call my bluff, but as always, she was one step ahead of me. Of everyone. She invited me to come down to the club. I very much declined, but she insisted. Prepared me for what I'd see and even proudly said she wasn't ashamed of her body, even if I was. Which of course was one of those pointed comments that twisted my feelings. She wanted me to have a good time and would even set me up with a cute hostess there to keep the other girls off me, or rather, out of my wallet. Her way of protecting me.

I can't say I was enthused, but I just rationalized it in my head as yet another dance recital. I'd go to support and cheer her on because at the very least she appeared to miss that. I knew that was sorta bullshit, but the truth is I really was curious. Not for the salacious nature of it all so much as I hadn't seen her dance in almost four or five years by that point. She always brought so much joy to it. I kind of missed it. If it was tame enough for her to want me to see, it couldn't be that bad, right?

Yeah. It could.

I don't know what I was thinking.

When I got to the club, I was immediately taken by the smell of "Philly Blunts" in the parking lot. Not that I partake myself, but you take your kid to enough concerts, you get acquainted with the scent. I waited in line behind a bunch of young, horny college kids. They used some terms to describe women that I have to admit were new to me and I didn't feel like looking up on Urban Dictionary. A rather creepy woman came up to me and offered me a hummer in the alley for $40. Not that I came particularly dressed up, but my wardrobe did scream middle-aged dad. So she probably thought I was good for it. Thankfully, before I had to respond another woman came up and "rescued" me from the line.

She introduced herself as Bubbles, and given the size of her very unnatural breasts, it was pretty obvious why. She claimed me out of line and said Raven sent her for me. Took me a while to make the connection. She was still my Robin after all, but eventually I did. She escorted me past the bouncers and into the club. There were a lot of places to get money. A line of ATM's and a cashier for that more personal touch, but despite me asking about it, she insisted my money wasn't good here tonight.

Bubbles was really beautiful, albeit a bit older than most of the girls. Maybe early-to-mid 30's? It was hard to tell under her makeup. She wore a slinky gown and heels. It showed off about as much as it kept hidden. I perhaps might have to question her life choices given her bra size on the far side of the alphabet. I tried to be a gentleman and not stare, but she was adept enough to say it was okay. She said she "got my tits" so people would look. Must have cost a fortune, but look they did. When we passed down the corridor and into the main club, walking in with a beautiful, albeit hypersexed, woman like that in your arm? People notice you.

I had to admit it felt kinda good. All these random strangers there. All these men and a surprising number of women here to gawk at the ladies. They looked up and seemed to tip their proverbial hats to the man who somehow landed the lady with the massive mammaries. Not that I earned it for one second, but it felt pretty darn alright. I let myself bask in it for a few moments as she showed us to "our booth" for the night.

We got settled in together with her sitting right up next to me using the table as a boob ledge of sorts. I had to marvel at that, but I didn't know who this woman was or why she was with me or even the very basics of what to talk to her about. Bubbles sensed my tension and quickly convinced me to order drinks. They would help loosen me up a bit. It wasn't like I had to pay, but I still felt bad about it. I even insisted on tipping, but she hushed me up as she openly flirted with a waitress that swept on by rather promptly.

It was cute to watch her flirt like that, but she actually apologized to me after they left to get our order. She said they do that so naturally because men like it. I was no exception to that. I certainly liked it. But it still was second nature for her at this point. She had to remind herself I wasn't a customer tonight. I asked her what I was then, and she only laughed. It wasn't a rhetorical question on my end, but, oh well.

We got our drinks and as she took some sips, she leaned into it. It was hard to move my arm without bouncing or brushing against her ginormous tit, so I asked her politely if I could put my arm up along the top of the booth and she just told me how cute I was for asking. I had no idea what was going on. I sat back and put my arm up around her and tried to figure out what I was doing with my life. Maybe my ex was right. Maybe I had done something wrong for our daughter to end up here.

The DJ started talking and introduced a dancer. Someone named Lavender. I made a sarcastic comment that I was convinced that's what was really on her birth certificate, which caused Bubbles to laugh and jiggle like a perpetual motion machine, not that it was that funny. Lavender was shaking it on the stage, but I had to admit I was starting to like seeing Bubbles shake it next to me. I hadn't drunk enough to blame the alcohol on that yet.

While I admit I was initially somewhat intimidated and even turned off by her, she was growing on me. As if she could grow any more without killing her back! We started talking and it turns out, she's a really smart woman. I know, color me surprised. The bimbo looking woman with the magical inflating chest actually had a brain in her head. It was playing on my own prejudices, but I was starting to see why my daughter wanted her to be with me for the night.

The more we talked, the more she let on. She talked me through what Lavender was doing on the stage. The various moves. As lead off, the room was cold, but the room wanted to warm up. Made for an easier time, but people were still going to be stingy knowing the headliners are coming up. Bubbles pointed out the way Lavender was holding back taking her bra off to fish some more money out of a man's wallet. "Once you take it off, you generally can't put it back on. So you hold out until they earn it off you." It was a practical lesson in "The Game" as she called it.

I had to admit it was pretty fascinating. She didn't hold back with me either. Talked about some of the men in the audience. What to notice about them. How some held their money up and out. Others a bit more guarded. Others were more into talking with their friends and looked like they didn't even want to be there. And how the dancer has to balance her more showy moves whipping up the crowd at large with the few up close and personal ones and make a guy feel like she's dancing only for them.

Bubbles talked me through Lavender, a cute cheerleader type named Jazzlyn, a duo act Starlight and Roxy. I started to get why I was there. My daughter didn't just want me to see her. She wanted me to understand her. She also knew I was nerdy enough to get into the weeds and try to understand what the appeal was. Still, when the DJ finally did announce Raven to the stage, I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Bubbles leaned into me and told me it was okay. That I had this. Reaching over and taking my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. "Just another dance recital..." I muttered out loud. Bubbles smiled at that, adding, "Your girl's good. There's a reason she's a headliner." I didn't know whether that was a real compliment or not anymore, but Robin, I mean Raven, took to the stage and worked her magic.

And thanks to Bubbles, I saw it all despite my want to bury my face in my hands when her tits came out. Thankfully, it was topless only on the stage. I don't think I could have handled if her panties came off too, but even with that, it's not like the thong left much to the imagination. And my girl knows how to do a split. The crowd just threw money at her for those.