Copyright 2007 © by Roxanne L. Green
All rights reserved. You may archive a personal copy of this story for your own enjoyment. You may not send it to anyone else. You may not post it to any other site, regardless of whether it is a pay site or a free site. You may not make any other use of this story without my express written and signed permission. Reposting or Internet Archiving is expressly prohibited. Posted by the author on August 5, 2007, to StoriesOnline.net.
I'm supposed to say here that this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, things or events is purely coincidental. But that would be a lie.
It was a thousand miles away from any place I'd ever been before. I didn't know a soul in town. Oh God, I hoped I didn't know anyone in town. It'd be just my luck that a client would be in the bar, just passing through.
I seldom have more than one drink. In fact, I am usually the designated driver. As part of the bargain, Stan had to promise to drink orange juice before I would even agree to go into the place.
The bar was named DANCERS! It was off the interstate about a mile. We were on vacation and stopped in town for the night. There was one subdued sign outside:
"Amateur Night Tonight!
-- First Prize $300!" --
We stopped in at the restaurant across the street for dinner. I picked up the local paper. There was a DANCERS! ad on page two. I was looking at it, and fantasizing a little.
The hostess sat down in the chair beside me. "Thinkin' about enterin' honey?"
"Huh? Oh no, just daydreaming."
The hostess looked to be about 40 years old. "I used to dance there. That's where I met her father," she said, pointing to a snappy blonde in her early twenties. "She won again last week. Fourth time this year. I used to win real regular too until a few years ago. I still enter sometimes when they need an extra girl. You oughta enter, honey, the guys'll just love you."
"Oh no, I'm just fantasizing. I could never do that."
"Suit yourself, honey, but it'll be an easy three hundred bucks. Dixie can't enter this week; they have some silly rule that nobody can win two weeks in a row."
Stan finally found his voice, "Stupid rule."
"Sure is," agreed her mama.
Stan goaded and teased me throughout dinner. Finally I figured what the hell. Nobody knows me here. I'll never be back again. Why not?
We went back to our motel. I showered, shaved my legs and pits, powdered up, and dressed. I wore plain white high cut cotton panties. Not quite a thong, but tight, and thin. If the light was bright enough, it was obvious I was a natural brunette. A white cotton front-hook bra; almost see through, but not quite. Erect nipples would be obvious in that little number. I only had one skirt with me on this trip, a full wrap around, knee length. I didn't use the big bronze safety pin so I'd showed some leg when I took a long step or climbed stairs or sat on a stool. I topped it off with a bare midriff blouse, open but for one strategic button right over my bra snap, but tied below my breasts.
We got there early. I inhaled my first drink, then nursed two more. I read the rules, and filled out an entry form and liability waiver absolving the bar against anything untoward which might happen, and checked off the music I wanted from their list.
By the time the contest had begun, I was having serious second thoughts. They drew names out of a hat and called us up. Nudity wasn't required of any of the contestants. The first entrant just took off her blouse and danced in her bra and slacks. That wasn't so bad, but when the second dancer took off her bra, I almost backed out. That's all she showed, two pendulous breasts. Mine were better than hers. I could do that.
The third contestant was a pretty sharp looking woman in her early thirties. She was down to thong panties and a tiny bra, and I was seriously thinking of bailing. I began sweating when she took off her bra. Mine were better than hers, but I was really getting scared. When she bent over straight-legged and slid her thong off, I said to Stan, "Lets get outa here."
He looked at me. "Oh no you don't. You know you want this."
"I thought I did, but I don't. I'm scared. I'm so afraid I'll probably piss myself on stage."
.... There is more of this story ...