Chapter 11

The night of the contest arrived and Frank was excited as well as terrified that something would happen and he would get in trouble.

His idea was evaluated by the WE by several different angles and it was deemed as permissible. If a woman wanted to strip, no matter her age, it was ok.

The thing that really caught Frank off guard was the response to his contest posting. Everyone loved it.

He got thousands of entry messages. Women at the age of Darlene and Angel, down to teens from several local high schools, from a few younger girls who grew up dancing and thought they had the skills to actually dance and win and even one little girl who was in elementary who just wanted to take her clothes off and have people cheer for her.

Needless to say, the location quickly changed to the largest ballroom at the bigger hotels in the area, threatening to be moved again to a concert hall so the crowds could see the show. So many people wanted to see the show, Frank was almost overwhelmed.

The women who normally worked at Velvet were given special duties to help the girls, contestants, at the show. They helped them with routines, costumes, nerves, some even helped with makeup and hair. But all of them wore the same outfits that night. T-shirts with the club’s logo on the front and STAFF on the back. The shirts were cut down and tied under the bust line so that their middles were seen to everyone. The girls wore either short-shorts or lingerie (panties, garter belts and thigh high stockings). Darlene was there to help and she wore her comfortable garter, panties and stockings.

The crowd’s cheers and the judges’ scores determined which of the competing women would advance. A gaggle of dancers, ranging from nervous newcomers to bold contenders, took their turns on stage, each hoping to outshine the rest.

Frank had even installed a brand-new pole for the contest—a towering structure that stretched toward the high ceilings, a true marvel of engineering

One by one, the women and girls went out onto the stage and did their routines. None did it perfectly, but five were chosen to be in the final out of the 50 contestants, only five could move onto the final round and compete for the money.

That didn’t take away from some of the contestants that were still amazing, stand outs in their own right, but not quite good enough to win the money.

One such contestant was 12 year old Sandy Ellison. She was rather tall for 12 at five foot four inches. She hadn’t started puberty yet, so her body was still long and lean without development of her hips or breasts. A common comment leveled at her was that she was a beanpole. Some may have been hurt by that, but she lifted her head up high, threw her shoulders back and strutted into the world as the best beanpole around.

This same attitude was used when she stood back stage with her mom at her side. Mom was dressed in yoga pants that went to her thighs and a t-shirt over a sports bra. Sandy on the other hand wore a simple black leotard bodysuit with tank top shoulder straps and full coverage down her torso, the bottoms hugged her pert bottom staying in place without riding up.

Sandy’s mom hugged her daughter one last time, then ran out onto stage and placed a large pair of shiny stainless steel scissors on the stage, off to the right of the stage, right where Sandy wanted them.

The DJ’s voice filled the club. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, Sandy Ellison, performing her interpretive dance, ‘Breaking Free’.”

The crowd clapped and cheered as Sandy stepped confidently onto the stage. She took her position—one leg poised in front of the other, hands clasped behind her head, chest lifted high. She held the pose, still and strong, waiting for the first note of music to break the silence.

‘Clair de Lune’ floated through the room, its soft, haunting notes spilling from the speakers, drawing the crowd into a hushed stillness.

Sandy spun gracefully on her toes, turning her back to the audience. As she moved, she rolled her body in a fluid wave, letting her light brown hair whip freely with the motion. Then, without hesitation, she dropped to her knees, rolling smoothly across the stage before springing back to her feet. Twice more, she repeated the movement, each time rising with effortless grace. On the final roll, she landed directly over a pair of gleaming scissors, grasping them as she stood, lifting them above her head—a prize, a weapon, a declaration.

The music swelled. She gripped her leotard, tugging it away from her body, then pressed the scissors to the fabric, making the first cut. A small opening appeared, revealing a stark contrast of white skin beneath the black material. As she danced, twisting and leaping across the stage, the hole became more visible—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of freedom.

She moved with intention, her body a canvas of motion—leg kicks, body rolls, sweeping turns—each movement punctuated by the sound of blades snipping through fabric. Holes spread across her bodysuit, each cut deliberate, each moment a revelation. A slice at her hip, a tear at her waist, a cut that exposed her shoulder, another down her back, one over the cleft of her sex. The audience held its breath as she danced, her movements growing more daring, the music rising in intensity.

The crescendo built. She made the final cuts—one at her chest, another along her thigh, the last at her shoulder straps. The leotard clung to her body by mere threads, a fragile remnant of what once constrained her.

As the final notes of Clair de Lune hung in the air, she grasped the bodysuit in both hands, pulling sharply. The fabric fell away, pooling at her feet. She stood bare, triumphant, her body illuminated beneath the stage lights, arms raised, scissors pointed skyward in a silent victory - fully, completely free!

For a moment, the room remained still—breathless, stunned, caught in the weight of what they had just witnessed. Then, like a wave breaking, the audience erupted into applause, the sound swelling around her like a roar of approval.

Sandy lowered her arms, letting them rest at her sides as the cheers washed over her. Then, with quiet dignity, she bowed—a deep, graceful acknowledgment of the moment she had created.

Gathering the tattered remains of her bodysuit, she turned and walked off stage, her steps slow, measured. With every flex of muscle, with every stride, she carried the truth of her performance—she had broken free.

As she reached the edge of the stage and entered the backstage area, her mother was right there to sweep her into her arms and spin her around so proud at her daughter’s performance.

“Oh honey, that was amazing! I’m so proud of you! Well done!” she said, twirling her around, her legs flying up in the air.

Sandy could hardly believe it. She’d done it. She got through it, she did it!

“Thanks mom.” she said, hardly able to think at the moment so overcome with emotions and out of breath from her dance.

As the competition continued, dancer after dancer took the stage, each performance weaving its own unique spell over the crowd. Some moved with the grace of ballet dancers, their bodies telling silent stories of longing and desire. Others commanded the stage with raw, unfiltered passion, their movements bold and electrifying. The room pulsed with energy, the music dictating the rise and fall of emotions, while the dancers held their audience captive in their world of movement and seduction.

The audience sat in stunned silence at times, mesmerized, hypnotized by the artistry unfolding before them. Other moments saw them cheering wildly, their voices rising in waves of admiration and approval. Each performer held them in rapt attention, drawing them in with every twist, every sultry sway, every powerful leap that seemed to defy gravity.