The Stowaway's Keeper
Copyright© 2024 by HppyHrryHrdn
Chapter 55: Mrs. H
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 55: Mrs. H - In the 80's, John was looking to go some place no one would know him. He was not planning on starting his new life with a 14 year old girl. She and her friends keep his life anything but mundane, despite his best intentions to keep it that way at his new home. Codes will change as story progresses.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa ft/ft Fa/ft Teenagers Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged Reluctant Fiction Incest Brother Sister Humiliation Spanking Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Oral Sex Slow
(17 minute)
His comment disappointed me, but I looked past him anyway. The song had changed to “A Little More Love,” another Olivia Newton-John song. I shook my head. “What is it with this woman and Olivia Newton-John?”
Tommy chuckled. “I’m not paying her. If she wants to strip to Olivia Newton-John, she can pick whatever she likes.”
I glanced back up at Mrs. H as she performed. I shook my head. Tommy’s attitude toward her was really very un-strip-club-like. Clubs are supposed to run on tight schedules, with music picked to keep drinks flowing and eyes glued to the stage, right down to which song cues each piece of clothing coming off.
He kept defending his hands-off approach. “She’s an extraordinary performer.”
“I guess,” I said.
Then she leaned over the back of the chair for the first time. She lifted the hem of her black dress high enough for the audience to glimpse her pale ass. In her youth it would have been rounder, but age had softened the curve. Along with her backside, the edge of her hairy brown bush and garter belt came into view. I muttered under my breath, “I prefer my women shaved smooth. Mrs. H is rocking a full Debbie Does Dallas bush.”
Tommy let the comment pass. He rubbed his chin, deep in thought, trying to figure out who besides Cinnamon might meet my needs. It would earn him a finder’s fee; not as a pimp, just as a broker. He was not guaranteeing any of the women he came up with would or wouldn’t have sex while doing the job for me. He was just offering up a name.
Tommy was staring into his tumbler, so I asked, “You can’t think of any of your other girls besides Cinnamon who might fit the bill?” As Mrs. H leaned farther over, a diamond on her hand flashed in the stage lights. She hiked her dress higher and slapped her own ass; the gem glinted with the sharp motion. The strike left a red handprint and echoed through the room. Mrs. H slapping her own ass was more in line with what I had seen at other strip joints. Back in the military, the guys and I would hit strip joints where the girls slapped their asses just enough to make them jiggle. I’d never seen a dancer hit herself hard enough to leave a red handprint that would linger through the whole set.
The sharp crack snapped Tommy out of his trance. He quickly turned to see Mrs. H with her hand coming off her ass. Tommy then turned back to me. “I guess you could ask Mrs. H if she’d be up for it. I’m sure she could grab the attention of the man you’re trying to distract. You’ve seen her face under that mask. She’s good-looking in a girl-next-door kind of way; the girl-next-door you’d love to fuck kind of way.
I thought about it for a moment. As a mom, the woman on stage might meet my needs. She was definitely distracting. She put her leg up on the chair, flashing her full bush to the audience below. With her foot on the seat, she unbuckled the black high heel. The shine of the diamond on her left hand contrasted greatly with the dark hair covering her mons as she unclipped the first stocking.
When she started peeling off the first stocking, I slipped a hand into my pocket for the camera I shouldn’t have had. Letting my arm hang down, I angled the small camera’s lens up at the stage, snapping shots of the woman slowly stripping, starting with her stockings. She rolled the lace covering down along her tight thigh and smooth calf, the diamond flashing with each movement. Once free of her pointed, mauve-polished toenails, she tossed the stocking aside.
She did the same with the right stocking, again letting everyone see her full, chestnut-colored bush under her dress. Unclasping the garter belt straps, she seductively rolled the second lace stocking down her left leg and off her arched foot with its painted toenails. The whole time, her diamond ring sparkled in the bright lights.
I was pleased to see no trace of cellulite on her newly bared thighs and calves. Her skin was taut on her thighs and calves, like she’d never had to lose weight after being overly heavy or pregnant. After tossing the last stocking aside, she pressed a hand to her mouth in mock surprise, an “oops” gesture, as though flashing her pussy had been an accident. The garter clips were left dangling on her upper thighs.
From the face I’d seen earlier, her figure, and those legs, I thought about Tommy’s statement—that maybe Mrs. H would be an acceptable candidate. I said, “I have to sleep on it for a day or so. She’s not exactly what I had in mind, but she is growing on me.”
“You think about it and let me know. I’m sure I can talk to her about it if you want me to,” Tommy said.
While he didn’t directly bring up payment for services rendered, I knew Tommy would expect a cut for putting me and Mrs. H together, if I decided she would work for what I had planned. He could tell I was mulling the idea over in my head. He stood, preparing to go. “Let me let you get back to the performance. I’m sure you’ll decide what you want after you see how she performs. Give me a call if any of the women meet your needs.” Rising, I shook his hand. “It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Thank you, Tommy. And I will definitely let you know one way or the other if Mrs. H will work. Or if maybe I can get Cinnamon to take the job and keep quiet after. I’ll sit down with her and talk before I agree to anything.”
Tommy said, “No problem. She’s not working tonight, but come back tomorrow or the next couple of days. She should be here, and I can set up a meeting.”
I nodded. “Thanks again for all your assistance. We’ll stay in touch.”
I began watching the show, laying the camera flat on the table and ensuring it was aimed at the small stage. A pretty topless waitress with firm, natural young breasts came over for my drink order. I was going to order a bourbon on the rocks, knowing it would likely run me twenty bucks for the single drink. The waitress had nowhere to pin a name tag. Even her G-string barely covered her pussy or kept in the neatly manicured strip of black hair. She introduced herself: “Hi, I’m Julie, and Tommy said all your drinks are on the house.”
“I’ll take a bourbon on the rocks,” I said.
She followed the script she used with paying customers: “Would you like me to keep them coming?”
“Thanks, but no. Just the one.” I was working and needed a clear head to make good decisions. Too much free bourbon would get in the way of that.
“Good decision. Tonight’s not a night to be in less than peak condition,” Julie said as she turned to put in my drink order. I couldn’t help but wonder what she meant by her strange comment as I watched her tight, round ass cheeks sway away from me.
Turning back to the show, I saw Mrs. H reach up for the left bow on her shoulder. One of the two holding up the front of her dress. She tugged the bow’s tail and let that side fall past her breast. The exposed breast looked like it should still be firm. Yet it carried the faint sag of past breastfeeding. No doubt the kid had fed easily; her areola was the size of a silver dollar, the nipple like a kindergartner’s pencil eraser. After weaning, the breast had shrunk back, but it left just the slightest sag to the teardrop shape. The light-brown nipple became darker as she pinched and pulled on it.
She tugged the other side’s bow loose but kept the strap on her shoulder, holding up the right side. She pulled her nipple out once more before putting her hand to her mouth. Feigning embarrassment, she appeared like Betty Boop. Without a word, her hand returned to the nipple, pinching it between her finger and thumb until it swelled, becoming darker and fuller.
The woman didn’t look like she had a routine planned; in her drug-addled mind, she just did whatever seemed fun in the moment. She let go of the other dress strap, letting it slide off her shoulder and fully expose her torso down to the belt cinched around her waist. Her other breast completed the pair, complementing her naturally supple skin. It would have been perfect if not for the four-inch scar just under her right rib cage. The stitched-together skin was barely noticeable with its smooth, straight lines only slightly darker than the flesh around it. She shrugged and lifted her hands up in an “oh well” gesture. Then Mrs. H started to jiggle and play with her own tits. She still hadn’t said a word as she motioned to what looked like the youngest professional in the room. She gave him a come-hither gesture with her index finger. The guy froze in his seat, pale as a statue. The DJ’s voice boomed from the speakers: “Go on up, boy. She wants to see you.”
The black-haired twenty-something was no executive—more likely high in sales for whatever company he worked for, out for his fourth night of fun at the strip club. Unlike Mrs. H, he didn’t have a ring on his finger. He looked embarrassed as he made his way up onto the stage. Still, he walked to the stairs and climbed onto the stage with the stripper, who was gyrating and playing with her tits. She motioned him closer without saying a word. The guy stepped closer, and she held out the straps of her dress as if she wanted him to help put it back on. When he reached for the thin black straps, she let them fall and grabbed his hands instead. She shoved them onto her tits and helped him squeeze them. She moaned, just loud enough to rise over the background music. It was the first time I’d had any clue what she sounded like. She parted her lips and let out a gasping sigh as she used the man’s hands to knead her breasts roughly.
The guy, at least a decade younger than her, started moving his hands on his own, massaging and tweaking her breasts. The rest of the small audience watched in amazement. I figured this was why the same crowd kept showing up night after night. They had heard that sometimes Mrs. H would indulge in letting the audience not just watch but engage in some hands-on participation. A look of satisfaction crossed Mrs. H’s face as the man kept tweaking and massaging her breasts. She grabbed his wrist, turned him, and guided him back to the chair. Sitting him down, she straddled him as he pulled his hands free of hers.
She seized the back of his head and yanked it to her chest, pressing his mouth against her hardened areola. The guy evidently knew what to do. A sigh—a woman’s moan—spilled from the stage, answered by a low male groan.