Chapter 1

Six years after high school, by most external indicators, I had done very well. To my surprise, even though I had struggled with high school grades except for a year away from home, my advanced placement credits placed me out of the first three semesters of college. I was able to develop a customized, interdisciplinary curriculum, with the core in international relations but a substantial amount of science, and managed a master's degree as well. I went into a fellowship in a think tank.

I had received the proverbial major inheritance from a distant relative, but also had sold two patents on work I had started in high school. At this point, I worked because I enjoyed it; I was, to use that lovely phrase, "independently wealthy". Where my life was deficient was in personal relationships. It was a time of sexual revolution, and I wasn't getting enough. Oh, I had a few dates, but to some extent, I relied on professionals to relieve the urges. Washington, DC, could be a very fine city if you could get through the guardians of the gate.

A friend had told me of the Le Marquis nightclub, which, he said, was indeed a performance club with outstanding dancers, but also where a great deal went on in the back and under the table. He told me to use his name to the manager, Aimee.

At the door, the doorman was accompanied by an obvious bouncer, but both were in well-tailored suits. I asked for Aimee, and was taken to a little booth at the end of the bar, where she could observe the entire room but also have a little privacy. There was little doubt in my mind, once I had seen her, that she was the case study in MILFs for Dummies, with some flavor of domme. Thick shoulder-length, coal-black hair, eyes rimmed boldly with kohl, and a black corset over black fishnets and high-heeled black boots. Hamming it up a bit, I bowed. "Well met, milady. I bring greetings from our mutual friend, Art Skye. He asked me to mention green cards, and you would know what that meant. He also suggested that I ask you about the customs and the rules here, at least for the preferred customers.

"But of course! Would you care to share my wine? It's a naive New York white, but..." She laughed. "Not necessarily the plonk we sell for keeping company with the ladies." She put her hand on my thigh, then raised her hand and turned my chin to her. "I must apply a first test." She kissed me, with a bit of tongue. "That you responded is part of the confirmation that you are not from the police.

"I want you to know that I trust the waitresses very much. If you have any problems, they are good at mediating. Let them lead in how much they are comfortable in being touched, although you'll have a strong suggestion of that from the way they are dressed. Over time, you'll find that some women go back and forth between serving and dancing." She looked around, and caught the eye of one waitress, who was wearing a very short cocktail dress. "Louise, may I introduce you to Curt, a friend of Art Skye? Might I ask you to do a blue test?"

"Blue test?"

"Something we do to protect ourselves legally, Curt. Louise will demonstrate."

"I'm happy to meet you, Curt. Perhaps I will be even happier after the test." She reached back and pulled the curtain, and then sat on the table, legs somewhat spread and facing me. There was just enough light to reveal that she wore no panties along with her fishnet hose. "Please touch me intimately ... taste if you like."

How could I resist? I realized that doing so would be prohibited were I an investigator. Gently sliding my hands along her thighs, I spread them further, and then formed my mouth in an "O" and surrounded her clit, flicking my tongue as I sucked. She jerked and gave a quick moan. "I'm rather sorry, Curt, that the blue test is very short. Perhaps we may continue it later." Turning to Aimee, Louise said, in a rather low voice, "Not only did he touch me; he's very, very, very good. Some lesbians don't do as well. He's going to be popular."

Aimee grinned. "As Art probably told you, we have what we hope are both elegant and erotic acts. Between their sets, the dancers who choose to do so mingle with the customers. Mingling can be at the bar, with a bit of touching, but you'll have a more pleasant, and more expensive, experience in the booths facing the stage. The best ones, to which your introduction will take you, have curtains -- you will still have a nice view of the stage, from a nice comfortable couch.

"The dancers do sets of three parts. In the first, they set a mood. Many use costumes, or at least create a visual theme. They take a minute or two for any changes to costume or stage, and come out for the second part. We think of this as artistically going to the limits of many lesser clubs. Again after a very short break, she will come out again, with a far more provocative mood." With a husky laugh, she observed, "How provocative a dancer will be on stage depends on our current relationship with the police. It may surprise you that has nothing to do with bribing them, but how strict the political climate may be.

"Some of the dancers are purely performance artists. They accept tips, but do not mingle with customers between sets. Most, however, do. Knowing Art, I shall be utterly frank, and tell you that we serve obscenely large bottles of truly terrible domestic champagne as a means of capturing money for the club and for the dancer. You can request decent courtesy drinks with the bottles. We might even slip you a bottle or two, unopened, if you like -- they are adequate to be in punch.

"Louise dear, would you take Curt to a front-row booth? Booth three, if available. Curt, might I suggest, if you have time, sitting through the first performance you see, or at least the one that just started, to get a sense of the place before you mingle?" I was impressed. This was not a high-pressure club.

By the time, I settled into the booth, the dancer was in the second part of her act. Louise asked, "what can I get you?"

In my experience, few strip clubs had a wide range, so I was quite impressed when she brought me the request Guinness Stout, and then poured it in the rather difficult style needed. "Who's the dancer?"

"Melina." A fitting name, as she was wearing a Greek costume, although it was the short-skirted men's phoustanella kilt, not the modest long dresses traditional for Greek female dancers. Well into her second act, she was swishing the skirt to reveal not the traditional men's' white tights, but white thigh-high stockings. She paused, and raised her arms, the apparent cue for much faster, percussion-driven music. Releasing a fastener on her top, she spun out of it, briefly leaving a filmy veil over her breasts. Every clash of cymbals signaled a burst of belly dancing music, soon done topless, in which she'd vibrate her incredible abdominal muscles, then sink briefly to the floor, her thighs quivering to draw the eye. I realized, though, that belly dancers usually were barefoot, not balancing in ultra-high heels.

Part 2 ended with a roar of drums. I wondered if her Greek motif extended to the anal tradition. When the cymbals and flutes announced her again, I thought she was indeed confirming her interest in that tradition. She had stripped to shoes, a gauzy thong, a cape, and a dagger. Presenting the dagger, she was fairly far from what I considered Greek warrior dance, but that didn't matter. The music stopped for a moment, other than low drums, and she licked the dagger. The sound of pipes returning, she used the dagger tip to flick off her cape, and then used the flat of the dagger to present each firm but slightly flexible breast. Spinning around, she whacked it across each of her butt cheeks, and then, her back still to the audience, released the thong. Placing the dagger on a table, she spread her ass, not necessarily artistically but in a manner of which Dionysus would approve. She spun around again, moved to the edge of the stage, squatted, and spread her lower lips as she licked the upper ones.

On her knees, Melina moved along the stage railing, spreading her thighs for each watcher. She leaped to her feet again, picked up the dagger, and pressed the hilt against her pussy. In a slow knee bend, showing incredible leg strength, she squatted on the dagger, and let the smooth hilt go inside. The stage went dark. I realized I was very hard and would like to be where the dagger was. Nevertheless, heeding Aimee, I was going to watch the next act in full.

"Cheer for your team with the delightful Cara!" called the DJ, as a dancer, dressed in a cheerleader costume, cartwheeled onto the stage. Coming out of the cartwheel, she still moved quickly, picking up pompons from the stage table and raising them high. The spotlights tracked the metallic pompons at her sides, leaving her face in shadow. She squatted, moving them back and forth along her thighs, which glowed in full light. My eyes widened as I recognized the black and gold of my own high school's cheerleading outfit, with the modification of high-heeled black boots. As she moved into high kicks, I asked myself, "could it be?" I still hadn't clearly seen her face, but I called out, "Go, Mountain!"

She nearly stumbled. Was it my words? I called it again, "Give me an M for Mountain!" Nowhere did the school name appear on the outfit. She stopped briefly, tossed the pompoms to the side, and put her hands to her ears. "Mountain Rams!" I called out, her face still a bit shadowed -- the light operators didn't seem familiar with this part of the act. She gestured to her face, and the lights filled her face.

It had been six years, but there was little doubt. Cara was Carol. She cartwheeled off the stage. The lighting operator not following what I guessed was an unplanned move. The stage went dark, seemingly longer than it had for the previous dancer.

As the lights went on again, Cara came back on stage, also swishing her skirt to show off her legs. They were spectacular and familiar. Suddenly, Louise was at my side. "Curt, do you recognize the dancer? She isn't sure about you."

"I think so. You can tell her I've grown a beard since I last saw her."

"What's her real name? I actually don't know it; Aimee does. I won't pass it further."

"Carol Rubio."

"I'll tell Aimee. We just might have a special act." She hurried to Aimee's booth.

In the second act, Cara continued kicking and leaping. She went into a handstand, showing very brief panties, but still panties rather than a stripper thong. Returning to her feet, she pulled at her top, so that her belly was bare below her bra. The sharp lighting revealed fine muscle definition. While my hormones told me to concentrate on the sight, my brain was asking me what to do next. Carol, in many ways, had been prominent in my fantasies, but it saddened me she couldn't break from the cheerleader clique in high school.

Again, the pause seemed a little longer than for the previous dancer. Two new women came onto the stage, in black leotards, leg warmers, and heels -- perhaps a default outfit? They moved to center stage, and then gestured to the back. Cara came back out, somersaulting, to reveal a black half bra, panties, and heels, along with a golden baton. The three moved toward the edge of the stage. Cara handed the baton to the redhead on her left, who then gave the end to the blonde on her right, who pulled at the knob of the baton. The knob came off, to reveal a dildo, which was first licked by the blonde. She gave it to the redhead, who licked again -- and then marked it with her lipstick.

Cara pulled at her bra, freeing her breasts, as her two assistants kissed her nipples and left the mark of their mouths. She cupped and vibrated her breasts, seemingly looking straight at me.

The curtain opened, and Carol came in, dressed in a short tube dress. The curtain closed, and she looked at me. "It's really you under the beard, isn't it?"

I laughed. "Yes. This is such a pleasant surprise. I don't know about you, but it's certainly easier to catch up if I don't have to be guarded about lusty looks. This is much better than running into you at a correct party. But come here." I pulled her onto my lap and gave her an intense kiss. At first, it seemed right just to hold our cheeks together.

After a time that could have been seconds or hours, she turned to look me in the eye. Her green eyes were as large and brilliant as ever, even in the dim light of the booth. " Before I do anything else, Curt, I want to start living up to promises to you. I told you that you could look at me whenever you wanted." Carol stood, and pulled her skirt to the waist, then pulled the stretch top below her boobs. She wore nothing underneath. "How do you want me? On the table in front of you, or with my legs over your lap?"

"Carol, before getting into any guilt, I've missed you as well. Maybe the time is right for us when it wasn't before. Maybe not.

"Umm. I have a better idea." I pulled her to my side, arm around her. Yes, I turned and stroked her thigh and boob with my other hand, but then whispered in her ear, "let's talk for now. That's what is most important. Sure as hell, I'm not rejecting you."

"Well, I've grown up some, and gotten a lot more insight into what I need. In high school, I either didn't know or wouldn't recognize that I am a sexual exhibitionist. Oh, I can use judgment, but I found that I need to show off sexually, and feel lusted after. To be frank, with my looks, that isn't hard, if you're willing to be even a bit on the dark side.