The Dancer Ch. 2

Both silky strings slid obediently down my arms, to rest on my wrists. With one quick, well-rehearsed movement, I grabbed the left strap and flung the small, fringed piece of fabric back between my still parted thighs. Standing before the two men, with only my black thigh-high boots and sheer black fringed panties, I caught the strap with my free hand between my legs, and began dragging it up and down and back and forth, slowly across my crotch. The two men (or three, as I wasn't sure at the moment) watched me, as the second verse began: 'Torn--I'm filthy...' The boy, Scott must have been a big Creed fan. I could see, as I watched both men through hooded eyes, that he, his own eyes half shut, was tapping his foot, and absent-mindedly smacking the top of his blue-jeaned leg in time to the music.

I took that opportunity to try and 'make nice' with him. Every second beat of the chorus, I slid one booted foot and then the other an inch or two closer to where my music-minded audience member was sitting. By the time the song had reached the haunting lead break, I stood in front of the boy, who, with his head back and eyes still half closed, took little notice of me. I took the liberty then of reaching out to him, so to speak, and placing my hand on the knee he bounced in time to the guitar riff, I leaned forward, brushing my bare breasts against his tee shirt, and whispered in his ear, 'I like em' too, baby.' I figured he heard me, and understood my reference to the band he was obviously enjoying.

I hoped this would put him more at ease, so he might enjoy all the effort being made here. He jumped, as his eyes flew open, and almost knocked himself backward in the chair. Seeing I had startled him, I smiled as sweetly as I could, and pushed myself back to stand in front of the two of them again. The song was coming to the end, and so was my first of two dances for them. I ended my first performance, kneeling on the floor, head forward and arms crossed over my bowed head. As the CD in the juke was changing, I took time to just breathe as I sat curled there in front of them, hair thrown forward on the floor at their feet.

"Boy," I heard the older man say, scooting his chair across the floor. "This is your night. The big two-one!" So, It was the boy's birthday, and obviously his first time at a club like this, let alone his first private dance session. 'Poor thing,' I thought, as the CD kicked in place. I remained in my prone position, listing to the-tell tale hiss, before the second song began in earnest.

"Now, I want you to enjoy yourself," the older man was saying, obviously pressuring the boy by his gruffer tone. " This time show that little girl there who's boss."

I heard the Scott answer him in a soft, decidedly timid tone, "I-I don't think I know how..."

But the man cut him off, saying "Well then son, if you don't know how, I guess I'm gonna have to show you how." And as he preached those last words, I raised up on my haunches, raising my crossed hands above my head, and looked again in the two men's direction. I was closer now than at the beginning of the first song, and they had moved also, the older man's chair now right beside the shy boy's.

I kneeled in front of them both. Slowly, as the first strains of Creed's My Own Prison began, I raised myself up and stood in front of them as before. I watched them as intently as they now watched me. Caressing first one, and then the other of my milky-warm breasts, I noticed Scott was definitely paying attention after his elder's sharp tone with him. I let my hands press down both sides of my body only to stop a moment to run circles with my slender tan fingers around my belly button, before continuing down and into and under my small, sheer-black panties. With my thumbs, I slowly, teasingly pushed the top of the fringed fabric forward, and down off my hips. Reaching with one hand in his shirt pocket, and pulling the garter, which bound my right thigh inches above the top of my boot with his other hand, the older man deftly pushed a hastily folded twenty from his pocket with two fingers under the black elastic band. I noticed he took great care to brush my inner thigh there before pulling both hands back to rest in his lap, and smiling up at me.

I loved when they put money in my garter. I can't say exactly why, but it made me feel appreciated, well paid and altogether decadent. Smiling back at him, I knew it was my cue to 'lose the bottoms', as they say in the business. But I wanted to help this man out in his efforts to teach the boy 'who was boss', and so, slipping back down to the floor, I arched backward, and sliding my hands again above my head, I crossed one leg over the other and rolled to then lay on my stomach, my back now to the two. This is one of my favorite routines, and one my customers favor as well, I think. My next move was one of well thought out submission. I hoped it played out well for my unseen lover whom I still hoped was somewhere out there in the darkness, watching how his gift to these two men was being appreciated.

As the chorus of the song began: 'Shoulda' been there on a Sunday mornin' bangin' my head... ', I pushed back on my elbows, to raise my still thong covered bottom to their view. I rocked in that position on both my elbows and knees in time to the fevered lyrics, looking back every so often, to wink or smile at them both. I loved, though, not looking back; just imagining what they looked like or were doing as I kneeled on all fours that way, seemingly vulnerable to anyone or anything in that submissive position. I felt a hand slide under my garter once more, and the cold kind of thank you that folds scratched my warm thigh. I smiled to myself, knowing the show was good. I pushed myself backward, bending all at the waist until only my feet and elbows were still firmly on the floor. (Being limber, I should probably explain here, is a very effective way of attracting an attentive audience.)

Whether one is a professional dancer or not, it lets others know your limits and abilities if placed in a situation that calls upon these talents. Rhythm, I think is equally important. Anyone having a bit of experience in the art of lovemaking will understand how the two go hand-in-hand. So it is also in the art of exotic dancing. A dancer must appear able to meet the expectations of the customers. Each customer, I always assume, arrives with a fantasy, a play of ideals, in which they are the stars, and one or more dancers are to take supporting roles in their fantasy play.

Therefore, when I am given the opportunity, as I see it, to co-star in one of these fantasies, I approach it with thoughts of graciousness and attitudes of strength and courage of knowledge. Fear, true fear has no place, in my opinion, in art forms of any kind, including exotic dance. If you approach your art with fear, then you immediately limit your creativity and talents to the minimal necessary to achieve only mediocrity.) So, with this knowledge well in place for me, I grabbed both ankles as I bent and looked through my legs at the men before tucking my head and completing a slow somersault forward, to end further from the two men than before, but leaning forward on my elbows and up on my knees once again, in the same position.

It was as the last verse ended and the chorus began once more, that I slowly backed up, crawling backward, on my knees, my head low, between my arms. I continued inching back towards them both, but moving over towards the older man. When I was kneeling directly below and in front of him, I looked back and asked him, in a soft, kitten-like voice, "Would you please take my panties off me? I am getting sooo hot!"

I don't say much during my acts, as a rule, but what I do say awards a great impact on the moment, as was proven, once again to me, by way of this man's reply.

"Oh my, yes, sweetie" he said to my rear end. "I bet you are getting a bit warm by now, and wet again too"

I smiled, though I didn't look back, as I felt his large hands slipping under the spaghetti-thin elastic which hugged my hips, and stood between me and all-out freedom from modesty.

He then added, slyly, "I know you're making me hard just looking at you."

Closing my eyes, I let him grasp my hips in both hands, eventually I could feel a couple of fingers traveling to my inner thighs. Almost as a feather kiss, those same fingers brushed against my warm, moist lips there. It shocked me for a moment, but I didn't move an inch, other than to sneak a sidelong glance to see how all of this was affecting our younger audience member. He sat, arms folded across his middle, looking intently into my eyes. I smiled at first, before sensing in those eyes something that seemed like sadness, or more specifically, pity.

Surely he did not feel sorry for me! That thought, in itself, heated me with anger deep in my stomach. It traveled the length of my body, and met the panties on their way, as they were eased by unseen hands to my ankles. I was rigid at that moment, with hatred. I now understood why this young man was so preoccupied during my show. It was not fear or even embarrassment that had kept him distant, but disgust and pity. He was disgusted with me, with my show. He pitied me; the poor little stripper, dancing and taking her clothes off for men, for money.

'Oh, no,' I thought to myself. 'No. He didn't know me. He only knew my outside; my performance, what he had bothered to watch.' Perfected over time, it was a beautiful show, one akin to making love. But it was just that, a show. I had been a gift of my beautiful airplane man, and this boy was throwing it back in his face!

I decided then that I would show him how strong this poor little creature was. With pure hatred at this boy's ignorance, and stereotypical persecution, I crawled forward, allowing, with the older man's eager assistance, the little panties to slide over and off my feet. I then backed up on all fours one last time, though this time naked, save my thigh boots and money-stuffed garter, pushing my knees farther apart with each slow backward inch.

I then sat poised, with my back to the older man. I could see his black leather shoes on either side of my knees. I knew I was close enough for him to reach out and grab my shoulders at that point. Both the excitement of the submissive closeness and the hatred at the other's decided pity equally filled and emptied my soul.

I looked over at the boy Scott, who sat, leaned back in his chair as the last chorus of the song ended, and the words played in my head: 'And I said OH, so I held my head up high...hate that burns inside...fueled with selfish pride.' The words just drove me further, as I rocked back and forth, watching the boy who would not watch back, looking to see if my airplane man could see all of this, what he felt about how ungrateful this boy was. I felt rough hands try and hold my hips, grab my tits, which bounced painfully as I only rocked more violently, as breeding with a bull.

When I could no longer stand the man's rough touch, or the desire to be touched by my airplane lover, or at the very least, touched by the gaze of the insolent boy, I defiantly sat back on my heels, spread my bent legs still further apart and raised up on my knees. Bouncing, and rocking, as if possessed by the music, I made love there in front of them all. I made love to the music, to my unseen lover, to hatred, to loneliness as I grudge-fucked pity and shame. Sweat was beading between my tits and tracing wet tears of defiance down my spine to tickle between my ass cheeks.

I fucked the world, not caring who was looking, but knowing they all had to be now, even my dark airplane flyer, as the last notes of the song pounded my senses to numb. The lyrics I kept hearing over and over in my head: 'I created-I created-I created-I created-I created-I created my own prison!!...'