Considerate Boyfriend Pt. 03

Betsy pronounced the words gentleman's club with an air of sophistication, and I had to suppress a laugh. This bar was a down-and-dirty working-class strip club frequented by farm boys and factory workers who came in to drink beer and stare at titties. I almost chuckled to think Betsy believed she'd be dancing for gentlemen. Put beer in a man's hand and a bare ass shimmying in his face and no self-respecting male ever remains a gentleman for long.

"If I don't talk to you before your first dance, good luck!" I told them both and made my way to the gentlemen's club.

Vera was all smiles when I arrived and even offered me a free beer. "Thank you! I've never been given this kind of gift before. I only hope it keeps on giving for months!"

I didn't understand quite what she was talking about. "Were you able to make the arrangements we discussed?" I asked.

Oh, god yes! They jumped at the chance the very second I laid it out for them and they even added a younger guy to the mix to make it more challenging," Vera confided.

"These guys can be trusted, can't they? I mean they're not serial killers or escaped convicts, are they?"

Vera laughed at that and replied, "Two of them are duly elected officials of the county and the third one is an appointed county official. The only thing your two lady friends have to worry about is... well, one of these men can pose quite a challenge for any lady. I'm sure they will be up to the challenge, though. Enjoy your beer - and talk to Teddy at the bar if you want another. He'll keep you fixed up."

Vera got up and sauntered over to a table of young men, patted a couple of them on the shoulder and deftly managed to sidestep a roving hand that was about to land on her backside. She said something I couldn't hear and the table laughed. The fact that Vera had involved county officials in our little plot worried me. I had expected she would hire a couple of yokels for our scheme. We would have a little fun at Betsy and Sydney's expense, and, with a little luck, the girls would be none the wiser. Involving county officials implied there might be broken laws and more serious consequences. Still, Vera had been elated over our plan and the arrangements she had made. I had to trust her, I supposed.

Halfway through my beer Sydney and Betsy came pushing through the front door carrying themselves very much like two women on a mission. Both were clad in long, lightweight coats and each of them was carrying what appeared to be one of the very same shopping bags Sydney had been carrying when I first met her on our bus ride. I supposed the coats were intended to conceal their dance outfits. They ignored me completely as they scurried past me to the dressing room.

The dressing room still had the same crude plywood door with its nailed-on hinges. Nothing seemed to have changed except there were far more men in this bar than I expected. It was late on Saturday afternoon - too early for the party crowd and definitely too late for this crowd to be mostly 'regulars.' Most of them were already crowded around the dancer's stage and the dancing hadn't even begun yet. I began to think Vera had let it be known Sydney would be returning tonight. If so, the dePoet mother-daughter team was going to see a lot of action tonight.

Two minutes later, Sydney appeared on the stage, fed some money into the jukebox, turned to face all the horny men before her as she waited for the music to begin. A hushed, low groan swept through crush of men at the stage. Sydney smiled innocently, then set to swaying her hips gently in time to the song's slow intro.

Both mother and daughter had modeled many outfits for me in the past week but neither of them had told me what they were actually going to wear. Sydney's outfit was an updated and much more sophisticated version of her original schoolgirl uniform. Her white stockings had wide, lacy tops. She had on shoes with short heels and a sheer white blouse. She was even wearing a lacy little bra tonight - though it was so sheer I could see the outline of both nipples. Her schoolgirl skirt was much shorter too. Each time she turned or swayed I caught glimpses of a smooth, round ass cheek and a bit of her white cotton panties. Sydney had clearly come to understand the powerful impact her innocent little-girl looks had on men and she intended on using everything on her audience tonight. She even managed a forlorn pout when her first 'tipper' only tucked a dollar bill in her left stocking. I watched him hesitate for a moment and frown before producing another single and tucking it into her right stocking. Sydney beamed and rewarded him with a heartfelt, long French kiss that I'm sure fogged the middle-aged fellow's glasses up. She looked so comfortable and innocent down on her knees hugging that balding fellow while tangling her tongue with his.

By the time that first song ended she had a couple more bills tucked in her stockings, and she had unbuttoned her blouse. Midway through the second song her blouse came off and from her gestures, I gathered she was encouraging men to tuck tips in her tiny see-through bra. Soon she had money spilling out from between her pert little boobs too.

In the coming ten minutes Sydney happily worked her way out of everything but her panties. Thankfully her panties weren't nearly as sheer as her bra. I still had nightmare visions of some shadowy squad I could only call the 'panty police' suddenly appearing and arresting one or both of the dePoets ladies for public indecency and then carting them off to jail in a state of complete and brazen nudity. At least it wouldn't be Sydney, I sighed with relief. Betsy would be onstage soon enough.

When Sydney's final song ended, she gracefully plucked up skirt, blouse, bra and a few stray bills that had fallen from her bra, waved to her audience with a smile, and retreated to the dressing room. Betsy would be next, and I was already sweating over what she might do. Her open disdain for the laws concerning stripping and dancing in public worried me. Baring that delicate sweet MILF pussy of hers tonight might well get her arrested. At the very least she might be thrown out of Dancer's.

The gentle hoots and whistles from the audience had just died down when Betsy appeared in the dressing room doorway. The expression on her face was shy, almost reluctant. I had never seen her so unsure of herself. Betsy had that unmistakable deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes. There was absolutely nothing shy or uncertain about her dress, however. A hush came over the crowd as she took her first steps onto the edge of the stage. The men I could see from my vantage point at the bar all had the ravenous, wolflike look in their eyes.

This scenario was unexpected. All week long Betsy had shamelessly taunted and teased me and now she appeared hesitant, even frightened by the prospect of dancing for horny men eager to see her dance out their raunchiest fantasies. She was wearing that same hot blue strapless dress she had shimmied her way out of in my office doorway, only this time she had on a bit more makeup, smoky thigh-high stockings that ended a full inch below her hemline and she was wearing a pair of matching blue platform high heels that screamed, "knock me down and fuck me!" even from my barstool across the room. I supposed this was her twisted idea of a prom dress.

Betsy was in grave danger of backing out. I could see it in her eyes. Something had to be done quickly to head off her urge to flee.

I did my best to think fast and head off disaster. "I'll bet she's not wearing any panties!" I screamed out like a madman.

Several men in the audience looked my way. Betsy shot a vengeful glance at me, squaring her jaw and drawing her lips taut as she glared at me. Before she could say anything, someone else along the stage yelled, "Show us your panties, honey! Prove him wrong!"

Thankfully, she chose to turn her attention to the heckler at the far side of the stage. She stared at him and for the first time since appearing onstage, an impish grin spread across her face, her hands clutched the snug material at her hips, and she gave her dress a naughty little tug. I knew then her bout of stage fright was ended. The room erupted in hoots and catcalls. I worried she might actually not be wearing panties. Betsy's hips began to undulate and roll. Though she hadn't even fed the jukebox yet, she was dancing to some primal beat that only she needed to hear. She gave her dress another gentle tug, bringing the hem a precious inch higher up her legs. She began to make her way sensuously toward her heckler until she squatted in front of him. He turned out to be a middle-aged man in overalls with a shaggy beard. Betsy rested her hands on both knees and spoke something softly to him that I couldn't hear, not once taking her eyes off his.

Her heckler reached in his front pocket and extracted a dollar bill. As he clasped the bill between his index and middle fingers, Betsy spread her already open legs a bit wider for him, inching her little blue prom dress even higher. Her customer's eyes grew wide as the sweet chasm between her thighs spread wider. She slipped a finger into her stocking and motioned for him to deposit his dollar bill inside. Once he had deposited his tip beneath her stocking, Betsy grasped both his fingers, drew them up to her lips and slowly, tenderly sucked first his index finger into her mouth and then his middle finger. After suckling each of them for a long moment, she extended her tongue out between the two fingers and drew it slowly, coolly back and forth through the 'V' between them.

Without any music playing, the room fell almost religiously silent. I thought the poor fellow was going to cum in his pants on the spot. He and several other customers nearby let out one long, quite audible groan in unison as she withdrew her tongue, gently released his hand and made a show of slowly licking her lips. Betsy then smiled, rose slowly, quietly smoothing her dress as she did.

As Betsy casually made her way to the jukebox, I could already see several men reaching in their pockets for cash. From the number of sighs and the scuffling sounds as men around the bar tussled with their wallets, I was certain of two things: Betsy had most certainly overcome her case of nerves and she had aroused the interest of every single man in the room. I noticed that even Teddy, the bartender had stopped mixing the drink in his hand to stare as Betsy made slow, sweet love to the customer's two fingers. Betsy was going to have a very, very good night. Hell, so were all these customers! I don't think a single soul in the bar even cared whether she was wearing panties or not.

Before her first song ended, Betsy had eased the top of her strapless dress down to expose her boobs. For a woman in her early forties, she had magnificent tits. I'm certain her breasts had rested higher and been slightly smaller some fifteen years ago, but those years had been good to her. In spite of her age, her boobs still rode high and proud on her chest, begging for attention. They were heavier now, but their added heft and their sleek curves simply made my mouth water. Apparently, the rest of the bar agreed with me. Her breasts bounced and swayed as she shimmied to the music, making me remember the hardness of her nipples between my lips as we did our best last weekend to please each other.

As her second song got underway, Betsy began to find it difficult to dance. It seems her naughty little act of sucking that first farm boy's fingers so slowly and sensually had instantly become a 'thing.' Now they all wanted to have her plunge their fingers into her mouth. Betsy quickly adjusted to their demands, seeming to be quite proud of having spurred their new interest in cleanliness. She quickly developed a new routine to replace her dancing. After inserting the tip from each customer in her stocking, she would slowly, sensually lave their middle and index fingers, then stand, smooth the hem of her dress and either sidle along the stage to her next customer or turn, gyrate her way across the stage and then repeat her performance for another happy customer. She allowed a few of the customers to cop a feel of her breasts during all of this as well. She performed in this way non-stop through her third song too, but when it ended, she stood, pulled the top of her dress up over her boobs, turned to face all in the room with a smile and then strode off the stage and into the dressing room. I noticed, as did everyone else, that she left the right nipple of her lovely breast peeking out of her dress through all of her farewell, just as she had done in my office doorway. She had made quite a spectacle of herself and there were dollar bills quaking from all around the tops of both her stockings, shimmying and rustling like the leaves on an aspen tree.

Betsy had hardly disappeared when Sydney appeared onstage carrying two simple items: a wooden folding chair and a fresh, rather green banana. The muscles in my belly tightened reflexively and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I knew precisely what she had planned, and I wasn't at all sure how this crowd might react. I wasn't even certain it was legal.

Sydney was clad in a long flowing, floor-length gown of pale blue satin. It might have appeared both sophisticated and possibly even reserved, if it hadn't been cut in a deep 'V' in both the front and back. Her navel was visible in front, and I thought I could spy a slight hint of the cleavage from her butt and thong in back. To make it even more daring, the skirt was slit squarely up the front from the floor to mere inches below her crotch. The front of this simple and flowing gown was held together by three large black buttons. The lowest of these buttons was placed slightly beneath her crotch. In fact, there were only a few inches of material separating her navel and her nether regions. She was still wearing her stockings. This apparently was her idea of a prom dress. Had she worn it to my high school prom she would most certainly have found herself in the backseat of a car with her legs thrown high in the air and grunting like an animal for most of the night.

Sydney placed her chair near the center of the stage beneath a bright spotlight. She set the banana on it, fed money into the jukebox, selected the songs for her routine and then casually returned to her chair. She smiled to the entire room before plucking up the curved greenish yellow prop and then sitting primly upon the chair.

With the gown draped over her legs as demurely as possible for a dress slit that high, she began to peel the banana. Finished peeling it, she made a big show of dropping the peel beside her on the floor. There were a few catcalls at first, but when she formed a ring with her fingers and began to slide the fruit slowly, carefully into the tight circle formed by her fingers, the room fell silent. Only the strains of the music could be heard. She toyed with the fruit as if she was making friends with it throughout her first song.

As the first song ended and the second song began, she put the banana to her lips and slowly licked it from one end to the other, seeming to imply she had an all-consuming fascination with its entire length. Following this first swipe of her tongue, Sydney tipped her head back and daintily inserted just the tip of the long, slender fruit between her lips. To make this act more dramatic, she twisted it slowly, delicately from side to side casually with the beat of the music. She had deliberately chosen music with a slow, romantic air to it. Her cheeks swelled out with each twist.

"Swallow it whole, honey! I know you can! Do it!" shouted the fellow sitting next to me at the bar. The rest of the bar remained silent, but I supposed they all agreed with his words of encouragement.

I leaned over to him and told him, breathlessly, "Oh, she will! She will! Just you watch!"

The fellow, a slender man about my age and sporting a close-cropped beard with a lot of red in it, turned and looked at me in shock. "Really?" he asked in disbelief.

"Oh, lord, yes!" I moaned out.

He stared in astonishment at me, glanced to Sydney on the stage, and immediately pushed himself off his barstool and made his way to the corner of the stage where he simply stood, his jaw slack as he watched and waited, apparently praying Sydney might make his dream come true.

He didn't have long to wait. As the music continued, she gently began to feed more of the long, curving fruit into her mouth. Her head was tipped way back now as she seductively downed ever more of it. As it traveled ever deeper, her throat began to show just the slightest traces of swelling. She did not seem to be in any hurry to devour the whole of it. The song was coming to an end, and she had plunged little more than half of it into her mouth. I knew from experience that Sydney could have easily taken the whole of it by now. She was teasing her audience - and doing a damn good job of it.

When the song ended half a minute later, the sweet, glistening fruit was halfway down Sydney's throat. The bar had become deafeningly silent. It was as if every man in the place was holding his breath, begging to see her complete this magic trick and make the entire long shank of it vanish down her throat.

Suddenly Sydney appeared to realize the music had ended. She looked genuinely disappointed as she carefully eased it from her straining mouth, daintily letting it dangle between her thumb and index fingers. She rose to her feet gracefully, held the banana out before her for all to see, then gazed out across the audience and asked, "Would anyone care to buy a gently used banana?"

At first the silence was broken by a several men clearing their throats. Suddenly though, my friend with the red beard from the barstool next to me spoke up. "I'll buy it for ten dollars!" he said as he slammed a bill on the stage in front of him.

"I'll give fifteen dollars for it, doll!" challenged a fellow just a couple of elbows away from me down the bar.

"Twenty!" countered the man with the red beard, slapping another bill down on the stage.

Sydney stood for a long moment, smiling and, I suppose, waiting for a higher offer. When no one else spoke up, she made her way to this fellow with the red beard and a yen for used bananas, bent forward to gaze into eyes and said something to him in a soft voice only he could hear. He grinned and nodded like an idiot at whatever she had said. With his nod, she knelt before him, brought the spittle-drenched end of the banana up to his mouth and spoke something in a hushed tone to him. He opened his mouth instantly and Sydney slipped the glistening tip into his open mouth.

What happened next flabbergasted me - and I already knew what this young minx was capable of. Without missing a beat, she tipped her head upward toward the banana as he held it in in his teeth, said something to him and waited with open mouth. Mr. Red Beard lowered his head, slowly plunging the other end into Sydney's waiting mouth. She rose slightly, leaning forward until roughly one third of it filled her mouth. Slowly, tenderly, she suckled at her end of the banana. She took her time, making quite a show of working the fruit slowly back and forth in her hungry mouth. Several moments later she quietly began to nibble off and swallow small silvers of it, inching her way ever nearer to Mr. Red Beard's lips. The room fell silent as she swallowed a last bit, then forced the last remaining inch of banana into Mr. Red Beard's mouth with her tongue and proceeded to chase the last bit of it around in his mouth.

"Thank you for sharing," she told the new owner of her banana in a voice clear enough for most of us to hear. She picked up the two bills laying at the edge of the stage and added, "I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did."