Desperately Seeking Solution

Author's Note:  This story germinated from a single quirky idea and evolved to include multiple partners, wide age disparities, internal cumshots, a touch of incest, prostitution, and a healthy suspension of reality. Please note: first, this is fiction and fantasy—in a world where unprotected sex has no consequences or health risks—so please enjoy it as such. Second, age is relative; no derision is intended when describing a young woman's perception of people two or three times her age as "old."

As usual, all participants are well over 18, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely unintentional and coincidental.

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I'm Sara, and this is my story of how, in an Escherian twist, my slide down the proverbial slippery slope brought me up to a higher place.

Today, I'm a successful and comfortably well-off 25-year-old woman whom most people know by my professional name, Starla. Two years ago, I was a broke, 23-year-old unemployed grad student. Like many, I had rent and piles of debt—student loans, credit cards, and a car loan. Then, I lost my job when my company downsized and laid off all recent hires. I desperately sought new work, but we were in a recession with little decent employment available.

A difficult family situation complicated matters. My father is an extremely conservative Pastor and is overly strict. Old-school strict, judgmental, and intolerant, to put it bluntly. He reluctantly helped pay part of my rent and insurance on the condition I maintain steady employment, a high GPA, and conform to a near-impossible level of moral purity—of which he was the sole judge. I hadn't told him I'd lost my job; he would have blamed me, accused me of sloth or some other sin, and would have stopped providing financial help. I needed money desperately and needed my father's continued support.

Two good friends had discovered and started working three nights a week at a strip club outside of town. They earned enough to pay all their living expenses, including rent, food, insurance, gas, and some loan payments. They described it as a mix of easy and hard work, mostly fun, and more money for fewer work hours than any entry-level jobs they could get elsewhere. My friends tried to convince me to join them, saying that no one would ever know and it would solve my financial problems.

Out of curiosity, I asked if they had to have any sexual contact with guys. They assured me no, the "dancers" have complete control—the guys aren't allowed to touch, and bouncers enforced that rule. This was not the kind of club with a VIP room where blowjobs or other sex happened. It was as classy and above board as a strip club could get—but it was still a strip club. So the dancers were required to show off their nude bodies, act sexy, and give lap dances if they wanted any meaningful money. I wasn't naive. I understood the general setup.

They told me I was beautiful, sexy, and hot, and customers would line up and pay to see me undress and spend even more for me to sit on their laps and wiggle against them through their clothes. I wasn't buying it—but I was flattered nonetheless. Over time, I slowly went from "you're crazy, no way," to "maybe no one would know, but still couldn't risk it," to "might be worth the risk, but I'm too shy/introverted and can't see me doing anything like that." In the meantime, I urgently looked for a "real" job.

Finally, a situation arose that tempted me to cross the line—the first of many lines, it would turn out. My friends told me about an upcoming amateur night stripping contest at their club, with no lap dances or other interactions with customers. According to them is was the perfect opportunity for me to see what it was like to dance/strip in front of men in public. And as an extra incentive, the winner receives $500, $250 for second place, and $150 for third place. Not bad for what would amount to less than 30 minutes of work.

At first, I didn't take it seriously, thinking it was still too much for me. Then my friends clarified that I wouldn't have to get fully naked if I didn't want to. I could go topless but leave my bottom on or keep my top on. But, of course, if I left everything covered, I had little chance of winning. Some do that, but most end up nude after getting into it. 

After a week of cajoling, badgering, pressuring, teasing, and reasoning, I finally agreed to try just that one event, to see for myself and to get them off my back. I was sure I would hate it, but I felt that I needed to try it to make my case against it with any legitimacy. They told me to wear what I wanted as long as I wore something sexy for the last bits of clothing, like lingerie or a skimpy bikini.

The three of us arrived on the contest night, and the club was crowded. It was fairly dark except for the stage, a semi-circle with chairs pulled up around it, like sitting at a curved bar. They had an area for the amateur contestants to sign up and wait—about a dozen women of all sizes and shapes, ranging in age from the early twenties to mid-forties. I was surprised and somewhat impressed by the participation of several "older" women who were closer in age to my mother's contemporaries. 

A female club manager oversaw contestants, showed us where we could change and safely leave our things, and suggested we wear at least an outer layer over something skimpy (underwear or bikini) so we had something to remove. She also recommended we leave our shoes on. I guess men find it sexy to see nude women wearing heels or shoes for some reason. Also, the floor was not exactly clean.

She checked us in for the contest. When she got to me, she said, "Name?"

"Sara. Without an 'h.'" I said obediently.

The manager looked at me. "That your real name? You don't want to use your real name. What performing name do you want? Pick something short, memorable."

I hadn't thought about that; that was one thing my friends didn't mention. So I went with the first "showy" name to pop into my mind. "I, um. Ok... Starla. Yes, that'll be my stage name tonight. Starla. I like that."

The woman nodded and made a notation. After checking us in, she explained the sequence of the contest. First, we would all dance simultaneously for two songs, then the crowd would narrow us down to the top three via applause. Next, the top three would dance together for two more songs, with the audience again choosing the winners.

Most of us seemed nervous; a couple looked terrified, and a few looked confident and having fun. I felt butterflies in my stomach from both nervousness and budding excitement.

For the first round, we were encouraged to do our sexiest dances. We could leave our tops on or take them off, but we were not allowed to go beyond topless—we had to leave our genitals covered with at least a thong. They wanted sexy, sensual, erotic stripping. The three chosen for the second and final round were welcome to take as much off as they wished but should avoid overt sexual displays such as masturbating or fingering themselves.

I was shocked that such a warning needed to be given at all. What have I gotten myself into here? As the start time approached, my excitement was tempered by heightened nervousness and a healthy dose of fear.

Despite my upbringing, I did not consider myself a prude, even if I wasn't as sexually experienced as many friends. I lost my virginity when I was 19 and had sex with three men to date. I very much enjoyed all aspects of sex that I'd had so far: giving and receiving oral, intercourse, and all the attendant licking, stroking, fingers, hands, and lips that go along with it. And, evidently, I was one of the rare women that actually liked the taste of cum, to the delight of the recipients of my oral ministrations. My limited number of lovers seemed well satisfied with my sexual prowess, despite my relative lack of experience. 

So not a slut, but no angel either. And, of course, my best friends were working at the club as dancers (ok, strippers), so I was pretty open-minded about the whole thing. However, my firm plan was to play it up but only get to the lingerie stage; I wasn't about to flash my bare boobs to a roomful of strangers. Ah, the best-laid plans... 

They called us up and explained the contest to the crowd. The music started, and I began moving somewhat awkwardly and self-consciously. I saw others moving smoothly and sensuously with the music, which inspired me to get into the spirit of things. I lifted my arms over my head and circled my hips, swaying my butt and feeling the rhythm. I was one in a group, all moving, turning, and gyrating.

I noticed a couple of women had pulled off their shirts and danced in just lacy bras. Another woman slowly lifted her t-shirt up and off, revealing a bikini top. Inspired and emboldened, I decided to follow suit. Swirling my hips, I lifted my shirt partway, dropped it down, then peeled it up and off—I had on a half-cup bra that lifted my boobs and accentuated my modest B-cup cleavage. 

The crowd cheered and hooted, encouraging their friends and us shouting things like "take it off," "go, girl," and "you got this." I smiled as I heard my friends calling out in the mix. 

By the end of the first song, all the women had stripped to their bikinis or lingerie and were dancing more suggestively. We were getting caught up in the atmosphere of eroticism and frivolity. The second song brought increased lewdness to the dancing, with women squeezing their boobs together, thrusting their hips forward, and shaking their asses. I joined in right along with them.

The sensuality seemed contagious as we moved, thrilled by the naughtiness and charged atmosphere. The crowd cheered loudly, and I followed the noise and saw that a beautiful woman with long ginger hair had taken off her top, revealing full firm breasts topped with large pink areolae and perky nipples. She was spinning her top over her head like a lasso as she turned her body in place. As she spun, her boobs wobbled and followed her movement—each time she turned, the crowd's noise swelled.

The general noise of the crowd increased in response to three more women pulling off their tops. First, a slightly older woman, probably in her 40s, sashayed up to the edge of the stage and lifted her bare breasts alternately up and down as if weighing them—the audience roared its approval. Next, two blonde women peeled off their tops and shimmied, causing their boobs to ripple and wiggle, their pink nipples crinkling and hardening. 

I knew the song was going to end soon, and some deep competitive streak stirred to life within me. I spun, lifted my arms over my head, then dropped in half at the waist, my arms and hair reaching towards the floor. Then I threw them back up with a little jump—I had a sizable portion of the audience's attention. 

I paddled around in a circle, reached behind and unhooked my bra, held it in front of me, then threw it off—literally threw it— into the crowd. The crowd loved it, I loved it, and my previous self-consciousness had vanished. I was topless in front of strangers and having a blast. Their cheers of approval stoked my confidence, and I spun, undulated my pelvis, grabbed my boobs and lifted one, and licked my dark pink nipple. I felt naughty and free and was having fun.

The music stopped, and the club manager announced it was time for the preliminary round vote. I looked at the other women—all but three of the twelve of us were topless. We were all flushed and breathing hard from the exertion. All nine of us topless women presented constricted areolae and hard erect nipples of various sizes and colors to the crowd. 

The manager encouraged the crowd to rile them up, then walked along and held her hand over our heads, soliciting audience cheers. We all got huge, enthusiastic cheers, except for the unfortunate covered ones, who got far less clapping and even some good-hearted ribbing and groans.

As you might have guessed, since this is my story, I made it into the final round, one of the three top cheer-getters. The other two women seemed toned and confident. They stood in quirky poses like fashion models, boobs thrust forward and smiles on their faces. 

To be different, I made a pouty face and lifted my chin in a haughty gesture, then looked down at my boobs and looked up with a surprised expression with my mouth in an "O," as if I had just discovered I was topless. The audience laughed and clapped at my antics.

The following songs brought out the naughtiness, sensuality, and boldness in all three of us. One was the beautiful redhead who had first taken off her top, with her firm breasts and perfect pink nipples. The other was a short brunette with compact tits, dark nipples against a light brown complexion, and an exotic look.

I imagined how I must have looked and lost a bit of confidence, thinking I wouldn't stand up next to these hot women. My auburn hair was flying around just past my shoulders without style. My boobs seemed ordinary to me but nicely shaped and firm—mid-sized, with dark pink nipples that tended to stand up a lot. I was reasonably fit but not a cut athlete's figure. My friends say I'm beautiful and sexy, but that's what friends are supposed to say.

We danced the first song, gyrating, bending over, trying to be erotic, as we imagined strippers should be. We had fun, despite not having prior experience; we laughed at our own antics and even turned and danced with each other at times.

Then the other two faced each other, locked eyes, and started mirroring each other's movements. The short exotic woman smiled, slipped her thumbs under the straps of her bikini bottom, and pulled them down a hair—a tease, that one. The redhead responded by actually mooning the audience, pulling her lacy knickers down off her butt and back up. Finally, they spun away and continued sensually teasing the audience. 

As the second—and last—song played, we circled and became more sexual in our movements. We thrust our hips and caressed our boobs. The exotic woman slid down into the splits, much to the loud appreciation of the audience, then rolled over holding her leg still in the splits, and rippled back up. The redhead then took the heel of her foot in hand and lifted her leg up high, above her shoulder and pivoted in a circle, to even more cheers. Unfortunately, I wasn't that flexible and had no quirky physical tricks. 

So I pulled off my panties. 

I whipped them off as if it were something I did every day, not thinking about modesty or morality. I was caught up in the eroticism, the competition, and the thrill of a newly-discovered exhibitionist streak in me. Then, totally nude, I swirled my hips, swung my panties around, and threw them into the audience. The crowd went wild, cheering and hooting.

The cheering volume increased again, and I glanced at my competition and saw that the other women had joined me in full nudity. I noted that the redhead had well-trimmed natural ginger pubes—matching her hair—and the exotic darker-complexioned one's pussy was totally bare. I was glad I was always well-groomed, as I had never intended anyone to see my pussy that night; my dark patch of trimmed pubes hovered like a crown over my shaved labia.

The music stopped, and we awaited the results. Amid the cheers and applause, I realized that I enjoyed what I had just done and being the object of positive attention. And I found it arousing to be nude in public, in front of appreciative men. 

I also realized that my friends were right—this would be a great workplace and a fun, lucrative solution to my financial woes. And since the club was so out of the way, and such an unexpected activity, no one would know what I was doing; the anonymity of the place was perfect.

The redhead won first place, and I came second in the amateur contest. But I also got a job. A secret solution to my money problems. Miss Pastor's-daughter was now officially a professional exotic dancer—a stripper.

I danced for two months, starting two, then three nights a week. I gradually lost my fear and nervousness and became more comfortable showing and moving my body undressed. It helped that the other dancers were helpful, supportive, and friendly. They showed me the ropes, gave me advice, and were fun. 

When working there, I dissociated what I was doing from sex and didn't feel guilty or immoral dancing erotically and stripping fully nude. It was a job: these were patrons I was paid to perform for, and after the first couple of nights, I barely registered who they were, what they looked like, or their ages. I compartmentalized my actions, lost myself in the routines, and focused on my performance.

The job consisted of two "services." First, solo stage performing and second, mingling with the patrons to solicit and give lap dances (where most of the evening's money could be earned). I focused on stage dances only for the first week, learning the ropes.

I followed a similar routine for my solo stage times as most of the other dancers. We would have three songs. During the first, I would do primarily sexy dancing, gyrations, and heady looks, and strip to bikini/lingerie. I would then crawl on the stage, showing my bum in a thong, and squeeze my tits to show cleavage—cash tips would start to appear, usually dollar bills tossed onto the stage or placed in front of stage-seated patrons. Toward the end of the first song, I would take off my top, play with my bare boobs, lift and lick my nipples, shake, and start to show my boobs closer to patrons. 

The second song would start with more boob offerings closer to patrons' faces (careful to jerk back if they tried to lick), even slapping them against their faces. Then would come the removal of my thong, revealing my full nudity. I would still do some dancing but also keep crawling around the stage or stand right over the onlookers so they could look up and see my crotch from below. I sometimes would bend forward with straight legs, head to knees, showing my pussy from behind—all with appropriate wiggles and gyrations because we were "dancers." 

The most tips came during the third song, which involved almost zero dancing. Instead, I would go along from one patron to the other, pick up the bills, and slide close to them, pulse my hips up and down, wiggle my butt near their faces, and sometimes pull a cheek to the side to show my pussy more in response to a big tip. 

It took me a week before I gave my first lap dance. The other women talked me through the activity and demonstrated with each other and me. This seemed much more intimate than just stripping and being looked at—it required personal interaction and physical contact. I was scared as hell, but eventually figured that it was just part of the job, and the bouncers were right there to protect me from being touched or groped. We were required to wear bottoms—we were strictly forbidden from physical contact with a customer fully nude, under threat of termination. And I had total control over where and how I touched the guys.

My first lap dance was awkward, but the nice guy complimented me and tipped well. I sat on his lap facing away and wiggled my butt near but not on his crotch. Then I turned, stood so his face was near my crotch, and lowered myself to straddle him. His eyes darted from mine to my bare boobs, my nipples hard in the open air. I tried to catch his eye and smile, but he avoided my gaze and looked down at my tits. I realized he was just as nervous as I was, which gave me confidence. 

I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned back slightly, which pressed my groin against his crotch. I was startled when I felt his cock harden and swell in his jeans, even though I intellectually knew it would happen. After my initial freakout (well masked and totally in my head), I started gyrating on his erection, sliding back and forth, sometimes putting weight on it, other times lifting so I barely scraped along.