Desperately Seeking Solution

He closed his eyes, lolled his head back, and gave a little smile and moan of pleasure—I suspected he might have cum in his pants, but I might have imagined that. When our songs ended, he gave me a big smile and said, "that was incredible, thank you." I stood and smiled down at him, topless and slightly flushed. I realized I was aroused by it as well.

Once I overcame my initial reluctance, I mingled, flirted, and openly solicited lap dances from the customers. Our goal was to give as many as possible each evening, which made us and the club more money and the patrons happy. Sometimes the customers would be attractive, usually ordinary or plain, and sometimes downright unattractive (to be polite). Occasionally a couple came in, and the guy would buy a lap dance for the girl—not sure if it was more arousing for her or him. Maybe both. 

I soon learned to adjust how I moved to suit my comfort level with different customers and still give them what they wanted, regardless of their inherent attractiveness. Sometimes one would try to touch me by sliding his hands onto my ass. But I would say no, and they would usually drop their hands like a schoolboy reprimanded by a teacher. Only once a man refused to stop touching despite being warned. He groped my ass and tried to lick my nipples despite my pushing him back away; within seconds, a bouncer was there, who marched the guy out of the club rather roughly.  

By my second month, on a good night, I would generally go to the side booths to lap dance with a customer every 20 minutes or so. Combined with my stage tips, I generated a couple or even several hundred dollars a night—on one stand-out Saturday, I made over five hundred. I was having fun and making good money. 

I got used to guys getting hard and horny, and grinding on erect cocks became routine and, in some ways, empowering. It was flattering and made me feel powerfully feminine to know that men were getting turned on by me—by my looks, movements, conversation, and physical contact.

Several times a night, a guy would actually cum in his pants during a lap dance—sometimes I could feel the throbbing and vibration of the ejaculation. Many other girls thought it was gross when that happened and complained, but I figured it was a sign that I was doing my job well. And, I at least never felt any wetness soak all the way through a guy's pants, though if that did happen, I could see why the girls didn't like it. 

I felt secretly proud when I could make a guy cum just by moving my butt against his dick, through his clothes—it turned me on when someone got that aroused. And they usually were some of the biggest tippers.

I also received propositions at least a half dozen times a night to either go to some non-existent "special VIP room" where we could theoretically go much further in private, or to meet someone outside of the club (which was strongly discouraged by management). I was tempted a couple of times by good-looking, attractive men who seemed like they might be fun to know had we met under other circumstances. But I always politely declined and never ran into a problem.

Everything was going great; I covered my bills, met fun colleagues, and enjoyed my newfound skills. All was good until disaster struck, and my world came crashing down.

It was a Saturday night—the busiest and most lucrative night of the week—and I was fully occupied and on a roll. I had lap dances lined up three in advance and was letting loose in my stage show more provocatively than ever. I was in my third stage set of the evening. I had gone through my first two songs, so I was fully naked, crawling, exposing, titillating, and, based on my tips, pleasing the customers. I was in the zone, moving from one guy to the next, collecting singles, five, and some ten-dollar bills from the stage.

I crawled over to an older man who had just sat down while I was giving a close-up treat to another customer, my eyes spotting two ten-dollar bills—a generous and infrequently large stage tip. I scooped up the money and smiled at him, and his eyes crinkled back at me. For that amount, he was going to get a great look. So I opened my legs, put my feet on the drink shelf before him, and hoisted my hips. My uncovered pussy was right near his face and made little pulses and undulations. 

Usually, when I took that position, the guy would stare, transfixed, as if hypnotized by the movement and the opening and closing of my pussy lips. That night, however, the older man maintained eye contact with me longer than most. But he finally gave in to temptation and dropped his gaze to my undulating sex. 

A young guy sitting to one side of "my" guy leaned over to get a free look (a common occurrence). I raised my eyebrows and gave him a disapproving look, followed by a coy smile—after all, one never knows where the next best customers will come from. On my guy's other side, I was peripherally aware of another older man, which I assumed was with the man I was exposing myself to.

After writhing and undulating my slightly open pussy near my current guy's face, I sat back on the stage and pulled my feet back up. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the older man beside him slide some bills onto the stage. I gave the first man a wink, rolled over onto my hands and knees, and surreptitiously noted that there were another two tens. I scooped the money out of the way, turned my ass toward the new guy without eye contact, and backed up toward him. 

I was getting into the eroticism, felt sexy and emboldened, lost in the cacophony of music, talking, and my own sexual movements. I arched my back, which opened my butt and exposed my pussy lips, and rocked back and forth, pressing closer and away. Then I dropped my head down onto my forearms, exaggerating the lift of my rear. I reached behind with one hand and pulled my lower butt cheek open—the first time I'd been so explicit that close to a patron—which parted my outer labia and exposed my inner lips. I felt cool air waft over my pussy, and became vaguely aware I had become wet with arousal. 

After giving a suitable show, I rolled onto my back towards the next guy— another older man—again without eye contact. I had found a rhythm of moving from man to man, collecting money and displaying myself, hardly registering who each person was. I decided I liked these older ones, who were generous with the bucks. I looked at the stage and saw two twenty-dollar bills, far more than usual and far more than I'd ever been tipped on stage. Again, I felt a mix of arousal, greed, and pleasure. 

As if in a dream, I smoothly rolled onto my back and scooped the bills away. Mirrors on the ceiling above the stage gave me a bird's-eye view of my body. I was in front of the generous tipper on my back, looking straight up at the ceiling, head towards the stage center, crotch and legs towards him. I shimmied forward on my back with my legs up, bent at the knees, bringing my butt to the end of the stage. 

Still lying flat on my back, I extended both of my legs straight up in the air, which placed my compressed pussy peeking out from between my thighs directly in front of the guy's face. 

I watched my reflection, mesmerized as if seeing someone else, as I slowly dropped my straight legs open to the sides, down to nearly complete side splits. My labia peeled apart in slow motion like a shy flower blooming in the morning sun; first the outer, then inner petals spreading open. I held my thighs down to maximize my current customer's view, giving him an explicit and sexual image. 

I was lost in the moment, the feelings, the sexual energy of the room, and my inner tingling of arousal. I saw in the mirror that several other men had crowded around the stage next to and behind my current patron and were sharing a view of the basically pornographic image I was presenting.

I watched my reflection as I reached between my legs, ran a finger along my inner lips and slit, and felt my sopping wetness; I quivered with arousal in response to my touch. Then, dropping my attention to my hand, I sat up on my elbows and marveled at my fingers glistening with my juices, the undulating colors from the stage lights dancing across them. 

I brought my finger to my mouth and tasted my juices, gently sucking on my fingertips as if they were tiny cocks. Then, with a lascivious smile, I slowly and sensuously lifted my gaze and met the eyes of... my Uncle Bob. My father's younger brother. Holy shit, that's my fucking Uncle!

I froze. The room swam, and dizziness nearly conquered me as darkness encroached into my peripheral vision. My eyes widened in shock and horror, and my body trembled. My mouth quivered as if trying to form words. I shook my head as if the action could deny what was before me, the impossible nightmare enveloping my life. 

My mind snapped back to reality, and I rolled to my side, curled my legs into a fetal position, clenched my eyes closed, and absurdly tried to cover my crotch with my hand. I opened my eyes and looked back, terrified, and watched Uncle Bob slowly stand, his eyes also wide with surprise and shock. He hadn't seen my face before then. I had already started giving close-up shows along the stage when they arrived and hadn't looked at him as I moved towards him via his companions.

Uncle Bob backed away from the stage as if fearing some danger, slowly shaking his head. Then, turning to his friends, he barked, "We need to go. Now." Looking at me, he shook his head as if clearing his vision. "You and I will talk," he said, then turned and walked briskly away. I got up and ran backstage, tears streaming down my face.

After several aborted attempts, I finally got the nerve to complete a call to my Uncle the next day, trembling and crying. He said we should meet and discuss this. The way he said it, he didn't even try to mask his... what? Disgust? Disdain? Disappointment? I couldn't read his reaction from his tone. But at least he wanted to talk. Not just run and tall my father. Not just ruin my life. At least I clung to that hope: something less than horribly catastrophic could be worked out. Somehow. I had no idea how.

We met, in person, two days later. I begged him not to tell anyone, not tell my father. I cried, telling him it would ruin my life if Dad found out. That Dad will disown me, my reputation destroyed, his perceived reputation destroyed. I just needed the money, and I couldn't ask him for more after being laid off. He already made me feel guilty taking the little support he gave. 

Tears streaming down my face, I pleaded with Uncle Bob. "Please, how can I fix this and make it go away? I can't have this ruin everything. You've got to understand."

Uncle Bob nodded in contemplation. He was still handsome at 50; his salt-and-pepper hair and weathered skin made him seem judge-like and wise. So unlike Father, just four years older, whose decades of scowling made him appear old and bitter.

"How long have you been working there?" Uncle Bob asked. His neutral tone suggested information-gathering rather than a pending lecture.

"Only two months," I said. "I can quit. I'll never go back if that's what you want. I made a mistake; I won't do it anymore. It wasn't who I am; I can be good."

With an even tone, Uncle Bob said, "Just calm down now; this hysteria isn't helping anything." He considered me. "Why did you feel you couldn't tell your dad you lost your job? It wasn't your fault; he would have understood."

I shook my head. "No, you don't know him now. You're his brother; it's different. He would blame me and accuse me of doing something to cause it. He wouldn't understand—he wouldn't even try. He made it clear that if I failed to meet his exacting expectations, I would be cut off from the little support he gives."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Uncle Bob said. "Maybe he'd understand if you explained what happened with your old job."

I again shook my head, frustrated that Uncle Bob wasn't getting the big picture. "Maybe he's changed from how you knew him, but I know him. And with this, with you finding out... if he finds out where I've been working, he'll disown me for doing what I've been doing. He won't forgive me; he'll say I've gone down and I'm immoral and evil. I'll lose everything." I started to cry again.

"So, knowing this, why did you start working at a strip joint?" Uncle Bob asked gently. "There are plenty of other jobs you could find with time."

I sniffled. "It's a long story. I didn't plan for it to happen, but things fell into place, and there I was." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

Uncle Bob quirked his head. "Were you enjoying doing that? Enjoying what you were doing in front of all those men?" 

"I... well... oh, hell, it doesn't matter now anyway. Yes, actually, I was." I looked up with a hint of defiance. "I enjoyed it. It was fun. And exciting. And, if you must know, it was sometimes arousing."

A flicker of surprise flashed across Uncle Bob's face. Then he considered my response and seemed to ponder something, his lips pursed in thought. Finally, he spoke. "Ok, I have a thought, and I'm pretty certain it is not anything you expect."

I looked at him expectantly. Waited. "Ok... so, what are you thinking? Are you not going to tell my dad?"

"I'm thinking—and this is not intended to be retribution—but I have an idea, maybe something that might be mutually beneficial and help your situation."

My eyes filled with hope... and a bit of dread.

"I have some friends," Uncle Bob said. "And we get together now and then, usually for special occasions, celebrations, go on ski trips, things like that." He paused as if seeking to choose his words carefully. "Well, we are planning a bash, a party to celebrate one of the guy's early retirement. He's not even 60 yet, but he's been at the same company for almost 40 years, since high school. He gets a full pension and a severance package for choosing to retire early as part of a company restructuring."

My confused look helped refocus my Uncle's narrative.

"Ok, well, right. Too much detail, sorry. The short of it is that several of us hoped to arrange for a little 'adult' entertainment at the party. Sort of like a bachelor's party, but for us old fogies and a different reason. You know, like a stripper..."

"You want me... to be a stripper at your party?" I was decidedly undecided about how I felt about the whole idea. This was my Uncle Bob, for god's sake. But he didn't sound like he planned to tell my father, which was the main thing. I was intrigued. 

Uncle Bob nodded, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Bingo. You're talented, beautiful, experienced, and enjoy what you do. The guys would love you."

"You don't think that might be a bit awkward? Um, you know, with you being my Uncle and all."

"The way I see it, any potential awkwardness at having your Uncle at a party where you're stripping, well, I—for better or worse—have already seen probably more of you than you would be showing at the party; that ship has sailed. And no one would know we're related."

"I, um... well, I... I'm not sure what to say. I'm not sure what I think about that. It's not anything I've ever thought about."

"You would be paid, of course. No one expects to have something like this for free. I'm sure you would do very well—these are not stingy men."

I thought about the generous tips the two older men who had been with Uncle Bob at the club had left, and my mind churned with the possibilities. "So, I come to your party, and what? Just do a strip dance? How does that work? And, paid... how or who pays me?"

Uncle Bob chuckled. "I'm no expert at this, but I think a stripper usually arrives at a prearranged time. Sometimes it's a surprise, or a joke entrance, or known and expected. We can arrange for music, and you can let me know what makes you most comfortable."

Musing, he continued his stream of thoughts. "You can mingle with the guys first, like at the club, or be more formal and present like a show. Do a few songs or a couple different 'sets' of dancing. You could dance, then mingle after or between dances. I think we'd be open to most arrangements. We could set a flat fee, or you could get a base fee and maybe get more tips directly from the guys."

My mind swirled with ideas. The setup, songs, what I'd wear, if I'd like to be more interactive or just give a show. I was getting into the idea. "Ok, so let's say I'm there and dancing, stripping. How much do I take off? Like, just topless or totally nude?"

"I'd assume totally nude would go over the best, wouldn't you?"

"I guess so. Is it at a club, someone's house, or what?"

"Glad you're thinking about this seriously," Uncle Bob said. "The party will be in a private home. I brought up the idea half-thought-out, but the more we talk about it, the more it seems like the perfect arrangement."

"If I do this, then no one finds out about me working at the club? Dad doesn't ever know?" I looked at Uncle Bob, hopefully.

"Well, yes, I assumed that was a given. No reason for your father to know anything. It was just a fluke that I was ever there in the first place, a one-in-a-million chance that we would meet like that."

Would it be weird to strip again in front of Uncle Bob, knowing he's there? I looked at his twinkling eyes and noted his handsome face and strong jaw. Well, as he said, he's seen all of me—literally—nude already. And it's kind of hot in a pervy way that he would see me again. 

I met Uncle Bob's eyes and nodded. "You know what? Why not—I'll do it. As you said, the money should be good, and it might be kind of fun. How do you want to set it up? Where and when is the party?"

Two weeks later, as it turned out. The party was at one of the guy's house—a mansion is a better description. It had a pool, game room, actual movie theater, and a party room with sofas, chairs, tables, a fireplace, and a full wet bar. The sound system was as good as the club's commercial system. 

The plan was for me to arrive about an hour after the party began—after the guys had time to relax, drink, and be ready for the night's entertainment. Uncle Bob and I decided not to tell people that I was his niece or related in any way to avoid weirdness or awkward questions.

I suggested that mingling with the guys before stripping would be more fun for everyone. Of course, that is counter-intuitive for many, who might assume that having strangers watch is less intimidating than people you've interacted with. But I suppose I got used to connecting with men before and during lap dances, so I preferred handling it that way at the party. 

We decided to play it by ear after I danced to see if I wanted to further mingle, do a second set, or just leave. Uncle Bob stressed that it was my decision, and I could decide what I wanted to do at any time, even during the event.

I arrived at the set time, wearing a short, slinky, red party dress and heels. My "mingle first" outfit. I had a bag with a change of clothes that I would wear for my show. I was greeted enthusiastically by the guests—about 15 or 20 men. Most seemed to be in their late 50s or early to mid-60s. At 50, Uncle Bob was one of the youngest ones there. 

The majority of the men had either gray or salt-and-pepper hair. Some were primarily bald, most were thinning and receding on top, and a couple still had thick hair. They seemed generally fit compared to many men I'd seen around that age; I think they were pretty active with ski trips, swimming, biking, and tennis. I was the only woman, and as expected, I received a lot of attention as I mingled with the guests.

As planned, I mixed and chatted for a half hour before my show. I had interesting conversations with a number of the men. We discussed travel, school, world events, sports, and, naturally, my job as a stripper—how I got into it, do I like it, whether it is creepy having guys stare at me, etc. Most were anxious to see me dance when they learned I had fun and enjoyed dancing, showing off my body, and being nude in public.