Girls' Night Out of Control

They were all surprised at how close they had gotten, how well they had bonded over the course of the eighteen-month program. Despite the differences in age and backgrounds, they had come together with a common goal. The eight women had worked together, as a single team rather than as competitors. They had, in forming dynamic study groups, coalesced into a very tight, if somewhat unlikely cohort. Although they were closely bonded, they were all unsure of the longevity of their seemingly fast friendship once they left the college. If, for some reason, indeed, a myriad of reasons, they didn't or couldn't keep up the alliance, they wanted to go out with, not a whimper, but a bang, and make sure they would never forget the closeness they'd forged.

On the Friday, the last day of the course the group of them—students—girls—decided not to wait too long, but to celebrate asap. They agreed to do it the next day—Saturday night.

Making the necessary arrangements with significant others or whomever, they all were, by the next afternoon, pumped—more than ready to celebrate the completion of their para-legal certification course with a night out on the town. They were, every one of them, dolled up to the nines: LBDs, sundresses, short skirts, glamourous blouses, chic, trendy evening wear, and heels; all, except Shayla, for the heels. As one of the 'old, married girls' at 33, she had volunteered to be the designated driver-cum-shepherd, hence the flats. All eight girls had pitched in for a rental minibus, which cruised the city for the half-hour before six o'clock, picking up each member of the crew.

An early dinner at a swish restaurant, seemed like the best way to start. The liquor flowed freely—pre-dinner cocktails, wine with, followed by whatever—beer and shooters, dessert wine, even the odd martini. Shayla valiantly abstained, at least to begin with. With lots of booze throughout their sumptuous meal, everyone, save their faithful DD, was well lubricated when they piled back into the rental and went in search of a venue at which to begin their epic lounge-crawl. After cruising the club district a few times, they found a centrally located late-night parkade in which to park and begin their crawl in earnest.

Out on the sidewalk, they clattered along as a boisterous, unruly gaggle—many of them moving unsurely on their rather unfamiliar high-heels. They soon found a nearby lounge called Lux; however, that first establishment proved to be too quiet and subdued—more Lax than Lux—so, after only one drink they decided to go in search of a little more excitement. Presently, they came to the somewhat more inviting entrance; that of a show-lounge called Diablo, featuring exotic dancers. Giggling and giddy, they bustled through the door, getting in just before a cover-charge came into effect. Irma, the youngest and smallest of the group, was asked for ID at the door; but once that was out of the way, the cohort swarmed in like they owned the place, and crowded up to occupy a couple tables right up against the stage. They wasted no time ordering another round, laughing and chatting the whole time.

Shayla had successfully maintained her abstinence up to then, but was, eventually, coerced. "Just one drink won't hurt. We don't have to drive for hours yet." Someone ordered her a Cosmo, which she enjoyed. In subsequent rounds she would sporadically order a Crantini, instead of cranberry and soda, until she had gradually become as inebriated as the rest of them. But WTF, the night was still young.

Although the waitress assured them that the place would be rocking once the dancers started, it was initially rather sparsely occupied, with only three or four tables occupied—maybe a dozen or so people. They had quickly filled in the void, becoming loud and conspicuous. Someone in the group observed, wryly, "It's a shame—the stage being empty."

To which someone else replied, "and the fireman's-pole being unused."

"It's not a fireman's pole, silly. It's a stripper's pole!"

"In any case," Penny announced authoritatively, while rising from her chair, "it shouldn't be left unattended." With that, she stepped onto the stage, to the astonishment of her colleagues, grabbed the pole, and took a swing around it. As her audience shrieked and cheered, including clapping and hooting from the other tables, she took another whirl, and, stopping with her back to the audience, leaned all the way back to show her massive cleavage to best advantage. The modest crowd loudly expressed their appreciation as Penny, somewhat embarrassedly stepped down to her seat, and grab her drink, averting her eyes.

Not to be outdone, Allison brushed past Penny as she mounted the stage, and, without a moment's hesitation, reached out and swung with an almost carefree air, once, twice around, then stopped—her gazed fixed on the middle-distance. After a pregnant pause, slowly, provocatively, she pulled herself against the shiny beam, knees either side, and began lewdly rubbing her crotch on pole—up and down. The girls went wild—shouting and cheering, as Allison set about building a histrionic arousal. Encouraged by the spectators' response, that of both friends and strangers, she redoubled her efforts to 'make love' to her chrome partner.

Soon, probably inevitably, Allison felt a growing tingle buzzing deep in her pussy. She felt herself getting damp, and realized that she was really, REALLY getting turned-on—and was beginning to smear the pole with her female nectar that was, by then, soaking the gusset of her underwear, her lips spreading to embrace the pole. Eventually the song piped in as background music, ended; and she made her way, on wobbly legs, panting and blushing, off the platform.

Irma, I.C.—she hated the name Irma, so, as her last name was Campbell, she went by I.C., which had quickly become Icy—anyway, Icy surprised everyone by standing up as Allison left the stage—to thunderous applause, as it were. She was a very small woman—short and slender with hardly any bust. Still, at twenty-four, she refused to demean herself by wearing a training bra, so, as usual, she was braless, her nubs creating a subtle high-beam. After stepping up tentatively, Icy took just one shy twirl around the pole, then sat down, embarrassed but proud, and content just to watch and cheer and sip her drink. That she was aroused by the developing spectacle was apparent in the erection of her nipples that capped her tiny tits and poked impatiently against the material of her blouse, her areolas vaguely discernable through the pink cloth.

With a sort of What-the-Hell shrug of her shoulders, Marcie stood next, and stepped purposefully up to the pole. Gripping it with both hands, one high and one low, she dropped her torso and swung her legs right over—in an expert skin-the-cat. Slowly, ignoring the fact that her skirt had flopped back over, exposing her tiny thong panties, she pulled her legs right up straight, straightening her back, too, to hold herself rigid in a perfect invert. As she held herself motionless, her tits fell right out of their bra cups. Marcie didn't even flinch. Again, with slow, tantalizing control, she dropped her legs into a pike position, and unwound, in a pinwheel spin, back to standing. Her blouse slipped off her shoulders when she stood. She calmly gathering up her—not obviously enhanced—boobs, and tucked them back into her bra. Turning to finish repackaging, she revealed a large, multi-coloured tattoo of a rose on her right shoulder-blade. As she stepped off the stage to reclaim her seat and her drink, she muttered to no one in particular, "Don't tell my fiancé."

Surprisingly, the management was very tolerant, and remained pretty chill regarding the presumptuous occupation of the stage. The dozen or so other patrons—mostly men—certainly seemed to all be enjoying the impromptu show, clapping and cheering and whistling. So, the manager/bartender let it go for the time being, as long as they kept ordering drinks.

Casting a look about, Petra began to rise from her seat, hesitated, sat again, then, apparently steeling herself rose again, and stepped up to the pole, smoothly swinging on it to stop directly in front of her peers. She spun and dipped, trying to find the beat of the canned music, shimmying her arms to allow neckline of her off-the-shoulder top to slip farther down her upper arms. Pushing out her chest, emphasizing her big, natural bust, she danced seductively, with the pole as her stationary partner. After a few calculated moves, the thrusting of her chest popped her impressively filled bra out over the elastic neckline. Having succeeded, she set to twirling her tits in circles in time to the music, before stepping behind the pole and, as a finale, squeezing it with her still-encased breasts. Stepping back, she pulled her sagging neckline back over her bosom and walked, as demurely as possible, off the platform, to a friendly applause and a catcall from the dim depths of the room.

As soon as Petra had sat and sipped her drink, Katie stood and mounted the stage with an air of determination. With little in the way of preliminaries, she planted herself in front of the pole and began rubbing her rear up and down it. She closed her eyes, and lifted her hands to her breasts. Heaving them and squeezing them through her blouse, in time to her knee-bends, she became increasingly relaxed—melting into the pole. Suddenly she stopped, turned, and stood beside the shiny beam; and, with a bemused look at the gathering, bent over and lifted her skirt to expose butt floss, disappearing between her buttocks, and a unicorn tattooed on right cheek; however, before anyone could even comment on her ink, Katie backed hard against the stanchion with her hands on her knees and obviously clamped her glutes, squeezing the pole with her iron buns. Without a word, she lifted her hands from her knees and held them out front, holding on with her clenched butt, and saying wordlessly, "Look, girls. No hands!" After a moment she let go and stepped down, acknowledging the clapping and cheering with a small smile.

Meanwhile, other customers had been filtering into the lounge; many, indeed, most of the tables behind the girls were now occupied.

"Another tattoo, eh?" Penny observed. She, then, stood and waited, commanding the attention of everyone at the table. "Who else has one?" Allison rose right away, swiveled before the table, and flipped up the back of her dress to display a modest heart at base of spine. As she sat, Penny asked again, "Any more? Jazz? Shayla?" All eyes shifted to the named two. Jazz, who had stayed rather aloof, feeling a little gun-shy and raw from her very recent divorce, marveled at the carefree boldness, the temerity of her companions. She shook her head.

Shayla hesitated, then, slowly pushed her chair back, but didn't stand. Despite some quiet coaxing, she remained unwilling to go on stage; notwithstanding, she leaned way back in her chair and raised the front hem of her dress up to her breasts, in effect, flashing at the table. She held that pose long enough for everyone to get a really good look at the large, colourful tattoo on inner left thigh. It was comprised of the words "You wish!" in elegant flowing script, surrounded by a constellation of yellow stars. In response to the questioning looks of her chums, she stated, almost sadly, "It's a long story about the poor judgement of youth." Dropping her dress and smoothing it back over her knees, she went on as she reached for her drink. "I don't know why I showed you. Up till now, only me, my hubby, and a long-past ex knew of it."

"If you don't like it, why don't you get it removed?"

"'Cause, I'd have to show it to someone else." Shrugging, she went on, "I didn't think I could do that, but maybe I can." She surveyed the table of friends. "Thanks."

Gradually, they turned their attention back to the stage, which was conspicuous in its emptiness. Everyone waited, casting sidelong glances at the two who had not yet worked the beckoning pole, curious to see who would step up next—Shayla or Jazz. However, before either could volunteer to take a turn, it was time.

"Thank you, ladies, for your enthusiasm; however, I must ask you, now, to surrender the stage to tonight's pros," the bartender said over the PA. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, Diablo Show-Lounge presents the exotic exotic-dancer, Eva!"

As the stage lights came on and the applause faded, the waitress turned back to the girls' and said, "By the way, you know, Thursday night is amateur night! You can bring your own music, or use ours. Bring a costume or not, and your own stripping routine, using the pole if you want. There're prizes in several categories. Newbies are welcome!"

Several girls raised eyebrows, and they whispered among themselves, "Maybe we should try."

The waitress, laughed and said, over her shoulder, "You girls'd do just fine."

"Yeah. Let's." And a few of them actually made plans no-one believed they'd really keep.

Sipping their ever-present drinks, the crew began to watch Eva, the pro, with critical eyes, trading running commentaries of the developing performance. Several times, one of them would claim, "I could do that!" Whether she took it as a criticism or a simple observation was unclear, but, whatever the case, Eva, a seasoned veteran of the circuit, began to play to the raunchy group of females. Kneeling, splayed at the edge of the platform, she began to bounce her barely covered mound in their faces. Pleased and laughing, a few of the girls reached in to tuck bills into her G-string. When Allison reached in with her tip, she pulled at Eva's waistband and leaned way over to take a peek. "Clean shaven. Very nice," she observed, letting go of the elastic string, and smoothing the material out by running her finger up the tiny patch of cloth and over Eva's furrow, causing a slight quiver. As Eva's set ended and she left the stage, someone commented on her huge rubber tits, and someone else added, "Just like Jazz's!" Which elicited a loud collective laugh, and a deep blush from Jasmine. Then, as they ordered yet another round, they agreed that tips for strippers were getting pretty expensive at five dollars a pop.

Their drinks were still flowing copiously, when the second dancer appeared. Nobody actually caught her name, but before long, they were tucking bills into her G-string, too. Feeling rather cheeky, Marcie made a big production of tucking her tip into the miniscule thong, from the side—and pausing a bit to add an extra stroke over the dancer's slick labia—the two of them exchanging a meaning-laden eye-lock.

On the floor, Eva approached the rowdy gang and offered private lap-dances, but, after some serious consideration, for then, in the lull after the second stripper, Penny said, "Sorry, Honey, but we need to find us some male strippers!" And to a roar of agreement, they gathered up their coats and purses and, with loud good-byes, left.

On the street one of them piped up, "We're gonna need more cash for stripper tips."

"...and drinks!" someone added.

At the ATM, at the bank next door, they jostled for position. Several of them were successful at extracting funds from the terminal, but Katie unexpectedly maxed out. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"Don't worry, Kiddo," Penny said, patting her arm, "We'll cover you."

Unfortunately, while Shayla was up, the machine crashed before Marcie or Petra even got a chance, flashing "Out of service" on a blue screen. Pounding the screen in frustration, Shayla shouted, "Fuck!"

"Hang on," Marcie said calmly. "I think there's one of those cheque cashing shops, just a half-a-block or so, up the street—I think." So, clattering and stumbling, up the street, they chatted among themselves, commenting on the night, so far. With Penny and Marcie in the lead, Katie and Icy following close behind, flanked by Petra and Shayla, they made their way to the next corner—Jasmine and Allison bringing up the rear—where they found that there was, indeed, a Money-Mart. Furthermore, it was, serendipitously, right next to a club, aptly named Celebrate, which advertised, on the marquee, male strippers,

Flush with cash, the girls rolled into the lobby, where they were relieved of a cover charge—"Scandalous!"—before entering the dim venue, noisy and rowdy, shouldering their way to a vacant section at the foot of the stage. They ordered drinks, and settled to watch, passively for the moment, the two hunks switching off centre-stage.

Peter, a blonde Viking wearing little more than a ball-bag and cross-trainers, was just beginning his routine. His counterpart appeared from the wing, to wander the floor among the patrons, stopping for a word, now and again. His open gown revealed well-filled Speedo-like briefs. Stopping next to the crew, he introduced himself as Miles. "Hello Ladies," he purred. "Are we celebrating something special—bachelorette party, perhaps?" Several of the girls answered him at once, saying, no, not a stagette, but a graduation gala. "Who graduated?"

"We all did!" they all laughed.

"But, Marcie, here, is engaged; Shayla and I are the old married dolls; Jazz, there, is just divorced; and the others are all, in varying degrees. single."

"Well, just so's you know," Miles said, casually, "both Peter and I are available for private dances—between sets, or after. Just give us a wave." Then he wandered off to disappear behind a curtain.

Armed, once more, with cash and alcohol— Shayla's cranberry and sodas all came, now, well-laced with vodka—the cohort began cheering and heckling Peter. First it was simply, "Somebody give the poor man a tip!" "Cop a feel, while you're there!" "Tuck the tip behind his dick!" "Pull it out!"

Peter, of course, played to the crowd, giving brief flashes of his turgid monster. It rapidly became, among the partiers, a competition, a game of one-upsmanship. At each proffered tip, one of the ladies, leaning up onto the stage, waving a five-spot, Peter revealed more of his equipment, visibly thickening and stiffening and firming up, for the tipper to touch, grab, and eventually grip. The women, not wanting or willing to be outdone, repeatedly pushed up in an effort to get 'close up and personal'. When Peter waved his tool in their faces, they cheered and squealed in an almost hysterical delight, blowing on him and reaching out to catch him or lick him; feeding the frenzy, they started a second round of tipping—oblivious to the expense, the amount of money lavished on him somehow became a matter of pride.

But then, the music ended; the house lights came on; the manager's voice on the PA, informed them that that had been the last set, and thanked the audience for attending the night's show. Peter turned, and with a wave, left the stage.

Realizing they'd arrived too late, the women complained bitterly. "Oh, come on..." Marcie, who felt like this was sort of her bachelorette party, took on the role of spokesman. As she protested, "We're just getting started!" everyone agreed—with, surprisingly, Icy being among the loudest.

Miles, reading the situation correctly, and having seniority there, approached the still grumbling girls and said, "How 'bout we do a group private-dance? We'll give you a special rate. And we can take it into the party-room for a little more privacy."

"Oh, yeah!" the bunch of them responded, enthusiastically, and quickly filed into the back room for an after-hours private show. As soon as the doors were closed, Peter called for everyone's attention.

"You've all met Miles, here," said Peter, by way of introduction, "our resident veteran. Miles Long, ladies—hung like a stallion, cums like a lion!"

After the clapping and whistling had died down, Miles gestured to Peter and said, "And I'm joined by, in the interim, Peter, Peter Sturdy." He held up a hand after the enthusiastic applause, and added, "I've taken the liberty of calling up a few others, colleagues and friends, to make it more special. We have the party-room for as long as we like, thanks to our manager, Sonny Gill, who will join us to man the bar, after he closes up up front. So," he finished, as he pulled off his robe, "Enjoy!" Taking his cues from Miles, Peter whipped off his robe, too, immediately commanding the stage.