Her Second Job

As is my habit, this story is the first in a series and is intended to set up the next chapter. I hope I've done well enough to hook you into reading the second chapter when it is posted.

While this story is inspired by real events which happened many years ago, it is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person is coincidental and unintended. Comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable, are always welcome. Thank you for reading this.

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After going to law school and then spending a year working for a federal judge in the South, I decided that I wanted to return to my hometown in the lower Midwest. I was fortunate to be hired as an associate by Sparks, Herman & Mann. SHM had about 120 lawyers, and slightly more staff, spread over six floors in a relatively new downtown office tower. There was also a satellite office in the state capital, a couple hours' drive to the north.

As a new lawyer, I mainly did legal research and document review. In the latter function, I worked with several of the Firm's paralegals. In case you don't know, a paralegal is someone, typically with an associate or bachelor's degree, who is not a lawyer but who has some knowledge of and training in the legal system. Paralegals perform tasks under the "supervision" of licensed lawyers. In truth, the more experienced paralegals knew a hell of a lot more about how litigation and the courthouse worked than us young lawyers.

I was assigned as the most junior lawyer on a team in the Firm defending a large hospital system in a huge False Claims Act case. Without going into boring detail, the False Claims Act lets anyone sue a vendor who has overcharged the federal government. The damages are a multiple of the overcharge amount, plus penalties, plus attorney's fees. The person who files the suit and the Government share any recovery. This case alleged that the hospital system had overcharged Medicare and Medicaid systematically for years. There were many millions potentially at stake.

The plaintiff in our case had gotten a court order allowing her access to the hospital system's records on thousands of patients. That raised huge issues concerning the privacy of the patients, who were not parties to the case. I was responsible for ensuring that every page of every patient's chart was reviewed and that any information which might identify the patient was deleted, or "redacted," from the copies of the charts which would be produced to the plaintiff. That's how I met Denise Hines.

Denise was an SHM paralegal. She was about my age, 26, and about my height, just under six feet. That was where the resemblances ended. Denise had wavy blonde hair which she wore cut just above her shoulders. She had a somewhat round face; very blue eyes; prominent cheekbones; a small, pert nose; a strong chin; and a wide, sensuous mouth. Despite the conservative clothes Denise wore to work, it was obvious that she had a very attractive, athletic, body.

Denise was assigned to help me redact the records. The records were digitized and stored on two computers, not connected to the Internet, in a locked room which the Firm rented in an older building across the street from the Firm's offices. You needed a keycard to enter or exit that room, which generated a record of who went in and out and when. Denise and I were together in that room eight to ten hours a day for months.

Over the first couple of weeks, I learned that Denise was bright, with a good sense of humor and a pleasant personality. She was from a city about 50 miles northwest of town and had gotten her bachelor's at the local state university. SHM had hired her straight out of college. Her goal was to work at the Firm long enough to save the money that would let her go to law school.

Being together as much as we were five days per week, Denise and I were either going to annoy the crap out of each other or become friends. Fortunately, we became friends. After a couple of weeks, we were eating lunch together several times a week. I learned that Denise played tennis and liked to kayak. She learned that I had wrestled at 197 in college, although I'd gotten out of shape since given the time demands of law school and starting a career.

"You don't look out of shape," Denise had said, smiling.

Did that mean she was interested in me? I'd become very attracted to Denise. She was a great person, I thought, and drop-dead gorgeous. I went back and forth in my mind for over a week before, one Thursday, I mustered the courage to ask her out the following Saturday.

A slightly sad look came over Denise's face. "Harry, I'd love to, but I have a second job. I work nights most Fridays and Saturdays. I'm working this weekend."

Denise didn't tell me what she did as a second job. I didn't ask. If she wanted me to know, she'd tell me. I assumed that she bartended or waitressed somewhere. I doubted that she'd want people she knew at the Firm hanging around at her other job distracting her or trying to get her to comp them a drink.

We'd started reviewing and redacting patient records in March. By early May, we were more than halfway through the project. We'd learned early on that the old building we were in didn't have very effective heating. An unusually warm first week of May taught us that the AC was equally bad. Denise and I discussed wearing tee shirts and shorts to work but dismissed the idea. The partner in charge of the case occasionally showed up in our work area unannounced. SHM was a very conservative firm. We both feared getting into trouble for being "unprofessionally dressed" at work. We dressed as lightly as we thought we could get away with. That confirmed my belief that Denise had a stunning body.

I said SHM was in my hometown. I actually grew up about twenty miles east of the city in an area that had been rural but had since become suburban. An old high school buddy called me in mid-May wanting to meet up. Given my less than dynamic social life, I agreed.

I met Brett that Saturday night at a pizzeria out in our old stomping grounds. We drank a few beers, ate pizza, and caught up. While I'd done seven years of school after high school, Brett had done two years of trade school. He was now a licensed electrician and, if his Ram pick-up was any indicator, was doing much better than I was.

It was around 9:00 p.m. It had been nice to see Brett again, but I was thinking about going home. I had about a 45-minute drive back to my apartment. Thinking that I was wrapping things up, I commented that area didn't seem to have changed much in nine years.

"Lots has changed," Brett replied. "For instance, you know the big plant out in New Bethel closed back in '09? Well someone opened up a bar in one of the buildings out there that has nude dancers."

That was surprising. The area had always been conservative. Back in school, the teachers had reminded us weekly that we needed to go to church on Sundays and Wednesday nights. None of the few stores that had magazines had ever carried Playboy.

After a moment, Brett said, "Hey, let's drive out there and see some naked pussy."

I really didn't want to. New Bethel was another ten miles east, and I cringed at the thought of who would dance nude in a redneck place like that. Brett, however, was insistent. I finally agreed.

Most of the factory site had been cleared. What remained was a single-story concrete block building that had a long front facing the road. The building had no windows but illuminated beer signs on either side of a solid steel door made clear this was a bar. The gravel parking lot was about 75% full, with a lot of pick-up trucks but also BMWs and Subarus. I reluctantly followed Brett to the door. Shitkicker bars out in the boonies were something I'd gladly left behind when I'd gone to college.

Inside was a shock given the grim exterior. The bar had more light than I expected. The tables and chairs looked new, clean, and unabused. The floor was finished concrete, but my shoes didn't stick as I walked. A long bar with, maybe, thirty different taps on the wall behind it ran the length of the room to my left. A low stage was built against the wall to my right. A half dozen female waitresses circulated among the tables in uniforms that had obviously been copied from Hooters.

The tables were all taken but Brett and I found seats at the bar. A cute redheaded barmaid got me a glass of Boddington's draft and charged me fifteen dollars. I'd just taken a sip of my beer when a voice came over the PA saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for our ten o'clock show." The announcement was understated, not hyped. Looking around, I saw, of course, predominantly men but also a reasonable number of women.

Music started, thankfully not painfully loud. A slender brunette came onstage. This was not a strip bar; the girl came onstage completely nude save for a garter. The dancer was much more attractive than I'd expected. Watching her dance, I thought that the girl had some ballet training. She was also amazingly flexible and frequently extended a leg into the air over her head or above her shoulders. Those moves had the effect of exposing her fully to the audience. I assumed that was the point.

The brunette danced three songs. After each song, she walked around the edge of the stage taking cash and putting the bills in her garter in time-honored stripper fashion. The brunette was followed on stage by a very well-built black girl. Her dancing was more athletic and less artistic than the first dancer but was equally effective in showing us all her body. She was worth seeing.

I like nude women at least as much the average heterosexual guy. But I've never been a big fan of strip clubs. Although the dancers are the ones who are naked, I always feel it is the customers getting screwed. You overpay for 'look but don't dare touch.' I'd finished my beer and was about to leave when the third dancer came on stage.

The third dancer was a stunningly beautiful blonde. She reminded me of Denise Hines. The longer I watched, the more I thought she looked like Denise. Of course, that was absurd. Denise was a paralegal at Sparks, Herman & Mann. She was classy and a college graduate. Denise wouldn't be dancing nude in a concrete-block bar out in the sticks. Besides, I'd only seen Denise clothed. How could I say that a nude dancer looked like her? I could only guess what Denise looked like naked. Still, I couldn't shake the thought that the dancer looked a hell of a lot like Denise.

The blonde's dancing wasn't as balletic as the first dancer or as assertively athletic as the black girl. I guess I'd compare the blonde's dancing to college cheerleaders or a college dance team. Like the two previous dancers, the blonde made sure that the audience saw every part of her body. However, while the previous dancers had been good-looking, the blonde was gorgeous. She gave the impression that she was really having fun. Although I'd intended to leave, the blonde was like a magnet holding me there.

The blonde dancer's resemblance to Denise Hines bugged me. During her third dance, I pulled a bill out of my wallet and walked over to the stage. I stood against the back wall of the room, next to the entrance from the back onto the stage. The blonde would have to pass me as she made her exit. I hoped that the bill in my hand would make me look like another guy waiting to tip her rather than a creep about to molest her. I just wanted to satisfy myself that the blonde dancer wasn't really Denise.

The blonde had finished her third song at the far end of the stage. She walked slowly along the stage towards me, collecting her tips. She seemed proud and very happy to be naked in front of a room full of people.

I'm not sure why, but, as the dancer came closer, I started looking down at the floor. When I sensed that she was close, I looked up and extended my hand holding the bill. My first surprise was that I'd unwittingly pulled a twenty out of my wallet. My greater surprise came from realizing that the dancer was, indeed, Denise. She recognized me and her smile seemed to broaden slightly. She took the twenty, said "Thank you Harry," and went off stage.

I was confused. I had been seriously attracted to Denise but now I'd discovered that she moonlighted as a nude dancer. Did that mean she was a slut or even a hooker? On the other hand, she looked even more beautiful naked than she did clothed, and she'd seemed to be having so much fun. I walked back to the bar, told Brett that I was not feeling well, and went home.

Driving home, I couldn't get the image of Denise nude onstage out of my head. The images of her bare cunt and asshole exposed to a room full of people, and her smiling face above her hard nipples, played in my mind. The sheer joy she had communicated while exposing herself made the memory intensely erotic. I realized that I'd had a hard-on since the middle of Denise's first song. At home, I undressed, lay on my bed, and jerked off to my memory of Denise Hines dancing nude onstage.

I was at work early the following Monday. I was curious whether Denise would say anything about Saturday. I was plugging away at a computer in the document room when I heard the door unlock in response to Denise's keycard. I turned to look as Denise walked into the room.

It was another warm day. Denise wore a short sleeve knit top and a skirt that stopped about four inches above her knees. She looked very beautiful, confident, and poised. She went to the other computer and put her purse down. After a long silence, Denise said, "Well, Harry, now you know why I can't go out with you on the weekends." We were looking each other in the eyes. Denise started to smile. "I'm glad you came out there Saturday," she said. "What did you think?"

I hadn't expected that question. "The only reason I went there," I said, "was because I'd met an old high school buddy and he wanted to go. The bar was much nicer than I expected from what my friend said before we got there."

"I meant what did you think about my dancing?" Denise persisted.

Gulp. "Well," I started, "you dance very well."

Denise sat down. "Come on Harry, we're friends," Denise said. "Quit evading the issue. What did you think about me dancing in the nude?"

Cornered. Another gulp. "I thought that you look very, very beautiful with no clothes on," I replied, "and you seemed to be having a blast. How did you get into it?"

"Thank you for the compliment," Denise said. She seemed genuinely pleased that I thought she looked beautiful naked.

Denise took a sip from the cup of coffee she'd brought with her. "It's pretty simple how I got into it," she said. "I was having real money problems about a year ago. I was moaning to a friend from college one evening after work. Alicia, my friend, works at an architectural firm. She told me that she'd had the same trouble until she started dancing out in New Bethel. I was floored by how much she said she made every weekend."

Denise took another sip of coffee. She was looking at my face, I guess trying to gauge whether I was judging her. She put the coffee down and resumed her story.

"I was shocked that Alicia danced nude and that she would admit it to me. I was a little offended when Alicia suggested that I try it and that she thought I'd have fun. I emphatically said no and cut the evening short," Denise said. "When I got home, my Visa bill was in the mail. It was the first of the month and another rent payment was due. I didn't have the money."

Denise paused, sipped more coffee, and resumed. "The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about what Alicia had said. I knew that Alicia isn't a slut and that we enjoyed a lot of the same things. I imagined myself on a stage, naked, in front of strangers. It was scary, but shit I shouldn't admit this, also exciting. I remembered back to high school when I swam. We wore those form-fitting suits. When you bent over on the blocks to start a race, anyone behind you saw basically everything outlined by your suit. I remembered that I'd always found that exciting."

Denise stopped, as if deciding how much more she should tell me. "Anyway, to make a long story shorter," Denise resumed, "I called Alicia and she got me on as a dancer at the bar in New Bethel. I was so scared that first time. I'd gotten my clothes off and was waiting for the dancer before me to finish. When she came off, I froze. I couldn't step onstage. Alicia came up and gave me a small shove through the curtain."

Denise put her coffee cup down. "You said that I seemed to be having fun Saturday night," she said. "Yeah, I was having a great time. Once I was out there it felt great not to have any clothes on. I had the thrill of doing something taboo. Seeing everyone looking at me made me feel powerful. Knowing that they were seeing my bare tits, ass, and pussy got me really horny. That first night, I came during my third song. It's still a thrill I can't completely explain. You have to experience it to know how great it feels to do it."

Listening to Denise describe her first experience with nude dancing affected me. It wasn't just her words but the way she said them as she described being onstage naked. I had a hard-on and my khaki trousers weren't hiding that fact.

Denise looked at my lap then looked up at me and smiled. "You know my secret," she said. "Now, I want to know one of yours. Did you jerk off thinking about me Saturday night?"

At that point, I felt that I had to be honest with her. "Yes," I said.

"I'm glad," Denise said.

Denise got to work. About an hour later, Denise leaned back from her computer. There was a hint of a laugh in her voice as she said, "Harry, you do know that the bar out there has male dancers on Wednesday nights."

"No, I didn't know that," I replied honestly. What did that matter?

"Would you do it?" Denise asked.

I started to say no and hell no. I caught myself. I remembered the look of joy on Denise's face when she was dancing Saturday and an hour ago when she was talking about it. Had I done anything in the last few years that I'd enjoyed that much? Would I enjoy being nude on a stage in front of people the way she did? Did I want to find out? "I don't know," was what I replied.

Denise giggled. "That's a start."

My relationship with Denise changed that Monday. We talked more. We sat closer together. We seemed to bump into and brush against each other more. I really liked the way Denise smiled when we looked at each other.

We were wrapping up for the week on the Friday after I'd seen Denise nude dancing. "Are you coming out to New Bethel this weekend?" she asked.

I was conflicted. I wanted to see Denise nude but that somehow seemed a breach of our friendship. "I don't think I can handle those drink prices too often," I replied. "Fifteen bucks for a draft beer?"

Denise laughed. "I get that. Still, I'd really like it if you came out."

I was thrilled that Denise had said, in substance, that she wanted me to see her nude. Still, I couldn't bring myself to go back. The following Monday, the first thing Denise said to me was "I missed you this weekend." I started to respond but Denise smiled and cut me off. "I know, it's a long drive out there. That's ok." She reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She tried to hand it to me. "Your tip was way above the norm Harry." When I didn't reach for the bill, Denise added, "Please take it back. You don't have to pay to see me naked." I took the bill and used it to buy her a couple drinks after work.

I promised myself that I'd go back to New Bethel and watch Denise dance over the Memorial Day weekend. When I mentioned that to Denise the Thursday before the long weekend, she frowned. "No," she said, "I wouldn't do that. It gets really crowded on holiday weekends. Kurt, the owner, brings in some extra security. I make a ton of money, but holiday weekends are just a job, not fun. I'd rather you come out on a weekend when I'm enjoying what I do."