Ideal Suburbia Ch. 02a

This is a series of stories that are a sort of sequel to two text-adventure games. Each installment is a complete story on its own, but for a full understanding, the reader may want to start with Chapter 1.

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"Here you go," said my boss Cathy, sliding a file across my desk to me. "You know I brought you into this office to see if you can crack some of our toughest potential customers. Here is one of those problem accounts." I picked it up and looked over it. "Gus Merkle is the decision maker there. They buy thousands of dollars worth a week, but never from us. No salesperson I have sent in has gotten the time of day from this guy... and I definitely stopped sending women to call on him. Sorry, but he is kind of a creep."

"Looks, uh, fun." I replied. Cathy laughed in reply.

"No pressure," she said, her glossy black hair spilling over her shoulder as she looked back at me while she headed out the door, "but guys like him really are the reason I brought you in."

So. LOTS of pressure...

I picked up the phone and got through to Gus directly, which was little bit of a surprise. He was gruff and unencouraging, but he did agree to see me just after lunch. After lunch? Old school-sounding guys like Gus usually made getting free meals out of salespeople agenda item one.

The account was on the south side of town, in a light industrial area. I pulled up and went in to introduce myself. The initial meeting went well, though I could tell that Gus had someone else take him out to lunch and drinks already, which is why my expense account was not hit on that day. I could also tell that Gus was indeed something of a pig, both in personality and appearance. At least he didn't stink, which was surprising in a guy who looked like a toad in a rumpled business suit.

What I got from Gus was not promising. Essentially, he believed that CKE and our competition all had essentially the same product, which to be honest, in the product lines he purchased, we all did. He also was very comfortable with his existing supplier relationships. They took care of him, and he bought from them. But mostly Gus did not like working very hard. Changing suppliers and shopping prices was a lot of work, so Gus was very disinclined to consider any such thing. As I said, not promising.

As I pulled away from the business glumly, my phone rang. My real estate agent, Lee was on the other end to let me know that negotiations were complete, and I would be the owner of my own suburban home in a matter of days. Lee was an attractive woman and very able real estate agent, who had also demonstrated great skill in balling my brains out on a grassy back lawn. She had reverted to her cordial, professional self after the night she fucked me into making the offer that had just now been agreed to, but I was ok with that. I'm not looking for any one woman at this point in my life. Or any two, three, seven or ten women for that matter!

So now I was a homeowner. When I got back to the office just before most people were knocking off, I saw Cathy in the hallway and told her I was gong to be clearing out of the corporate condo shortly. "Thank you!" she said. "Good work. I do need that condo for the new engineer. You should celebrate. I'd buy you a drink myself," she added, "but I have a hot date tonight!" She winked at the world in general and left, fortunately without asking about Gus.

The problem was, I knew a lot of co-workers, but had made no real friends in the city yet. No one to celebrate with. And, truth be told, having sex with Lee after several weeks of casual abstinence had reignited my considerable libido. I did not necessarily need to get laid tonight, but I did want some sexy fun.

I reversed course and stepped back into my office. I sat down and opened my phone's browser, since this search was sure as hell not appropriate for an office computer, and checked out what the strip club scene was like in this city. I was surprised at how many options there were in town, not just for the size of the city, but in absolute terms. People in this region liked their titties, apparently.

I soon came to the conclusion from the reviews there was one club that stood out, and hopped into my car to investigate.

It turned out the club I had chosen was on the south side of town, back the way I had just come, and not very convenient to the condo where I was staying, or my new home. Probably a good thing, as I am fully capable of spending too much cash on clothing-removal engineers. I was suddenly a home owner. I'd have to start watching my finances. But maybe not tonight.

I arrived and stepped inside to get the lay of the land (after paying an exorbitant cover). The club was pretty big. There was a huge main stage in the center of the room where I entered, round and elevated about two feet above the floor. It had a brass pole reaching up to the 15-20 foot high ceiling and a brass rail running around the stage at about four feet above floor level. Behind the stage was a long bar. Guys sat at the bar, around the stage and at tables spread throughout the room. A wide hallway led away to one side, with a steady stream of dancers and customers flowing in and out. The dancer on stage was chunky and sported tattoos. Too many tattoos. The only real value in looking at her for me was to learn that this was a full nude club despite serving alcohol, which was a combination outside my previous experience.

I found my way to a seat at a table well away from the stage and seated myself. Almost immediately, an attractively rubinesque waitress, dressed in the club uniform of tight, white t-shirt and black shorts, approached and took my order for a Manhattan. As she turned away, I let my gaze rove to take in the club and the crowd. In my suit and tie, I was far better dressed than most of the crowd. Only about a quarter of the guests were in business dress. Of course, the customers were overwhelmingly men, but there were a few women mixed in as well. They always seem to draw the eyes around them, even when they weren't particularly attractive.

On the stage, the next several dancers were distinct improvements. One tall, waif-like one with outsized, certainly fake tits was not only hot, but had some moves. I went to tip her a couple of bucks during her time on stage, but there was a guy waiting to reclaim her time as soon as her set was finished.

My Manhattan arrived and I relaxed, shooing away a couple of dancers whose approach or appearance left me cold. An idea itched in the back of my head, and I shifted my gaze to the guests around me. Most guys were dressed casually, many in shorts, which I knew to be an excellent play at many clubs like this, especially if you left your underwear at home. The customers dressed in business attire as I was were the bigger spenders, and unlike me, they tended to congregate in groups. Most of them took turns buying rounds of drinks, but in a few groups, one person would be buying everything. I saw one such close out his bill with a corporate card. You would need to have some significant earnings to show for it to expense drinks and especially dances at a club like this.

A pretty pigtailed brunette in a sexy schoolgirl plaid skirt and short sleeved white dress shirt that had been cropped at the bottom to display her entire abdomen and an inch of the bottom curves of some genuinely large boobs slid up to my side and asked me if I would like some company. I felt like I needed some more info about how things worked at the clubs in general in this state, and at this one in particular. Also I felt I would not mind getting my hands on what was inside that shirt either, if that was in the offing. I asked her to sit. Ignoring the chair beside me, she slid into my lap, crossing her white mesh stocking-clad legs. Like every worker in the club, she wore 6 inch platform shoes, black in her case. She draped an arm around my shoulders and leaned against me companionably. Her rack pressed against me, a fact that I was sure was totally incidental...

"I'm Shasta," she said, introducing herself. "What are you drinking? A Manhattan? Fancy drink for a strip club!" I just grinned in reply to that. A little more chit chat and I brought up that I was a newbie here in town and in this club, but I assured her that I was hoping to be convinced to come in often. I then asked for the low-down about the club.

"Well, we are in the main room here, and that is the show stage, of course," Shasta said. She waved at the wide hallway and went on, "Down that way is the back room. It has a tiny little stage, fewer large tables, and more large, comfy chairs. It's also a lot darker back there," she added, running a finger down my tie. "The hallway between here and there is you go for the Champagne rooms, which," she said, leaning her tits even harder against me, "is the place for all the best fun."

I asked about rates, and she quoted me prices for basic lap dances out in either of the main rooms that were pretty reasonable. I started to lose interest in her when every number she quoted included the phrase, "plus tip". Especially when she quoted the price for VIP which was "$500 an hour, plus what you negotiate with the dancer for herself, plus tip, of course." I usually tip, I don't mind a little subtle reminding. But I don't like to see a dancer being open about feeling entitled to one, especially not that openly. Still, those tits felt great against me, and I still wanted a scouting report, so I asked her to walk me around. We rose and started down the wide hall, arms around each other, each of us with a hand on the other's ass.

In the middle of the passage was a huge, purple curtained doorway with a pink cursive neon 'Champagne' sign over it, and an equally huge bouncer at a podium that looked ridiculously tiny in front of his bulk. Shasta subtly tried to steer me toward the curtain, but I resisted, commenting that "we will have to talk more about how things go in the VIP." She relented and we entered the back room, which was indeed much darker, especially in the parts away from the hallway or the small, floor-level stage, which wasn't even occupied right now. We paused and looked around as she explained that the small stage was usually only staffed late at night or on weekends.

"How about we find a seat back there," she asked, indicating a darker wall of the room, "and let me give you a dance?"

They were really big tits.

"Sure," I agreed, "Lets sit and you can give me the lowdown on Champagne Room shenanigans until the next song starts." Never let a stripper start dancing as soon as you find a seat.

The seat she chose was in the darkest area of the club, but still more exposed to view than most, and I knew at that moment that I was going to stop at one dance. Had she chosen the nearby chair that was almost completely blocked from view by a pillar and another high-backed chair, I'd have held out hope for game on. But not now. I prepared to get nothing but teased. Her descriptions of activities in the Champagne Room were similarly unpromising. Everything she discussed was vague, and she never promised anything beyond what I could get out here, really. Just more "privacy" and "intimacy".

As the music changed smoothly to the next song, she slipped to her feet and began swaying quite fetchingly as she unbuttoned the few buttons on her cropped shirt, flipping it open and then slipping it off her shoulders. Yes, those tits were indeed very nice. She leaned toward me, boobs dangling just beyond my face, and breathed into my ear, "watch this, will you?" as she tucked the shirt behind me on the chair. She slowly swayed around until she was facing away, and bent all the way over, legs spread and straight. She smiled at me from between them and flipped the already short skirt, exposing a thong-clad, slightly disappointing ass. She undid a catch at her hip and pulled her skirt away.

She then turned again and slid into my lap, trapping my arms with her thighs and began to grind her crotch against mine. She alternated between leaning backward, and pressing forward, swaying her tits in my face, just out of reach my lips, but occasionally brushing my nose. It was a classic example of a lap dance that certainly wasn't an air dance, but was in no way interactive. "I thought this was a full nude club," I murmured to her, indicating her thong.

"Girls who want to can go full nude, but when on stage only," she replied. "When I'm climbing all over a handsome guy, the law says I have to keep the thong on. I guess the legislature thinks I'll lose control!"

As the song neared its end (or rather where it was about to be cut short by the DJ), she turned again, feet now on the floor and ground her ass against my lap. She lifted my hands and held them along her thighs, which were much tauter and more appealing than that flabby ass. When the song ended, she started grinding even harder and looked over her shoulder to ask if I wanted to continue.

I told her I was done for now, it being my first interaction of the evening, and she rose to return her clothes to action stations. I handed her the Andy Jackson for the dance, along with another ten as tip, and told her we might hook up later. "I'll come find you," she smiled. We both knew we were lying. After she slipped away, I rose, not even really needing to hide or adjust a hard on.

I took my time as I stood and walked out of the gloom toward the hallway. My eyes had become adjusted to the dark and I could make out a number of other guys getting dances, some more hidden away than others. It was both irritating and encouraging that most of them looked like they were getting more mileage in their dances than I had. In some cases, a lot more.

As I walked into the much brighter light of the hallway, I felt my arm being taken gently by someone behind me. I slowed and turned my head to evaluate who was going to make the next play.

Hello!

"Hi there, I'm Monique. I don't think I've seen you here before. First time?" she said in a soft, sultry voice. I smiled and allowed that indeed I was a first timer. I gently disengaged her arm and turned to take her in. She didn't try to hang on, but instead preened for me with a well-deserved confidence.

With her six-inch stripper heels, Monique was about my height. She had a bland but pretty face, with just a bit too much makeup. Her blonde hair (obviously a bottle color) surrounded her face in a 80's style corona of curls, teased within an inch of its life. She wore a floor-length beige satin nightgown, with lace ornamentation over the breasts. The fabric was just the right kind of clingy to accentuate her voluptuous hourglass figure within. It also was just translucent enough to gave hint of a bright yellow thong underneath. The lace on the bodice prevented a look through at her tits, but the neckline plunged far enough to give an enchanting promise of a rich, firm, possibly natural pair. Then it plunged a little further.

I introduced myself and asked her if I could buy her a drink, indicating the tables in the main room.

"I'd love a scotch and ginger ale," she said, which was a helluva interesting drink for a stripper. She took my hand, but instead of heading for the main room, she led me back into the gloom of the back. As we walked, she caught the attention of the best-looking cocktail waitress I'd seen in the place, who waved back.

Monique took me back against a different wall to a pair of high-backed upholstered chairs with a small table for cocktails. "Do you mind if I sit in your lap?" she asked.

"Please! Without question," I replied. After the busted straight of my first dancer, I now felt I had a high two pair, with plenty of draws to a Full House. She turned the first chair sideways to the wall, so its back faced the light spilling from the hallway.

"We won't need this one," she said, pushing the other chair out of the way. And by out of the way, I mean she maneuvered it to face away and block any view of us from the rest of the room. I sank into the chair and she sank into my lap like a feather. Her firm, warm ass rested on my right thigh, just brushing against my already stirring cock, and she draped her left leg over mine. I eased one hand onto her posterior and she accepted my caress without objection. She took my other hand and firmly rested it on her thigh, with my fingers draped well down the smooth inner side. She snuggled against me and said, "Tina will be over in just a second. Please take care of her, she's always around when I want her, but she also knows when to... leave us alone."

Tina was indeed over in a second to take our order. It was too bad she was a server and not a dancer. Her black shorts were more like hot pants, with a low waist and legs less than an inch long. She was a little soft around the middle, but her white, club-logoed t-shirt fit very tightly, and the crew neck had been cut away to display some generous cleavage. I ordered Monique's scotch and ginger ale, along with another Manhattan for myself, and Tina wafted away, swaying her ass.

Monique and I made casual conversation for a while; long enough for the drinks to come back, along with a mountain of cocktail napkins. As Tina set down the drinks, she and Monique exchanged a glance and the waitress told me, "I'll leave you two alone. If you need another round, come find me!" I made sure to tip her well before she left, then went back to finding out more about my current friend.

Monique was a pro. She had once hoped to go to college on a swimming scholarship, but had been unable to get one, except to a community college. She went there, hoping to produce good enough results get a place on a team at a four year school. Meanwhile, she had begin dancing to make ends meet. But she found the money so good that she gave up swimming and paused her education after she got her Associate's Degree, instead concentrating on making money full time. That was five years ago and she now owned a condominium and drove a Tesla. I reflected that if she successfully retired and went back to college, I'd want to hire her for something. She seemed to have her head screwed on remarkably tight, especially for a stripper.

During the whole conversation, she subtly tormented me. Her arm that draped around me teased at my shoulder and jawline idly, and she made sure I had plenty of good looks down that delicious cleavage, without giving me the view continuously. Her ass slipped closer to press harder against my now quite eager erection, without giving any indication that she felt it. And as she talked, she slid my hand on her thigh up and down along it as if she didn't realize she was doing it.

After I had a sip or two, I realized that she had waited me out and was going to make me be the one to bring up getting her naked. I asked about dances and how everything worked at this club. Her reply was subtly but significantly different from Shasta's ham-fisted pitch.

"Well, dances are twenty dollars a song, and during them, you can touch me anywhere you like, except you can't 'pet the kitty', if you get my drift," she said with an inviting smile. "Each girl sets her own limits, of course, mostly within the club's rules. The law says we have to keep our bottoms on when doing private dances, but in the privacy of the VIP, lots of girls go fully nude." I asked further about the champagne room, for a variety of reasons.

"The champagne room is really a collection of little closets with heavy curtains over the entrance. Each just has a little sofa and a chair like this." She quoted the hourly rate for the room alone, before you negotiated with the dancer, and I knew that being a new homeowner meant I still was not a VIP. "Some girls will only dance for guys in VIP, most are eager to whenever they can and will sell you on it to the point of being annoying. Just tell them a hard no, and most will keep the upsell down to a dull roar."