My Pleasures Were Undignified

"I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position."

Sherry was backstage getting ready for her first official dance. There wasn't a trace of fear within her, of course, but she was tense with excitement nonetheless, like a thoroughbred itching to race. A few other girls were milling around the cramped space. Almost all of them were fearful to some extent. Sherry was unquestionably serious competition and directly threatened the established pecking order. Adding to their resentment was her sheer unassailable indifference to their subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) snubs and jibes.

The one friendly face there was Mercedes. No doubt part of that was from the excellent fucking Sherry had given her. However, Mercedes also had been low in the previous hierarchy and saw a chance to move up by allying herself with the newcomer.

"You look awesome!" she gushed as Sherry finished applying the last of her makeup. Her garb was not elaborate. High heels and fishnet stockings, of course. There was a skimpy thong, barely concealed for the moment under a skimpy skirt. A lacy bra half-visible under a translucent blouse. Sunglasses and fingerless gloves, just to have something else to take off. She intended the focus to be on her body, not props.

"Thanks," she replied idly. A last review of her appearance in the mirror, and then she turned and strode to the small alcove that led to the stage. From there she was able to discreetly signal that she was ready. For a few moments she examined the audience, peeking through the curtain.

It was a fair-sized crowd. Dawg's advertising had been effective, even on short notice. The current girl, her act complete, was gathering up her money and discarded clothes. She brushed past Sherry without a word. Unfazed, she kept gazing at the patrons, anticipating the thrill of baring her incomparable flesh as they watched longingly...

The house lights dimmed. Loud music began to play, with a sensuous beat and lots of low, pumping bass. (She had asked the DJ for suggestions earlier, choosing the one with the rawest, most sexist lyrics.) Spotlights began waving back and forth. "Gentlemen, the Corinthian Lounge is proud to introduce to you... for the first time on any stage... Sherry Sweet!"

She strutted out onto the platform with a brash, saucy excitement that proved swiftly infectious. Hoots, whistles, and catcalls arose immediately and were unceasing throughout her performance. She had not planned out any routine, trusting to her instincts. They did not fail her.

She commenced a slow walk about the edge of the stage, eyeing the audience with a sultry gaze. Her gait alone was quite enticing, and then she whirled and fell into a split, displaying her uncanny, limber flexibility. A hearty cheer sounded from the crowd, which continued as she rolled onto her stomach and thrust her ass into the air. In that position her skirt provided no cover of any import.

Sadly, few strippers find much enjoyment in the actual process of their work; their motivation is much more tied up in the rewards for their labor. And not many of those who take up the profession possess the requisite acting skill to effectively conceal this. There are men who prefer this state of affairs; having the power to force a woman to abase herself is what they're after.

But very few men, even the misogynists, are immune to the charms of a well-shaped and willing woman who is clearly enjoying the attention of men. The roar of the crowd grew to almost drown out the music. She rose and began to unbutton her shirt coquettishly; when she whipped it off and hurled it into the audience, a brief scuffle broke out over who would keep it.

Imagining the forest of stiff cocks that surrounded her drove her half mad with lust. She spun around the pole, hair flaring out behind her, gyrating with liquid dexterity.

The first song of her set was drawing to a close when she belatedly realized that she hadn't actually collected any money. That was far from her top priority, but the way strip clubs worked, she had to pay a rate for her time on stage, while she kept the excess. As the second song began, she shifted her rhythm and began milking the wolfpack surrounding her. There was no need to choose, bills were being urgently waved at her from every direction.

By the middle of the second song she was nude, but she could have sewn several dresses out of the cash littering the stage. When she almost slipped on some, she moved to the pole and entertained herself (and everyone nearby) with it until her set was finished. She didn't realize at the time just how unusual it was for a stripper to receive a standing ovation.

While she collected and stowed her cash, she was hounded by a surfeit of requests for personal dances in the VIP room. With plenty to choose from, she picked one of the sexiest guys and led him away. He actually came in his pants without her having to touch him. She did two more sets that night, and at least a dozen private dances, with similar results. At the end of the night she went home with a high-roller and probably spoiled him for other women.

Over the next few days she had an absolute blast. She proved to be a versatile and enthusiastic ecdysiast. Saturday night she was a not-that-innocent schoolgirl in pigtails. Sunday night she wore a leather dominatrix ensemble. Monday she was a MILF. Tuesday a haughty-but-naughty fashion model graced the stage. The combination of her superlative physical charms and her obvious, sincere zeal for arousing her audience made her practically irresistible.

Staying within the bounds of the law was difficult for her, of course. The legalistic distinctions between stripping and prostitution did not hold her interest. so she violated the strictures on a semi-regular basis - much to the joy of her clientele. Fortunately, an undercover vice cop sent to investigate her was swiftly compromised by her irresistible allure. Once Sherry had her way with him, he could not report her without implicating himself; and by then he had no inclination to abort her career anyway.

"That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished..."

It was a hot, wet summer for Sherry. Four nights a week, Thursday through Sunday, she performed at the club, almost always going home with someone for the night of their lives. Sometimes she teamed up for a show with one of the other girls, usually Mercedes.

A handful of the dancers still displayed infrequent, residual cattiness, but her dominance was unquestioned. It went without saying that she had Dawg's full support, but in truth, the rising tide of Sherry's popularity was lifting all their boats. She brought in big crowds, and everyone's take was better than ever before.

She even did her part to support the troops. At one point a squad of National Guardsmen came to the club the night before they were shipping out. She left early with the soldiers and gave them a going-away party the USO would never have authorized. It had nothing to do with patriotism, of course; eight horny, macho, and well-conditioned young men were frankly irresistible.

And then one Wednesday morning I was sitting in my desk at the store, idly reminiscing about the two Puerto Rican brothers who had tied Sherry up and used her mercilessly the night before, when the phone rang. I recognized the number; it was Sal. I suffered a pang of guilt at that point, because I hadn't even thought of him once since I'd successfully mixed up the concoction. I answered the phone with genuine warmth.

"Hey, Sal, how have you been? Sorry I haven't called, things have been pretty busy lately."

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you doing? You've cut back the store's hours, I heard..."

"Well, yes, but I'm still doing all right."

"So, what are you up to instead of working?" I could hear the skepticism mixed with concern in his voice.

"Oh, no need to worry about me. I'm not abusing... anything. The truth is, uh, well, I've got a girlfriend now."

"Really? Well, we definitely have some catching up to do then. How about tonight? Fleming's again? Bring her along if you like."

"Well... actually, she, uh, works nights. But I can come." Part of my willingness was just a desire to see my friend. But also I wanted to allay his suspicions. If he started poking around... he'd be about the only person in the world who could possibly suspect the truth.

So that evening I arrived just slightly late at our favorite restaurant. The hostess knew me as a regular and escorted me to the quieter back room. Sal was already there, and waved as I was led through the door.

I said before that I wasn't gay, that I didn't eye men on the street or anything like that. But when I caught sight of Sal, of a familiar face from my old days, I was suddenly aware that part of me was checking him out. I realized that I had been lecherously evaluating men as well as women lately, asking myself what Sherry would do with them.

And I realized that Sherry liked Sal very much. She wanted see how this distinguished-looking older gentleman appeared without those tasteful clothes. How well-hung was he? He'd been around. He'd know what to do with his cock, and... I cut that line of thought short with an effort.

I forced a smile and walked to the table, ignoring the odd sensations I felt as we shook hands, then I sat down across from him. For a moment, we were both silent.

"Well, I feel better already," Sal finally said. "I suppose you knew what I was worried about. But you look all right."

"Thanks, I guess." I said ruefully. "I feel fine. I'm actually enjoying life a lot more these days."

"Let's hear about this girl of yours. Sherry, you said? How did you meet?"

"She's, er, quite a handful. I... uh, I've known her for a while, but we've been spending more time together lately." Before I could continue, our waiter appeared.

I might have made it through the meal and got away, were it not for a spot of bad luck - he was new, but I recognized him. Sherry had gone home with him a couple of weeks ago. Unbidden, memories of riding his dick reverse-cowgirl style flooded my mind. He'd been a good lay, reaching around and tweaking my nipples as I'd bounced up and down, squeezing his pole with my pussy walls.. No, Sherry had....

Something of my distress must have shown on my face. The waiter (I suddenly remembered his name was Patrick) said, "Is something wrong, sir?"

I reestablished control of my thoughts and replied, "No, I'm sorry, it's just that you look remarkably like someone I knew long ago in college. It's almost uncanny." I smiled. "Your name isn't Ron, is it?"

"No," he smiled back. "It's Patrick. I'll be your server tonight. Would you like to start off with an appetizer?" I worked strenuously and mostly effectively to forget his active tongue in my mouth.

After he left with our orders, Sal pressed me again. "You were telling me about Sherry? You never mentioned her before."

"Well, we didn't have that kind of relationship. She's pretty amazing, though. Beautiful, smart, knows what she wants."

"I hear the store hasn't been open much lately."

"It's just, she takes up a lot of my time." I shifted uncomfortably.

"High-maintenance, as they say?"

"Definitely."

"If you're cutting back hours, can you afford a woman like that?" He looked me straight in the eyes. "Are you selling something new?"

"It's not like that, really. I wouldn't do that. I'm a dealer, but an antiques dealer." I sipped my water. "Sherry helps. Together we make enough to get by."

"You're living together?" His gaze was piercing, probing. I avoided his eyes... partly because on one level - Sherry's level - I wanted to stare into them.

"Yes." I was trying not to volunteer information, but that seemed to make him more suspicious.

Patrick returned with our wine. As he left I felt my eyes drawn to the young man's rear, but I suppressed the impulse and focused on the conversation. Sal shifted topics, and brought up what I'd been dreading. "Did you ever end up trying the stuff?"

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Yes. It actually helped me get to know Sherry a lot better. But it's not really my main focus these days."

"Hmmm. Maybe I should mix some up."

I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. "I wouldn't advise it. If you didn't know what you were doing, the results could be..." I searched for a word. "...unpredictable. My situation is, well, kind of special."

"In what way, exactly? What does that stuff do, anyway?"

"It... um... breaks down inhibitions, I guess you could say." I considered a moment how to phrase things safely. "It... brings out repressed parts of the personality."

"I see. That could be dangerous." He took a sip of wine. "Why isn't it dangerous for you? What if you hurt someone, or yourself?"

"My repressions... well, they weren't of a violent nature."

"Might I inquire as to what nature they actually were?" Sal asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Uh... well, Sherry's in my life now." I took a sip of wine.

"Ah. I see." Sal seemed thoughtful. I didn't think he was any less suspicious, though.

"But enough about me. What have you been up to? Still seeing whatshername, Donna?" After I asked I realized I was more interested in his love life than I should have been.

"Not anymore. We just didn't click, I suppose." The conversation moved to safer topics for a time, though I had the strong impression Sal was still evaluating my reactions. But his intense regard wasn't just making me nervous, it was making me horny as well. A substantial fraction of my personality wanted him to pay attention to me.

As I said, I might have made it if not for the waiter. But the combination of thoughts of him, and my unwanted but undeniable new attraction to Sal, upset my equilibrium by too great a degree.

When Patrick returned with our meals, I was struck by his poise and strength carrying the heavily-loaded tray. This time I could not keep myself from examining his ass as he served Sal. Flustered, I sat quietly after he left, pretending to be absorbed by my meal, making occasional encouraging sounds as Sal continued his report on his dating situation. But now, I could not help but notice his deft hands as they handled the silverware, and his mouth and lips as he ate. It was too much.

"Excuse me," I broke in and stood up. "I have to go to the men's room. I'll be right back." Sal looked after me with a concerned expression as I hurried away.

I rushed to a stall in the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and sat on a toilet. I immediately began to masturbate, hoping to relieve the tension and be able to finish the dinner. Stroking my shaft, I fantasized about Patrick, how it had felt riding him. But I couldn't help myself. In moments I was fantasizing about Sal; then I felt a shudder and the pangs of change swept over me.

My last thought as Carl was the realization that I hadn't had an orgasm as myself in months... and then Sherry was rubbing and grunting through an intense climax. The ecstatic spasms ebbed and she sat for a moment in the stall, catching her breath. This was a bit of a problem. It wasn't too much of a surprise, though - involuntary changes had happened to Tawesson as well.

She was attired in a man's suit far too big for her slim frame. We always changed at home; there were no spare clothes in the car and the formula was at the house, miles away. If Sal saw her dressed like this, he'd know something very strange was going on, and that would not do, not at all. There were things that needed to be done before he suspected the truth.

Deciding to take a cue from Cuilidh, she dug out Carl's wallet. She could imitate his handwriting perfectly, so she penned a quick note on the back of one of his business cards. "Sal - not feeling myself, had to go home. Meet me there, all will be revealed. Carl."

She heard someone coming in, and stepped out into the men's room. A very startled old man gaped at her, jaw sagging. With total insouciance, Sherry said, "I need you to do me a favor. There's a really cute guy in the back room, mid-40s, touch of gray at the temples. On the left. Give this to him, okay? And tell him a man gave it to you; it's very important he doesn't know it came from me. Can you do that, sweetie?"

He nodded mutely. She smiled and gave him a quick smooch. "Okay, hop to it! Let me know when he leaves!" She turned and went back to wait in her stall; best to avoid a disturbance. Her impromptu lackey, completely bemused, went back out the door.

It wasn't a very long wait, but Sherry was not given to patience. She gave some consideration to the nature of her attire. She hadn't thought of dressing in men's clothes before. Her next set at the lounge would definitely be in drag. Moreover, she could likely pick up some nice femme lesbians like that. Of course, the butch ones had their advantages, too. And those in between...

Perhaps fortunately, the old man came back in at that point, before she could work herself up further. "Excuse me, uh, miss? That, uh, gentleman just left." She emerged from the stall and brushed past her befuddled bravo. She blew a kiss behind her as she walked out the door.

She was used to the lull in conversation when she appeared in a crowd, but never before had she engendered complete silence the way she did now, on her way out of the restaurant. Sherry, heedless, rushed out onto the street and off to the car. There were plenty of gawkers on the trip to the parking garage, but no one got in her way. Carl's cell rang as she was starting the car. When she checked the number, it was Sal. She let it go to voicemail.

It wouldn't have worked in most cities. But Boston - at least the city center - was never designed for car traffic. (Indeed, it was never designed at all.) Sal came from a different direction than us, and we knew where he habitually parked. It was on the wrong side of the restaurant - that is, for reaching our side of town. With the maze of twisty, one-way streets and perennial construction, he would take at least fifteen minutes longer to reach our house than she would - despite our cars being parked less than a quarter mile apart.

"...I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations..."

So it was that Sherry arrived home comfortably ahead of Sal, and had exchanged the ridiculous trappings for a garment that was more suitable. One that invited an entirely different kind of attention. She waited on a couch in the front room until the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, she was pleased to note Sal's double-take: the nearly universal human reaction to encountering Sherry's raw, animal aura. While he worked to recover his composure, she stole the initiative. "You must be Sal," she purred. "Carl told me to expect you." She stepped back and waved him in.

He entered rather dubiously. The dress she wore had a plunging - indeed, dive-bombing - neckline, and slits ran up both sides of the short skirt. "So, I take it you're Sherry?" Sal was trying to keep his eyes from roaming over her body, with strictly limited success.

"The one and only." She smiled in a satisfied way. There would be no trouble getting what she wanted, she was quite sure of that now. "Can I get you something to drink?" She led him to the living room.

"Not just yet." He looked around; the ground floor of the house hadn't changed noticeably since Sherry had 'moved in'. "Where's Carl?"

She sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her. "He's resting upstairs. He tends to be worn out when I'm through with him." She smirked. "Didn't he tell you about me?"