The Dance

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This is a little story I wrote for a strip-search group a while back. Thanks to the moderator there (Lakewood) for his editing which made it a better read. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. It's actually a "guilty pleasure/fantasy" of mine to do a public striptease and that's the genesis of the tale, with thanks to author Joe Doe for inspiring the strip-search elements. I did some minor refinishing for Literotica.

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I still couldn't believe I'd originally let myself agree to this. Before it all began, it had seemed like such a rush-- such a huge turn-on to go out and "perform" at some strip club as an anonymous new face. I'd imagined myself stepping out on stage and slowly dropping my clothes in front of a faceless crowd. Deliciously exciting! That was then.....

The scent of stale cigar smoke, cheap beer and sweaty men overpowered the room. I nearly choked on it, taking a deep breath to try and calm my nerves. When I stepped onto the stage the lights were blindingly bright but I felt so nervous I barely heard the music blaring in the background. I had wanted to see how it felt to perform in public... to know first-hand what it was like. My fantasy wasn't anything like this reality and I froze. I couldn't help it.

I closed my eyes-- maybe if I couldn't see them, they wouldn't look at me. The noise of their applause, the cat-calls and whistling hoots, got louder as the audience sensed my utter embarrassment and reacted to the idea of seeing a woman stripped bare for the first time in public. Just the thought of enduring such a demeaning experience, merely the notion of permitting this to happen, made me shiver with a nervous excitement that pinned my feet in place even as my mind screamed for me to run. It was a humiliation beyond description.

Hands reached from behind me. I would be allowed no shield from the eyes of the crowd, not even the body of my tormentor. Eager wrists pressed against the bottom of my breasts as long, thin fingers fumbled to release the buttons on my blouse. I loved the look of this bright red blouse with its pearl white buttons. I adored the way it contrasted with my creamy skin and set off my hair. It reinforced my sense of wealth and importance while at the same time let me feel sexy but reserved-- modest. It was opaque enough that there was no chance of unwanted exposure yet the cut and fit gave a broad hint at the shape of my breasts and the vee neck allowed just the top of my cleavage to show. Now, my favorite blouse would play its part in the sacrifice I would make to amuse the crowd in this smelly bar. I've been told I resemble Meg Ryan, and just knew that the day laborers and truckers who frequented the place were getting hard picturing a famous actress being stripped for their amusement.

I felt the first two buttons come undone and the blouse slipped down my shoulders. The crowd went wild as the straps of my underwear came into view. I wondered what their reaction would be when the entire bra was exposed, but the helpless feeling of surrendering my modesty and allowing someone to strip me naked-- for the amusement of a rowdy crowd-- overpowered my wish to flee.

My eyes blinked open, the harsh glare of the spotlights still hiding most of the crowd from view and caught a glimpse of my matching red heels, already casually discarded to the side of the small stage. One had turned over on its side and cast a thin shadow at me-- like an accusatory finger that demanded to know why I'd abandoned my pride and dignity. I bit my lower lip as the next buttons came loose and my blouse billowed open. The raucous cheers told me my breasts (in the lacy bra I wore) were visible even as the tail of my blouse pulled free of my skirt. A small voice behind me ordered me to hold my shoulders back, and I obeyed without thinking, letting the hands slide the sleeves of the blouse down my arms and completely off. I felt my nipples stiffen into hard points. The bright lights made the bra look pale, accenting the color of my nipples underneath and giving the crowd a sneak preview through the lace. The bra had seemed so modest when I put it on, not the hormone inducing tease it felt like now.

The crowd went wild at the sight of my blouse being held ceremoniously aloft while it was paraded to the far side of the stage, there to be neatly re-folded into a small black box.

A box with my prisoner number stenciled on the side and my name and crime printed in humiliating block letters along the front...

KIDDING, VERITY

The same box I remembered from the Sheriff's office....

"This is still America, right?" Even Ashley, who had been so stoic when the officer slapped the cuffs on us for crossing the street, chuckled at that one. I mean, why would you arrest someone for JAYWALKING for God's sake! Ashley hadn't warned me that the cops in this hick town were such sticklers for the fine print of the law. Who would have guessed? After all, there was a sleazy bar at the edge of town that boldly advertised "Naked Strippers" and "Fresh Young Babes Daily" right beside the interstate. It was the perfect choice for enabling my fantasy of dancing on stage. I figured that we'd park away from direct view, sneak inside, persuade the manager to let me onstage. While Ashley kept an eye out for trouble, I'd have the thrill of a lifetime and an experience to satisfy the craving I'd developed. After a few songs, we'd be off for the rest of our weekend holiday with the experience of stripping an erotic memory. I hadn't counted on having some "deputy dog" decide to enforce a stupid, out-of-date city ordinance as we crossed the street toward the bar. Ashley was strangely calm-- as if she'd half expected this-- but at that moment I was surprisingly disappointed at having my chance to live out an old erotic fantasy nipped in the bud, especially after all the persuading Ashley had done to convince me to give it a go. And why was she so calm about getting arrested?

After my arrest, the Sheriff had taken the usual mug shots, fingerprints, etc before beginning what he called "pro-cessin'." Such a vapid and colorless term for what happens-- processing. You surrender your modesty one button, one zipper, one garment at a time. At length, you have nothing left.... no protection under the law... no shining knight to ride to the rescue... no pride... no dignity... no shield to hide you from leering eyes... nothing. Your last vestiges of protection-- your clothes-- have been deposited in a small black box and you're standing there on the freezing cold tiles-- red-faced with shame and completely naked-- trying desperately to clutch your hands around your privates in the hope of maintaining some shred of modesty, some shred of decency. The humiliation is total and the shame complete when you realize that your womanly juices are flowing freely down your thighs even as your mind screams at the obscene way you're being treated. The Sheriff and his staff ogle you and make crude remarks about the hair between your legs, or the size and shape of your breasts. Then the sound of a latex glove snapping into place tells you another chapter is beginning....

The stage lights were bright and I swallowed both my pride and my nerves as the hands returned, this time to the fastening around my waist. The skirt would be next. The crowd began leering and chanting... wondering if I were a natural blonde... asking if my pubic hair would match the hair around my shoulders. They made jokes that maybe I had gone "bald" down there, as if only whores shaved their privates. I tried to block out their jeering insults. After all, it wouldn't be long before the answer was plain to see and there was nothing I could do about it anyway.

When the skirt went the way of my blouse, the noise doubled at the sight of my bikini panties, the high-cut lace showing more than a hint of my full bush. The skimpy panties matched my bra in being both more lace than fabric and in being a pale pink that faded nearly to invisibility under the bright lights. I panted nervously, regretting the choice and wanting nothing more than for this to end. Yet, even as I wanted it to end, I felt fresh rivulets run from my crotch that told a truer story about my excitement. I was appalled that the crowd might guess that I was nearly as aroused as I was embarrassed-- almost as horny as I was humiliated. The dual sensations added to both the depth of my shame and the height of my arousal.

The skirt, having been paraded across the stage and folded like my blouse, now joined it in the black box. Fresh cat-calls and lewd cheers erupted when the hands returned to me. They felt my boobs up aggressively and I closed my eyes again, hoping I could control myself as my fears fought my growing heat. The fingers pinched my rock-hard nipples through the thin fabric of the bra and I gasped, the heady mix of pain and pleasure causing a flood of wet to run into my already soaking panties, the excess beginning to ooze down the insides of my thighs. What a lewd, disgusting and indecent display it must be, I thought to myself, even as hot sparks shot through my body and I shook with the effort of holding back my climax. I would NOT reach orgasm on stage-- not like this-- not in front of all these leering rednecks! NO!!

Just then, the clasp of the bra came loose and my breasts spilled out. The hands massaged me, teasing my erect nipples and rubbing my small, sensitive boobs until I moaned with pleasure. Suddenly, the hands pulled away and the crowd cheered the first clear view of my breasts, bare naked for their entertainment. I choked back tears that they surely thought were from utter shame-- and they were-- but, they were also mixed with tears of frustration as my body desperately craved more stimulation to my breasts.

I felt fingertips at my hips and knew the time for my final unveiling was at hand. Slowly, oh so slowly, the hands moved down, dragging my panties along. The crotch was so wet that it literally stuck to my pussy, hiding my most intimate secrets a little longer, while the elastic stretched over my cute bottom. Finally, the crotch snapped away... and the hands let go, letting my soaked panties fall to the floor. I was naked. I blushed like a virgin schoolgirl and shivered with pent-up desires made sharper by an overwhelming sense of embarrassed shame at my wanton display in front of this crowd.

Just like at the Sheriff's office, once they came off, my wet panties were ceremoniously held out for the crowd to see, dangling from a fingertip and quite obviously soaked with female juices. Also just like at the Sheriff's office, they went into a small bag, a slight twist of the plastic making certain everyone could see how randy and wet I'd become despite being stripped against my will. I bowed my head in abject shame, too embarrassed by my own need for release to look up. The soft voice completed my humiliation, telling me it was time to spread my legs. I gasped, choking back my fears and my prayers, understanding how awful this pose would be for any woman-- but especially for me, here and now.

Hands pulled my wrists back and gently moved them into position. My wrists were cuffed, the ratcheting sound reminding me once again of the arrest and the humilations which followed at the station. The memory added to my sense of debasement while my hands were left holding the back of my neck, leaving my body fully exposed to every leering eye. I felt further shame when my feet were rudely kicked apart, opening my thighs and letting my lower lips feel the cold air. When they were satisfied, I finally stood, totally open and exposed like a cheap whore for inspection.

You'd think that after being cuffed and roughly patted down by a pair of pimple-faced cops, a girl would begin to get used to the notion that she would be left with no private parts left private. You'd be right, too, if you thought that being "processed" in front of a bunch of dirty old men would add immeasurably to the shame of your arrest and further compromise your dignity but would at least help prepare you for this act on stage. You'd think that the reality of being strip-searched, including the most invasive cavity search you could imagine, would further prepare a girl for the kind of horrible exposure I felt at that moment on stage. Naked... legs spread obscenely wide apart... a room full of rednecks and immigrant laborers staring at the hair between my legs; the red folds of my labia and clit peeking out... while the bright lights make certain there is absolutely nothing left to anyone's imagination... and even less left of my dignity.

Maybe you'd have been right about the prior ordeal making me prepared... if the fingers hadn't chosen that moment to drive through my wet lips and plunge deep into my sex. I dissolved into an immediate, degrading and utterly delicious orgasm, screaming as I came and shaking from the sudden spasms that racked my body from neck to knees. It was all I could do to remain standing while the fingers probed deep inside, touching... rubbing... stimulating... OHHH!! All my tortured body could feel was the orgasm and all I could see were stars.

When I finally came back to earth, I saw a head of hair move between my legs-- hair I knew so well hiding the face of my law partner and best friend, Ashley. Her sweet lips found my already wet, enflamed sex and she licked me, letting her tongue run deep into the crevice and tasting my juices as they ran freely down her chin. Her teeth bit my clit while her lips and tongue sought every nerve of my sex even as her fingers continued to torment me from the inside.

As the second and third orgasms built, I remembered the awful feeling of being totally powerless when the Sheriff assigned me and Ash to work this club "to pay for our upkeep," he'd said. I remembered the dread I'd felt at being compelled to appear on stage at this cheap, tawdry club.

I recalled the excited gleam in Ashley's eyes when they drove us up to the stage entrance and unlocked our handcuffs... how she seemed to know exactly what was coming when the bouncer handed us the black boxes containing our clothes and ordered us to dress for "Showtime."

Somehow, I knew my first show would be more than I'd ever bargained for when I let her talk me into this trip.

"YES!" she'd giggled. "I win the toss!" She put the quarter away in a pants pocket of her blue power suit, the crisp lines of her jacket making you guess whether or not she wore a blouse underneath. Her slacks, like the jacket, fit closely around her hips, letting you see the outline of her slim waist and athletic build before flaring out to run loosely to her ankles. She wore her typical flat loafers. She'd taken me in her arms as our music started and breathed into my ear, "I get to go first! Tonight, I'm going to strip you, my Darling. I'm going to strip you naked for all those horny men to see... and then I'm going to make you cum... cum on my tongue while everyone watches." All I could do was stare in horror at her promise to utterly debase and thoroughly abuse me-- in public.

I'd shivered as she looked over her shoulder and said, just before dragging me on stage, "Tomorrow, it'll be your turn..." Holding the edge of the curtain, Ashley gave me a last, mischievous grin and added, "You can just throw me out on stage and tear off my clothes. Tomorrow, I want you to be rough with me...."

As I came on her tongue again, forced to stand while she knelt and licked me to one delightful, degrading and horribly public orgasm after another, I knew I'd grant Ashley her own secret fantasy. Tomorrow, I'd be rough with her alright.