tagErotic CouplingsYvette's Last Dance

Yvette's Last Dance


If you've been to a strip club-- oh, pardon me, Gentleman's Club-- in the last decade or two, you know what the girls look like these days. Long and lean, muscular and aerobicized. The day of the buxom burlesque queen, or even the natural-breasted cornfed honeys of the 1970s, is long past. If you like back, at best you might get the occasional black dancer with some booty, but the white girls all shop in the petite section.

Don't get me wrong, I admire a gal like that as a sort of architectural construction. They're certainly young and sort of beautiful, and that's what strip clubs hire for. And I'm impressed to see one of them hoist her 108 pounds up onto the pole, flip upside-down, and slide down slowly, like an Olympic gymnast. But when they come by after their dances to invite me to go drop a wad on a private dance, well, I find a way to politely pass. I'm happy to watch girls built like that, but having them writhe up and down on me is like having a teenage boy do it, which is not something I have any intention of actually experiencing, ever.

So the first time I saw Yvette-- that was her stage name, anyway-- at Primroses on Baxter Road near the airport, she stood out because, well, things on her stood out. She had rounded, floppy breasts, a curvy behind, real hips, soft arms and thighs-- in short, somehow she didn't fit the muscular profile, but she got hired anyway. And once she got on stage, it was easy to see why-- she had an immediate connection with the audience, knew how to keep them interested and act as if they were turning her on. Too many dancers seem to be off in their own private world (possibly drug-enhanced), but Yvette had the gift of making every man in the room feel like she was dancing just for him.

Now, you know you have no business going back for a private dance in any club unless you're willing to see money vanish at a startling rate. So I ration such activities carefully, using them to make a serious contribution to the income of a dancer who's really put on a great show, and not just to pad the checking account of every girl who works me. But Yvette got me three times in a couple of months, not only because she did a great private dance, and didn't seem to mind my hand brushing against things I wasn't strictly supposed to touch, but because I liked having a soft, curvy woman like her rubbing all over me. It got a reaction that those lean, bony gals didn't quite achieve.

So I was surprised one Friday night when she seemed distant and even angry on stage. Fight with her boyfriend? Red-light-camera ticket? Hard to say, but when she left the stage without even trying to hustle me for a dance-- me, a known sucker!-- I was curious. I saw that she stopped over by the bar to talk to another of the girls, so I took my $4.50 Bud Light and walked over by her, waiting politely until she saw me and said hi. Which she did, sullenly.

"Not such a good night?" I said.

"You could say that," she said. "Try, my last night."

I was shocked. "You got fired?"

"You don't have to announce it to the whole world," she said.

"Oh hell, getting fired is nothing," I said. "If you don't get fired once in a while, you're not worth the trouble of firing. Is your boss an asshole?"

"Damn right," she said.

"Well, then, why give his opinion any validity by listening to it? What was his problem?"

"Maybe we should go sit down," she said.

We went over to one of the tables, a row or two back from the stage so the skinny dancer on stage wouldn't expect me to pay too much attention to her. "So what happened, did he harass you?"

"He said I wasn't thin enough to be a dancer," she said. "I know I've put on a few pounds lately, but I'm always first or second in tips--"

"Which means he has no frickin' clue what guys like me like," I said. I looked her over. Yeah, maybe she was a little broader in the behind lately, and her little tummy pooched out a little. But she was totally hot, and those soft curves were a big part of the reason why. "Honey, you're gorgeous, and the tips prove that I'm not the only guy who thinks so. So why the hell is he listening to his own dumbass opinion instead of the money you bring in? I was under the impression that strip club owners were at least somewhat interested in money," I added, and she laughed.

"Okay, maybe it's not as bad as all that," she said. "But it just makes you feel so worthless. I know I'm hot--"

"You are so hot. But you knew I thought that."

"Yeah, I've felt something that made me think you think that," she said.

"Listen," I said. "If this is going to be your last night here, I want to send you off with a ba-- er, in style. One last dance, and I promise you a very big tip. To tide you over till you land at a new place."

"It's a deal," she said.

* * *

She led me back to the private area and I sat down on a soft couch, sinking backwards into its cushions. I looked up at the curved mirror which was mounted at the end of the room, and saw the bouncer watching us, bored. Then Yvette pushed my hands down onto the couch to give me the signal that no touching was allowed.

The music started in the other room and she started moving in front of me. She unbuttoned the flimsy black top she was wearing and revealed her breasts-- of course, I had just seen them on stage a few minutes before. Yes, maybe they were a little bigger and droopier than they had been when she first started. We should all have such problems; they were gorgeously round and dangling, and soon she was pressing my face in between them, swaying gently back and forth so that her boobs caressed my face.

She moved up, my nose rubbing against her soft, round little belly until she was standing over me on the arms of the couch, her panties in my face. She gyrated her crotch over me, pantomiming rubbing herself up and down my lips. She'd done this before, but this time she came closer and closer, until-- she pressed her pussy right against my face, I could feel the pelvic bone and the softness around it, separated from me by only the thinnest layer of silk. Nervous, I glanced up at the mirror, but realized that the bouncer couldn't see, from this angle, if she was six inches away or smashed into my face.

She hopped down, giving me a look that suggested she was in a particularly mischievous mood. Now she sat down in my lap, right on my boner, and purred as she felt it. If her ass was a little bigger, it found no objection from me as its soft curves spread out in my lap. She arched her back like a cat, nuzzling my neck with her lips as her ass dug into my crotch, massaging my hardon like a pair of hands. Meanwhile, her hands reached for mine and placed them alongside her hips, inviting me to feel her ass. I rubbed and squeezed it gently as she rode my lap, it was a beautifully-shaped ass, round and smooth, any man would give his left nut to make love to such a gorgeously, indisputably female ass.

She put her mouth against my ear. "Would you like me to earn a really big tip on my last night?" she asked.

"How much," I said, a little concerned.

"Whatever you think it was worth, sweetie," she said, and then stood up again. She got down on her knees and started rubbing her body up my lap; then down again, my boner tracing a line from her belly, between her breasts, and up to her chin. She moved up again to my face-- and this time she deftly reached for my fly and zipped it down, allowing my underwear-covered boner to pop out like a tentpole. Unless you were one of us, though, there was no way of seeing what she'd just done, and from the bouncer's perspective, it would have looked exactly the same as she rubbed my hardon against her belly, then between her breasts, and down to her chin-- where she planted a playful kiss on the end of my dick, or at least the cloth covering it. Then as she moved up, she stuffed it back in and zipped the fly over it-- not entirely comfortably for me.

"Move over a little, would you hon?" she said. I scooted over to one side of the couch and she made herself a place next to me on the other side. Then she got up on her knees a little and started nuzzling my neck again. It seemed an odd position from which to do it-- and then I felt her hand take mine and slide it up her thighs until it was pressing against her pussy in the cloth. Again, she had calculated exactly how to block the bouncer's view via the mirror; it would just look as if my hand was down where it was supposed to be.

As she moved her breasts up and down my face, she also rubbed herself against my hand, her breath getting heavier. I felt the panties grow warm and wet, and then I felt her reach quickly down and pull the crotch of her panties to one side. Again she acted as if nothing had happened, but now my hand was up against her velvety warm pussy, her actual soft juicy pussy, her juices flowing onto my hand as she humped it. I moved my index finger slightly and she moved down onto it, seeming to suck it inside her pussy, fucking my finger.

A song ended, and the deejay made the usual bored, inane introduction ("Gentlemen, show your appreciation for Latisha...") She withdrew her pussy from my hand and stood up again, facing me. She brought her breasts to my face, and as she rubbed them against my face, I could see her keeping an eye on the mirror. After a moment another girl came into the room with a customer-- and in the flash of an instant, she had zipped my fly open again and fished my cock out of my underwear, leaving it fully exposed to the air. She whipped around and had her ass in my lap in no time, my cock pressed backward against my stomach. As she shimmied her ass up my lap, I felt her pull her panties to one side again-- and then she sat down on my cock, stuffing it inside her warm, wet pussy.

I had to admire the contortions she could go through to fuck me without looking like she was doing it. Her ass was pressed against my crotch, so my cock entered her from behind, while her back was arched so that her stomach seemed to cover a clear view of what her crotch was up to. She moved rhythmically, languorously, seemingly to the music, and only she and I could tell that in those slow, sinuous movements, she was humping my cock, feeling its friction as it rubbed deep into her pussy and back out again. It only took a minute-- maybe she didn't want it to last too long-- and then I had to stifle a groan and sit rigidly still as I pumped my cum into her. When I was done she slid off me, flipping around to quickly prevent a view of my cock, and then she used her torso to block a view of her hand as she pushed my falling cock back into my underwear and pulled the zipper up.

She sat down next to me, that mischievous smile still on her lips. "Thanks for making my last night so special," she said.

"Uh, no, you made it special for me," I stammered stupidly.

"You'd better go," she said. I reached into my wallet, pulled out a healthy stack of twenties, and gave them to her. "Thanks, sweetie," she said, and kissed me on the lips for the first time. I kissed back, and then the bouncer let out a stage cough and she stopped.

I stood up and started to reach for my beer. "No, seriously, you need to go now," she said, suddenly very serious. I looked into her face and there was a different girl there now, more like the one when I'd first walked in, angry, yet also determined. And urging me to leave, now, before-- what?

I didn't ask questions; I didn't press my luck. I waved Yvette goodbye, and within sixty more seconds, within three minutes of an amazing fuck, I was turning out of the parking lot and on my way home.

* * *

The next morning I logged onto the local newspaper's website. I have to admit, Yvette's last words, her sudden change of temperament had left me a little uneasy. How much did I know about her, really? How real is the persona a stripper presents to the customer? It wasn't impossible that her words of warning, and her unexpected fuck, had been the prelude to-- what? Arson? Murder? Suicide? Who knew who Yvette was, really?

The top story was about a tornado in another part of the state. Nothing close by to confirm my fears-- and then I saw it.


Next to the story there was an official photo of a dark-haired woman, identified as Officer Stacy Niehringer of the State Bureau of Investigation, awarded several citations for her past work. In this case, Officer Niehringer's undercover work as a dancer at Primroses on Baxter Road had led to the arrest of manager Robert L. Protheroe on charges of allowing his premises, specifically a private dance room, to be used for prostitution.

I looked at the photo. The dully official photography and the stern look on the Officer Niehringer's face were a world away from the shadowy atmosphere of Primroses. But you could just imagine what she would look like, working undercover in that place.

Yeah, I figured Yvette wasn't her real name.

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