Dallas Mayo - The fluffy girl

The hot spark landed and the jell came alive. I spilled a little of my drink and then set it down hastily, my transfixed eyes thirstier than my parched lips. Only a fool would miss this part of the show. And yet, unaccountably, I became more and more conscious of my own reactions and responses. There was the sloshed drink, for instance, the leftover dribble of moisture on my chin, I was dying to wipe it off but couldn't go pawing around blindly for a napkin for fear of a far worse spillage. Especially with the blond dancer teetering on one precarious golden heel to lift the other net-sheathed leg through a suddenly unzipped zipper in the gown. So I did the next best thing, I used my tongue. A wise course, as it turned out, the first sight of that breathtakingly beautiful leg was worth the effort and then some. Although I must have looked pretty weird ogling a woman's body with my tongue stuck out like that. In case anyone was stupid enough to be looking in my direction. Oh shit, anybody that dumb wouldn't know a lesbian cuntlapper if they saw one!

Another thing began to irritate me. For no earthly reason, I found myself resenting the men in the place, all of them, every lusting son of a bitch. How could any hairy-legged male understand or appreciate the aesthetic smoothness of those shapely feminine limbs? Or the beauty of those bewitching breasts, now being laid bare by a flurry of tenderly solicitous fingertips? Such purity was too precious to reveal to anybody, much less a roomful of lecherous brutes with dirt under their fingernails. Or if the divine creature couldn't perform in solitude, well, why not an audience of women only? Attractive women, though, with a sprinkling of sweet young girls to help balance out the glut of sleek matrons. And why not make nudity the rule rather than the exception? Nude women all around. Women of grace and delicacy, of smooth skin and softly lyrical curves to enhance the flawless masterpiece in the center as the many leaves of a flower enhance its single blossom…

No such luck. But I had enough to satisfy me for the moment. Even the combo sounded just fine now, the rhythm honed to a precise edge that matched the unabashedly naked undulations of breast and belly and hip. My thighs felt damp and sticky, and I wasn't even aware of how long ago they had started this business of rubbing and chafing against each other, prickling like a pair of hot and horny porcupines. It didn't matter. Help was on the way. As though he had read my mind, or put a lie detector on my libido, heaven forbid!, dear old Jerome was reaching for me under the table with those nice soft hands of his.

Hmm. Almost soft enough to be feminine, actually, making me all the more conscious of the velvety texture of my own skin. Ah yes, tempting! Wouldn't that bouncy little redhead just love to slide her fingers over me like this? Or even the big fat peasant, the one whose skill almost made up for her lack of beauty; oh shit, that one would know how! Uh-huh. She did, she sure did know how, and as long as I had something more beautiful to gaze at, why not let her go on with that sneaky lesbian caress?

A gentle lassitude came upon me, a limpness I could feel but couldn't resist. Nor did I care to after a while. Something wild was going to happen, something up there on the stage and down here underneath the table. The same thing, maybe, and wouldn't it be grand to tumble into the dark abyss together? Blond on blond, lighting up the darkness, a bed full of nice blond cunt, come on, striptease lade, shit or get off the pot!

I couldn't catch her eye, though, and that was the worst kind of teasing, a mixture of pain and humiliation. So it ended on a disappointing note for me, no shimmering gold beauty, no red-haired hoyden, no pudgy-fingered brunette, only poor old Jerome foraging around down there and doing it pretty much for himself. Awkwardly, too, no better than those lousy musicians fingering their lousy instruments. Clumsy! Like that fat peasant tripping over her own fringe…

“Another drink, Dana?"

“You still want to stay? I figured the show was over."

"We haven't seen the star yet. Pilar. She's supposed to be the headliner. But if you'd rather not-"

"It's okay. I'll have that drink now, too. With both hands on the table, if you don't mind. Or they're liable to cancel the star and just move us onstage instead. Which wouldn't be such a bad idea, you know? If your diddling finger holds out, I can do bumps and grinds all night long. I'll even let you use your tongue and give your finger a rest."

"Hush."

"Don't hush me or I'll put you under the table. Hey, how about that drink you promised me? Looks like show time already."

Appearances were deceiving, though, and we had to suffer through another bilingual announcement and a long stretch of fussing with the lights before the one and only Pilar came on. And even then she took awhile longer, coming on piece by piece, a little bit at a time. An arm first, fingers pointed and bunched, moving slowly into view from behind the curtain; in the murky blue light it looked like a wriggling snake. Then a shoulder, turning the snake into something that gave evidence of eventually becoming a full-bosomed female body, glowing with an eerie phosphorescence that seemed almost spectral. Incongruously so, I thought, especially since the body itself proved to be big and solid and voluptuous as more and more of it came out from in back of the curtain.

Big and solid and voluptuous, -and naked? No. Not quite. But she might just as well have been, considering the size and texture of her garments. The tiniest of G-strings. A gauzy bra that was transparent except for the slight thickening of fabric over each nipple. And the inevitable high heels, of course, but even these were fashioned like dainty sandals, with only a narrow thong-type arrangement anchoring them to her bare feet.

The audience loved her. She drew a vehement round of applause just standing there lazily and scanning the tables, an all-knowing smile on her ripely sensuous mouth. Once again I succumbed to the urge to squirm around in my seat, assailed by a hot spasm of agitation as her all-encompassing glance singled me out for an extra intense moment or two. But then I wondered if that wasn't just a bit of tricky stage technique, the kind of thing that implants the same uniquely personalized notion in each and every onlooker. Although my mind simply boggled at the idea of everyone else feeling exactly the same as I did; oh shit, they couldn't all be squirming!

Pilar had started her promenade, gliding out upon the elongated apron of the stage. It was more of a strut, actually, a stripper's walk to show off her figure. A damn good figure, too, generously stacked and just about perfect in proportion. Her calves were a trifle heavy but still quite firm-dancer's muscles, no doubt, and those ultra-high heels threw her thighs and pelvis into a seductively prominent curve.

My eyes had grown accustomed to the light by now, no longer bothered by that strange luminescent effect. It was fascinating, somehow, adding an impossibly beautiful luster to her thick crop of billowing blue-black hair. And when the wispy little mini-bra came off, her already aroused nipples gleamed vividly and brought an audible gasp from the crowd.

The music faded, leaving only a soft drumbeat to carry on. Her fingers wandered, playing restless melodies on her own flesh. And for the first time, she seemed to go into a trance that excluded the breathless audience. A highly volatile trance, though, as if the caresses of her hands had at last penetrated her skin and found some deeply buried turn-on switch. Something was taking place inside her, something beyond her control. Her hips began to gyrate wildly, her torso twisting this way and that, apparently in the throes of some exquisite torture. Her face contorted, the gluttonous ripe lips tightening and drawing back to bare her shiny teeth.