This is a continuation of Joe Doe's story, the first two sentences of which raised questions that were never answered -- or, indeed, even alluded to afterward. Joe may have intended to write more and then forgot, or perhaps he did write something and then lost it. At any rate, here is my take on Part 2. I hope it compares well with Joe's Part 1 (which I rate quite highly). SUCKER BET by C. Lakewood Part 2 I managed to clean myself up and appear more or less normal by the time Frank, my husband, got home from work that evening. But I was distant, and Frank seemed not to mind. I attended the next committee meeting with mixed feelings. My mood became even more ambivalent when, as the first order of business, the chairman announced that several members of the committee had considered my "impassioned philippic" (I suspect that phrase was Mr. Wallace's) at the previous meeting and realized that evidence of exploitation of the strippers might provide a basis for a preliminary injunction against the club. Someone was needed to go "undercover" (as it were) to collect that evidence. Of course, I was nominated. And, of course, I refused...and left in a huff. ****************************** This time, I called upon a bottle of wine to help me calm down. Actually, I was half-way through a second bottle when Frank got home, and I was anything but quiet. I complained loudly and at length to him, and he gradually wormed the whole story out of me...more than just a recital of what had happened at the meeting, however, because I stupidly opened up to him what had always been my secret fantasy world. I told him, for example, how the notion of dancing naked for a crowd of people was so arousing -- especially if the people knew me and were now discovering what a shameless slut I really was underneath my prim exterior.... In vino veritas. By the time I was through spilling my guts, Frank was reclining comfortably, a cold beer in his hand and a shrewd, lustful look on his face. He seemed in much better spirits than he had in some time. (It had been a bumpy ride lately. Last year, he had been promoted to vice president, and we went on a spree, but the bubble burst two months later, when the division he was then in charge of was abolished. He was given the choice between 1) a severance package or 2) a transfer to Mumbai to manage a big call center there. He had to take the latter, since a clause in his contract would then apply, and the company would have to buy our house -- for the current market price or for what we paid for it, whichever was higher. (They could have offered to transfer him anywhere -- India, Chechniya, Burkina Faso, Detroit, Point Barrow, anywhere at all, it didn't matter -- and we would have had to take it. We just couldn't afford an epic loss on the house.) Frank thought I ought to accept the committee's nomination. At first, he argued that I had a moral responsibility to those poor, exploited women. I agreed in part, but still hesitated. Throughout our relationship, he had always been more laid back than me...and demonstrated that trait once again. "Geez, Jul'," he said, grinning. "Besides your duty, if it'd also be such a turn-on, why not just go ahead and enter Tuesday's show? Whatever happens, the movers are coming in next day, and we'll be gone that Saturday." "But...people would SEE me.... They'd KNOW.... It could be a friend or neighbor...or our yard men...or the pool boy...or one of your golfing buddies...or (oh, god!) a member of that committee." Frank made a face. "That WOULD be humiliating, but only -- well, mainly -- if you did it voluntarily. But what if you were, say, COMPELLED to do it...?" We talked on for some time. And more alcohol was consumed, by both of us. Part of what was said was more or less reasonable, and much was utter nonsense. (At one point, for example, Frank asked me if I thought I could dance to strippers' music. And I replied that, at Girl Scout camp, many years ago, I'd learned double-toe-heel Indian dances....) In the end, we finally decided to leave the decision up to chance. As it happened, there was a football game that Saturday between his alma mater (Ohio State) and mine (Miami of Ohio). If OSU won, I'd have to enter the contest.... It was a sucker bet; OSU won going away. So I was committed. But entering that contest simply because I'd lost a stupid bet and wanted to be a "good sport" seemed a pretty thin excuse in the light of day. And doing my duty for the committee wasn't much better. So I devised what I thought was a more plausible scenario...in case I ever had to explain myself. ****************************** Early Tuesday evening, my car ran out of gas just down the street from "The Meat Rack." The battery on my cell phone was dead. I sighed. It was getting dark, the neighborhood was unsavory, and I was dressed rather provocatively -- a short, red, wraparound dress, black heels, stockings, garter-belt, and thong. All the nearby factories and shops were closed. In fact, the only spot in the vicinity still open was that damn club. I entered the place nervously. I needed to use the pay phone to summon help, but I didn't have any change. Simon something, the club manager -- an odious guido who resembled Jabba the Hutt -- recognized me from my previous investigative visit. It was obvious that I needed help this time. I swallowed my pride and explained the situation, then asked him for the loan of a couple of quarters. He looked me up and down, slowly, and shook his head. A crooked smile creased his greasy features. "We don' hand out loans, but ya could EARN the money," he said. "T'day IS Toosday, ya know...." I had no choice, anyone could see that. I was in a pickle, and I'd just have to dance...naked...up on the stage...and be gawked at by a roomful of drooling perverts. It would obviously outrage my sense of decency, but it would be the only way. He led me to his office, in the back of the club. The office was relatively clean -- probably because it was relatively new -- but was also garish and tacky. The floor was covered with vulgarly patterned linoleum. The gaudy, metallic-colored walls were hung with centerfolds and photos of dancers and pornstars. The atmosphere reeked. He sat down at a utilitarian metal desk, cleared his throat, picked up a ball-point, and squared a sheet of paper on the blotter in front of him. "Application," he said. I looked around for a place to sit, but found none. "Name?" he asked. "J-julia." "FULL name." "Um...Julia Marks." "Age?" "32." "Heh! Tha's 8 or 10 years older'n the other girls t'night. Course, if ya compete, an' ya do well enough, ya'll win at leas' the 4 bits ya need. Social Security Nummer?" I was too nervous to remember it. I just numbly showed him my card. "Hair?" "Strawberry blonde." "Does the rug match the drapes?" I knew what he meant, but.... "No, huh? Tha's okay. Shavin's better anyways." (SHAVING? They were going to shave off my pubic hair?) "Eyes?" "G-green." "Measurements?" "5'6½"...um...140 lbs...." He looked up, impatiently. "Um...35C-26-36." "Okay," he said. "Now strip; 35C-26-36 sounds good enough, but I gotta SEE it." I stripped, and he looked me over, thoroughly, making noncommittal noises. He even made me bend over and spread my ass, so he could inspect my bottom-hole. He spent a long time at that, but finally nodded, let me up, and resumed his questions. "Address?" "131 Far Hills." "Married?" "Yes." "Hubby approve?" "Y-yes...." "Any STDs? "Of course not!" He dropped his pen and scowled. "Don' get high-hat wit' me, missy. Ya wan' a favor from me. So ack like it." The loathsome pig had some gall to speak to me that way. It was so demeaning...and so thrilling. The throbbing in my pussy almost prevented my speaking. "I-I'm sorry...s-sir. No, no STDs, sir." "Tha's no' enough. Ya stuck up bitch, too good for this place, eh? Yer fulla shit.... So go get ridda some of it. In the john there," he pointed with his thumb. "There's some disposable enemas. Use one an' clean yerself out.... Go!" I went. ****************************** When I returned, shaking with humiliation, but my bowels empty, he swiveled his chair 90 degrees to the right and told me to bend over in front of him so he could inspect me again. "Looks sweet, but a little dry. Ya need some lube?" he sneered. "Well, ya got two minutes t'get my cock as wet as ya want...witcher mouth. Unnerstand?" I'd never sucked anybody but my husband...and him only rarely. And, my ass.... But, yes, I understood. Completely. I knelt in front of him, unzipped his pants, and gingerly exposed his drooling prick. It stank -- musty and long unwashed -- and tasted vile. But I tried to shut down the higher portions of my brain and just deal with it on an animal level. I fought down a gag reflex when I put it in my mouth. (My MOUTH!) I obeyed his orders, slurping and crooning over it. Oddly, the longer I simulated passion, the more I could feel actual passion growing within me. But there was just so much that could happen in two minutes. I did the best I could, but, when he called time, I had to relinquish his dripping cock, bend over his desk, and spread my ass-cheeks for him. He dipped his wiener-thick fingers in my swampy cunt, scooped up some juice, and transferred the slimy moisture to my asshole. I was grateful for that. He was kinder than I'd expected, easing into me rather than just ramming it home. And he fucked me in-and-out, in-and-out, slowly, making the whole process of losing my anal virginity not unpleasant for me. I was very tight, however, and he was thicker than he'd seemed when I was sucking him. My asshole felt like it was stretched to its limit, and my bowels were stuffed with cock.... He went in bareback, of course, and I could feel it as he spurted salvos of cum into me. I tried to hide it, but I had an orgasm myself at the same moment. ****************************** My "apology" was apparently to his satisfaction,and he motioned me to get to my feet, and then shoved a piece of paper at me. "Good. But ya gotta sign the stannerd waiver agreement, too." Shaken, but grateful that the application process was over -- and that I'd passed -- I signed. Next he summoned a statuesque mulatta -- attractive, if you like the type (brawny, bitchy, and butch) -- in a short, ratty robe. "New amachur for t'night, Carmen," he said. "Git 'er shaved an' squared away...." He glanced at the clock. "Time's short." Not giving me any time to dress, Carmen led me down a narrow hallway and into a small dressing room. I guessed it was hers. She laid out shaving things, and then left me for a few minutes. I regarded myself in the dressing table mirror and wished again that I still looked like I had in college. But I concluded -- again -- that, while my tits could have been firmer and I did have an incipient pot belly, the rest was pretty much okay -- legs and ass well-toned -- and no flab or cellulite. At length, Carmen returned with a bowl of hot water. As she was shaving me bare, front and rear, she spent a lot of time fingering my pussy, teasing my clit, and working the burning shave cream deep within me. Though I found her repellent, I couldn't help being aroused by the whole process. When she had finished at last, she leered at me and said, "Next time, YOU shave ME, Sugar." She told me that each amateur had to dance for five minutes, and the winners were chosen at the end, by audience response. She also warned me to throw the things I took off toward the back of the stage; anything landing too close to the crowd would likely be gone for good. Then she told me to get dressed and watched me closely as I did so. Despite her formidable appearance I guessed that Carmen might not be quite the bitch I'd initially thought. ****************************** I was going to be the first amateur dancer that night and was waiting just off-stage while the MC babbled to the crowd. I didn't hear much of what he said, except for the final part: "Aaand...now, a shy gal who's real eager to show off for you tonight...Juicy Julia! The music I'd requested -- "Let's Get Physical! -- started up, and, in a sort of daze, I half-danced, half-staggered onto the stage. I knew I had five minutes to fill, and I had intended to take it easy, but I found it difficult to do my dance in heels, so I kicked them off. There were noises of discontent from the audience, so I figured I'd better give them something. (After all, I did want to do well enough to win that 50¢.) So I ripped off my wraparound dress and threw it, like my shoes, back toward the rear of the stage, as Carmen had advised. My bare breasts...my tits...were a big hit. My dark nipples were rigid. I pranced around some, shaking my tits, hearing the cheers and whistles, relishing my power. Then I detached my left stocking from the garter-belt, slowly rolled it down and off, and tossed it away. A moment later, I began on the other one. I had it rolled down almost to my ankle, when I looked out at the audience. The spotlight had pretty much blinded me at first, but my eyes had adapted. The house-lights were dimmed only about half-way, and I could easily make out individuals in the crowd. I saw Frank, sitting up front and looking very pleased. Near him sat (gasp!) our two Filipino yardmen, grinning. Next to Frank was (oh, god!) Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Snoup, and several other members of the committee. I recognized others, scattered about -- the ham-fisted mechanic who kept screwing up my BMW, two moronic bag-boys from the market I usually patronized, the lazy mailman, a couple of cranky, elderly neighbors who never got rid of their dandelions no matter how many times I reported them.... But it didn't matter. They were all here to be entertained...by me. The stocking dropped from my foot. In a frenzy, I tore off my garter-belt and flung it out into the wildly cheering crowd. I stripped off my thong and twirled it about. I was naked (NAKED!) and obviously sooo horny, prancing around the stage, giving them all a good look at the real me.... And then, Mr. Wallace (of course, it had to be HIM!) leaned on the edge of the stage, pulled out a dollar bill -- dirty and wrinkled -- and shook it at me. Like a marionette, I danced over...and squatted down in front of him, my thighs spread as widely as possible.... And I gave him a big smile...and licked my lips...all the while he was pushing his fingers and the dollar right up my-my pussy...m-my cunt.... He flicked my clit with his thumb, and I moaned. I don't quite know how I got through the final 3 minutes or so of that performance. I do remember giving Mr. Wallace my panties and blowing him a kiss.... But what else must I have done to earn all that applause? In the end, I stumbled, sweating and trembling, off the stage and into Carmen's arms. She pulled some soggy bills from my throbbing cunt, thrust them into the pocket of her robe, and led me away. I had one orgasm on stage...and three more back in Carmen's room. ****************************** Eventually, we went out to join the other amateur dancers for the judging. There were four of them -- all considerably younger than me. One was rather dumpy, one pretty average, and the other two quite nice -- delicious-looking, in fact -- especially a co-ed who was a Eurasian of some sort. I thought that, with luck, I might win third place (and, at any rate, I surely must have earned that 50¢). But...the exquisite Eurasian took second place -- and I won the Grand Prize! ****************************** Afterward, Simon the manager told me to come back to his office to "settle up." On the way, Carmen congratulated me and asked me how I liked my first night as a stripper. "First and last," I laughed. "I'm retiring." "Not yet, Sweetie. The standard agreement you signed says that the winner each week has to dance here at the club -- as a pro -- until a new winner's picked." "But I CAN'T! In two or three days, I won't have any place to stay." (The movers were coming Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to pack up our stuff for storage, and then we had to vacate.) "Well, that's no problem," Carmen said. I got a room upstairs, and you can stay with me." She grinned and licked her lips. "But you gotta dance, or else get sued. You're not the first girl to ignore the fine print. And you'd lose in court.... But now you better run along and see Simon. And remember, it's like that kids' game -- you do what Simon says. Go on, just like you are, butt-naked." She slapped my ass. "I'll take care of your clothes." ****************************** The door to the office was ajar, and I pushed it open. "Sir?" I said, diffidently. "Yeah," he said. "Ya did okay t'night." "I...understand that I'm obligated to dance here for a week." "Norm'ly, yeah. What the contract sez is: 'until the nex' amachur winner is chosen.' An' I got served wit' this here thing t'night." He flourished a folded paper. "Unjunction. Stops the Toosday night contests. They ain't gonna be no nex' amachur winner. So...we gonna have ya for a lot longer'n a week." "But...but...." "I hear the person mos' respons'ble for gettin' this unjunction was a bitch named Julia Marks. How 'bout that?" "I...I...." "Oh, ya don' have to worry...much. If yer a good girl an' work hard -- strippin' an' lap dancin' an' hustlin' drinks -- we won' keep ya more'n 5-6 weeks...." He grinned wolfishly. "Well, maybe not MUCH more. Maybe. Right now, though, I got me a itch for more ass." He was a lot less considerate this time, and it wasn't long before I was promising to dance naked, hot and horny, every night for as long as he wanted...and to take it up the ass whenever he wanted...if only he'd show me some mercy. And, all the while, I was cumming and cumming, partly because of what was happening to me at that moment and partly because of what I imagined would be happening in the days (and nights) to come.