Couch Dance

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2003, 2009

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In
jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United
States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to
Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are
explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached.

Abstract: When a man goes to a "dance partner" club, the action isn't confined
to the dance floor

I walked into the topless bar and almost immediately turned around and walked
out. Too crowded, too noisy, too smoky... it wasn't going to be worth it just
for $10 table dances. On the way back to my hotel a small building caught my
eye with the sign "Gentlemen's Dance Partners". I figured I could spare five
minutes to check out the place. When I went in there was a latina hostess in an
enclosed foyer and a sign -- $10 entry, $20 per hour to the house for the
ladies' time and a tip of at least that much for the lady. The music from
behind the closed door sounded okay, so I handed her a ten and she opened the
door.

Inside on one side was a pool table and some card tables, and a bar with
football on the TV. A glitter ball spun slowly over a small parquet dance floor
and several couches lined the walls. An open doorway led into a back room.
There were two couples slow-grinding under the glitter ball, a couple of guys
with a curvy brunette playing pool, and three women on one of the couches
chatting.

I went over to the couch and my eyes lit on a redhead in a well-filled tube top
and short skirt. I introduced myself as a first-timer there, and she agreed to
help me feel like one of the family. I held out my hand and she pulled herself
up out of the couch, tube top jiggling pleasantly, her head coming just up to
my height.

We went to the foyer window and she stamped a time card, then took my hand and
led me through the open doorway to the back area where there were small leather
couches -- almost loveseats -- with coffee tables and a bit of dance floor near
each. The light was dimmer here, and we settled into one of the couches. We did
the usual who-are-you and what-do-you-do chatter until the music changed to a
danceable Billy Joel number.

On the dance floor she got a lot more friendly, melting into my arms and
resting her head against my shoulder. When I casually slid my hand down her
back past the waistline, she pressed herself against me and traced circles on
my lower spine with her fingernails. By the time the music changed, my hand was
familiar with the contours of her bottom, my head was filled with the scent of
her hair and my body was buzzing with warm fuzzy feelings.

We settled into the couch and she leaned into me, my arm wrapping naturally
around her and settling alongside what felt like a nicely full and resilient
breast. Her lips tickled the side of my neck and one of her hands found its way
along the inside of my leg. I was enjoying the hell out of this but wondering
just how far we could go in what was basically a public space. The way the
couches were arranged, I couldn't actually see the people in them, just the
tops of their heads. Head, singular in one case, and I wondered where that
guy's dance partner was until the head leaned back and I saw it to be a woman's
face, eyes tightly closed and mouth open in what had to be an expression of
passion fulfilled.

About that time my companion's hand made its way up to my zipper, and I leaned
back in the loveseat as she moved her palm back and forth over my bulge. She
moved her lips to my ear, and with an agonizing slowness licked her way around
it and into the center. In a husky voice she mentioned that I seemed a little
tense, and she might be persuaded to help out with that.

"Persuaded?" My mind wasn't working terribly quickly through the erotic
feelings she was raising in me. I squeezed her breast and let my hand make its
way slowly down her side to cup her bottom, my fingers exploring those curves
just as her fingernails outlined the swollen contours of my shaft. "Not that
kind of persuasion, sweetie," she said, "I'm a working girl, after all." A
light finally dawned in my head, but not so urgently that I didn't take my
sweet time sliding my hand over her entire bottom on its way to my hip pocket
where my wallet was ensconced. Two minutes later, a pair of Andrew Jacksons had
changed allegiance and my hand was nicely tucked under her skirt, discovering
that she had dispensed with underwear.

She deftly unfastened my belt and slid my zipper down, then slipped her cool
fingers into my briefs. It was almost a shock to feel the contrast between them
and the heat of my cock. Without observable effort she threaded my cock out
into open air, and wrapped her hand around it. Her thumb was rolling repeatedly
over the top, and my brain was being split into a rainbow between that and the
way my fingers felt embedded in her own moist channel. I leaned back in the
couch, rocking my head from side to side as my lips moved soundlessly.

She produced a handkerchief from somewhere, and the next thing I was conscious
of was spurting into her cloth-covered hand, her other hand stroking my balls
as she urged me to "Be a good boy, give it all to Mamma". I managed to hold my
vocal response down to a soft moan, and her hands moved until I had nothing
left to give.

I was impressed, to say the least. But I thought my head would explode when the
handkerchief disappeared and she ducked her head down to my lap to give my cock
a thorough tongue-washing. The next thing I knew my pants were zipped up and my
dance partner was helping me stand up on shaky legs. We walked back to the
foyer window, and she repunched her time card. Then she turned to me and gave
me a sizzling kiss while her hand played lightly between my legs. When the kiss
ended, she smiled at me and said "I hope you come back soon -- you're a
wonderful 'dancer'!" With that she turned and sashayed toward the TV area.

The same latina was on duty when I got to the exit window, and she checked the
time and quoted me a number. I paid it, only slightly disturbed by how much
this brief afternoon dalliance had cost me. I was remembering that other area
in back, the one where only the woman's head was visible. In my mind I was
already planning for my next visit.

/END/