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Subject: Celeste's #7 for May:  Tabitha [1/2]
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From: Topspace4@aol.com

DISCLAIMERS:
This story is written for an adult audience and contains graphic language and
explicit sexual material.  If you are underage, if it is illegal for you to
possess such material in the jurisdiction in which you are reading this, or
if adult sexuality of this type offends you, STOP READING NOW!

This story is a work of fiction.  It is not a true story, it is pure fantasy.

Other than as specifically explained in the author's notes below, any
resemblance to any person, real or fictitious, living or dead, is purely
coincidental and unintended.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE:
Copyright [C-in-a-Circle Copyright Symbol] 1997, by MountainTop Productions.

The material contained herein is intended for the personal use of the
reader.  Permission is hereby granted for duplication, without additions,
changes, or omissions, for personal, non-profit use, provided that the entire
contents of the disclaimers, copyright notice, and author's notes are
included in the duplicated complete work or, if the work is segmented as part
of the duplication, in each duplicated segment.  All other rights are
reserved, and making copies of this material or any portion thereof in any
form for any purpose other than that for which permission has been granted is
a violation of United States copyright laws.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:
The background and setting in the first part of this story are real.  The
club in San Diego exists, and a dancer there uses the stage name "Tabitha".

I have used that name with her permission and at her request; with some
compression for literary reasons, the verbal exchanges and other interactions
in the first part of this story actually happened.

The second part of the story, however, is my own personal fantasy.  After
considerable conversation with her, I am profoundly convinced that the woman
known as Tabitha is neither a prostitute nor an easy lay; she is an honest,
hard-working single parent who is willing, and fortunately for her able, to
support herself and her child as an entertainer who takes off her clothes and
dances.  We did not discuss this point, but I suspect that she spends a lot
of time fending off unwanted advances from men, many of them too young to
legally consume alcohol, who confuse fantasy with reality.  I have the utmost
respect for her, and I am honored to have made her acquaintance.

In editing this work I removed over 900 expository words from the first part
that mostly describe the interior of the club and various aspects of its
operation but are not essential to the overall story.  I will be happy to
e-mail an RTF copy of the longer version of this work, which also retains the
italics used for inner thoughts and emphasis, to anyone who requests it; the
text of the second part of both versions is identical.

Aside from reflecting my philosophy with regard to erotic power exchange, and
my perceptions of, reactions to, and interactions with Tabitha in the first
part of this story, all other aspects of the characters, and their activities
as depicted in this work, are completely fictitious.

Comments and feedback to Topspace4@aol.com are welcome.

***** ***** ***** *****
Tabitha

By MountainTop

***** *****

San Diego is a Navy town, and, like most military towns, it has its share of
strip clubs.  I was there on a business trip, and I needed some R&R, so I
browsed through the phone book and picked a club by the simple expedient of
being able to find its street on my Hertz map of the city.

The local law in San Diego is that nudity means no alcohol in the club and
the dancers, when exposing even as much skin as one would see at the beach,
must be at least six feet from their customers.  When doing a non-nude couch
dance, a girl can brush her hands or body against or otherwise touch a
customer, but the converse is absolutely verboten; these clubs are paranoid
about losing their licenses, and touching the girls is a surefire way for a
customer to get himself bounced.

The Beach Boys got it right; California girls are special.  While this club
has a sprinkling of thunder-thighs and pneumatic centerfold candidates, the
majority of the dancers here are slender, firmly-toned hardbodies.  Some of
them dance to slow songs, while others choose more up-tempo cuts, but the end
result is the same, an impressive display of luscious young female flesh for
an overwhelmingly male audience.

I'm happily married, and I visit such clubs when I travel to pass some
otherwise lonely time.  I watch the girls dance, I buy a few drinks for some
of them, and I try to strike up intelligent conversations; the chances are
that at least one is kinked the way I am.  Occasionally I get lucky; some
dancers advertise their orientations, and I thought things might be looking
up when a girl mounted the stage wearing a spiked collar.  After she had
danced her way down to the bare essentials, she was wearing the collar, high
heels, and a set of chain-connected, tweezer-type nipple clamps.  I tipped
her as she left the stage and invited her to join me for a drink.  Initial
appearances can be misleading, though, and I've found it's a good idea to
proceed with caution.

"You were wearing some interesting adornments.  Are they for real, or just
for show?"

"Oh, they're for real," she said.  "Do you play?"

Nothing subtle here, I thought, but I never hesitate to make my situation
known.  "My wife and I both play," I told her.  "How long have you been in
the scene?"

"A couple of years," she replied.  "I started when I was sixteen."

Then I fell into the first-impression trap.  "Do you have a regular top?"

"I used to bottom," she said with a smile, "but I just top now.  I'm
thinking of becoming a pro Domme.  Which way do you play?"

This eighteen-year-old with visions of sugar-plum dollar-signs still has a
few things to learn, I thought to myself.  Like the fact that collars are a
symbol of submission, and Dominants who understand what they're into don't
wear them.  "I top," I said dryly.  We had now ruled out any possibility of
mutual play-interest.

Each DJ at the club is a combination of a music-and-lights controller and a
carnival barker.  I had pretty much tuned out the current one's pitch until
something changed in his tone.  "And now," he announced with a heightened
vocal fervor, "the 1995 showgirl of the year . . ."  I perked up a bit.  In a
place like this, I thought, the showgirl of the year, even from a couple of
years ago, should be worth a look.  ". . . and the 1996 and 1997 Po'Lympics
champion . . ."  What the fuck is a Po'Lympics?  But I had no time to puzzle
that out.  ". . . this is . . ."  A long dramatic pause, then, in a voice
lowered half an octave in pitch and reduced to a hoarse whisper, ". . .
Tabitha!"

I watched a slim woman stride confidently up onto the stage on open-toe
spike-heeled mules, the difference between heel and platform heights at least
five inches, and I knew instantly that Tabitha was as different from the
other dancers as night from day.  Blonde hair a shoulder-length shag rather
than a mane, disdaining a lingerie-style outfit in favor of a short, shimmery
dress, older, more mature, and totally comfortable in her milieu, Tabitha
moved with a poised, vibrant energy.  She quickly demonstrated, with feline
grace and lithe athleticism, what the term Po'Lympics meant; some girls had
used the stage-to-rafters brass poles as occasional dance props, but for
Tabitha they were erotic weapons, and her charismatic blend of bold sauciness
and sinuous sensuality was bewitching.  The ambient tension had suddenly
become electric; conversations died, and I sensed the atmospheric change as
her animal magnetism grabbed and held the focus of every person in the room,
dancers and customers alike.

Five breathtaking minutes later, Tabitha slipped back into her dress and
left the stage.  I pushed my heart back down from my throat by sheer
will-power, sipped at my coke, and tried to redirect my thoughts by asking
the Domme wannabe still seated beside me, "Do any of the girls working here
bottom?"

"A few."  She mentioned a couple of names, and then she blew me completely
away when she said, ". . . and Tabitha, from time to time."

I couldn't believe my ears.  "Tabitha?  Tabitha bottoms?"

"That's right," she confirmed, and I discovered that the minimum time needed
for the mind to transform a mild vanilla attraction into a raging D/s-bdsm
fantasy can be too short to measure with anything less precise than an atomic
clock.  I declined to buy the collared lady another drink, so she left to
prowl the rest of the room.  When Tabitha came out of the dressing room, I
offered to buy her a drink and she sat down beside me.  She drank coffee as
we talked, and I learned some things about her.  Eventually, I turned our
conversation in the direction of my fantasies.

"I understand you sometimes bottom," I said as casually as I could manage.

Tabitha nodded.  "I love a good flogging.  The endorphins cut in and I just
drift away; I have no idea where I am or what's happening around me."

We talked about different kinds of play, she shared a couple of her previous
experiences, and we discussed creative ways to avoid, for obvious reasons,
marking her during a scene.  I had no idea where the conversation might end
up, but I do have one unusual method of putting prospective play-partners at
ease.  "I write scene stories," I told her.   "Would you be interested in
reading some of them?"

"Sure," she replied.  "I like to read, but I haven't found much along those
lines."

"Wait here," I said, "I'll be right back."  I went out to my rental car,
grabbed a manila envelope, and was back inside in less than a minute.  As I
handed her the envelope, I explained, "Both of these stories are
reality-based."

Tabitha surprised me by opening the envelope, pulling out the pages, and
starting to read.  She quickly became absorbed, and I could tell from her
non-verbal reactions that she was relating to the female narrator of my
first-meeting story.  After a few minutes, she stopped reading and put the
stories back in the envelope.  I looked at her questioningly, and she said,
"I'll finish reading it later, at home.  I'm getting to the good part now."

I had to chuckle at that; she had gotten past the build-up to the actual
first-meeting scene, and it was apparently starting to turn her on.

A few more customers had drifted in, and I wanted to spend more time with
her.  One feature of this club is that a customer can "rent" a dancer for a
half-hour of relatively private interaction.  All within the rules, of
course, but there's a back room with a small stage, leather couches, and
lower volume from the sound system.  When I told Tabitha I wanted a rental,
her response gave me a warm feeling.

"I don't like to do that when the club is busy," she told me.  "I can
usually make more in the time of 10 to 12 songs out here, but for you I'll do
it."  She took my hand and led me to the room, pointed out her favorite
couch, and sat on the edge of the stage across from me while we sipped our
drinks.  We continued our conversation, and after about twenty minutes she
asked if I wanted her to dance for me.

I'd not yet seen Tabitha do a couch dance, and I was eagerly anticipating
the experience, but I had been sitting a long way from the stage and my
eyesight is not the greatest.  "I'd like you to dance nude for one song," I
told her, "so I can see all of your beauty up close.  Then you have to get
dressed again, because I want to be even closer to you."  How corny can you
get? I told myself.  Still, her smile looks awfully genuine; under the
circumstances, perhaps she can accept sincere, non-drooling flattery as a
compliment.

Beauty is in the eyes and the mind of the beholder, and I won't even attempt
to describe how beautiful Tabitha looked to me as she stepped onto that small
stage and started to move in a slow, sensual way.  The dancer out on the main
stage who had selected the next song unwittingly cooperated; the music was a
soft, gentle ballad that was just what my fantasy needed.  She teasingly
lifted her skirt for just a moment, flashing the thong she wore underneath,
then made love to the brass pole in a way that made me achingly aware of my
fantasy desire.

When she whisked the dress up and off over her head, I saw for the first
time that Tabitha had more than just a tongue piercing; there was a delicate
silver dumbbell at the base of her semi-erect left nipple.  She turned her
back, bending over to waggle her firm behind at me, and slowly slid the thong
down over her sleek thighs and shapely calves.  When she gracefully collapsed
onto the stage and opened her legs in a startlingly shy-like manner, I caught
sight of a second delightful surprise, a tiny gold ring at the midpoint of
her left inner labium.  I leaned forward, straining to memorize every line,
every curve, every square inch of her body.

After that song ended, she dressed quickly.  I confess that I remember few
details of her physical movements during one of the most enjoyable
experiences I've ever had.  My most vivid recollections are of her face, so
close that I could count the tiny pores in her skin; her bright blue eyes,
gleaming with the inner knowledge of the gift she was bestowing by her
presence; her hair, brushing lightly along my arm as she changed positions
across my lap; her lips, moist and oh-so-kissable with their bright pink
gloss; and the heady ambrosia that is the scent of a woman who is keenly
aware of her own sexuality.

*****
Continued in Part 2 . . .

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