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From: Topspace4@aol.com
Subject: NEW STORY: 'Tabitha' (MountainTop) (MF M^F span slow) [1!2]

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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