It’s amazing what a little anonymity can stir up. I like to think everyone has one of those moments we excuse as college experimenting. Most of them don’t actually happen during college, but we all have one. Don’t we?
Mine was on vacation in Las Vegas. Could there ever be a more fitting place to say farewell to an inhibition? Or three?
Brad and I had only been married two years and recently graduated from the newlywed syndrome. We still had sex. A lot. But it wasn’t like it used to be. You know how it is. Always touching, looking for any excuse to go at it like rabbits. Five times a day and it wasn’t enough. These days, five times a week was the norm.
The IRS kindly afforded us a big return so we decided to splurge. We were doing okay at a time when the rest of the world was in dire economic straits, so we said ‘what the hell’. Throwing caution to the wind, I made a call to our travel agent, packed up an overnight bag and we hopped a plane to the neon city of lights.
Wanting to use most of our money for gambling we skipped on a suite and opted for a tiny room at an off boulevard hotel. It didn’t matter. All we needed it for was sleeping, fucking and a place to shower.
The first night we wasted half our cash gambling, saw a show, ate like pigs and drank way too much. It was a blast. But the second night was our indoctrination to the catch phrase of ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’.
Brad was too embarrassed to ask me if we could go see some of the adult entertainment available, but I like to think I’m a fairly empathetic wife. I could sense it. His eyes would stray towards the never ending stream of posters advertising burlesque shows or erotic dancers. Truth be told, I was curious myself.
I wouldn’t have said I was bisexual, but beautiful women were certainly a pleasure to see. A naked one was even more exciting I suppose, but it was more how it affected Brad. He wouldn’t ever let on, thinking it a bad thing for a husband to like or enjoy, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think any man wouldn’t be happy to see a naked hot chick. We all wish it weren’t true. A nice fantasy, but guys are wired that way.
I took it upon myself to make sure we hit one of the many erotic dance clubs on the strip, since he wouldn’t. Without asking, I grabbed his hand and lead him inside a cheesy looking club. The leopard skin print and pink fur that lined damn near every single thing in the club was tacky, but not out of place.
He blushed but followed as I grinned at him. We had both put away several drinks and I was feeling pretty relaxed. I could do this. I found us a booth that was close enough to the main stage to give us both a little buffer and a great view of the dancers.
If Brad had been in a strip club before, he didn’t let on. Everything seemed as new to him as it was to me. We ordered drinks and bashfully watched three dancers in succession before we felt comfortable enough to participate in the atmosphere.
Blaming everything on the drinks would be blatantly false, but you have to understand how I am when I drink. Alcohol is like throwing gas on the fire. I confess that I become a complete nymphomaniac. Okay, slut if you will. I admit it.
We began discussing each dancer, comparing which ones we thought were hot. Honestly, they all were, but I had my favorite. Brad was resistant to fess up which one got him going. After sucking on his earlobe for a minute, he caved in and confessed to liking the tall mocha-skinned girl.
Her nationality was a mystery, probably a mix of Pacific Islander and African, but she was gorgeous. Admittedly, I was a little jealous at first. Being in my late twenties, I wasn’t exactly chopped liver, but I wasn’t tight like the dancer. Few women were. Still, I could definitely understand why she was his favorite.
I waved to her when she left the stage and she came straight over. Brad groaned and I laughed. He knew what a mischievous little wench I can be.
“Can you do a table dance for my hubby?” I asked, a little surprised at my bravery. She smiled and nodded and we both looked to Brad who was blushing brightly.
“You come too,” the dancer said with a cute high pitched voice that didn’t really fit her tall lean body. She meant me, so I blushed as well and she took my hand, and led us to a special area they had in back. The booths there had a curtain and she ushered us into one.
Now, when you waltz off into privacy with a gorgeous exotic dancer, the first thing that does, but should not, pop into your head is sex. They endure thousands of horny guys and even some girls too, wanting them, dreaming of them, and fantasizing about them. This is normal, but it was ridiculous to think they might feel the same of you. They aren’t sluts, contrary to popular belief. However, irrational as it might be, those thoughts suddenly flood into the back of your mind. They did, and I blushed as she watched us with an alluring grin.
In our defense, Brad’s a handsome guy. I see the ladies peeking at him when they think I’m not watching. He’s tall, athletic and has a great smile. I’m not too shabby myself, if I may say so. When I get dolled up, I turn heads. But you have to understand, if you’ve never seen a stripper, a Vegas stripper, they are drop-dead gorgeous. They look like they just up and walked out of a lingerie catalogue.
So as we entered the booth, I couldn’t help but fall prey to that common mistake and wonder if she got turned on dancing for people. I can’t imagine she did, doing it day and day out, for anyone who asked. But we all like to think we’re the exception, right?
The leopard print beanbag chair inside was huge and we slumped down into its plushness. I thought we might sink in and disappear but it held us both side by side. I giggled at Brad who was trying so hard to pretend he was completely put out by this. Closing the curtain behind her, she wasted no time and began.
I was completely unprepared. What I imagined they would dance like was completely different than real life. Especially in private and so not like it was on stage. The gentle sway of her hips, the gyration of her pelvis and the smooth gliding touch of her hands against her own breasts had me growing moist between the legs before the first minute elapsed. I was spellbound, staring in awe. How she could just touch herself like that, for us, while we watched? Well, it was amazing.
She dropped to her knees, straddling Brad’s legs and grinding her thong against his thigh as she pulled off her bikini top and tossed it to me. My hand didn’t respond, even as I told it to catch it and my mouth was permanently agape I think. She had perfect, conical, and pert breasts that I would kill for. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the skimpy little slip of cloth covering her pussy as she dry fucked my husband’s leg. I wasn’t quite expecting that much contact from a lap dance, table dance, or whatever they call them.
Her lithe body rolled in a fluid motion timed to the heavy pulsing music as her dark brown eyes gleamed with a sultry hint of mischief. Brad was blushing furiously as the first song ended, gathering his hands from where he had them pinned under his butt, as if to leave, but she didn’t stop. I was frozen, staring with amazement and I confess, a bit of lust. She was so beautiful and it was strangely arousing to watch her seduce Brad.
Another song began and she stood over him, shifting her hips left, then right, and then left again to the beat of the music as she wiggled out of her carnation pink thong. She left it like shackles about her ankles as she smoothed her caramel hands across her glittery skin, caressing herself in ways that made me blush for the moist warmth I felt between my legs.
Turning, I watched my husband, his eyes glossy with that hunger that I knew quite well. He was enjoying the dance immensely. Call me weird, but I was getting hot seeing him all aroused and didn’t care that she was the one making him hard. I knew I would be the one to reap the rewards, so why should I care?
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