The Lap Dance Ch. 02

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Stephanie owns up to her feelings and returns to the club.
3.7k words
4.41
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Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 09/22/2011
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rlabodame
rlabodame
30 Followers

Pt. II

Sleep did not come quickly as those early morning hours passed. As Stephanie recounted the previous night and her spectacular encounter, she pondered the meaning of it all. What did finding another woman attractive signal?

She dared not utter the L word, even under her breath. That damn strip club. Why ever visit an establishment like that in the first place? Her thoughts drifted from beautiful Laetitia to the confounding nature of it all. Stephanie could not abscond that dancer's intoxicating smile, those luscious looking breasts or the apple-tini flavor she detected by smooching one of them.

The weight of the perplexing internal discussion almost smashed another startling reality. As she re-imagined the booty shaking performance, her fingers inched closer to her moist cotton panties. Since breaking up with her last boyfriend, Todd, she had decided to make dressing for bed as simple as possible. A plain white T-Shirt capped her current ensemble. Yet, she felt sexier than usual.

Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was her still fluttering heart. Maybe she was too reflective to make sound decisions. Stephanie slipped her right index finger beneath her panties and navigated the short hairline to her clit. She moaned when she began fingering herself. Self-pleasure had become a viable option since the last relationship explosion, but for whatever reason, she had stowed it until now.

That unforgettable exchange tauntingly danced in her head.

What's your name beautiful? Thank you Stephanie.

Thank you Stephanie? She nearly came while replaying that titillating phrase. Reservation and caution, however, blocked the pending orgasm. She almost exhausted herself trying to prevent the self-imposed climax. This action, of course, prompted a new set of questions.

Why was she trying so hard to avert something her body seemed to want so bad? How could a person feel so sexy yet so restrained? Her fingers darted from the vicinity of her clit and came to rest upon her arched stomach.

She grudgingly forced her eyes to shut and let out one last sigh. After hours of contemplation and restlessness, sleep finally enveloped Stephanie.

Her unplugged alarm clock did not sound, but several birds, engaged in the irritating chirp-as-loudly-as-possible mode, delivered perhaps a ruder awakening. She could see light permeating the closed curtains. She let out a massive yawn, and then slipped out of bed to ascertain the time.

Stephanie stumbled down the hallway to the kitchen. She read the microwave clock first. 11:25. Yikes, she thought. Is that right? The overhead clock confirmed as much.

At first, the daily breakfast routine trumped all else. She opened the refrigerator door to grab her morning dose of orange juice. She threw a piece of wheat bread in the toaster oven, not caring if it was stale. When the timer dinged, she raided the fridge again for butter and apricot jam.

No, it wasn't much of a breakfast, but it sufficed most days. Toast was easy, a simple compliment to a confusing, sometimes hectic life. It would not make her query more facile than confounding.

She could not rub her eyes enough. The haze the previous night created refused to leave. She checked her calendar to make sure she was not neglecting an important weekend activity. A few colleagues at the office indeed planned a volleyball excursion that morning. Forget volleyball, she thought. Who cares about fucking volleyball?

It took almost a half hour for the strip club experience to re-enter her consciousness. Overcoming grogginess and a mild but annoying headache proved a temporary elixir for what really ailed her.

At some point, the flood of questions would return, as would the strange mix of guilt, curiosity, arousal and uncertainty. Of paramount importance: returning to the club to fetch her driver's license. She did not go anywhere far without it. An outstanding parking ticket made doing so a dangerous proposition.

What irked Stephanie more than anything was the knowledge that she left it there on purpose. She wanted to return, but why?

Ah yes, Laetitia. The image of that killer body and her breathtaking voice would not go away.

Stephanie had kissed girls before and even once used tongue. She admitted to having a harmless crush on Katy Perry. That stuff happened in college, though, when boys and bets often overrode common sense.

This attraction was much different. Even the most heterosexual male can admit that a mega movie star of the same gender is attractive. She didn't think Laetitia was attractive. That woman was beautiful beyond description.

A playful, drunken kiss at a frat party was one thing. A sensual smooch relished while still sober was another. The only recourse, she decided, was to hop in the car and face the pole-dancing music. She visited the establishment's tacky but effective Web site to scope the hours. It opened in the next hour. Waiting until mid afternoon, though, seemed like a capital idea.

It frightened Stephanie how familiar she was with the route after traversing it just once. Seven turns and 20 minutes later, she arrived at the scene of whatever it was that happened. A crime? A lustful encounter? A figment of her damned imagination?

Just as she pulled the keys from the ignition and prepared to exit her vehicle, she froze. A new wave of thoughts consumed her. What if Laetitia did not live up to the billing? What if she spent that entire night tossing and turning over a fellow female who was not, after all, that spectacular? What if Laetitia did, in fact, look just the way she remembered? Worse, what if she wasn't there?

Stephanie entered through those imposing double doors and again locked eyes with the calculated bitch standing behind the counter. This time, the woman seemed to have one eye on the register and the other on Stephanie.

"Can I help you?" Even the senile greeter at the nearest Wal-Mart sounded more sincere.

"Sure. I left my driver—"

The woman interrupted. "I remember now. Give me a moment."

The woman returned a minute later with Stephanie's ID. She almost wanted to know this employee's name just to stop calling her "the woman."

"Here you go."

"Uh, thanks."

Stephanie stood there blankly for a moment.

"Anything else?"

She muzzled herself so as not to blurt out the prevailing thought.Sure, m'am, I want to see if this one dancer is working today so I can decide whether I really want to fuck her brains out or was just really drunk when we touched each other in front of howling men last night.

"What's the cover?" Her watch said 4 p.m.

"It's $10 until 7 p.m."

Nice. A price break for titillation during daylight hours.

Since she did not have better plans that evening, she reached for her wallet, grabbed the cash and handed it to the woman. No guts, no glory, she thought. Every other cliché seemed to pop into her crowded head at that moment.

She trudged to the fancy door, propped it open and sighed before walking into a cash-grabbing abyss. She felt a quiet sense of relief when it became apparent all stages were empty.Please, no more Lola.

Crude but catchy hip-hop hits blared on the sound system. This early, even on a weekend, the club was a ghost town. Two men sat in a back corner and clinked glasses of whiskey. Another positioned himself in front of the stage, to ready himself for the next show.

She spotted no more than nine patrons and wondered how long the establishment would remain this dead. The bartender called over in a tone that bordered on agitated.

"You want something?"

She walked in that direction and plopped $7 on the counter.

"Sure, vodka tonic."

Just as he began to pour the drink, lights began to flash. A voice boomed over the loud speaker. "Please welcome to the stage, Skylar!"

Crap. Luis again. What a loser.

It took her a few moments to realize she was also insulting herself, since he had volunteered to fork up $10 to come back for a second look at a stripper she knew nothing about, aside from an approximate breast size, memorable facial features and a name that sounded hokier than the hokey pokey.

Skylar was new to Stephanie but all so familiar. She had a belly button ring, a nose ring and later revealed rings on both nipples. Did she poke a hole in her clit, too, and put a ring there?

Nothing about Skylar's routine felt erotic to Stephanie. The poor girl looked like trailer trash with make up on and amateur dancing skills.

Christ. I could out-dance her. Should I go up there and take a few turns on the pole? Wait, no. What was I thinking coming here anyway?

She sat at the same table for an hour. Customers, mostly salivating men, began to trickle in with frequency. Skylar bumping and grinding to Garth Brooks and some hard rock song gave way to another overdose of Randi and Lakeisha.

This at least gave Stephanie hope that Laetitia might be working again. She had not seen any sign of that breathtaking figure yet. She knew she could not miss such a sight. In one stretch filled with sighs and blank stares, she ordered shots of gray goose and then vodka, trying to replicate the taste from that exquisite, if ever brief, kiss.

She pursed her lips around the rim of both shot glasses and used her tongue to soak up the alcohol. The sensation was not the same. Not close.

None of the employees answered the burning question, either. "Is Laetitia working tonight? Do you know?"

"I don't. Sorry."

Many times, the respondent, especially if it was another dancer, was not polite enough to add the "sorry" part.

Stephanie wasted five hours at The Palace and burned through $30 in adult beverages. She even partook in an overpriced plate of nachos.

Yuck. Gross. Thank goodness for gum. At least I didn't get anything on my clothes. Still no sign of Laetitia. Damnit.

She gave up on her ridiculous conquest after 9 p.m. and headed for the exit, surrendering in defeat. She shot past the woman at the entrance and didn't give anyone a passing glance. She fought back tears, rage and the weight of confusion.

Why ever throw away a Saturday on this? What was the point?

She raced toward her car but fumbled the keys just before opening the driver's side door. They fell to the pavement below. Before she could bend over to pick them up, she heard a jingle followed by an entrancing voice.

"Drop these?"

She almost hyperventilated then.

Oh my God. It's Laetitia. What do I do?

Stephanie stood there for a few seconds to formulate a response. She managed a sheepish one.

"Y-yyy-yes, I did," she stammered. "Thank you."

She couldn't even look at anything other than the ground. She hoped the way her words faded out with that "thank you" would mask her sudden state of shock and arousal.

What would this person do if she knew I almost masturbated to images of her early this morning? What do I do?

In a battle of fight or flight, she scrammed. At least she tried to haul off back to the house.

Before she could shut the door, she heard a distinctive, commanding word.


"Wait, Stephanie."

Oh my double God. She fucking remembers my name, too.

Stephanie knew her response was stupid the moment it left her lips.

"What? Can I help you?"

Laetitia was almost incredulous.

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Sorry. Um, uh, yeah. I have to get home now. Thanks for picking up my—"

She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence or shut her car door.

"I can't believe you remember my name. Lucky guess, or do you work for the F.B.I or something?"

This made Laetitia giggle. Laughter proved to be a capital elixir for that awkward tension beginning to crescendo.

"No, silly, I don't work for F.B.I or anything like that. I saw you dropped your keys and walked over to help you."

Stephanie knew the last part was a lie. This latest act of hypocrisy further aroused her.

Does this mean she likes me, too? Should I just toss her in the back seat, so we can fuck each other right now? Wow, I am just full of bad ideas this weekend.

"Look," Laetitia said, "we should talk. Can we go somewhere less public. Can I buy you a coffee or late meal or a snack or something else?"

That seemed like the best suggestion of the last 24 hours.

"Coffee sounds great. I know a place just down the road."

"Great, I'll follow you."

It didn't even occur to Stephanie to offer the beautiful woman a ride.

Yes, she was still every bit as breathtaking as the night before. Her long, silky locks accented her astonishing face. She was stunning, even in jeans and a solid blue tank top. She was a perfect female specimen.

Stephanie had underdressed on purpose, picking a blasé ensemble that did not do her own body justice, to avoid any hollering from men. Now she was wishing she had picked something more inspired than black pants and a green sweater.

Who the hell wears a sweater to a sweltering strip club? Good going, Stephanie.

She finally hopped in her stylish blue Honda Civic and took careful notes on Laetitia's adjacent ride, a chic European ride of some sort.

She even parked next to me. Weird. But awesome.

Stephanie led Laetitia to a local haunt four miles away with a seldom-used back room that served a mean caramel latte and a delicious fruit smoothie.

The space and relative quiet would come in handy for a telling conversation.

Stephanie, though, insisted on paying for everything. Instead of coffee, they both ordered banana-blueberry smoothies and filled up plastic cups with chilled water.

Laetitia giggled again as each woman fetched her drink. "You took me to a coffee house, and neither of us ordered coffee. How sweet."

How sweet? Please, lord, don't let me faint.

They eased onto the couch in the back room and set their drinks on the table. They sat a few feet apart.

Stephanie broke the minute-long silence.

"So... is your name really Laetitia?"

It was the first time she had said it out loud. That alone almost prompted an orgasm.

"Yep. Laetitia Barteau. I can show you my driver's license."

She fidgeted, reached into her left jean pocket and produced a black wallet."

"See?" she said with a smile.

"Wow, I just... I just..."

"I know, Stephanie. You think all strippers use fake stage names. Most of them do. I don't."

"Why would you use your real name in a dingy place like that?"

"I'm too honest to know better. I never thought I would be taking off my clothes in front of men at this stage in my life."

"Laetitia is such a gorgeous name. Is it European?"

"French. My grandparents emigrated from Paris. My parents grew up there before they were moved to the states."

"Where are you from, Stephanie?"

"Brazil. Sao Paolo. My last name is Bettencourt."

"Stephanie Bettencourt? What a pretty name."

"Thanks."

Neither spoke with detectable foreign accents, except when each pronounced words or names in her native tongue.

"Wow, so you speak Portuguese, I presume?"

"Yeah. And you, French?"

"You bet."

The two swapped basic information for almost 15 minutes before cutting to the chase. This was, after all, a mutual pursuit. The ice melted in the smoothies and the water in the two cups went from cold to room temperature. It didn't dawn on either to take a sip.

Just as Stephanie began to talk about her parents, Laetitia interrupted.

"Girl, I want to hear all about your family, but let's not stall anymore, OK?"

"W-what?" Stephanie managed.

"It's cute that you stammer."

It became apparent just then how silent the room was, how everything, including time, seemed to stand still.

"I know you left your license back at the club on purpose, so you could find me again. I know you returned today hoping to see me."

A tear eased itself down Stephanie's right cheek. "How did you know? I'm, I'm sorry. Please don't hate me."

"Hate you? Stephanie, I'm the one who waited around for you and parked next to you and stalked you to the point of maybe scaring you."

"Good point." They both laughed.

"I just, I just don't know what to say to you, Laetitia."


The words began to pour out of Stephanie, as if the couch were a confessional booth. She wasn't Catholic. It didn't matter.

"I came up with this stupid idea of going to a strip club last night. I felt alone on a Friday and didn't know what else to do. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I didn't get it. I didn't understand why men would go to a place like that and spend so much money?

I had been thinking about going for a while. I somehow found the courage to do it this weekend. I guess The Palace sounded like a more upscale establishment. I was curious, you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean, Stephanie, and let me guess, it was total crap, right?" A grin morphed into a full-fledged smile.

"No kidding," Stephanie responded. "The drinks were sorry, that guy Luis, no offense, is a total loser, and those guys howling all night, oh, it was awful."

"Let me guess, you didn't care for Lola, either?" Laetitia asked.

"No. Not at all." More laughter ensued. Then silence returned.

"But," and Stephanie proceeded cautiously, "then I saw you."

She began to breathe heavily. With each sentence, they seemed to inch closer together. They had moved from seven-feet apart to just enough space to wedge a dictionary between them, a small one.

"Look, Laetitia, I'm not a lesbian. At least I don't think I am. I had a boyfriend a few months ago. We broke up, and it was difficult. When I walked into that club last night, I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't attracted to any of the other women, even the blonde southern girl with the huge knockers. You came up on stage, and I felt something I never had before. I've never looked at a woman or thought about a woman the way I started thinking about you."

Stephanie blushed as she divulged all of this.

"Laetitia, you are the most beautiful human being I have ever encountered. I couldn't sleep last night because of you."

"Whoa," Laetitia interrupted. "Slow down. Take a sip of water."

Both halted long enough to finally quench their mounting thirsts.

"Don't be nervous, Stephanie. I don't think I'm a lesbian either, at least not a full-time one. Most of the men in my life have been such assholes. I have worked at The Palace for six months. That place sucks the life out of me. It's crawling with creeps and jerks, and most of them are probably cheating on their wives or girlfriends. It's pathetic. I'm embarrassed to work there sometimes. OK, most of the time."

Laetitia paused.

"In all my time there, I have never been aroused once. I see the occasional cute guy or a girl with nice boobs. No one there gets me excited. Then I saw you staring at me, and—"

"Oh my God, Laetitia, was I that obvious?"

"Yes, duh!"

"How embarrassing."

The women cackled then slapped one another gently on the arms.

"I noticed you sitting there before I took the stage. You looked so disgusted, like you were being tortured, and yet, you looked so beautiful. I didn't know why you were there, but I figured you were just experimenting or something. People like you, Stephanie, don't belong in strip clubs. When you started to leave, I was crushed, because you were the first interesting thing to walk through that door. I didn't want to lose that so quickly."

"I couldn't leave, Laetitia, once I saw you. I mean, I've had crushes on other women before, like Katy Perry and Angelina Jolie when she was younger. This wasn't a crush. I even ordered gray goose and vodka today because I thought I remembered tasting that on your breath last night."

The admissions were flowing now like the steady rain that had commenced five minutes earlier. It turned into a downpour.

"I can't believe I left my driver's license there on purpose."

rlabodame
rlabodame
30 Followers
12