Most of the time, you can come here and find me writing about my sex life or x-rated fantasies. However, tonight I have a naughty story from a guest author for you to enjoy. I don’t normally accept submissions from other writers, it’s my blog after all. However, I think this is one hell of a good story and it’s exceptionally steamy. Plus, it helps that it features a redhead that reminds me a lot of someone I know. Enjoy!
One of the pleasures of my job is the occasional bit of travel. A couple of times a year I’ll get to head out of town on the work dime, with the hotel, food & transportation covered, and usually not much to it. A few meetings, perhaps teaching a session or two, and the rest of the time is my own. I use it as a chance to see new things, to break the routine, and to indulge in the occasional vice.
This trip had been much the same, though with more frustration than normal. Instead of my usual destinations I’d been asked to go to a smaller town in Florida, just far enough away from any of the tourist attractions to make them a pain, and with a fuller schedule than normal. The plane was crowded, later than normal; the rental company lost my reservation (leading to an upgrade, but that will come up later); and barely a chance to sleep much less enjoy the nights out. All in all I was glad when the last day was over – and since my flight didn’t leave until noon, I figured I’d enjoy at least one night out in town.
One of the “vices” I enjoy on these trips is going to strip bars. You can call them “gentleman’s clubs” or “adult establishments” or whatever label makes you feel better; the point is I like going someplace and having a chance to see beautiful girls take their clothes off. Given that my current town doesn’t have them, and I couldn’t go because of work if I did, the chance to enjoy a night of voyeurism on my travels is always a bonus.
Since this was a smaller town I didn’t hold out hopes for much, but a quick check with the desk found the address of a place about 10 minutes away – not quite out of town, but enough on the outskirts to keep the local matrons from bitching too much about things. After a quick dinner I headed that way, finding a typical roadside exterior – a flashing sign advertising “Live Girls”, a few parked cars and bikes, and a sun-faded wooden exterior. I paid my cover and headed inside – again, much the same as so many others. This was no high-end Vegas or Miami Beach club, with fancy carpets and tuxedoed doormen, and where you pay ten dollars a drink and the girls make hundreds on a lap dance; this was just two steps up from a dive, with fixtures which would look threadbare if the lighting was turned up the slightest bit, scattered tables and stools, and a worn-down pool table to the side. I got a drink and found a corner table to enjoy the show.
The first two girls were nothing exciting, attractive enough in their own ways but nothing to keep my attention as they danced through their songs. Then, as the opening notes of Motley Crue’s “Girls Girls Girls” filled the smoky room she swept onto the stage – a pretty young redheaded girl whose presence seemed to fill the room as she started to dance. The D.J. calls her out as Amber as the song continues while she dances around the stage clad in a semblance of a school girl’s skirt and white top; moving across the varnished wooden surface in her heels and with a smile gracing her face.
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