The Perfect No-Touch Lapdance

I wasn't expecting much from the night. A quick impromptu pop-in to a local club during some midnight errands. Some stage tipping. Some relaxation at a quiet table in the back at the end of a very long day. Maybe a beer. At the most a couple of $10 table dances. Low expectations.

And then I met Dancer.

Dancer came up to greet me at my table and I offered for her to sit. "Okay, but I'm going to smoke. Is that all right". Of course, I said. Dancers smoke. They just do. It was an offer to sit, not necessarily more. We'll see how it goes. So, I order a beer.

After a lengthy silence, I spoke.

"Usually, I'm more talkative", I said. "I'm just tired tonight."

"Believe me", she said. "It's okay for us just to sit here. We don't have to talk. It's okay. A lot of guys just want to jump in and start pounding on me right away with personal questions that I don't necessarily want to answer." I understand that. I only need to know one thing to carry this further, her stage name. I can improvise the rest.

We talked. Small talk. Unhurried talk. Club talk. Observations about other customers, including the strange table of three unaccompanied girls. What's up with them? And business stuff about this club's habits as opposed to others. About peep shows. And about strip club literature, including this blog.

We were in a holding pattern. Waiting for a pending special, 2 dances in the VIP for $25. "Would you dance the special for me", I asked. "I'd love to", she smiled back. And we waited. Unhurried. Eventually she wandered off to prepare. On cue, all of the dancers disappeared offstage and then paraded down the middle of the main stage to the sales pitch of the DJ. My girl came 3rd, introduced as Dancer - "Couch dancer of the year!". Really? If true, it was my fortune that she had sat down with me.

"Come on, DanceFan", she said taking my hand. And off to the VIP we went. Where Dancer lived up to her accolades. And then some. She pulled me in to a booth in the corner - "My favorite booth", she said delightedly. The room was filled for the special, with a visual orgy of dancers grinding on anonymous guys all around me.

The music was already playing and we didn't waste any time getting into the dance. Dancer stood before me and stripped quickly out of her small top and miniskirt. She was beautiful, of course. Young. Tall. Lithe and toned with long brown hair. Shapely, with long legs, slim hips, and a perfect. A very lovely young stripper. Here with me for two songs.

Dancer was practiced and skillful. Honestly, one of the very best I've ever been with. The highlight, appart from close contact with a very lovely young naked girl, was the connection. She didn't dance for me. She didn't dance on me. She danced with me, and was very present with me in our time together. I love that.

Dancer's skill came from her constant motion. Not frenetic. Not grinding. Not aggressive. It was like she was massaging my clothed body with her naked body. She went through various moves or poses, practiced and repeated, but very honest and very effective. And very arousing.

Straddling me, yes. But constantly moving. Continuous contact, even as she shifted positions on me. Soft. Rubbing. Continuous motion.

Body parts presented to me.

Tits rubbed against me.

Naked cookie presented to me in various acrobatic poses. Legs spread and pushed just short of my face. Look. Smell. Fantasize. Enjoy.

And friction. Sweet, continuous, friction. Straddling me sideways to fit herself against my arousal. Sliding down my body with a feet massage of my lap on the way down. Awesome friction.

Connection. Headspace. And humor.

Against my lap, warm naked kitty pressed and fitted to my package. Layed out along the length of my lap, with her arms on the floor behind her supporting her. Fitted to me. Gentle fucking motions into me. And looking at me. Smiling, friendly, knowing eye contact between us. We both are veterans and understand this moment. We can appreciate it and be separate from it.

"You remind me of Susan Sarandon's husband". She said. Fucking motions gently against me. "What's his name"?

Eye contact back. Enjoying the delicious warm friction. "Tim Robbins", I say - looking her right in the eye.

"Has anyone ever told you that?" Unhurried. Delicious friction.

"Not really. Must be the haircut."

"No, I think it's your lips. You really look like him".

"Is that a good thing?", I ask. She's very pretty, I'm thinking. Very pretty. And warm. And her weight feels wonderful on my lap. Moving. Slowly, but constantly.

"That's a good thing", she says - smiling an unhurried smile at me.

The song ends with her on my lap facing me. "Would you do one more for me?", I ask. "I'd love to", she says with with a sincere smile. I believe her.

We dance one more as the room empties. More motion. More motion. Heavy breathing and purring from me. Dancer poses for me, very frank body part presentations for my enjoyment. And I enjoy it indeed.

She's unhurried as the song ends, staying on my lap an extra moment or two. Connected on my lap. Rhythmic wiggles into my lap. I'm not complaining.

"Hey, I'm next", says the only dancer still remaining in the room. "She's hot!"

She is hot, indeed. Beautiful. Sexy. And extremely skilled.

I'll find a way to see Dancer again. Thank you Dancer, for an unexpected pleasure that night.