Story of a Incestuous Family
31-07-2014, 05:37 PM
I'm a manager, a coordinator, and a liaison between my small business and our customers. My partner Irin deBrogue is in charge of catering and procuring. I handle the bookings, entertainments, and publicity. It's a fun job most of the time, even though it takes more than 40 hours a week.
Today, however, I was not having fun. I had to write my quarterly employee reviews, which I hate. While I was typing, my phone began to buzz. The number of the incoming call alerted me to a potential problem. One of my best performers was calling me, and I could guess why.
"What is it, Damiesha?" I asked.
"This is Kevoniel, actually, Mrs. Thompson."
Great, her on-again, off-again boyfriend--she obviously wanted me to believe the excuse that was sure to follow. "Okay, Kev; go on," I said impatiently.
"It's Damiesha's appendix. They're telling me she's on her way to surgery."
Dammit! I knew this young man; he wasn't a good liar. Right now, he sounded deadly serious. The talented but flaky Damiesha finally had a good reason not to come to work. "Is she okay?" I asked, trying not to sound unconcerned. I admit that I was mostly thinking about the business. Appendectomies are routine these days; getting someone to fill in for an excellent dancer playing a lucrative gig on short notice is anything but routine.
"They expect her to be fine. They caught the inflammation in time."
I told him to pass along my sympathy and best wishes for a speedy recovery.
Immediately, I pulled up my address book and went through my roster. Katrine was booked. Dreya was booked. Ashlynne was booked. That wasn't good; usually, Katrine took the gigs Damiesha dropped.
J.L. was the only one who had enough free time tomorrow to make the performance. I called her and got her voicemail. I texted her.
"Shit," I muttered, closing my phone. I needed a text back from her ASAP. I turned to my tablet computer while I waited.
I heard the door to my office. "How's it looking for the weekend?"
It was Irin; she was the only one who didn't knock.
"We're short a performer. Damiesha's in the ER, and her gig's tomorrow at 2100. I'm hoping J.L. can cover her. If not...then yes, we do have a problem."
She looked at the comprehensive schedules we had on our white boards. "The drinks are good to go, and so's the food."
"Yeah, and so is the music," I told her. "I'm waiting on J.L. to tell me that she can do the performance."
My partner brushed a hand through her spiky, silvery-brown hair. "If she can't, we'll have to farm out the dancing again?"
"I don't think we can. It's less than a day and a half away. No one has that kind of flexibility."
"Really? This party's going to pay nice--"
My phone started beeping loudly. I picked it up and read the text. "--Dammit!" I said aloud. "J.L. can't do it either. We're screwed."
Irin leaned over my shoulder to look at my tablet. She shook her head. "You know that if we can't deliver the full entertainment package, we're going to lose money because of the 'Unfulfilled Contract' discount."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course I knew that, and she knew that I knew. "I'm not a magician," I said with a sigh. "We'll have to take the shortfall out of my department."
There was the touch of Irin's soft hand on my shoulder. "You aren't a magician...but you are a dancer," she said.
I snickered and set down my tablet. "There you go again. Look, partner, I'm 39 years old, with stretch marks and a wobbly ass. No one's going to want to see me dance at a party, let alone pay me to do it."
"There you go again!" she said, straightening to her full 185 cm. "Are you forgetting that we go to the beach together sometimes? You ain't got a wobbly ass and those stretch marks are visible only to you. And age's nothing but a number."
I smiled a little, in spite of myself.
She kept trying to coax me. "Remember, you'll earn all those lovely tips."
"You have never given our performers enough credit! It takes more than a decent body, some lingerie, and a little prancing while the music plays. Damiesha's our best choreographer. It takes her about two weeks to come up with a good routine. And all our performers practice their cute little asses off. If they don't entertain, we don't get repeat customers. Plus, they don't get tipped much--that's their direct incentive."
"I know that. But you have never given our digital resources enough credit. 'Borrow' a routine from the internet; none of the party kids'll know the difference. Shake your implants at them and they'll have a good time."
I had to laugh. "You can be such a bitch!" I said. She winked at me. "Even if I can get a routine from the net, there's the matter of costume and makeup and hair--and confidence, which I can't emphasize enough."
"You were born confident," said Irin. "And you've been dancing since you could walk: ballet, jazz, salsa, ballroom. And you cheered in junior high and high school. And you can handle crowds and you're athletic; you can play this one gig."
"I don't think--"
"--Hey, this ain't even my department. I'm just generously giving you my input. Performances are your responsibility, Mrs. Thompson." She tugged my ponytail playfully. "Make it happen, okay?"
I spent almost an hour on the phone, trying to find an independent dancer or a dancer from an entertainment service. No dice. As I talked to person after person who couldn't help me, I kept playing various dance videos on my computer. At last, I set down the phone and groaned.
The loss would probably be a thousand, give or take a hundred. I felt like I was starting to get a headache. Well, the time was 1800. I grabbed my purse and left work.
While I drove, I kicked around Irin's suggestion in my head. No. Producing a professional-quality party performance in 28 hours? It couldn't be done.
But I kept thinking about it. My spirit loves a challenge (otherwise, I wouldn't be an entrepreneur) and was trying to convince my logical mind that I could pull off this dance.
I had found a couple of easy-yet-entertaining performances while I'd searched the internet. The music was already set. Tomorrow was Saturday; I could devote at least six hours to practicing. Makeup was no problem; I was really good at doing my own, thanks to my mother's instruction when I was a teenager and my high school drama club experience. Costume...?
I told myself I hadn't made up my mind, yet I turned my car toward the mall.
"Shit!" I muttered. My spirit had clearly defeated my brain. I was going to take this challenge.
More than an hour later, I made it home. I was greeted by my son Eddie asking if he could borrow the Toyota and go to the latest action flick with his best friend.
"Don't forget your curfew." I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Get out of here, punk!" I said.
"Thanks, Mom!" he said. He darted past me, toward the garage.
I went to my bedroom to put away my things and change into my dance workout outfit. There wasn't a moment to lose if I was going to give a good performance. I already felt my pulse rising as I wondered whether I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
Downstairs, I put my club mix MP3 on the stereo system and began warming up. I put my tablet on the table in the corner, so I could refer to it when I got hung up on certain parts of the routine. My music was a bit different from the music the girl in the video had used, but the beat was exactly the same, so I thought it would still work. Once I was stretched and limber, I counted and got to work on the steps and motions of the performance.
I'd been working for a while--probably about an hour--when I heard light steps on the stairs. My younger daughter Rowan must have come back from baby-sitting.
It was time for a break anyway. I turned down the music. She appeared on the staircase a moment later.
"Hey, I'm home! Why are you dancing now, Mom?" she asked.
I took a drink of water from my bottle. "Felt like it. Baby-sitting's done for the night, then?"
"Yeah," she said. "Anyway, you never dance at night. Mind if I change and join your workout?"
That was unexpected. "It won't be worth it, honey; I ought only to be another few minutes at this," I fibbed.
"No, that's good! I'm kind of tired, so I only wanted a short--"
Shit, I was going to have to tell her. "--Really, I'd rather you didn't. I need to dance alone so I can concentrate tonight. This is for work," I admitted.
She blinked her wide hazel eyes at me. "What do you mean, 'for work?' Do you mean, like--you're going to dance at a party?" She got an indescribable smirk on her face as she thought about it.
"None of my other performers can make it," I said. "It's only going to be this once."
My daughter's eyebrows rose and she clapped her hands excitedly. "You really are going to work a party!"
I took another drink. "Yes, I am: just 'this once,' as I said. Listen, that doesn't leave this house, okay? In fact, don't tell your brother either."
"What about Dad?"
"I'm going to tell him when he gets back from his meet-and-greet," I explained. "He's a guy, but he's a grown-up guy, so he can handle it. Eddie--I'm not sure he could handle the thought of his mother dancing at a party."
31-07-2014, 05:37 PM
"This is so cool! I'm going to change and I'll be right back down, okay?" She flew away like a comet, before I could say a word.
Cool? What the hell was she saying? I sighed and stretched my legs on the ballet rail.
I rolled my shoulders and turned up the music again. Rowan burst into the room just as I began to tap my feet and pick up the rhythm.
She stood near the corner table; apparently, she wanted to watch me before she joined me. I cleared my mind and concentrated on the music. There was the starting beat. I swung into motion slowly, almost lazily. (The girl in the video had started slowly, and it had really helped her build the drama as she danced; that was part of the reason I was borrowing her choreography.) I shimmied my shoulders a bit, then extended my arms, left, then right. Left hand across face, right hand across face, blow kiss, swing hips left, swing hips right, rock hips forward, spin, swing hips right, thrust out ass, swing hips left, thrust out ass....
Even though I was focused on the dance routine, I noticed that Rowan was dividing her attention. Most of the time, she was watching me, but she often glanced at the video girl.
I was starting to sweat a little, as the performance was probably getting to the five-minute mark. Strut forward, left, then right, left, then right. Swing hip and shoulder, right, then left--
"--Jazz hand needs to be crisper, Mom," said Rowan.
I almost stumbled. She sounded like I did when I instructed students. (She and her sister had been two of them: both learned dance from me as younger girls.) Was she seriously coaching me? At any other time, I would have found this cute. Right now, I found it...helpful. I'm so used to the dance environment, I automatically took her suggestions.
When we got to the next part of the routine, though, Rowan surprised me even more. "Was that supposed to be taking off your shirt?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question; she'd paused the video, and she knew what it was. "Stop, Mom! You know you can't practice that without the costume."
"Honey--" I started to say.
"--You know it," she insisted. "This isn't ballet or ballroom! The costume is really a series of props, when you think about it. You've got to use them when you practice, or you're just begging for something to get screwed up when you do it for real."
She was right; I did know that. My face felt a little flushed when I said, "I don't think I want to practice that part tonight."
"For real?" She shrugged her muscular shoulders. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You should get your costume, put it on over the warm-ups you're wearing now, and do this right."
My daughter was lecturing me. And she had an excellent point. Could this get any weirder?
I went to my room and got the dancing outfit I'd just bought. There was no way that the skimpy neon pink bra I'd chosen would fit over even my thin workout clothes. I took off my workout top and put on the bra, then the white tie-front collared shirt. I put on the tight black micro-skirt over my leggings; it fit, even though it was really snug.
Rowan had kept looking through the video while I was gone. When I came back to our makeshift dance room, she looked at me. "The shoes?" she said, glancing at my sneakers.
"I've danced in heels hundreds of times," I told her. "The difference in shoes won't be a problem."
"If you're sure," she said. I stifled my laugh; I'm certain she sounded more like me than she knew!
She turned the music back up to practice volume. I found the beat again. "Taking it from the top," I said aloud. Rowan nodded and watched me closely.
She had fewer pointers to offer this time, probably because I was taking practice more seriously. That made perfect sense: the presence of a coach always leads to better results. If I ever did this again--
--But I wasn't ever going to do this again. This was just a one-time performance.
"Don't forget to smile," Rowan advised me, and I realized I'd been scowling slightly.
I kept dancing, feeling good about my stamina and flexibility. I got farther into the routine. Time to lose the shirt. Left shoulder. Hip swivel. Right shoulder. Hip roll and shrug. Hip roll, right arm, left arm, shirt catch and toss.
Rowan didn't say anything, just nodded faintly, looked back to the video for a second, then continued to watch me. I grinned for just an instant; I had told her I'd get that part right with no trouble. She was a decent dancer herself, but I had at least a couple thousand hours more experience than she had.
Deeper and deeper into the routine now. Although I was sweating, I still had plenty of energy. Time to lose the skirt. This particular skirt was fastened with three snaps; it was the type of skirt J.L. always wore when she performed. It was no trouble to unsnap, wriggle loose, let it fall, catch it with the right foot, kick it away. The choreography was straightforward and easy to execute. "Higher toe, lower knee next time; it's a snap-kick," Rowan said.
I nodded once to show her I'd heard her. I kept dancing the routine. One more potentially difficult maneuver: I had to remove the bra. Lean forward. Hip shake right, then left. Left hand up, right hand up, pop it open, hold bra cups. Let right slip, put it back up, left slip, back up, both slip, back up, lean forward more, lean back. Right forearm up, toss bra, shimmy shoulders, bring up left hand. Lower hands, hands back up, lower hands, hands on hips, spin, shake ass, spin, shake tits....
The routine kept going and I kept dancing, improvising only a little. My daughter only offered me two or three more corrections. Then I got to the part where the video dancer started to take off her g-string.
My dance diverged with the video. Rowan noticed immediately. "That's not how the routine goes, Mom," she said.
"Our performers only go topless, not fully nude," I told her while I kept sashaying and twisting with the music.
"Oh, I didn't know that," she said. She twirled a lock of her glossy, curly black hair around her finger. "So how long are you going to keep dancing, once you've gotten rid of the bra?"
"About two and a half minutes: the dance should be 20 minutes long."
I kept my body moving and the music kept playing. I twirled dramatically at the finish, knelt on my right knee, bowed my head, and extended my right arm straight into the air. I held the pose for four beats. Rowan clapped.
I bowed. I felt my surgically-enhanced C-cups bounce. It hit me that I'd just danced sexy in front of my daughter wearing nothing but skin-tight workout pants. I told myself that I didn't have anything she didn't.
"That was really good. How many times have you practiced it?" Rowan had gathered my skirt, bra, and shirt, and she handed them to me.
"This was my first practice," I said, feeling a little proud of myself.
"You're kidding. Our cheer squad would take a week to get that good at a routine half that long!"
"Be real with me, honey," I said to her. "Was I--Did I look good? I mean, was I...exciting?"I knew I was blushing, but this performance was about teasing and pleasing an audience, not about executing the perfect recital.
Rowan's eyes narrowed a little as she thought about it. "More or less--it's hard to judge," she said soberly. "Your dance was great, and what I saw of your costume was pretty nice. But your workout pants and sneakers aren't sexy. I can't answer too well if you aren't dressed and made up the way you would be."
My youngest child, barely 15 years old, was evaluating my performance and my overall presentation like she was a judge on a tv show or something. "I'm impressed. You're better at this than I thought you were. You're really helping me," I told her.
"Thanks, Mom," she said cheerfully. "I had a lot of good teachers, and you taught me a ton yourself.
"Anyway, you must be going through this routine again if that was only your first practice."
"One more time, yeah. This performance took a little more out of me than I thought it would." I grabbed my water bottle again and took a long drink.
"I still think you should try it in your show shoes this time," Rowan said. "If they've got significant heels, they'll affect the angles and lines your legs make."
My hands lifted in an exaggerated sign of surrender. "Okay, you're right, I'll wear them!" I told her. "10-minute break."
I went upstairs. Rowan stayed in the dance room.
Rummaging in my closet, I quickly found my bubble-gum pink platforms. The soles themselves were 6 cm thick, and the heels added another 9 cm, so these cute, surprisingly light shoes added 15 cm to my height. It was awkward to move in them at first--it had been months since I'd last worn them--but they still fit great. They gave my spirits a boost too, since I was so much taller in them.
Might as well go all the way. I took off my workout pants and bikini briefs and put on the rest of the lingerie set: the matching neon pink g-string. Rowan had never seen me dressed in something like this, but she'd never seen me jiggling my bare chest either. If I hadn't gone too far already, this wouldn't make the difference. I smiled nervously as I adjusted the tiny performance panties.
Then I made a sour face, noticing short black hairs protruding from around the narrow triangle of fabric. I keep my pubic hair trimmed, but the g-string was way smaller than other panties I wear. I got my razor and gel and sat on the edge of the bathtub and shaved my mound completely. I rinsed and put on the pink thong panties. Much better: no hair to worry about.
When I came back to the practice room, I was wearing the entire performance ensemble. Rowan noticed that I wasn't wearing my workout leggings, but she didn't say anything about that. Instead, she said, "You're as tall as I am now, Mom." (I stand just 151 cm, by far the shortest in the family. Rowan passed my height when she was 13.) "I can't believe you weren't going to practice in those shoes; they have to make a difference!"
"We'll see if they do," I said with a touch of bravada.
She restarted the music and I began the second practice session. I still got suggestions and corrections from Rowan, but maybe only half as many as she'd given me on the first attempt. I did a good job with my high-heeled platform shoes, until it was time to kick out of my skirt. This time, the toe of the shoe was so steeply angled that the skirt just slid off the end of the shoe and flopped anticlimactically to the floor.
31-07-2014, 05:37 PM
"Ooh, that didn't work," said Rowan. "How about if you move your right leg forward so that your toes point upward while you're letting the skirt slide down your leg?"
"It won't slide far enough if I do that," I replied. "The distance between my feet will increase too much."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "Pull it back up for a second. Now let it go, and move that right lower leg."
To my surprise, the skirt did fall all the way to the top of my right shoe. However, it didn't clear the left shoe, so I wouldn't necessarily be able to step out of the skirt with the left foot and make the kick possible. "I might trip myself if I tried it that way during the performance," I said.
"I see that. But there has to be a way to make that kick work."
"These platform soles make the shoe so stiff I can't point my toes well enough to catch the skirt."
Rowan looked at the micro-skirt around my ankles. (Once again, I thought about how crazy this situation was.) "Those shoes go great with your costume, and you move well in them. We'll have to switch the skirt," she declared.
"This skirt's perfect for this outfit," I argued.
"Your shirt's white, your hair's black, your shoes are pink; just about any skirt should work with those basic colors. I've got a dark blue one I used to wear that I bet will do just fine."
"Won't it be too big for me?"
Rowan's eyes sparkled. I frowned, thinking she was trying not to laugh. "W-well, let's see if it will fit," she said, biting back a grin. "Back in a second!"
I tried a couple of different moves with the skirt I had while she was gone. But she returned quickly. She held out her skirt. Its hem wasn't as narrow as the micro-skirt's hem, and the length of the skirt was short enough to be sexy--it reached only to 7 or 8 cm below my crotch. The electric blue color did work with my outfit, I had to admit. The skirt had a slide clasp and a zipper, though.
"The way this skirt fastens: I'm not sure about this," I said.
"Just try it." Rowan turned up the music again.
The zipper took both hands and a little too much time to lower and still keep the dance on beat. Rowan looked disheartened. "I've got an idea that might work," I told her, pulling up the skirt again. I waited for the music. This time, I left the skirt unzipped, trusting the side clasp to hold by itself.
Sure enough, it did, and I was able to successfully snap-kick the skirt toward the corner table four beats later.
"Well done. What did you do?" Rowan asked.
"I didn't zip it in the first place," I said.
"Why didn't I think of that?" she wondered. "Costume problem solved!"
I worked through the rest of the performance routine, and things went fairly smoothly. I got sloppy with my movements a couple of times, but Rowan told me each time and I corrected the motions.
With the dance finished, I straightened and smiled victoriously. Rowan turned down the music and smiled back at me. "Nice work, Mom. Those boys at the party are going to enjoy the show!"
I smiled even more, happy to get such a compliment from my beautiful child. I started putting on my costume again. "Those girls, actually. It's a bachelorette party."
"For real. Our state allows same-sex marriages now, remember? We've gotten a few homosexual pre-wedding parties--both gay men and lesbians," I told her.
"Wow, that totally never occurred to me," Rowan said. "So this will be a new experience for you, huh?"
"No, actually. Remember, before you kids were born, I performed pretty often. I learned back then that even straight women sometimes request female dancers," I said.
Rowan's pretty pink lips twitched in confusion. "Why would they do that?" she asked.
"I never asked them," I said, chuckling a bit. "But I've got a guess or two. We're softer. We're lighter, so we can give lap dances to girls who want them. The way our society is, we grow up thinking women are nicer to look at. It feels extra naughty to some straight women to have tits in their faces and booties in their laps before they marry their men. Those are all factors, I'm guessing."
My daughter's eyes shone as she looked at me. "You know, Mom, you're pretty awesome. I can't believe you tell me so much; that's so cool of you."
"I think you can handle it," I said to her. "You're so much like your sister; she's really level-headed too. Most of the time." I hugged Rowan. "Thanks for your help tonight, honey."
"No problem!" she said.
I stepped back a few cm and looked at her, eye-to-eye. (I wanted to take advantage of being her height while I was wearing the platforms.) "So, why were you so sure your skirt wouldn't be too big for me?"
"Your hips--I mean, you've had three kids!" she said with a laugh.
"You brat!" I laughed with her, but I also swatted her butt.
After supper with Rowan, she took off for her best friend's house. I did a little schedule checking and texted Ashlynne and Katrine about the gigs Damiesha was going to perform and were now open during the next two weeks. I checked my email to see if any new customers were trying to book us.
I heard the door. Edward was home. I got up and met him at the door. He bent down and I stretched up and we kissed. "How are you doing, darling?" he signed.
"I'm fine. How are you, love?" I signed to him.
He rolled his light brown eyes. "Tired," he signed. "Why can't these business functions be about business? Tonight was almost a total waste of time. But I did talk to Dwight Jackson and Rita Santangelo. Maybe they'll keep us in mind next time they have HVAC problems."
"I hope so," I signed.
He looked around. "Where are the kids?"
"Rowan's at Terrie's house. Eddie should be back soon; he went to the new action movie."
"That's in town?"
I smiled hopelessly. My husband's an avid fan of action flicks. I'm not a fan of them, but I often go just to keep him company. I signed, "Are you going to it?"
"Probably. Maybe tomorrow evening. Will you be my date?"
"I'll have work."
"Work on Saturday? What good is being the boss if you've got to go in on Saturday?"
"It's a party and none of my performers can do it. Just this once, I'm taking it myself," I signed to him.
He looked only mildly surprised. "Birthday, bachelor party, divorce party?" he signed.
He looked a little more surprised. He signed, "So will there be a male dancer too?"
I shook my head. "It's the last party before a lesbian wedding," I signed.
"Damn, that never occurred to me," he signed.
I laughed, thinking about Rowan saying the same thing. "It's not the first one we've had, and it won't be the last," I signed to him. "But it will be the only one I personally work."
His eyes twinkled. He took my hand and gently kissed it. "You were a gorgeous dancer the day I met you. You still are," Edward signed.
"You flatterer!" I signed back at him. "Do me a favor and don't tell Eddie about this."
"He knows you used to dance," Edward signed.
I glared at him.
"Kidding!" he signed. "Don't worry, I won't tell anybody."
"Rowan knows," I signed.
"I won't tell anybody else, then," he signed to me.
0730: time to wake up and take my shower. I was the first one up, as I always was on Saturdays. I got out of bed and almost tripped over my platform shoes.
That's right, I'm performing today, I remembered. Shower, eat breakfast, then practice. I had a lot of practicing to do.
I'd been working for a little while when I heard quick, heavy footfalls. The front door opened and closed. Eddie must have been going to work or to have fun somewhere.
At about 0930, my husband made an appearance in the doorway of the dance room. He whistled when he saw me. I laughed and turned to face him.
"I'm going to shoot a round of golf," he signed to me. "I'll have lunch while I'm out there."
"Have fun!" I signed.
"Watching you might be more fun, but I promised Ray and Leshawn," he signed.
"Thanks, love!" I signed to him. He waved and disappeared.
Half an hour or so after that, Rowan came to the dance room. She was in her workout clothes, but she didn't begin stretching. Instead, she watched me as she had the night before. I was pleased that she had so little to say this time. I had felt like I was making progress. The routine must have been shaping up as far as she was concerned too.
When I finished the performance, I decided to take a break. "What do you think, honey?" I asked Rowan.
"You're polishing the routine," she said. "It's smoother and more natural than it was yesterday. Can I join you when you start again?"
"As long as you keep your clothes on," I told her. We both laughed.
In the late afternoon, I thought I was as ready with the routine as I could be. Rowan had gone out. Eddie had come back and gone again. Edward had come back and gone again too, but in his case, it wasn't about recreation; a building that had one of his systems had apparently developed an early-shutdown problem. He had to go and check the system, because it was running very inefficiently because of this bug.
I showered, set my alarm, and lay down for a nap.
At 1830, I got up. I felt pretty good, energetic but calm. The message on my phone was from Edward; he was bringing Chinese takeout for dinner. When I left my bedroom, I found that Rowan was home, and Eddie came back to the house a few minutes later.
Once Edward got home, bringing the evening meal with him, we went to the table and had dinner. The family didn't get together for a meal every day, so it was lively when we did. There was a lot of signing and talking back and forth--and I really enjoyed the egg foo young, as always.
31-07-2014, 05:37 PM
It was nearly 1930 when we finished; I had to get ready for the performance. Edward sensed that. He turned to Eddie and signed, "Did you like the movie you saw yesterday?"
"Yeah, it was good," my son signed.
"Good, because I was thinking of seeing it tonight."
"You should; the twist near the end is crazy!"
"What are you going to do tonight?" Edward signed.
"I was planning on playing Madden NFL," Eddie answered. "Markus built a new Falcons team and he challenged me."
"Okay." Edward stood and leaned toward me. "I'm going to take off in a minute to catch the show," he signed.
I signed to him, "I hope it's a good movie."
I got up from the table. Rowan got up at the same time. "Do you want me to help you with hair and makeup?" she asked.
"I think I'd better do it; you don't have any experience producing the required look," I told her.
"I suppose performance makeup is different from everyday," she said. "In that case, can I see how you do it?"
"Sure," I told her. "It will be nice to have another pair of eyes to judge how well I've done."
We went to the master bathroom. I did some eyebrow tweezing, heavier-than-usual foundation, heavier-than-usual mascara, fairly heavy glittery pink eyeshadow, pearlescent magenta lipstick--
"--Aren't you putting it on a bit thick?" Rowan asked.
"That's what you need for a performance," I explained. "Everyone's got to be able to see, even if they're 5 or 10 meters away, even when the lights are dim."
"Oh, that makes sense."
"So why don't you turn off the room light, step back, and tell me what you think?"
She turned off the light. The hall light was the only illumination now, so it was a little dimmer than a performance room usually was. Rowan studied my face. "It works; I can see even the eyeshadow from here!"
"Good, thanks," I said. I got some hair pins and started pulling back my straightened black hair.
"We'll leave after you're done with your hair?" Rowan asked.
I twitched in surprise. "You're not coming along," I told her.
"But I coached you. Don't I get to see how well you do?"
"This is work. Having you there wouldn't be professional. Besides, I'll be done way after your curfew. Sorry, honey."
She looked upset, but she didn't argue with me.
I finished my hair and got my keys. "I'll see you tomorrow," I told her.
"Break a leg, Mom," she said to me, and she pouted only a little when she gave me a quick hug.
I went to work, left my car in our fenced parking area, and drove to the party address in a company car. As I got to within a block, I could see I was in the right place. Loud music and one of our DJ's cars told me that "Delectable*W*MC" (I call her Jenny) was on the job.
The rented recreational facility had a couple of parking attendants, but there was also a stocky woman with light brown hair present. When she saw the car, she motioned me over to her.
"You're the dancer?" She looked me up and down the moment I collected my bag and got out of the car. "Cute, but I expected someone taller." She laughed as though she'd had a drink or two. She offered her hand and I shook it.
I patted my bag meaningfully. "I am taller! In my performance shoes!" I said.
"By the way, I'm Carolyn, mother of the bride...well, mother of one of the brides, you could say!"
I laughed with her. I said, "You can call me Lorelei." (That was the stage name I'd used to dance years earlier.) She led the way into the long, three-story building.
While I said hi to the DJ and Carolyn showed me where the "dressing room" and the main room where I'd be performing were, there was something else going on. I knew nothing about it. I only learned the whole story the next day, after having a talk with Rowan.
The instant I'd left the house, Rowan called her 16-year-old friend Amina. Then Rowan had gone to the bathroom she normally used and changed her hair from the swept-back style she normally wore to a free-flowing style that made her bangs hang down past her eyebrows. She used spirit gum to fake a nose piercing. She put on dark purple eye shadow, heavy black eyeliner, and black lipstick. She put on a dark purple party dress I'd never seen her wear, and covered that with her brother's black leather jacket.
Then she texted Irin's cell phone. "Mom left sumthing bhind. Gotta bring it 2 her. Wheres the party?"
And my partner bought it! She simply texted the address to Rowan.
Amina arrived and Rowan jumped in her car. On the way, she explained that she wanted to see me dance. She swore Amina to secrecy--and apparently, Amina was curious enough to go along with Rowan's idea. So Rowan gave Amina a wig with long, curly burgundy hair for a disguise. The two girls put the party address into a navigation app and took off for my gig. Rowan was smart enough to tell Amina to park a block away, and they sauntered into the place without anyone noticing they weren't invited. They went right to the main party room and waited near the corner.
Rowan saw the entire show.
But I knew nothing of my daughter's clandestine operation. I just went to the temporary "dressing room" and got changed. I touched up my makeup a bit. There was a speaker in the room, so I listened for the DJ to announce me.
"...You're getting married to a beautiful woman tomorrow. But tonight, Kristina--your last night of being single!--your friends wanted remind you that you've got one night of freedom left to you! To help you enjoy that freedom, here's!...the lovely!...Lorelei!"
It was as though I hadn't taken a 17-year break from dancing. The music pumped, my adrenalin surged, my body responded, the audience appreciated. Irin had been right; the young ladies (and two or three middle-aged ladies) in the crowd hooted and cat-called while I gracefully worked my way through the opening of my routine.
While I strutted and shimmied, I began to look into the eyes of each woman in the first row. I started with the bride-to-be, of course, and she looked boldly back at me. Most of her friends did the same: I wondered how many of them were gay or bi and how many of them were straight but bolstered by liquid courage.
The intro finished, I put my hands on my blouse. I heard a couple of whistles and shouts while I undid the knot the held the skimpy white shirt together. This was a good crowd, and I was working well with their energy. I kept swaying and stepping with the beat. The noisy audience and I produced synergy; I began to energetically add twists, lunges, and shakes to my dance.
The music thumped. Time sped up, as it always did when I enjoyed myself during a dance. A piece at a time, I shed my costume. I enjoyed the claps, stomps, and yells of the excited women. They were having as much fun as I was.
I put my fingers under the waistband of my sparkly pink g-string and pulled it a little higher on my hips.
"Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!" the ladies chanted.
I had explained when I had initially taken the booking for the gig that our dancers never got fully naked. Kristina's "best woman"--likely her best friend--was the woman who'd been on the phone with me that day. I knew that I'd told her, because I tell every prospective client. And I mentioned it again to Carolyn this evening when I'd followed her to the temporary dressing room.
But my performers had told me that at least half the time, audiences want them to get totally naked. I told my performers in response that our company policy is that we keep on our panties. I strongly implied to them that if they, the performers, go fully nude and get caught, they will have to pay the fines themselves. Our official position is that we comply with the laws and ordinances of the state and city.
I knew that Damiesha and Katrine went fully nude pretty often, and I suspected J.L. did almost as often. They didn't mention it and neither did I. Jenny--or Delectable*W*MC--and our other DJs also never talked about it. And I was Jenny's boss; I wasn't worried about her blabbing.
The fine was $56 if someone tattled on me. I saw four Andrew Jacksons in the hands of the ladies in the front row.
"Take it off! Take it off!" they kept cheering.
The math worked.
I slid my thumbs under the skimpy sides of the thong. I spun completely around, putting myself half a meter in front of the bride to be. I bent at the waist, giving the audience sharp lines to enjoy and my flexibility to admire. I pushed the shiny costume panties over my hips and down my slim legs in one long, lazy motion. I didn't see her reaction, but I knew I'd treated Kristina to a detailed view of my rose-tinted chocolate pussy lips protruding from between my thighs. While the party-goers shrieked and applauded, I stepped out of the g-string, scooped it up, and playfully tossed it at Kristina. She caught it and rubbed it against her cheek, grinning at me all the while.
Jenny had talked about Kristina's freedom. That applied to me, too. When I dance topless or naked, I feel free. I get a thrill out of playing to the crowd.
I cavorted my way through the last couple minutes of the routine. How silly I'd been to worry about my body: the throng of cheering women loved me.
Now came the part I hadn't talked about with Rowan. I sashayed up to the bride-to-be and fastened a lusty look on her. She smiled hungrily back up at me.
I kicked high and wide. With a powerful, sudden burst of motion, I hooked my knee over the back of her chair and pulled myself onto Kristina's prominent chest, then slid slowly along her body, down to her welcoming lap.
(Here I confess that if I had to choose between lap-dancing for women or men, I'd pick women. Women tend to feel softer and warmer and they tend to smell better. Men usually wear rougher clothes and have hard things like masses of keys and wallets full of plastic and multi-tools in their pockets, which make lap dancing uncomfortable or downright painful. Guys may have wiry stubble that can irritate a dancer's skin. Guys are more likely to be wearing way too much scent. I could go on!)
I lightly ground on Kristina's velvet-clothed pelvis and upper legs and playfully rubbed my bare breasts all around her silk-clad chest. I stared deep into her eyes, and slowly moved my hands to the front of her shirt, giving her every chance stop me if she chose. I saw only desire on her face. I got her shirt unbuttoned, her bra unhooked and out of the way, and I sensually slid my tits against hers again. The rigid nipples of her large breasts felt wonderful whenever they made contact with mine.
31-07-2014, 05:38 PM
I pulled away, but only to turn a half-circle and plop back onto her lap. I grabbed her wrists and put her hands on my breasts, never stopping the rolling motion of my bare ass while I rolled, thrusted, and wriggled to the music's rhythm.
When the song ended, I stood quickly, then leaned in and kissed Kristina's pouty lips just for a moment. "You get the last dance too, sweetie!" I whispered into her ear. She looked like she was in a pleasant daze as I moved to the young woman beside her and started the next lap dance.
At this point, the strip performance for everyone and the lap dance for the bride-to-be were finished, so guests began to get up and move around. Some of them were dancing, some were getting food or drinks, some were talking in small groups, and a few were coming and going from the room: to call people, to use the restrooms, to do any number of things. The party was very lively, as parties almost always were.
The second lap dance was fun too. She smelled like tangy perfume, but also the unmistakable odor of weed. The girl was slender, but she had soft thighs and a very cute face, and her small breasts had rock-hard nipples. Hearing her gasp when I stroked those nubs with mine was quite rewarding. She also liked it when I ran my finger around the silver hoop in her navel.
The third lap dance was also exciting. The woman was older than the bride-to-be--possibly ten years younger than I am--and she carried a few extra kilograms. Her lap was hot and pillowy. Her gentle caresses felt great on my tits.
When the song ended, I straightened and kissed the woman softly. She gave my ass a final pat.
I looked at the girl who was next in line for a dance.
My insides knotted with panic. This young woman met my gaze with reluctance. The hands of a couple of her drunk friends were on her shoulders, holding her in her chair. They'd clearly insisted that she get a dance from me. She hadn't wanted to make a scene by fighting out of their grips.
The young woman in front of me was my older daughter, Willow.
She hadn't sent me a picture in a couple of months. Her hair looked a little longer and she wore it in a wide french braid, with a large lock of her bangs dyed bright blue. Her eyebrows had been pierced the last time I'd seen her, but the small silver ornaments had been replaced with large onyx beads. She was wearing a short, gauzy white cotton A-line mini-dress and knee-high brown leather boots. On her wrists, she wore matching brown leather cuff-style bracelets. She smelled like pot and patchouli incense. She wore a silver ankh on a brown leather cord around her neck. She didn't stand of course, but I knew she was nearly 170 cm tall. She'd always been powerfully built, but her muscles suggested that she'd been lifting weights. (She plays on sports teams.) Her makeup was glittery blue, to go with the lock of her hair.
I have a habit of licking my lips when I'm nervous.
When Willow saw me lick my lips, her eyes widened. She may have misinterpreted my habit, I realized.
I had an instant to decide. Excuse myself--and risk causing a scene and getting found out by my partner and maybe the cops--or act like nothing was unusual and give my college sophomore daughter a lap dance.
Then I had an inspiration. "Ready for a dance, cutie?" I asked loudly enough to be heard above the music.
"She's deaf--I mean, hearing-impaired," yelled one of her two fairly drunk companions.
Now, even though I'd noticeably paused when I'd seen Willow, the onlookers wouldn't suspect that I knew her, let alone that I was her mom. "Oh!" I said, again loudly enough to be overheard. "Well, I know sign language!"
It was likely that at least a couple her friends knew sign language too, so I couldn't risk asking her whether she wanted me to give her a dance. Instead, I simply signed, "I'm going to take care of you, honey. Relax, okay?"
This dance had to be as passionate as the others. I started by turning around and seating myself on Willow's firm lap and wiggling my ass against her legs and abs. The cloth of her dress was so lightweight that it immediately began to bunch and ride up her thighs. Dammit! Well, the show had to go on. I tried to be energetic visually but non-erotic sensationally. I took her wrists and put her hands on my hips. She squeezed tentatively. I kept riding her upper legs. Her hands began to roam, slipping cm by cm until they made it to my ass. She was gentle, but she caressed my cheeks nonetheless.
I got up and turned around. "Relax, honey, you're doing fine," I signed quickly. I settled myself on her again, facing her. I tried not to let my fingers shake while I found the zipper on her back and tugged it lower, opening her dress. Keeping my hands steady, I pushed the straps off her shoulders. Trying not to be too provocative, I slid my chest against my daughter's. She had amazingly perky B-cup breasts. Try as I might, I couldn't ignore how wonderful it felt when my nipples kissed hers. That useless dress of hers had ridden up completely by this time; my bare pussy made intermittent contact with her bare legs.
Her hands had been resting on my hips since I'd faced her. Now they moved upward until they cupped my sensitive breasts. I was a little confused. I grew even more confused when she began to push gently. Then I realized what she was doing; without being obvious, she was making space between us so she could tell me something. I kept my seat on her lap, but sat back and looked at her.
"You are beautiful," she signed.
She smiled at me shyly, then moved her hands to my back and pulled me to her. Our breasts met again.
I was having a hard time acting naturally.
Willow's next action left me thunderstruck. She scooted her right leg out from under me, making me fall farther onto her, with my weight resting on my pussy, which balanced solely on her left leg.
Her fingers trailed down my back, until they reached my ass and gripped hard.
And while her hands were moving, she started shaking her left leg up and down. In effect, she was vibrating, as fast as she could.
My brain rebelled, telling me that this couldn't and shouldn't be happening. My body reveled in the sexual stimulation. My spirit embraced this situation as a chance to learn more about myself and one of my beloved children.
My newly-shaved cunt was leaving smeared puddles of wetness on Willow's strong upper thigh. I had had my arms wrapped around her back, but now I moved them higher, draping them loosely around her neck.
The action got her to look up at me. With my eyes, I tried to communicate to her that I was getting a bit too turned on. Whether she understood my look or not, she didn't quit bouncing me on her leg or kneading my backside. She just looked back at me. I couldn't read her expression. She might have been as confused and surprised and conflicted as I was.
My clit began to throb. If this went on, I was going to lose control and climax in my daughter's lap. I forced my brain to work; I couldn't let myself have an orgasm while dancing, no matter what sensations and emotions were influencing my behavior.
I focused on the music. Good, the song would end soon. I breathed deeply, trying to ignore the alarming heat between my legs.
I had to wrap up the dance. I'd kissed all the others; I had to do that to Willow too. I took off her glasses and held them carefully in my left hand. Her light brown eyes were so clear and fascinating, just like her dad's. I cupped her chin with my right hand and lowered my mouth to hers.
She tasted and felt like a juicy peach. She ran her tongue across my lips and wriggled it into my open mouth. She kissed me deeply. My pulse pounded.
The song ended. My legs trembled as I got up from her lap. I handed her glasses back to her, taking deep breaths all the while. I was aware of the intense gaze of her beautiful eyes on me; I could only glance at her. Gingerly, so I wouldn't excite my clitoris further, I nestled myself into the lap of the next young lady.
The girl was one of the two who'd "persuaded" Willow to get a dance. Now that it was her turn to get one, she was kind of passive. Thankfully, I managed to calm my raw nerves while I gave her some personal attention.
After that young woman, I gave two more lap dances. Then the line for my services had dwindled, so I smiled at the next girl and asked her if she minded me taking a little break.
When I came back from composing myself, I performed six more dances, including the last one for Kristina. The party crowd had begun thinning considerably after 2300. By the time I wrapped up, only a handful of women were left. Delectable*W*MC was thanking people for coming, hoping they had a good time, reminding them to take a taxi if they'd been drinking....
It was after midnight. Now that I was done, I urgently wanted out. I scurried to the temporary dressing room. Good, Carolyn had been sober enough to remember to put my costume in there. I made myself decent, grabbed my bag, changed my shoes, (Have you ever tried to drive wearing platforms with tall heels?) and headed for the door.
When I started to drive home, I damn-near had a panic attack. I'd stripped naked and given my daughter a lap dance. She'd made out with me. She was friends with a lesbian couple--good enough friends to go to their wedding. Was she a lesbian? The way she'd acted, she had to have been high.
But what if she hadn't been?
I remember nothing of the drive back. When I got to my driveway, I remembered I was in a company car. Hell with it; I'd go to work and swap vehicles tomorrow. I shut off the engine and just sat in the driver's seat for a moment.
My phone did the buzzing it does when I have a text. I looked at the message. "Coming home nxt wkend. Hav 2 tlk 2 u. XXXX Willow"
I tossed the phone back in my purse. I stared up at the ceiling. After a deep breath, I closed my eyes. "Willow, what the fuck?" I sighed.
Saying her name aloud brought back the sensation of riding her sleek thigh. My hand snuck into my tiny performance panties. I frigged myself like a madwoman. These last couple of hours had been too much! On top of all the craziness, I'd been so close to orgasm, and I hadn't gotten off; well, now I needed to. I had to cum.
But suddenly, I heard an approaching car. My eyes opened and I saw lights getting nearer. I sat stock-still, fingers under my skirt--Rowan's skirt, actually--waiting for the car to pass.
The car pulled into my driveway. I glanced in the mirror and thought I recognized it as Amina's car.
What, Rowan had been out? She was just now getting home? I stayed motionless and waited.
She opened her door. "Mom's home already," I heard her say to Amina. "I'm going to have to be really quiet going inside. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"Tell her she was sexy tonight!" Amina said with a high-pitched giggle.
What the fuck! That meant Amina had seen me dance, somehow. And that meant that Rowan had too.
"Oh, shut up. Thanks for the ride!" Rowan said. She closed the car door softly. I watched her wave while Amina backed out of the driveway. Then Rowan headed for the side door.
I hopped out of the company car and slammed the door before Rowan got to our house. She turned and looked at me guiltily. I strode forward.
"Did you see me dance?" I whispered to her.
She raised her hands in surrender, even though she towered over me. (She was wearing heels and I was in flats, which only added to our height difference.) "I just wanted to see you perform, Mom," she answered quietly. "I'm sorry."
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