3 comments/ 16601 views/ 1 favorites Jane's Story Ch. 01 By: clevergirlname Nch nch nch nch nch. The beat blasts a powerful rhythm of a popular, top-40 type of music. Nch Nch Nch Nch. From the entryway the stage is at the furthest wall, about fifteen feet in. It's not a very large room but the white-on-black glittery walkway extends from one end to the other in a straight line. Mirrors stretch the entire length except for the four-foot spread of curtains towards the end; That's the wall that produces the girls, as far as anyone there is concerned. Other than the two feet it takes for the stairs leading to the main floor, there are seats lined all the way down; they are black and have white flecks of glitter. There is only one gold-hued pole, but a video playing on the wall suggests two or three girls at a time is not unusual play on busy nights. This, a Tuesday in the middle of May, is not one of those nights. Only the lonely dancer hears the squeeeeaaak of flesh against metal while she rides the pole between her legs as if it were the winning bull at the rodeo. She's upside-down, her perfectly-painted-red nails wrapped around the pole to support her average frame. Long black curls fall out around her, sweeping the floor below. She slides down to meet those shiny locks, slithering out on the ground in synchrony with the music. All that is between her and the men that surround her is the elevation of the stage and the thin, sapphire-blue fabric spread out across her tits and nether regions. Her barely clothed chest presses to the floor. A round, jiggling ass raises in the air and bump, bump, bumps with the hook of the base. Sweat. Cunt. Window cleaner. Cheap cologne knuckle deep in cheap perfume. It's the kind of scent you still pick up on yourself weeks after you've come to a place like this. The kind of scent that lingers and hangs onto the hair inside your nostrils for weeks, no matter how many times you shower. Some call it Dirty Vanilla. Some call it the scent of desperation. Whatever it is, it's the scent you know your local strip club for. Hands extend towards the stage, dollars waving her, each begging she bring that body in for a closer inspection. Obedient as ever, she crawls on all fours, staring animalistically at the bribes. Between her lips she takes one of the bills - eyeing that paying man hungrily just before the song ends. She stands upright, legs extended by the classic 1" clear platform all strippers seem to own. A mascara coated eyelash accompanies a blue-eyed wink in the mans direction before she begins to sway her hips. He giggles in response, satisfied that the money he vended provided him entertainment. Another song starts - the type of song anyone would know if they heard it because it's familiar and from the early 80's. It's really all the same unless you try to listen, and no one here seems to actually care. That's not what everyone is here for. One hand reaches up and frees her breasts quickly enough to make a highschool boy blush, giant nipples rising in the chill of the air. Wallets flap open in unison around the bar, each eager to pay her the bill that makes the bottoms come off. Most of them frequent the area so they already know what's coming next. She giggles and sashays flirtatiously towards the next man at the stage - he is alone, overweight, and entirely unjudged here. A ten dollar bill is between his shaky fingers. She slithers out of her panties and tosses them aside before climbing down from the stage and straddling the man, completely nude. With her face to the stage she slides her ass down into his lap, reaches to grab his hands, and forces him to take her breasts into his grip. He groans and she can feel the twitch in his pants. She leans her head back and whispers "You're cute." Into his ear before giggling and climbing off of him, certain to take the money with her. With the ease of someone who has done this often, she jumps back onto the stage and resumes her little dance. The man she had just climbed on shifts uncomfortably and looks around to see who is looking at him. All eyes are already back on stage, of course, because they didn't come here to see him. "What -" The front door opens and a man stumbles forward, blindfolded. He wears a pair of blue denim jeans and a light blue flannel shirt. His short black hair is chopped back into something that obviously needs no prepping in the morning. He has about a day and a half's worth of stubble on this Sunday afternoon and a pair of too-white tennis shoes. "Hush," A woman follows closely, her fingers draped over the fabric over the mans eyes. Her opposite hand is on the small of his back. She is dwarfed by his five-foot-nine in her five-feet-maybe form, but the thick grey boots on her feet give her at least some of what nature didn't, raising her just tall enough that she only looks half-clumsy leading this man around. Her hair is brown, cut in layers and mid-length. Her eyes are as dark as brown can be without turning over into the realm of black. She too has on blue denim jeans and a thin, flowery top that drapes off of her right shoulder. A very simple, plain looking girl, with pale pink lips and a freckle on very tip of her nose. "It's a surprise." "I know where we are." He responds too quickly. The bouncer at the front of the club that she's handing her credit card to looks away, the awkward moment hanging heavy in the air. "You do not! What? You bastard." She rips his blindfold off and looks at him, completely aghast. "You've been coming here in your spare time or what?" Although he takes her literal punches without dodging for the most part, he chuckles and puts his hands on her shoulder. "Jane, all strip clubs smell and sound the same - and is that Centerfold playing? Come on." Despite the exasperation in his words, he pokes his finger gently into her rib and has a good laugh at her expense. "Oh." The pinkest of pale blushes sweeps across her cheekbones, witnessed only by the man she is now facing. He responds with a caress to her cheek with the back of her hand. "Well, er..." She shrugs "Happy Birthday?" Before he can respond, she pivots to face the bouncer and snatches the receipt, signing her name quietly and handing it back. The two put their arms out, wrists up, to get their stamp: 'XXX', it says, in a thick, red color, marking them both for their indiscretions. "Jane..." The once blindfolded man wraps his arm around her waist and leads her away from the counter. The blush is still there. "Kevin?" "Thank you. Really. This is going to be fun. I didn't know you were open to exploring these types of places. Do you want to sit close to the stage or further back? You can choose a spot that you feel comfortable in while I get you something to drink." "You're not supposed to be the one doing that tonight. You go find a spot wherever. Close is fine, seriously, I don't mind. Seems like a good idea to be, I don't know, more adventurous? Spontaneous? Whatever, I'll go get a drink for the both of us." Her eyes dart to the stage just in time to see the black-haired dancer disappear down the back opening. Jane notes the heart-shape of her ass and the splotchy brown birthmark there just above the left cheek. . "Allllright," The intercom roars to live, the DJ enthusiastically filling in the voids between the girls from behind his glass wall- what he looks like doesn't matter to the people who come here. "That was Rita, gentlemen... and ladies.." Other than herself, Jane noted she was the only woman, but not until a few stray eyes left the stage to identify the 'ladies' part of the sentence. "She'll be out on the floor if you're lookin' for a dance. Get in quick, though, that one is in high demand! Up next, Jezika!" There is a juice-bar on the right side with napkins and those little red cherries and a menu with names like "Ravish-Me-Raspberry" and "Banana-Ramma-Slamma" that, admittedly, are not ordered very often in lieu of their simply named "Orange Juice" and "Red Bull" counterparts. To the right of the bar is the restroom - ladies on the right white door, gents on the black left door. It is nothing if not perfectly color-coordinated around these parts. Jane fiddles with the menu but doesn't look at it for more than fifteen seconds. "What can I get you, ma'am?" The server is a man with slicked back, dirty-blonde hair and green eyes. He has a very solid, stocky build and looks more like he should be off being a bodyguard instead of serving non-alcoholic drinks in a strip-club. There isn't any alcohol here in this naked California frontier. That's the law. "I think just two cokes..." She answers, distracted, eyes on the new body being presented. Jezika has hair that is red - not orange, red - and straight, thin and cut off just above her tits. Her body is freckled from toe to thigh, from hip to shoulder, from collarbone to forehead. Each mark follows so hurriedly behind the next some of them are even overlapping. What she wears is a creamy white ensemble, a piece of lace that vanishes deep into her crack. Perky pink nipples with barely-there areolas are held back by teeny-tiny strips of stretched fabric. They are a modest B cup but look generous on her super-thin frame. "That'll be four." Again the man brings Jane's eyes back to him, this time setting the drinks before her. She fishes in her purse and pushes a twenty in his direction. He takes it and holds it up to the light wherein he considers it for ten to fifteen seconds. Into the register it goes and out comes a little wad of cash, "That's five, six, seven..." the words become more silent at this point but the counting is still happening in the palm of her hand. He reaches twenty, all in one dollar bills. "Have fun." "Thanks." She leaves one on the bar and grabs the two drinks, seeking out the man that she'd brought with her, now beside the stage. He smiles delightedly, kisses her cheek, and looks back to the red-haired center of attention. Jane watches curiously while the temptress wiggles and writhes to the new playlist. It's something by Britney Spears or Pussycat Dolls and who gives a fuck because the scent of musk and baby powder is all at once in Jane's face and Kevin is eagerly dolling dollars from his womans hand to the other woman's g-string to keep the party going, as it were. The woman leans towards Jane, their mutually soft cheeks warmly pressing together. "Ooooh... Mmmmm, sexy woman," Purrs the dancer into Jane's ear, her voice a sultry whisper. A shy, unsure giggle escapes Jane's nervous lips, her arms stiff and fingers spread wide beside her because she doesn't know what to do with her hands. "I'm Jezika." When she says it she draws the 'z' out into the soft flesh of the small woman's lobe. When the barely clothed woman withdraws she drags her lips along Jane's cheek, ending just at the corner of her mouth. It tastes like wrigleys spearmint and something Jane doesn't recognize. "Find me on the floor for a dance." She turns towards Kevin, "I will show you both a good time for the price of one." When she uprights herself and crawls away from the two of them, Kevin turns towards Jane with a suggestive look. She responds with what is perhaps the brightest blush he's ever seen in her and shakes her head quickly back and forth; no. There was no way that was going to happen. When he laughs, she wrinkles her nose at him and stands up, "I'm going to the restroom. I'll be back." He laughs again and takes a sip from his coke before redirecting his gaze to Jezika. A row of lights on the carpet dimly show her a path to the ladies room to the other side of the bar. As soon as she enters the brightly lit room she goes immediately to the sink and runs the water over her hands, splashing the cool liquid on her face. The mirror returns her own uncertain stair, her overheated body met by a confused mind as to why she had such a remarkable response to the whole ordeal. While she's staring at her own reflection she sees the door swing open again and to her surprise it's Kevin standing there. "You're not supposed to b-" The words stop just as quickly as they come. Kevin is on top of her in only a few strides, his lips forcefully pushing, his arms holding her pressed to his broad chest. He walks her backwards, strong-arming her into a stall just as his tongue penetrates her protesting mouth. While the initial shock begins to wear off, she stops protesting so much and begins to melt into his arms. Before any protests can be made he presses her gently against the wall and stares into her eyes while he unbuttons her jeans. His movements are purposefully slow, exaggerated, his eyes never leaving hers. He is gentle, intimate, sweet. It's as if they have all the time in the world together. As if they were in the confines of their own comfortable home instead of a dirty public bathroom. When her body is half naked before him he stands before her and looks her over from navel to toes, seeming to worship her with his eyes. There is a mole here and a freckle there between mostly tanned skin, but all along her hips stark white lines jump out, stretch-marks charting their own paths on her body. A dark patch of hair is delicately trimmed and cared for, sitting there atop her mound like a proudly tended patch of grass. He looks at her like she's perfect. Fumbling fingers clumsily pull at the buttons on his chest, her hands almost desperate to release him to her. She gets a few buttons from the top of his shirt and slides her hands in, running them through the thick hair. As soon as the tips of her fingers graze his skin she is met by a touch, but a single finger is prodding gently at her clit, developing a circular motion in the flesh there, pressure increasing with each passing second. All around the piece of fleshy nerve endings he dances his hand, touching and teasing and making her knees quiver. Just as she is about to go over the edge, he stops. Like a hungry animal he unzips his pants and swoops her up into his arms, holding her half-clothed to the unyielding wall behind her. All at once his achingly hard, uncircumsized cock glides all the way into her warmth wetness. He looks at her wide-eyed and she looks away shyly knowing he hadn't expected her to be so wet for him with the little bit of play they'd had. The two of them merging makes a sloppy, sticky noise and she knows she was even more ready than he, and it was he who assaulted her. Obviously something else or someone else had triggered this in her, and he assumes it was either him or the other girl. Either way, this revelation and invitation of velvety warmth makes his cock grow thicker inside of her so that she can feel each ridge and each vein from engorged head to base. Each pump is at the same rhythm as the last, no faster, no slower, a perfect momentum met by obvious years of practice together. Her moans and grunts are muffled to the best of her ability, but the twitches and trembles of her sweaty body do not deny he knows all of the spots to hit. Her fingers are wrapped around his tight rear, each thrust flexing the muscle there and around his hips. She grips harder, loving the feel of his tensing in her palms. Gentle lips trace the curves of her neck as she leans her head back, his tongue flicking at that spot just behind the jaw, just below the earlobe. She cries out, despite herself. Every jerk of his hips pounds him into her teased, swollen clit, every withdraw a tease to everything inside of her. Kegels tighten as if her body might grab him and suck him dry. The intensity of his withdrawal during her contracting makes her come fast and hard and unexpectedly, her body rocking back so her head smacks the tile. Her right foot jerks out instead and kicks the bathroom stall open by reflex. Through orgasm-tinted eyes and what may or may not be a minor head injury she squints through the opening to see there is another person in the room. It is the woman who was leaving the stage just as they'd arrived. She recognizes the long, curly hair. It all happens within seconds but she swears to herself that she sees the woman holding the underside of her own breast, massaging the tissue there. She swears she sees her rolling a dark nipple between thumb and finger, twisting it into a thicker, harder form. The door slams shut again, gravity doing what it does best. Kevin, unawares of the events, begins to sweat and tremble as he continues to hold her up. The familiar swelling and spasming of his penis makes her roll her head back again, coming for a second time just as he releases his load into her. His weight falls into her so she is pressed there, held between him and the wall. She breathes heavily and wraps her arm around him, the other habitually playing with his hair. She stares at the bathroom door. She wants to tell him what she witnessed. She wants to tell him she knows someone was watching them. Instead, for reasons beyond her own comprehension, she decides not to tell him anything at all. "We smell like sex. Let's go home and do it again." He tells her, releasing his weight so she droops down, feet flat on the floor. Hesitantly she gets dressed, still wondering as they exit the room together, clearly unafraid of being caught at this point. The tender notices, but he only grins and goes back to cleaning his work area. "It's your birthday - we can do whatever you want." The two of them walk hand-in-hand towards the exit, but because she can't help herself she looks back on her way out. Just as she begins to think she imagined what she saw earlier, she sees her again. There, across the room, the woman in blue sips from a straw and watches, unwavering, as the couple goes. One hand raises, fingertips waving a 'goodbye' to Jane before Kevin's hand pulls her back out into the real world. Jane's Story Ch. 02 In a small apartment with a bedroom and a bathroom and a closet and a mattress there lives a couple. The walls are white and there are paintings strewn about on them. Each is of something different - a dragon, a bird, a skull, a flower. Each is drawn by the same person and has 'K.H.' artsily scribbled into the right hand corner. Their King size bed takes up a majority of the room in which they lay naked, tangled in each others arms. The sheets are in disarray and there are socks and bras and inside-out-panties-still-attached jeans tossed about carelessly between the entry and where they are now. Obviously there were still parties to be had when they left the club last night. He is asleep and she is watching him, a half smile all the while. When she looks at him, it makes her heart swell and sing and do the silly things they sing about in love songs. When he touches her skin-on-skin it feels like the most amazing thing in the world. A photograph on the nightstand beside her shows a story of the bride and a groom a couple of years hence. The two in the image have that proverbial sparkle in the eye and seem to be unable to take their gazes yes off one another. She looks at him that way now while he lays atop her. He stirs when she moves out from under him, though she's as gentle as she can be. She almost fully escapes but he catches her. With a sleepy flop of his arm he swings his hand up on her hip. She turns to face him so that she is curled up on her side. His large hands fit well around her curves. He lifts his hand and traces her stretch-marks with the pads of his fingers. He smiles a comfortable and smug smile; the way a boy smiles when he has earned a great prize, all the while keeping his eyes closed. Her body is clearly committed to his memory. It is but a roadmap ingrained in his head, his tongue, the tips of his fingers, and his sweet, sweet cock; Notably, that also stirs a bit when he touches her. She doesn't want to wake him. She lays still. When his arm goes slack again and his breathing becomes relaxed she easily slides out from under his hand and rolls off the edge of the mattress. There's no frame between it and floor so the drop to the hardwood floor is an easy one. She puts on her white cotton, above-the-knee length robe. There are cherries printed on the edges of the pockets and the lining of the opening; The dark reds match her perfectly manicured toenails exactly. Quietly, she tiptoes over and opens the sliding glass door to stride out onto the deck. The air is foggy and chilled at 6am in San Francisco no matter what time of year it is. It makes her hug her own body for warmth. Responsive ripples across naked flesh rise up as goosebumps. The balcony is a good enough size for the city: about eight feet by eight feet, white-painted wood that overlooks the streets below by three exact matching floors. This leaves two identical above their unit for a total of five, for the sake of imagery. There is a little table, round and perfect for two people. That's where Jane finds the cigarette and lighter she'd come out here for. The plastic on the outside is wet from the dew, the edges of the pack starting to fall apart from the moisture. She shakes it off and opens the top with a flick of her wrist, one of the two remaining sticks bouncing towards her waiting hand. There are two chairs out here; they're the type of chairs one brings camping or fishing with them, cheap and made from a material that promises strength and delivers a comical performance of people falling straight through the sun and weight worn center one day. If all pans out well, it will be one of your guests in them as it tends to be. There are drink holders fashioned perfectly into the shapes of a 12oz can at either end of the armrests and a mesh backing for leaning back into. You know exactly what kind of chair it is. Jane? Well, she's up against the rail of the porch facing away from her home, cars zipping by below unawares of her presence. She lights a cigarette and takes a couple of drags. With the smoke-stick between her lips she leans over and looks down towards the street with a sigh. There's obviously a lot on her mind. It's not them she's paying attention to either. If you must know, she's thinking about last night in the bathroom, and wouldn't you be if it were you? Though she and Kevin had fucked for merciless hours the night prior, all she can think of is the ebony locks on the strange woman and her exposed breast. How she'd cupped her own bosom as if to say come, come suck this tit that I hold exposed for you. Those eyes, that skin, that backside as the woman had sauntered off stage... Even as she thinks about it now, she can't help but wander her adventurously free hand downward into the folds of her own robe. She takes another drag, stopping only briefly to savor the smoke rolling over her tongue. Her hand is halfway down her breast, the open robe exposing her erected flesh to the stinging oceanside breeze. Under the thin cotton fabric she catches her own surprisingly hard nipple and squeezes it, rolling it back and forth between thumb and finger. It swells larger in response and sends pangs into her groin, all of her body sensitive and tender from being suckled and screwed the night before. The smallest of touches make her rock her hips and sway her body needily. Although she has just left the naked Kevin in their bed only moments ago, he is not on her mind here and now. Though her own husband is clearly eager to appease her desires, it isn't he who she is getting wet for this time. She eases her hands down the length of her stomach; past that patch of well-groomed, barely-there hair. Her own fingers rub familiar, knowing circles into her own agonizing pleasure nub. The tissue there is sore and abused from the lashings of Kevin's poking and prodding. He always performs gently with her, but even gentle sex causes chafing and swelling when you act on it for long enough at a time. Still, just as she knew it would her clit responds to its masters intentions. With eyes closed she thinks about what would have happened if she'd have called the woman out on the tom-peeping when she saw her. If she had just stopped the festivities of their fornication for but a second to point out to her husband. Maybe, she thinks now, Rita might have wanted to join in. She imagines what it would be like to have a womans tongue replacing her fingers now with a warm, satiny touch. She wonders how soft the woman's skin is, and if she can make her squirm like she can for herself. What would her fingers feel like if they touched her here? Would they be equally soft or are they textured, calloused from working the pole at the club? Even when she imagines Rita running her hands up and down the pole it causes a wild tinge in Janes vulva. Before she knows she is standing there soaked and her groin is on fire, her twat throbbing painfully. There is then and only then a sense of awareness in her that she may be caught at any minute by the people below or one of the neighbors. When this thought occurs, instead of withdrawing, she jams her finger deep into herself all the way to the last knuckle. The liquid-wet sucks her inside thirstily and admits a second finger the same. Suddenly she is the Rita to her own story, ready and willing to be caught though all she has to look at is a memory of her own concoction. It is all she can do to hold herself up with her elbow on the rail and wobbly knees, her cigarette still clenched tightly in the free hand. There she is on the end of the porch and she's rubbing suddenly and fiercely away at already engorged skin, fucking herself with wild abandon in the middle of the morning. Her breath is quickening, quivering while she imagines that black hair running over her own naked body, lost between moist crevices, tickling and teasing and oh! What would it smell like? She inadvertently moans loudly at the very thought and has to look back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn't woken Kevin. He is still there sleeping, face up now, sprawled out across the bed. The sheets are tangled around his thigh. She believes that his body is the most beautiful thing on earth when she looks at it, and she thinks he's the most amazing man in the world, so she can't for the life of her understand why she can't get that woman's face out of her head. She can't understand why she can't tell him, either, but she feels almost guilty about her own uncertainties. She's still in there inside herself with what has become three fingers, sopping wet and on every literal edge she could be on. Now she's facing him and her thumb is stroking gently at her own clit while her fingers probe her insides. Treacherously distracted from her thoughts of Rita by that which is he and her own fears, her hand withdraws despite the cries for release. If cunts cried, hers was singing an operatic tale of abandonment then, of hellfire and hatred and a wanton desire that simply was not being purged. She brings her fingers to her nose and takes a deep breath, wondering once again about Rita's scents and tastes. Again she sighs, wipes her fingers on the inside of her robe, smashes her cigarette into the ashtray and walks back inside. Once in she comes to the side of the bed and lets her robe fall in a pile on the floor at her feet. Like a feral cat she crawls across the sheets, ready to pounce on her unaware prey. Lips on his ankles, he doesn't move. Up his leg she moves, kissing her way up a path that does not wake him up. Further north she ventures and sure enough, when she reaches his prick there is finally some response, but it is only there and it is only half attentive yet. An ambitious tongue ventures to where testicles and shaft meet, sinking slippery saliva into the soft skin. Up, up, up she goes towards with that slick muscle, the underside of her tongue swirling along while she watches his face for response. His eyelashes flitter and his rod rises like a cobra to its charmers song. More pressure is added to the frenum, more concentration, but it is the long "Mmmmmm... uuuuuuuhhhhh..." uttered by a cock-filled-mouth that returns him to her. His hand comes to rest atop her hair. His groans mirror her hums. The more awake he is, the more eager her tongue searches and her mouth sucks him in. One hand lets fingers wander, edging back and forth gently between his sac and his taint. The other hand grabs his shaft at the base and holds the skin there tight to expose a myriad of nerve endings. He is a bit red and raw from their evening as well. Slowly she guides him back into her mouth but to the right, carefully past her teeth, pressing his tip into the soft warmth of the inside of her cheek. Then, to the other side, letting him stroke the heated crevices inside of her mouth with his tip before sucking him deep into the back of her throat. That wakes him up. He reaches out with his eyes still closed and pulls her towards him so she sits astride him. It doesn't take words between them anymore; Nor does it take him opening his eyes more than halfway. He grins and closes them again. Obediently she climbs atop him and lets his giant prick slip easily into her tight but readied pussy. All the way to the hilt she grinds and it makes him moan loudly. "Ooooh... I love you. You are the most beautiful and perfect girl in the world." He half says, half cries out in pleasure throes. It makes her blush every time he says it, even if he's saying it while she's riding him and shyness should be thrown out the window. Her tits bob and she looks away. He draws her attentions back with his thumb on her clit, "I love you." More firmly and with open, demanding eyes. "I love y-...mmm...." The sweet spot is found when she leans towards him and her response is ccut off. The perfect arc rubs the aroused g-spot, each stroke of his swollen corona pressing against her wall. "Yes, yes, fuck yes baby!" When she starts to lose her rhythm from her own upcoming orgasm he grabs her knowingly by the hips and force rocks her up and down his cock. Her tits flop around wildly, her swollen bud is caught between the two of them and the repeated ramming. They are both treated to hot wet when her juices flow, her jerking body slamming up and down into an orgasm that makes her press her body into his. She clings to him with all of her strength, her body spasming while she cries out in ecstasy. Like all lovers do in the best of stories he comes with her, but he really couldn't help it with her bucking around up there like she's in heat. The two of them lay there, unable to do anything but tremble, breathe, and come a few more drops into each others bodies. "Come shower with me." There is little to no talk when the two are under the steam and water. Instead, there are gentle caresses, each taking great care and patience in washing one another. Wherever the water rushes the suds away he places his lips on the area and gently kisses her flesh. When she washes his shaft she massages him from tip to taint with both hands, thoroughly stroking him clean. It's their own ritual, this romantic shower-dance. Their hands run soapy fingers under toes, over legs, between cracks and behind ears. When the two of them are clean, he gets dressed and says his goodbyes. She packs his lunch and promises kisses upon his return. Then, she is alone. With a cup of tea in hand she sits in front of her computer, waving the mouse to wake up her virtual home away from home. A click-click pops up an Excel spreadsheet, half a dozen numbers splayed out onto the screen. She sighs and picks up a piece of paper from the right side of the desk, keying in only one or two more columns before stopping. Click-click, another window pops up. This time it's a browser window and at the top right she sets the cursor, typing slow and precisely: "L-O-V-E-S-H" before the search Engine auto-populates the results. She clicks "Love Shaft" and yields a front page: "Welcome to The Love Shaft: A Gentlemen's Club. We are located on Broadway in San Francisco, California. Hours are 12pm-3am. Weekly Deals, Monthly Guests. Sunday is Amatuer Night. Win extra cash! Dancers Needed; 18+ Enter!" There is other random garble about being of a proper age. Of course she clicks the link, where she is taken to a land of 18+ and a realm of "The Girls". They are all made-up and wearing high shoes and barely there clothing. Predictably, some of them have their tops replaced with their hands or arms or their naked backs turned to the camera so they can do the coy over-the-shoulder glance. Everyone is an actor with a tale to tell. She without a doubt recognizes Rita and Jezika amongst the eight girls. She stares at the picture of the black-haired stranger, wondering once again why she had been watching, or, more importantly, why Jane thought it fit to keep their tiny rendezvous a secret. She is equally wondering over how horny she feels about it all while her husbands seed is still freshly dropping between her thighs. Rita is on rotation soon, so says the magical screen of knowing. Jane slams down the cover of her laptop, stares at nothing for too long in thought, then reaches her resolution gets up and walks to her closet. Along the way she drops her robe again and stares her hanging clothes in completely naked contemplation. Various things are sorted through, tossed aside and neglected for the next. Every once and awhile she finds a top and tries it on. This entails pulling the fabric over her braless tits, sauntering back and forth and side-to-side in front of a full length mirror wearing only that, then groaning and dropping that article on the floor. If you ask Jane, she will tell you that her thighs are too large because she doesn't have that gap in the middle. She will tell you she hates how her skin wrinkles up like an orange peel in some areas. That her tits do not stand proud enough and her nipples are too large. That one boob is larger than the other and her feet are too wide and her nose slopes too far and her chin is too profound. Like many women, she believes herself to be a hundred times ridiculously flawed. Although the jagged marks of her stretched skin are visible in the light and there are patches of cellulite on the backs of her thighs, and though there are occasional patches of red or white depending on the rash and the mood of the skin, she is not so easily judged by others. Her figure is hour-glass like, narrow and thin and flat at the waist, swollen goddess-like at the hips and breasts, and ample enough in the ass for a good gripping. In the end, she slinks into a knee length red dress. She seems awkward in it, like she isn't used to wearing the type of thing, and she isn't. It is loose at the waist and cotton and pretty - more summery than sexy, but it has appeal in the way it curves over her tits up top. If she turns fast enough, a flash of milky white thigh is visible beneath the dark material. This combined with a pair of sandals because gods forbid she have a pair of heels. "What are you doing, Jane?" To an empty room to her own reflection she asks this question. It's when her lips are pursed and she's carefully applying lipstick. There is mascara and eyeliner and a touch of blush. It's all very gentle and natural and daytime like, but she realizes now she's dolling herself up to go to a strip club in the middle of the day. Personal observations not enough to stop anyone from a grand adventure, she slams the door behind herself on the way out.