San Diego is a Navy town, and, like most military and many college towns, it has its share of strip clubs. I was there on a business trip, and I needed some R&R, so I browsed through the phone book. There’s a chain of clubs that, like some hotel groups, seems to deliver a fairly consistent product across the country within the vagaries of local ordinances; I picked one of the chain’s locations in San Diego by the simple expedient of being able to find its street on my Hertz map of the city.

I’m happily married, and I visit such establishments when I travel on business not to get laid but to pass some otherwise very lonely time. I watch the girls dance, I buy a few drinks for some of them, and I try to strike up intelligent conversations. The latter is not particularly difficult, in this or other clubs I’ve visited; a few of the dancers fit the definition of vapid, but most of them are quite bright and some are students earning their way through college.

This club is set up much like some others in its chain, small round tables with barely-padded chairs surround three sides of a stage that’s backed by a mirrored wall. There’s a row of more comfortable chairs on casters close to the stage, separated from it by a walkway and a narrow shelf to support drinks and ashtrays. On the stage there are four floor-to-rafters brass poles in a narrow diamond pattern; the center two, about four feet apart, are connected by a horizontal pole section set seven feet off the deck of the stage.

Around the other three walls of the room, up a couple of steps from the main floor, are partially partitioned areas with couch-like seating and painted plywood boxes that have brass poles rising from their tops to the ceiling. Those boxes are six feet from their corresponding couches, and there’s that walkway between the stage and the closest seats for the same reason. Aside from the constraint, universal in California and rapidly spreading across the country, that nudity equals no alcohol in such clubs, the local law in San Diego is that the dancers, when exposing even as much skin as one would see at the beach, must be at least six feet from their customers. When doing a non-nude couch dance, known in some places as a lap dance, a girl can brush her hands or body against or otherwise touch a customer, but the converse is absolutely verboten. These San Diego clubs are paranoid about losing their licenses, and touching the girls is a surefire way for a customer to get himself bounced.

The financial arrangements between the dancers and the club are interesting. In addition to shelling out $100 each year for an entertainer’s license, the girls not only do not get a paycheck, they have to pay the club a certain amount each shift for the privilege of working there. They get to keep their dance tips and most of the money paid to buy them drinks, but the club takes a slice of each personal-dance fee and the girls are expected to tip the waitresses who hustle drinks for them.

The Beach Boys got it right, though; California girls are special. While this club has a sprinkling of thunder-thighs and pneumatic centerfold candidates, the mix differs from what I’ve seen in most places around the country; the majority of the dancers here are slender, firmly-toned hard-bodies. Regardless of shape, the girls all look and smell fresh and clean; a concession to sell razor blades, body powder, fragrances, and cosmetics in the club would be worth a fortune. Some of them dance to slow songs, while others choose more up-tempo cuts, but the end result is the same, an impressive display of luscious young female flesh for an overwhelmingly male audience.

Just as in any random sample of 30 people the odds are better than 50-50 that two of them have the same birthday, the chances are that among the women working in a strip club there is at least one who is kinked the way I am. I like to discuss experiences, my own and those of others, with people who share my special interests, and occasionally I get lucky. Some dancers advertise their orientations, and I thought things might be looking up when a girl mounted the stage wearing a spiked collar. After she had danced her way down to the bare essentials, she was wearing the collar, high heels, and a set of chain-connected, tweezers-type nipple clamps. I tipped her as she left the stage, and when she came out of the dressing room after rearranging her clothes I invited her to join me for a drink. Initial appearances can be misleading, and I’ve found it’s always a good idea to proceed with caution.

“You were wearing some interesting adornments. Are they for real, or just for show?”

“Oh, they’re for real,” she said. “Do you play?”

Nothing subtle here, I thought, but I never hesitate to make my situation known. “My wife and I both play,” I told her. “How long have you been in the scene?”

“A couple of years,” she replied. “I started when I was 16.”

Then I fell into the first-impression trap. “Do you have a regular top?”

“I used to bottom,” she said with a smile, “but I just top now. I’m thinking of becoming a pro Domme. Which way do you play?”

This 18-year-old with visions of sugar-plum dollar-signs still has a few things to learn, I thought to myself. Like the fact that collars are a symbol of submission, and Dominants who understand what they’re into don’t wear them. “I top,” I said dryly. Now that we had ruled out any possibility of mutual play-interest, we continued to chat about various aspects of D/s and the state of the scene community in San Diego.

Each DJ at the club is a combination of a music-and-lights controller and a carnival barker, with a line of patter exhorting patrons to avail themselves of the various semi-private dance options, each of which, needless to say, has a price tag. I had pretty much tuned out the current one’s pitch until something changed in his tone and I found myself drawn back into the larger surroundings.

“And now,” he announced with a heightened vocal fervor, “the 1995 showgirl of the year …” I perked up a bit. In a place like this, I thought, the showgirl of the year, even from a couple of years ago, should be worth a look. “… and the 1996 and 1997 Po’Lympics champion …” What the fuck is a Po’Lympics? But I had no time to puzzle that out, “… this is …” a long dramatic pause, then, in a voice lowered half an octave in pitch and reduced to a hoarse whisper, “… Tabitha!”

I watched a slim woman stride confidently up onto the stage on open-toe mules with five-inch spike heels, and I knew instantly that Tabitha was as different from the other dancers as night from day. Blonde hair a shoulder-length shag rather than a mane, disdaining a lingerie-style outfit in favor of a short, shimmery dress, older, more mature, and totally comfortable in her milieu, Tabitha moved with a poised, vibrant energy. She quickly demonstrated, with feline grace and lithe athleticism, what the term Po’Lympics meant; some girls had used the brass poles as occasional dance props, but for Tabitha they were erotic weapons. Her charismatic blend of bold sauciness and sinuous sensuality was bewitching; she made the other dancers appear to have been sleepwalking through their routines. The ambient tension had suddenly become electric; conversations died, and I sensed the atmospheric change as her animal magnetism grabbed and held the focus of every person in the room, dancers and customers alike.

Five breathtaking minutes later, Tabitha slipped back into her dress, came down off the stage, circled the walkway collecting tips, and headed for the dancers’ dressing room. I pushed my heart back down from my throat by sheer will-power, sipped from my coke, and tried to redirect my thoughts by asking the Domme wannabe still seated beside me, “Do you know if any of the girls working here bottom?”

“There are a few.” She identified one dancer as a life-long submissive, suggested another as a possible about whom she had heard a few idle comments, and then she blew me completely away when she said, “… and Tabitha, from time to time.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Tabitha? Tabitha bottoms?”

“That’s right,” she confirmed, and I discovered that the minimum time needed for the mind to transform a mild vanilla attraction into a raging D/s-bdsm fantasy can be too short to measure with anything less precise than an atomic clock.

One of the waitresses approached to ask if I wanted to buy the collared lady another drink, and when I shook my head absently both of them left to prowl the rest of the room. Tabitha’s performance had apparently been a high point for many of the customers, because quite a few left immediately afterwards and the place had quieted down considerably.

When Tabitha came out of the dressing room, I offered to buy her a drink and she sat down beside me. She drank coffee as we talked, and I learned some things about her, including her age and the fact that she had a three-year-old daughter. Eventually, I turned our conversation in the direction of my fantasies.

“I understand you sometimes bottom,” I said as casually as I could manage.

Tabitha nodded her head. “I love a good flogging. The endorphins cut in and I just drift away; I have no idea where I am or what’s happening around me.”

We talked about different kinds of play, she shared a couple of her previous experiences, and we discussed creative ways to avoid, for obvious reasons, marking her during a scene. I had no idea where the conversation might end up, but I do have one unusual method of putting prospective play-partners at ease and I didn’t hesitate to try it. “I write scene stories,” I told her. “Would you be interested in reading some of them?”

“Sure,” she replied. “I like to read, but I haven’t been able to find much along those lines.”

“Wait here,” I said, “I’ll be right back.” I went out to my rental car, grabbed a 9"x12" manila envelope from my briefcase, and was back inside in less than a minute. As I handed her the envelope, I explained, “Both of these stories are reality-based. One’s a first-meeting tale, and the other’s a scene I did with my wife last August.”

Tabitha surprised me by opening the envelope, pulling out the pages, and starting to read. She quickly became absorbed, and I could tell from her reactions, which were a fascinating mixture of facial expressions, non-verbal sounds, and body language, that she was relating to the female narrator-character of my first-meeting story. After a few minutes, I told her I had written that story prior to the actual meeting, sent the first part of it to the lady involved as a way of reassuring her that I understood her fears and concerns, and eventually used the rest of it as my script for the scene.

“You didn’t tell me that before,” she said. The look she gave me was brief but intense; when she turned back to her reading, I sensed that I had somehow grown in stature in her eyes as a result of the insights into the female submissive head-space I’d expressed in my writing. Shortly thereafter, she stopped reading and put the stories back in the envelope. I looked at her questioningly, and she said, “I’ll finish reading it later, at home. I’m getting to the good part now.” I had to chuckle at that; she had gotten past the build-up to the actual first-meeting scene, and it was apparently starting to turn her on.

While we’d been talking and then sitting together while she read, a few more customers had drifted in, and I wanted to spend more time with her before she had to start circulating through the crowd. One of the more interesting features of this particular club is that a customer can ‘rent’ a dancer for a half-hour of relatively private interaction. All within the rules, of course, but there’s a back room with a small stage at the requisite distance for nude dancing, comfortable leather couches for lap dances, and lower volume from the sound system to facilitate dialogue. When I told Tabitha I wanted a half-hour rental, her response gave me a warm feeling.

“I don’t like to do that when the club is busy,” she told me. “The price for half an hour is equivalent to four couch dances, and I can usually make more in the time of 10 to 12 songs out here, but for you I’ll do it. Let’s go.” She took my hand and led me to the VIP Room, then stepped back out briefly to inform the on-duty manager of the arrangement. When she returned, one of the waitresses was following her, and I agreed to freshen both our drinks. Tabitha pointed out her favorite couch, and she sat on the edge of the stage across from me while we waited for the drinks. We were the only people in the room, and we continued our conversation on a variety of topics. Time passed, and after about 20 minutes she asked if I wanted her to dance for me, and if so, how.

I’d not yet seen Tabitha do a couch dance, and I was eagerly anticipating the experience, but I had been sitting a long way from the stage and my eyesight is not the greatest. “I’d like you to dance nude for one song,” I told her, “so I can see all of your beauty up close. Then you have to get dressed again, because I want to be even closer to you.” How corny can you get? I told myself. Still, her smile looks awfully genuine; under the circumstances, perhaps she can accept sincere, non-drooling flattery as a compliment.

Beauty is in the eyes and the mind of the beholder, and I won’t even attempt to describe how beautiful Tabitha looked to me as she stepped onto that small stage and started to move in a slow, sensual way. The dancer out on the main stage who had selected the next song unwittingly cooperated; the music was a soft, gentle ballad that was just what my fantasy needed. Tabitha teasingly lifted her skirt for just a moment, flashing the thong she wore underneath, then made love to that brass pole in a way that made me achingly aware of my fantasy desire.

When she whisked the dress up and off over her head, I saw for the first time that Tabitha had more than just a tongue piercing; there was a delicate silver dumbbell at the base of her semi-erect left nipple. She turned her back, bending over to waggle her firm behind at me, and slowly slid the thong down over her sleek thighs and shapely calves. When she gracefully collapsed onto the stage and opened her legs in a startlingly shy-like manner, I caught sight of a second delightful surprise, a tiny gold ring at the midpoint of her left inner labium. I leaned forward, straining to memorize every line, every curve, every square inch of her body.

After that song ended, she dressed quickly. I sat back on the couch and removed my glasses, setting them aside; I knew I wouldn’t need them for what was about to happen. I confess that I remember few details of her physical movements during one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve ever had. My most vivid recollections are of her face, so close that I could count the tiny pores in her skin; her bright blue eyes, gleaming with the inner knowledge of the gift she was bestowing by her presence; her hair, brushing lightly along my arm as she changed positions across my lap; her lips, moist and oh-so-kissable with their bright pink gloss; and the heady ambrosia that is the scent of a woman who is keenly aware of her own sexuality.

*

Tabitha had told me she would be working on a specific night a few days in the future, and I’d been sitting in the club for about an hour when she arrived just after ten that evening. She came directly to where I was sitting; I rose to greet her, and she offered her cheek for a quick kiss.

“I’ve had a few drinks,” she confided. “Would you order a coffee for me? I’ve got to do a couple of things, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I finished reading your stories.”

There was alcohol on her breath, not overpowering but noticeable. “Did they work for you?”

I swear I saw a hint of a blush in her cheeks. “Definitely,” she told me, then headed for the area where the dancers’ dressing room and club office are located.

I caught occasional glimpses of her as she moved about that area, and I became concerned when she did not return. The DJ started to announce her as the next dancer, then broke off and quickly covered when he realized she was not standing by the stage ready to perform. I motioned to one of the club managers, using the rapidly cooling coffee on the table before me as my reason for inquiring.

“Is Tabitha all right? She asked me to order her a coffee, but she’s been in the back for quite a while.”

After giving me a quick eye-flickering checkout, he assured me that she would be right out. Then he headed for the club office, and a few minutes later Tabitha walked over and sat down next to me with a bit of a sheepish expression.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“I’m fine,” she replied, “but I don’t really feel like getting up on that stage tonight.”

I wasn’t sure whether I really believed the first part of her response; alcohol can affect people in lots of different ways. Nevertheless, she clearly wasn’t completely under the influence, and if the second part of what she said was true, I was possibly in luck. “How about going in the back room?” I asked her.

“Sure, let’s do that,” she replied, and she sounded happy that I had suggested it. In the brighter lighting of that space, more like a well-lit living room, I saw that her skin, a light golden tan only a few days earlier, was bright red; she had, she whispered, spent too long in the club’s tanning bed. Then Tabitha was stretched out across my lap on her tummy, her pert bottom tilted up, moving slowly in time with the music. I was again enjoying that up-close view of her undulating body when she put her lips next to my ear and whispered, “Do something a little bit naughty.”

I was stunned. Fantasy was one thing, but she was inviting me to touch her. As discreetly as possible, I moved my left hand and slid my fingertips up the soft surface of her thigh; her skin was hot from the sunburn and as smooth as a baby’s behind. As my hand moved past the crease where her thigh joined her buttock, I felt her press upward against my palm. Emboldened, I raised my hand a few inches and then brought it down, lightly but smartly, across the sweet spot of her left ass cheek.

“Aaahhhmmm.” It was halfway between a hum and a moan, and as I glanced down and to the right I saw her eyes close and her lips part. I swatted her again, then continued in a slow, steady rhythm, and each time my hand landed she writhed on my lap and made little throaty sounds that seemed part contentment and part arousal.

After about a minute, she raised her head and shifted position, rolling slightly away from me so her left hip was cradled by the tops of my legs. “We have to be careful not to get caught,” she whispered. “I want to be totally submissive right now. We can go into one of the corner booths, but we still need to be careful.”

“I’d rather go someplace where we won’t be concerned about that,” I told her. “I didn’t bring any of my toys on this trip, but I’m sure I can figure something out.”

She thought about what I’d said for an endless moment, and I was pretty sure she would decline my suggestion. But then she nodded and said, “Okay, and you can fuck me, but if you want to do my ass you have to go slowly and use plenty of lube.”

“I won’t fuck you,” I told her firmly. “That’s not what this is about.”

She nodded again. “Let me make some arrangements.” She handed me a paper coaster and a pen. “Write down where you’re staying and directions; I’ll be right back. Can you give me cab fare?”

“Of course,” I replied, well aware of the need for discretion; it wouldn’t do for the two of us to be seen leaving the club together. I scribbled the name of the hotel, my room number, and sketchy directions; the hotel was right along one of the major area freeways. Then I took a 20 out of my wallet and folded the coaster around it, and when she returned, I handed it to her.

She glanced quickly at what I’d written, then said, “I have to make a safe call in two hours. You go ahead, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” I told her.

I left the club and drove the few miles to my hotel. Rather than take the time to go up to my room and possibly not be downstairs when she arrived, I took my briefcase and sat in the deserted hotel lobby. I pulled out the paperback I’d been reading during lunches and at other odd times; it was, by a marvelous coincidence, The Loving Dominant by John Warren.

Precisely at one o’clock, a cab pulled up under the hotel portico, and I stood as she got out and walked toward the doors dressed in a V-neck pullover sweater, hip-hugging slacks, and high-heeled ankle-strap sandals. The hotel bar was closed, so we couldn’t stop for the glass of wine she suggested. I offered her my arm, which she took, and we reviewed the safewords we would use as we headed for the elevators. Tabitha appeared to be a little nervous, and her next words confirmed my perception.

“I’ve never done this kind of scene before with someone I just met,” she said.

“I understand, and I know you’re feeling a little tense right now. Despite the safe-call arrangement, you’re taking a real risk, and my telling you that you’re perfectly safe doesn’t do much to reassure you. So we’ll start very slowly and see what happens. How long since you’ve had sex?”

“Three or four weeks, I guess.”

“That’s quite a while,” I ventured. “Surely you’ve done yourself during that time.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the same.”

We were in the elevator by then, and I opened my arms and waited for her to step into them. I hugged her, careful to not press her too tightly, and she seemed to relax a little. I released her as the car neared my floor, and she stepped back with an audible sigh. One milestone passed, I thought. Easy does it. We walked side by side down the hall; I fished the electronic key out of my wallet, opened the door, reached for the light switch just inside, and motioned for her to precede me. We stood at the foot of the bed, facing each other.

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked.

“Sir will be fine,” I replied.

“I’ve never called anyone Sir. Is it okay if I call you Daddy, and I’m your little girl?”

My thoughts raced. That’s an interesting fantasy she has. Given the difference in our ages, it could be a pretty realistic one. “Sure, you can call me that if you like.”

She got immediately into her fantasy head-space. “I’ve been good, Daddy.”

“I don’t know about that, little girl. You were naughty back at the club; I think you need to be punished.”

“No, no, Daddy, I’ve been good,” she protested, completely in character for the role she was playing. I sat on the end of the bed and reached for her waist to pull her, still fully clothed, across my lap. She resisted, continuing to profess innocence, but I pulled a little harder and she flopped down into position. I put my right hand on the small of her back and gave her a very light swat on her fabric-covered left ass cheek with my other hand. When she didn’t object or struggle to lift herself up, I continued in a slow rhythm, alternating on her two sweet spots and very gradually increasing the force of my spanks. I was gratified to see her start to claw at the bedspread with her outstretched hands, pulling the heavy material towards her and bunching it up in front of her face as she lay there.

Tabitha said yellow two or three times, reminding me once about the sunburn hidden under her slacks, and each time I eased off on the force of my swats more than enough for her to know I was respecting her safeword. After several minutes and perhaps 25 or 30 swats, I stopped spanking and moved my hand in slow caressing circles over her still-clothes-protected behind. She grabbed handfuls of the bedspread, a clear signal of enjoyment, and she made no attempt to move away from my touch.

“I really wish I’d brought my toy-bag on this trip,” I muttered.

“So do I,” she whispered, and her obvious desire tore at my heart-strings. I’d never done this kind of a pseudo-incestuous age-play scene, but I was determined to relate to her fantasy.

“I don’t think you’re feeling punished by this, little girl,” I said quietly. “I think you need these touches on your bare skin.”

“But Daddy, I really have been good.”

“I’m not convinced,” I said mock-sternly. “Stand up.”

Tabitha complied in silence, and I reached for the hem of her sweater with both hands. “Arms up over your head,” I commanded, and I pulled the sweater past her perfect little breasts until it was tangled in her hair. Her face was obscured, but covered loosely enough to avoid breathing problems or panic, and her arms, still encased in the sweater sleeves, were upraised. Holding the sweater with my right hand, I slid the fingertips of my left across her breasts to lightly tease her undecorated, but now fully erect, right nipple, and she started to squirm, rotating her hips in a wide circle. I bent over and placed my mouth gently over that areola, flicking my tongue across her nipple and feeling it stiffen even more; I grabbed her wrists over her head to preclude more violent motions, keeping her standing in place and accepting the stimulation.

“Daddy, please,” she whined. “If you’re going to do this, I didn’t have a chance to shower before I left that other place; can I take a quick shower now?”

I could think of several reasons for that in-role request, all positive, so I quickly acquiesced. “Certainly, little girl; I want you to be uncomfortable, but only with your punishment.” I grabbed the ends of the sweater sleeves and pulled it free of her hands, then helped her disentangle her hair from the neck opening. She slipped her thumbs into the top of her slacks and pushed them down over her hips; she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Naughty, naughty,” I chided her. “Good little girls don’t go without panties. I’ll have to punish you for that, too, you know.”

Tabitha hung her head in non-verbal submission, then bent over, unfastened the straps on her shoes, and walked out of them toward the bathroom. I went around and ahead of her, turning on and adjusting the water and pulling the curtain aside, then taking her arm to assist her as she stepped over the front of the tub. I peeked past the curtain a couple of times, but mostly I let her take as long as she wanted in the shower.

Eventually she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped fetchingly in a big towel, its bulky whiteness a sharp contrast against her sunburned skin. She complained of a bit of a chill, so I pulled back the covers and watched her slide into one side of the king-size bed. I brought the covers up over her thighs, then went to the thermostat and adjusted it upward.

I sat on the edge of the bed next to her and said, “Put your hands together behind your neck, and don’t move them.” Again she responded without speaking, and I slid one hand under the covers and began stroking her silky thighs, slowly moving my hand higher and higher but stroking outward toward her hip and avoiding her shaved pussy. After perhaps 30 seconds of that treatment I saw her hands start to move apart.

“Keep still,” I directed.

“It’s hard to do that,” she complained, but it wasn’t a serious protest, and she quickly put them back in place. The room was warmer by then, so I pushed the covers aside and slapped lightly at the inner surface of her right thigh.

“It’s supposed to be difficult,” I said, “that’s part of the punishment. Now keep them where they’re supposed to be or it’ll be worse for you.”

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll try,” she answered, and her tone now was a petulant sort of simper. I unwrapped the towel from her body, and she raised up so I could pull it out from under her. I reached up and tweaked her nipples, first one and then the other, between my thumb and forefinger, then took the right one more firmly and began to squeeze. As I very carefully increased the pressure, her hips humped upward, her hands started to move and then slid back into position, and she gasped softly, but there was not the slightest negative reaction. I was watching her face closely, and when she started to part her lips to speak I held the pressure for just a half-second longer and then partially released it.

“Aaaahhhh,” she moaned, but it was a sound of pleasure, not discomfort. “I’m a good girl, Daddy, let me show you how good I am.” She lowered her gaze in an ostentatious display of modesty, but when she looked back up at me there was a mischievous glint in her sparkling eyes.

“I think you’re mostly good at naughty things,” I said, “so show me how naughty you can be and suck me.”

Tabitha didn’t hesitate at all; she was grinning like a little girl who’s just been offered the biggest lollipop in the candy store as I started to loosen my belt. I undid the top of my pants and she swung her body around to yank them and my shorts down in a single motion. Then she lay across my thighs on her left side, facing me, and did an excellent imitation of a sword-swallower, engulfing my cock into the warm wetness of her mouth while holding the part that wouldn’t fit with both hands. As I got harder, she had to rise up to keep my length between her lips, and her head bobbed up and down as her talented tongue bathed my stiffness. At one point she let me slip out of her mouth and smiled up at me, her hands now moving busily.

“Want me to lick your balls?” she asked coquettishly. I shook my head; the feel of her tongue sliding across the crown of my cock and then tickling just below the sensitive rim was excruciatingly pleasurable, and I didn’t want her to stop for even a few seconds. She smiled again, this time knowingly, then resumed her ardent oral ministrations. She knows she’s damn good, I said to myself. I wonder if she suspects that “Bread cast upon the waters …” is an apt quotation and that I can give better than I get.

As good as she was, I knew I wasn’t close to coming, and I figured it was time for some turn-about. Sitting up, I put my hands on her head and gently lifted her, sliding slowly out between her encircling lips. I rolled her over onto her back and moved my body up between her legs until my cock rested against her bald pubes, then took a handful of her golden locks in my fist and kissed her for the first time. She tried to pull away, but it was playful resistance; she had told me she liked having her hair used to hold her still. I thrust my tongue into her mouth, and she opened wider, trying to hide her tongue from mine, but I was insistent, and when they eventually met I felt a strong tingle in my groin.

Having achieved my immediate goal, I ended the kiss, maintaining my grip on her hair as I lowered my head to nibble at her firm breasts and stiffly upstanding nipples. She squirmed her lower body against me, increasing the friction of our genital contact, and then she tossed me a live grenade.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, her tone pleading. “Please fuck me.”

I lifted myself away from her, looking down at her face from a variant of what the military types call the front-leaning-rest position. God, I was tempted! She knew my first-meeting rules, she’d read them in my story, and I’d told her back at the club that fucking her was outside my limits, yet here she was, practically begging for it. There isn’t a straight man alive of any age or temperament who wouldn’t have been at least slightly tempted by such a delicious morsel lying naked and wide open under him. I didn’t want to refuse her outright, so I reached for the obvious barrier.

“I don’t have any protection,” I said.

“That’s all right,” she replied. “I just got my three-month shot, so I can’t get pregnant.”

Oh, great, I thought, but there’s another reason for using a condom, even though I hate them. “You couldn’t get pregnant anyway, I’ve had a vasectomy,” I replied. “But there are other reasons for using protection.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she wheedled. “I’ve just been to the doctor, I had a complete check-up with all the tests, and they were all negative.”

I wasn’t about to get into a debate over the counter-arguments; it can take 12 weeks or longer for an HIV transmittal to show up on a test, and there isn’t a test for herpes. The bottom line is both simple and incredibly complicated, I told myself. Tabitha’s telling me that she trusts me to be safe in a health sense, and I need to deny her request without sending the message that I don’t trust her the same way. In the end, my conscience overcame my gonads, and I fell back on an old cliche: When all else fails, tell the truth.

“I really, really want to,” I told her. “You cannot begin to imagine how flattered I am that you want that with me, but I can’t. I told you I wouldn’t do anything like that, I set the limits, and I just can’t break that promise. But I do want to give you pleasure, and there are other ways.”

Her expression showed disappointment rather than hurt, so I could only assume she believed it wasn’t a matter of trust between us. Pushing myself from between her legs, I swung her around until she was sideways across the bed. Then I took her slim ankles in my hands and raised them, causing her to bend her knees, and planted her feet at the edge of the bed, spread far enough apart so that her legs fell away to the sides, leaving the flower of her womanhood open and exposed. I could see shiny traces of moisture on her labia, and her delicate musk was the ultimate stimulant.

I traced the outline of her pussy with my right forefinger, then slipped it gently inside her velvet-soft tunnel. I can’t believe she’s had a baby through there, my brain raved. She’s as tight as an anxious virgin. I extended my tongue and let it seek the eventual trigger of her release, still hidden within its protective sheath. She tasted incredibly sweet, and when the tip of my tongue touched her clit her juices flowed out past my finger and into my palm.

“More,” she urged, and as I continued to lick her I was able to slip a second finger in alongside the first. Her tiny joy-button was stiffly erect now, and I was amazed to be able to insert a third finger into her now thoroughly relaxed vagina.

“Please, use your other hand too,” she groaned. One play-item I did have was a small bottle of lubricant that I’d set discreetly behind the night-stand clock while Tabitha was showering, and I hurried to one-handedly douse the middle finger of my left hand. I rested its tip against her anal pucker, waited patiently until I felt the subtle tell-tale indication that she was ready for the invasion, then pushed as lightly as I could. After her earlier expressed cautions, I was inordinately proud of myself as that digit slid slowly into her slick rear passage without a hint of discomfort for her.

Now, I told myself, it’s time for the grand finale. I began a complex syncopation of motion with both hands, locked my lips on the upper third of her pussy slit, and thrashed my tongue back and forth over her hard little clit.

“Yes, oh, yes, that’s it, lick me there, right there,” she chanted, and her entire body vibrated as she approached liftoff. Her hands tightened on my shoulders, her chest surged with sped-up panting, and the muscles in her legs clenched as she headed steeply up the mountain of ecstasy. Then she released one of my shoulders and clamped down even harder on the other, her nails digging into my skin, and without slackening anything I was doing I looked up past her rippling belly to see the starburst unfold.

Tabitha put the back of her free wrist against her mouth, and her contorted facial expression was ample evidence of her struggle to remain silent as a violent orgasm surged through her. I watched her ride that pulsing wave higher and higher, and then she suddenly dug in her heels and pushed herself off my still-moving tongue and fingers; the exquisite sensations had reached the point of overload. She pressed both her hands into her crotch, covering her pussy with overlapping palms, and pulled her thighs together to increase the hand-pressure.

I stretched out beside her, my head propped on my left hand, and tenderly stroked damp tendrils of hair away from her face. “My clit is still throbbing,” she whispered. “That was wonderful.”

With what could have been a lot worse timing, the quiet warble of a pager intruded on Tabitha’s afterglow and my basking in its reflection. We both glanced at the clock; it read 2:35, and she shrugged apologetically. “I know it’s early,” she said, “but the club’s closed now and my friend’s probably antsy.” She got up, retrieved her pager, looked at it quickly, then returned it to her purse and gestured toward the phone. I nodded, and she lifted the receiver and dialed; the ensuing exchange was terse.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m fine, I just got here a little later. I’ll be calling a cab at three.” She listened for a few seconds, then said, “Right, bye,” and hung up.

Tabitha came around the bed, unselfconsciously naked, her hair tousled, and lay down in the crook of my outstretched right arm. I enfolded her waist, and she snuggled up against me, her head on my shoulder. Then she reached down, took my half-hard cock in her hand, and began to slowly stroke up and down its length.

“That’s not necessary,” I whispered. “I’ve had my pleasure giving you yours.”

She gave me a last gentle caress. “Then I guess it’s blue now, the end of the scene. I wish I could just go to sleep with you, but I can’t.”

“I wish you could also,” I answered. “There are a few things more intimate than sex, and waking up with you next to me would be another sort of fantasy come true. But I understand, and the thought is taken for the deed.”

Tabitha kissed the side of my neck, then my cheek, with real tenderness, and then she lifted her head and stared at me for a long moment. Without breaking the eye contact she’d established, she said two brief sentences, and those seven little words were for me, as a top, the twin peaks of personal gratification; they gave a mental orgasm more thrilling than any physical release could possibly be.

“Thank you,” she said. “I trust you totally now.”

Copyright © 1997 by Left Side Signals