by Cheryl T. Strauss
(04/03/02)

We were halfway to hammered when the locks clicked down on the doors of the dry hump bordello.

Just another night at a hostess bar, American Style.

None of us had been spared the usual indignities on that hectic Wednesday evening in July. It seemed as if every Japanese businessman in the metro Atlanta area had made an appearance. Perhaps it was the full moon that drew them into our lair.

I myself had been subjected, for several dances, to a particularly insistent boner wielded by one of my "regulars." With all the rubbing of his manhood against the tender flesh of my belly, I wondered if the poor guy ever managed to get off before he staggered out into the humid night, face flushed with scotch, eardrums throbbing with the memory of enka tunes belted out by his tone-deaf colleagues.

One could feel sorry for the customers -- or even somewhat aroused -- with all that repressed lust, pent-up as it was in the single, bower-like room that constituted our members-only club, Tara. But, for the most part, we just found them repulsive.

An understandable reaction, because we were their indentured servants, wearing masks for them from dusk 'til two in the morning. We were forced to sit bolt upright at the edge of our seats, waiting to pour a drink, light a cigarette, or laugh at some ridiculous joke made worse when delivered in pidgin English.

And through it all, we had to smile, smile, smile, and pretend that we were having a ball.

But when the last drunkard was shown the door, Tara became our club. We reclaimed our souls in a nightly ritual -- kicking off our high heels, slouching on the gold, crushed-velvet sofas that normally held us captive, chain-smoking, bitching and moaning in a contest to determine who had suffered the worst customer of the evening. Oh, and polishing off the bottles of premium booze that our "guests" had already purchased.

It was the usual routine, and I thought this night would end like any other, until someone finally had the fabulous idea of silencing the hated karaoke machine. Soon, a Cocteau Twins CD was broadcasting over the speaker system.

As we counted out our hefty tips and massaged each other's feet, I believe the twelve of us celebrated our unusual windfall with a little too much of the customers' liquor. Before I knew it, the lights had been dimmed once more, as they were during regular hours.

And from across the room, I felt the shock of someone's stare caressing me.

I looked up to see Tracy, our bartender and my favorite coworker. She was one of the few at Tara who could rightly be called a woman, with her no-nonsense attitude and wealth of worldly experience. I suppose it didn't hurt, either, that she was beautiful.

But so was every other girl. In fact, they had all been hired for their looks, while I was, if not the ugly ducking, at least the wren among swans. I had never considered myself a great beauty to begin with, but when you work with models and dancers, it's only too easy to nurse a self-image problem.

Unlike them, I'd been chosen for my ability to speak Japanese and play the piano during karaoke intermissions. And I was different from the others in more profound ways -- I had never been able to master the art of conversation on their hot topics: plastic surgery, starvation diets, exercise regimens, silk-wrap versus gel fingernails, or the best methods to ensnare the opposite sex. "Girl talk" eluded me, as it always has.

Tracy was the one person I could connect with, the only one who intrigued me. I didn't know if this was because she was a lesbian, or in spite of that fact. What I did know was that she had already initiated two of our hostesses to the joys and mysteries of woman-on-woman sex. And, from the rumors I had heard, they were eager acolytes.

I envied the chosen two. I could even admit this to myself. I admired their freedom from inhibition, their willingness to walk on the wild side, their adventurous spirit that I seemed to lack. In my naïveté, I didn't entertain the notion that I might be jealous.

I returned her stare. Those calculating, blue cat-eyes narrowed in appraisal, and she shot me a wry smile. I waved, a casual off-handed gesture, and scrunched into the plump cushions of the sofa, trying to hide my discomfort. But I couldn't break the eye contact, even though I wanted to.

She rose from her barstool and approached. Her tall, thin body, outlined by the silk of her dress, crossed the room toward me, far too slowly. She was wobbling a little, giddy from the extra drinks she sneaked while tending bar.

The air seemed electrified, and the tiny hairs on my arms shivered to attention.

"Dance with me?" Tracy asked.

I cleared my throat, pausing an instant to consider.

"Sure," I said. And I was, indeed, sure.

As we moved towards the floor, my pulse quickening, it suddenly dawned on me that I wanted more than a lousy dance. I really wanted to fuck her. Not just hold her, or kiss her, or put my hand between her legs, but fuck her.

I had never attached that word, fuck, to what women did together. In my naïve experimentations with girlhood friends -- pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend, kissing, petting, and sometimes touching "down there" -- I was an innocent, curious explorer. But they always ended the physical contact too soon, and I would be left wet and yearning, wondering why they weren't as eager as I, wondering what else there was to know. I always longed for more, and I didn't understand why.

We faced each other. Tracy was tall, so it seemed only natural that I should put my arms around her neck. Hers circled my waist, and she pulled me close, closer than I thought she would. The room began to spin, and my face pressed into her neck, breathing in the scent of her. When I remember it now, the smell of honey and sweat, it still makes me ache.

This was what I wanted. To feel her body clutching mine, like a lover. I didn't care that the others were now pointing at us and whispering. They ceased to exist. I fingered Tracy's spiky-cut, bleached white hair, lost in her.

Her hands slipped down to the top of my ass, her thumbs tracing circles on my black skirt. I tossed my head back to look at her. It was one of those magical suspended moments, the kind you replay for rest of your life.

And then, she changed me forever, with a simple sentence.

"You're the one I've wanted, all along."

I stopped breathing. The "What?!" hung in my throat, but my stunned expression must have betrayed my surprise.

"I thought you might not..." she hesitated. "I thought you'd be mad, if I made a pass at you."

I shook my head, as much in disbelief as to tell her that would not have been the case. Our eyes locked, and my knees went weak as she bent to kiss me.

I felt a surge of pure lust when our lips met, my mouth opening to her, searching for her tongue. She didn't kiss like any of the girls I had fooled around with in my youth. She was aggressive, hungry, marking her territory. I had to pull back, just to take a breath.

There was a gleam in her eye I hadn't seen before, a strange, predatory sparkle that made me wetter than the kiss. I glanced away from her and peered through the smoke haze, becoming aware again that we weren't alone in the room. Several other couples had joined us on the dance floor. Girls I'd never have pegged as anything but straight, even man-crazy, were pressed together, in a slow bump-and-grind. This was a dance that the customers never got, no matter how much money they offered.

Our manager, the sole remaining source of testosterone, sat alone at the bar and nursed his whiskey. He wore a dejected look, obviously wondering what curse of fate had left him here with this lot of possessed women.

And we were possessed, in a way. At least, I was. When Tracy suggested that we make use of the bathroom, this seemed the cleverest idea I'd ever heard.

She grabbed my hand, practically dragging me to the back of the club. Once we reached the ladies' room, she pushed me roughly into the handicapped stall and fumbled with the lock.

When it caught at last, she turned to me, an intense look on her face. The mix of fear and desire was too much for me. I dropped to my knees, to worship her. But she hooked one strong, skinny hand beneath my arm and pulled me back to my feet.

"Oh, no you don't," she scolded. "I've been waiting too long for this."

Her mouth clamped over mine. I heard the "swish" of my skirt on its swift ascent. She bunched it up around my ample hips, then her right hand grabbed my cunt. I moaned as she rubbed and kneaded, trying to pinch my lips, my clit, through the thick nylon that separated my flesh from hers.

She stopped just long enough to yank the pantyhose down to the top of my thighs. I felt two of her fingers slip inside me, with a heat that felt thermonuclear. At first, she was gentle, working her fingers in and out of me slowly, her thumb stroking my swollen clit.

"So wet," she whispered.

I could only nod.

"Tell me who made you so wet," she hissed, her thumb pressing harder, crushing my clit into bone and sending a shock of pleasure and pain up my spine.

"You, Trace," I managed. "I'm wet for you."

She responded with a bemused smirk. "See, I thought it might be Hirata that made you so wet. I watched you, dancing with him all fucking night."

I wondered if she was playing a game. I didn't know what answer was expected of me, if any. I reached up to stroke her hard, little nipple through the silk. She closed her eyes, and I could see her jaw tighten.

"Tell me I'm the one you want," she ordered.

So Tracy was a jealous god, it seemed. And I longed to appease her.

"I want you, Tracy," I murmured. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you."

As a reward, I was slammed into the hard bathroom wall. The wind was knocked out of me, and the seconds that followed were a blur that ended with my stockings in tatters around my feet, shredded by her long, manicured nails.

She buried her face in my cunt, and all my illusions about "making love" with a woman were shattered in that instant. There were none of the tender sighs, gentle caresses and whispered endearments I'd read about in books. There was no gradual awakening of sweet desire for the woman who would know my body better than any man ever could. Of course, I only had these thoughts much later, in quiet reflection of the moment. At the time, I wasn't thinking at all, too caught up in her absolute frenzy.

The term "eating out" had always struck me as an odd euphemism for oral sex, but it began to make perfect sense when Tracy went down on me. She wasn't just eating, she was devouring me, alternately gnawing at my clit with her lips and teeth, and then sucking as three of her long fingers pounded in and out of me relentlessly.

My head ached from the sensations she created. Every time I'd stand on my toes and push my pelvis forward, ready to come, she would slow down, purposefully swiping her tongue over my clit with force, but without the necessary speed. "Please, Tracy," I whimpered. This much I understood -- she wanted to hear me plead.

She grabbed my ass with her left hand, those lethal nails digging into my sensitive flesh, cold now from being pressed into the ceramic tile wall. I think my feet cleared the ground. Her strength was shocking.

I could feel my own juices trickling down my thighs, her face slippery against me. She was devouring me with her rapacious mouth again, occasionally using her tongue to lick the exact spot on the button that would send me over the edge.

And then it happened. I squeezed around her fingers one last time, as she tried to force them deeper inside me. She was using just her tongue now, fast and hard on my aching clit. I could feel the climax building, seeming to rise up from the very depths of my soul. My vision blurred and I clawed at Tracy's hair, trying to slam her face into me, as the orgasm crashed in electric heatwaves that made my nipples pucker into tiny dots and my toes curl. Fresh wetness exploded from my cunt to drench her fingers. I think I was screaming.

She finally moved her tongue up to my stomach. I don't know how long I stood like that, panting, drained by satisfaction.

"I knew you'd be good," she said. "I knew it. You're a natural."

Tracy made a show of licking her fingers, still warm from being inside me. Watching her, I felt a faint tingling between my legs, already wanting more. She kissed me, deep and gratefully, like I was the one who had gotten her off. I could taste myself, sweet and salty, on her lips.

In my occasional fantasies of sex with a woman, I never got beyond the part where she went down on me, I came, and we snuggled together to fall asleep. It hadn't even dawned on me that I might, in reality, want to return the favor.

But now, tasting myself in her kiss, the hunger for Tracy struck me full force. I wanted more. I wanted to taste her, lick her, feel every fold and swirl of her wet, pink cunt. I wanted to hear her moan, the way she made me moan. I wanted to feel her come on my fingers.

"Your turn," was all I said. But I was even more deliberate than she had been, wanting to savor each second. Slowly, I began to raise her dress.

The door to the women's bathroom flew open with a crash. Had I inadvertently summoned help with my howls of pleasure? Horrified, Tracy and I looked at each other.

"What are y'all doing in here?" came the familiar voice of Greta. She was one of the two that Tracy had previously seduced.

"Yeah." It was Stephanie, her best friend, though not one of the initiates.

"Fuck," Tracy mouthed, and we both went to work trying to pull our clothes back into their proper arrangements. I gave up on the pantyhose and threw them in the trash. I dreaded the next moment, not knowing how Tracy would handle the jealousy of another lover, wondering if I was supposed to pretend that nothing had happened

"Well, whaddaya think we're doing? Jesus," Tracy barked.

Tracy held my hand as we exited the stall. The other two women watched us for a second, then burst out laughing. Greta turned to look just at me. "Looks like you could use a cigarette," she said.

"In a big way," I told her.

The club was closing up, so the four of us walked out to the parking lot and shared a cigarette with some of the other girls who still lingered. A couple of days would pass before I was able to be with Tracy again, but it turned out to be worth the wait.

After that night, Tracy lost her taste for initiating any of the other girls. Maybe I was a natural, like she said. Or perhaps she had been telling the truth, after all, when she said that I was the one she really wanted.

Although you would think the opposite would be true, the incident in the bathroom became legend, and it seemed to break the ice with my co-workers. After months of chilly distance and not fitting in, I was finally accepted as one of The Girls. Of course, I still found myself with nothing useful to say about bikini waxing and implants and such topics, but they didn't seem to mind.

In their eyes, I had become a woman like them.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories