Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: s14258bc@UMASSD.EDU
Subject: Stripper 3
Reply-To: s14258bc@UMASSD.EDU
Organization: UMASS DARTMOUTH, NO. DARTMOUTH, MA.
Date: Tue, 3 Nov 1992 03:02:38 GMT
By popular demand and kind words, I have decided to write the third
part of The Stripper.
As usual, the rules: If you're looking for something not-so-clean, hit
"n" now. I don't bow down to the tits-ass-fuck-cunt-come convention,
i.e. no penises the size of the L.I. X-way, no breasts the size of
bowling balls, and no sensational orgasms.
Otherwise, enjoy!
Brian Colby
P.S. You might notice a few references to Toronto and Canada. Any
Canadian readers who might catch a few inaccuarcies, please let me
know.
THE STRIPPER
Part 3
After that night, I never returned to the club. I stayed well
out of Nacketer Street, preferring to absorb myself in my studies.
I still remember Hannah, though; her fingers on my lips, her slim
ankles, her embrace after a complete and thorough climax. I wanted
to forget her, too: she had the style and erotic qualities, but little
else. What she had for lack of brains, she made up for in pure erotic
energy.
About 3 years passed, and I had still not ventured to that club.
One day, I waited for the rubber-tired train to Rivendell, and it was
a mild summer day, with little humidity. I read the Courier's Arts
and Entertainment section and I noticed a blurb above "Shepman's Used
Cars":
EXOTIC DANCER KILLED IN CAR CRASH - Geraldine McClure, who
danced under the stage name Hannah, was driving along Route
401 in a Pontiac Trans Am when she swerved into a truck
near Exit 186 in East Hamilton. She died instantly. She
is survived by her family in Guleph, a brother in Detroit,
Michigan, USA, and a sister in North York. She was 28.
Two things instantly snapped to mind; should I mourn her death or be
glad she's dead? No matter, I continued reading the comics.
After five minutes, the train glided into the station. Many
people got out, and I was able to find a seat next to the doors of the
train. The train then moved forward with a distinctive sound
(something like a horn being blown in three stages) and quickly
reached a good acceleration point.
I kept on reading the paper nonchalantly, until a female voice
queried:
"Reading about my obituary?"
I settled my newspaper down, and Hannah sat there, smiling
broadly. She had a hat with a veil, and she was dressed completely in
black.
"It's been quite a long time, hasn't it?" Hannah purred. "My
house is at the next stop. Would you join me for some
conversation...to get each other up to date?" She crossed her legs
suggestively, to drive home the point (and she was doing a damn fine
job of it!).
I had the courage to say, "No, thank you." Not to be defeated,
Hannah moved her legs together, and a hissing sound came from the
sheer black hose that draped her legs.
I rose from my seat, moving towards the other end of the train.
Hannah was in pursuit, still smiling, and she finally grasped my
shoulder. "We haven't seen one another in three years, love...why do
you run away?"
I turned to her, and as soon as I gave her an icy look of
contempt, Hannah refocused it into a warm glow with a simple broad
smile. "Isn't it funny that the dead can return to life?" As soon as
the train came to a stop at Willow Avenue, Hannah took my hand, placed
it in hers, and guided me towards the subway exit.
We walked up quite a few blocks towards Pelham St. It was there
Hannah began to run up the street, laughing furiously (with me in tow), the
heels clicking like the nun's clicker at Catholic church. She
suddenly ushered me into a doorway, wrapped her arms around me,
and slowly began to kiss my face up and down, guiding her tongue
into my mouth. I laughed in embarassment as she kissed my eyelids,
nipping at them and growling playfully.
Soon, we reached her apartment. It was tastefully decorated with
Georgia O'Keefe posters, flowers and plants of every kind, and a white
plush couch...and had pictures of her family hanging on her wall.
"I never was dead, really," said Hannah as she removed her hat.
Her hair was done up in a chignon, with small tendrils running down
her cheeks. "It was another Hannah, a fake Hannah, that died on the
MCF. All the while, I was in London, taking courses in anthropology
and business."
"So actually have an IQ higher than mine?" I asked in surprise.
"147. Enough for Mensa. But I stripped for three reasons.
First, the money was great. Second, the club had class: it wasn't one
of those clubs where the men were walking sleazoids who always had
these unbelievable war stories that he had sex with some hot chick, or
better yet, me. And third, I enjoyed taking my clothes off.
It gave me a real high, being powerful in front of sixty or so
men and making them pant for more. They earned my nudity."
To change the subject, Hannah went to the kitchen to get
something to drink. Hannah presented me with a bottle of Guinness
Stout "to mark the occasion" and actually had a glass full of it
herself. She raised her glass to me, and said softly, "I'll never
forget the chat we had in the dressing room."
She leaned over towards me, and kissed me slowly again.
Hannah stepped back and removed her black jacket, and set it neatly
on the chair. I spoke up suddenly.
"Let me undress you, and make love to you." Then I remembered: I
have no condoms! I began to speak, but Hannah was obviously well
prepared as she withdrew from her pocketbook a Gold Circle condom.
Hannah undressed me first, slowly and neatly, sometimes nibbling
on my ear as she reached for my penis, other times licking newly
exposed parts of my body. When I was naked, I was fully erect, and
Hannah rolled the condom onto the shaft. She moved my penis up and
down, sizing up its heft and width. (I wasn't all that big, maybe 7"
long and 1 1/2" wide, but Hannah seemed to enjoy it.)
I then undressed Hannah by first releasing the chignon on her
head, letting her hair fall down fully. I then unbuttoned her blouse,
kissing her at the same time, and she was moaning in anticipation.
The skirt she had had no zipper, so I simply pushed it down her legs.
Hannah had a frilly black garter belt tethering wispy black hose.
I asked her to recline on the couch, and in doing so I kissed every
spot of her, removing her brassiere and her drenched panties in the
process. I began to pleasure Hannah's mound, giving special attention
to her joy-button, nipping at her dewy lips.
I placed my tongue on the nylon, licking it like an all-day
sucker, and when I reached the toes, I began to suck on them gently,
eliciting a mixed response of pleasure and lust. I traveled up her
leg softly, finding the tab that tethered her hose, and pushed both
parts back. As I rolled the nylon down her leg, I placed soft kisses
on her thighs, calves, and kneecaps. When I removed the hose at her
toes, I sucked each toe, making love to them as if they were little
Hannahs.
I offered my penis to her, and immediately she began to suckle on
it through the latex. It felt quite wonderful, and I returned the
favor by pleasuring her nipples.
Hannah then asked me to move into her. I complied by moving in
slowly, until the entire length was engulfed by her mons. I didn't
expect her to push me down onto the couch, but when she did, she moved
up and down, kissing me as she rode my penis. We did it slowly, so as
not to hurt one another or rush the climax.
About fifteen minutes later, she began to climax, gasping for
breath and moaning as another one rippled her being. When she was on
her third, I began to pulse into the condom, letting out one big groan
of release. When we had finished, I collected her in my arms, and we
held each other in the afterglow.
I soon whispered in her ear, "You know something? Making love to
a smart dead woman is much more interesting that making love to blonde
bimbo."
All Hannah could do was laugh and kiss me again.
Brian Colby (Vax: S14258BC@umassd.edu DECstation: xanadu@cis.umassd.edu)
-i pi
"If e = -1, then God must exist!" Leonhard Euler