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Jen and Annie begin to explore new sexual desires.
"I think I'd like to go. The more I think about it, the hotter I get."
"Does this have anything to do with the jackpot?" I asked.
"I was thinking about it before, but that sure didn't hurt."
"Don't kid me about this." I said, in disbelief. I've always thought it would be so hot to see my wife get a lap dance, but never dared dream it. Now it was so close I would be quite disappointed if she was playing with me.
"Just drive," was all she said.
And drive I did. No man has ever driven faster in his life.
The club was big. The cover charge was $10.00, ladies were free. The music, muffled from the outside, exploded as we opened the inner doors. On the floor was a silicone blonde, legs wrapped around a pole, hips swaying to the beat of the music. "Don't'cha" by the Pussycat Dolls was playing. I leaned over and whisper-yelled into Jen's ear -- "but my girlfriend is hot like you."
We found an open booth and sat down. At first it was a little uncomfortable staring at nude women with my wife there, but after a while I realized that she was just as turned on as I was. We fed off of each other. I'd look at her and catch her eying one of the girls walk by in a tight outfit; she'd blush, and then continue looking. I know my wife isn't gay, but something so new as this really seemed to be turning her on. She got up to go to the restroom.
"Is that your girlfriend?" One of the dancers sat down beside me.
"Wife," I replied.
"Lucky man, not many husbands come in with their wives." Her breasts were perfect; I felt my eyes continually drifting down to take in the canyon of cleavage on display under her tight silver-blue top. Her nipples were pushing against the fabric and I wondered if they kept it chilly in here for that exact purpose. "... only $100." She was talking to me.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, embarrassed at having been caught staring.
"I said you can get an hour in a private room with me for only $100.00."
"I don't think my wife would go for that." I said, thinking I was being solicited for sex.
Reading my mind, the dancer laughed. "We can't do that here -- we're not whores." Her perfume was strong, but not irritating. As she laughed her long brown hair shimmered in the club lights. Pulling it back behind her shoulders she explained: "The back room is a semi-private booth -- you know -- closed, but only by a curtain. It's safer for us that way. You have no idea how many creeps we get in here." My wife approached and the dancer made no move to free the seat for her. Jen didn't miss a beat and gingerly sat right down on my lap. The dancer continued, "it's really nothing more than a glorified lap dance, except more private, and a lot longer."
"What is?" Asked my wife.
"I was just telling your husband about the Champagne room." I looked into my wife's eyes and noticed she too had downward drifting eyes. I laughed inside.
My wife slid off my lap, leaving her legs draped over mine, her right shin on my now firm prick. "Where is it?" Jen said.
As the dancer explained that it was upstairs, overlooking the dance floor I noticed my wife's legs casually rubbing back and forth on my cock. "C'mon, it'll be fun," coaxed the dancer. With that, she stood up and grabbed my hands. She yanked me to my feet and I immediately looked down to see that she had done it to me again. This time, Jen giggled and grabbed my cock in full sight of the dancer. "Happens to the best of 'em," said the dancer, and led us up the steps.
The room was small, only room enough for a love seat, a chair, and a small table. Jen and I sat on the couch, the dancer on the chair. "We'll wait until the next song to get started, first the rules. No touching. You must keep your hands to yourself, only I can touch." She stopped.
"You said rules." I had this sometimes annoying habit of watching minor grammar rules. She had said rules; I only heard one.
"Oh, yea, the other rule is, I make the rules.