There was no need for further games, for either woman to leave a license or to ask the bartender to hang on to it. There was also no need for an umbrella. The power of attraction compelled Stephanie to run to her car in the deluge as Laetitia had done minutes earlier.
Screw being sensible in the rain. Her panties were almost wet anyway after the kiss that didn't happen. She figured a brief soaking would not upset the balance of the universe. There was nothing balanced about her own world.
Once there, she willed herself into the driver's seat and left the door open for a moment. Stephanie let the downpour attack her legs for another minute. She was too exasperated, horny and shocked to do anything reasonable. When she finally shut the door and pressed the lock button, she decided to sit there for 10 minutes and listen to the rain. The occasional claps of thunder kept her alert, whereas she otherwise might have been down for the count in that parking lot.
What am I doing? What have I gotten myself into now?
A strange impulse began to manifest itself there, in an almost empty parking lot but still in public view. A part of her wanted to start the engine, hug the gas pedal and floor it. That part of her was also tempted to throw Laetitia's number out the window and never revisit this unexpected fantasy-turned-almost-reality again.
For reasons she could not explain, she listened to the other half. Her left hand glided slowly toward her black pants. She used two fingers to undo the button and lower the zipper, revealing her wet white cotton panties. In one swift motion, she shoved her left hand into her panties and let her painted fingernails forcefully find her clit.
She pictured Laetitia getting into the car and the two having sex right there. Her middle finger found what felt like the G-spot and went for the kill.
Her rational mind was the only element of her body fighting the eventual orgasm.
Just wow, Steph. This is a new low. You are masturbating in a coffee shop parking lot. Who are you, anyway? Maybe you should go work at the strip club!
After about a minute of self-pleasure, she had managed to synchronize her moans with the infrequent thunder claps. The rainfall, for a moment, allowed her to believe this was a sexy, even acceptable activity.
She forgot about space and time again and lost herself in the sensuality of it all. At any moment now, the thought of Laetitia's lips meeting hers would cause a violent climax.
A loud knock interrupted the atmosphere.
Her left hand retreated from its comfortable position and she looked up, in horror, to see the coffee shop manager banging on her window.
Not knowing any better, she lowered the window about 3 inches.
"Hey, you OK in there?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah, of course," she said nervously.
"You shouldn't hang around in this parking lot all night," he replied. "You should probably go home. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you this late at night."
"Gee thanks," she responded, realizing he was, indeed, just there to confirm her wellbeing. "I guess I will go home."
"Alright," he said, as he began to walk away. "You have a good night."
By the grace of a higher power, he hadn't said anything about her lewd act. Even better, he didn't try to join in or inflict any harm.
Phew! THAT was close.
When the store manager reached his adjacent car, he shook his head before entering it.
Stephanie had to wonder now, given how she frequented the place, if she would forever be known as the mid-20s girl who masturbated in the parking lot during a thunderstorm.
"Oh God," she mumbled. "Maybe they'll call me the 'clit tickler.' Ugh."
She zipped up her pants, redid the button and fastened her seatbelt for the longer-than-usual ride home. All the way up to her driveway, she juggled thoughts of another erotic moment with Laetitia stopped dead in its tracks and the humiliation of getting caught in the act.
When she plopped on the bed, she fell asleep instantaneously, not leaving any time to finish her orgasm from earlier. That would have to wait until next Saturday.
Throughout her first encounter with a strip joint, she questioned the wisdom of her curiosity. Why not just leave thoughts of these so-called "titty bars" to the imagination? Why not let the horny men at work do all the picture painting? For most of her adult life, that had been enough. She was content to let the company's misogynists and pill-popping Viagra fiends recant tales of elongated lunch buffets and women with massive breasts. There were always, always enough boys around to answer nudie club queries. They didn't need solicitation to start talking.
The urge to discover her own truth was too irresistible to ignore. Until Laetitia commanded the stage, Stephanie was ready to dismiss the male ritual of throwing money at bare-breasted women with fake names as pointless and mind numbing.
The men at "The Palace" didn't seem to value selectivity. They gawked and hollered at all of the women, rarely showing more appreciation for one set of boobs over another. Those creeps just liked boobs in whatever form they could get that night.
I'll bet some of those losers would have flipped if I took off my clothes and danced for them. Why did I get roped in by this pathetic scheme again?
Laetitia. Oh, right! God, I'm a fucking mess.
Stephanie managed to keep her hormones and horniness at bay until Wednesday, which felt like a Herculean accomplishment. She hadn't thought of someone this way since her first boy crushes in middle school. The difference this time, other than gender, was the ferocity of the feeling. This wasn't a cute sixth grade infatuation headed for a Valentine's Day card swap in fifth period. This felt like a submarine losing its sonar capabilities in untested waters.
Wednesday night, she snapped. She couldn't take it anymore. She had to find a way to release the sexual tension inside. She bottled it up until the cork refused to stay in the neck. It cried for release. Stephanie had to respond.
A week ago, she did not imagine she would ever set foot in a stripping establishment. Now, she was really going off the deep end.
She tended to chuckle when browsing the adult channels available on her cable service. Were they serious with these titles?
Butt-Fucking Redemption? Lady in the Tramp? Voluptuous Vixens Get Naughty? Really?
On this night, as the urge to let off sexual steam reached a boiling point, one title caught her eye:
Lesbian Striptease
.
Oh geez. I'm about to order a porno. First, I masturbate in a parking lot. Now, I'm volunteering to pay a ridiculous fee to watch adult sludge. Who does that? I do, I guess.
After many minutes of trepidation, she mumbled "fuck it," and pressed the order button. It was eerie beyond description that a movie about girls messing around in a strip club happened to be available. She gritted her teeth and braced for whatever, or whoever, would come next.
The two female stars of this film -- India Summer and Lisa Ann -- were more attractive than any of the predictable duds at "The Palace."
Yeah, I can get off to this
, she thought.
The film, if you can call it that, wasted no time getting to the sex. Stephanie wasted no time shoving her right hand into her pajama pants.
From what she could comprehend of the cockamamie plot, the female characters were the two most popular strippers at a club and -- get this -- secret lovers.
Jesus, are these people spying on me?
Soon, Lisa Ann's character began caressing India Summer's character's breasts. A minute later, they began a wild kiss, locking lips and sharing tongues. As the action progressed, Stephanie imagined she was the shy India Summers and Laetitia was the no-holds-barred Lisa Ann.
The women on screen fondled one another and devoured each other's breasts for several minutes. Stephanie had to pull her hand away from her vagina to prevent a premature climax.
Oh no! What if I embarrass myself when I fuck Laetitia? We are fucking on Saturday, right? Sure. Man, my panties are so wet.
Her attention drifted back to her television when Lisa Ann's panties slipped down her legs and flew across the bedroom. India Summer then had herself a bodacious pussy dinner.
Her tongue seemed to touch every inch of Lisa Ann's sensitive area. Stephanie found herself moaning in unison with the porno characters, balancing the urge to touch herself with the other to take notes for Laetitia.
After a few minutes, Stephanie lost control of her right hand fingers, which were going to war on her overstimulated clit. When India Summer managed to stick three-fourths of her tongue into Lisa Ann's drenched vagina, Stephanie lost it completely.
She felt a lake of cum evacuate her just as the characters themselves were moving into another kiss after a loud orgasm.
"Ooooooooooooooh!" Stephanie couldn't be sure the windows did not shake during that wet episode.
It took her a moment to realize her panties were now soaked as if she had been standing in a deluge, and a pool of her juices was spreading on the hardwood floor.
She quickly punched the off button on her TV remote and sprinted to the kitchen to fetch some paper towels.
Fucking gross but also fucking hot. Mostly fucking gross.
Why sprint? She knew, or at least hoped, no neighbor would ever know about what just transpired in her now stained living room. The blinds were drawn and all the doors locked. Yet, insecurity enveloped her.
She brushed her teeth three times that evening, as if the repetition would mask how far she had crossed over to the supposed dark side. It was on now. At least she wasn't bursting with enough sexual tension to fill a shopping cart.
It would, of course, refill later. Laetitia was that gorgeous.
Saturday evening arrived, and so did the dilemma of what to wear. Stephanie wanted something sexy that didn't necessarily scream, "Fuck me the moment I walk through the door." She wanted to look classy without showcasing antiquation.
Her black dress that stretched to her lower thighs was too funeral-y. Her spaghetti strap red dress was too slutty, even if she was meeting to have sex with a stripper. After a few minutes of closet digging, she found it. The dress.
The J Crew collection floral sheath she picked showed off the back of her beck, her slender shoulders and just enough of her intoxicating legs. It was perfect for the occasion and wouldn't give away her destination.
People may look at me, but they probably won't guess I am heading to fornicate with an exotic dancer. Hey, I like this woman. Shame on me.
She polished off her irresistible look by slipping on her favorite pair of heels and splashing herself three times with Chanel.
"Nice, Stephanie," she said to herself in the bathroom mirror.
"I'd fuck me," she mumbled.
"Ew," she caught herself, "I'm worse than the guys at the Palace now. Did I just cat call myself?"
Nah, forget it. I'd fuck the shit out of me.
She waltzed out the door, her hands tingling and her head spinning.
Here goes nothing.
After about 30 minutes of weaving through side streets and admonishing her once trusty GPS, she arrived at Laetitia's complex, just in time to not be late. "406," she mumbled. "This must be it."
Laetitia's directions and parking instructions were surprisingly easy to follow. Before she could even consider running back to her car and forgetting this fling altogether, impulse took control and she knocked.
Just then, a neighboring door opened and a mid-40s man appeared. As he was locking his door and walking away, he glanced at Stephanie, shook his head and whistled.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Before the next thought could form, the beige door in front of her swung open to reveal an angelic sight. There was Laetitia, in a breath stealing charcoal short sleeve, short lace by Emerald Sundae dress. The wow factor would have made even the most insulated and unfeeling fashion designer faint.
Breathe, Stephanie. Just breathe. Don't hyperventilate. Don't stare. Act like you've been here before. Oh wait...
"Hiii, Stephanie," Laetitia said in a way that was even sexier than the encounter at the club.
A pause followed.
"Um, you there Stephanie?" Laetitia giggled.
