When a man goes to a “dance partner” club, the action isn’t confined to the dance floor

I walked into the topless bar and almost immediately turned around
and walked out. Too crowded, too noisy, too smoky… it wasn’t going to
be worth it just for $10 table dances. On the way back to my hotel a
small building caught my eye with the sign “Gentlemen’s Dance
Partners”. I figured I could spare five minutes to check out the
place. When I went in there was a latina hostess in an enclosed foyer
and a sign – $10 entry, $20 per hour to the house for the ladies’ time
and a tip of at least that much for the lady. The music from behind the
closed door sounded okay, so I handed her a ten and she opened the

Inside on one side was a pool table and some card tables, and a
bar with football on the TV. A glitter ball spun slowly over a small
parquet dance floor and several couches lined the walls. An open
doorway led into a back room. There were two couples slow-grinding
under the glitter ball, a couple of guys with a curvy brunette playing
pool, and three women on one of the couches chatting.

I went over to the couch and my eyes lit on a redhead in a
well-filled tube top and short skirt. I introduced myself as a
first-timer there, and she agreed to help me feel like one of the
family. I held out my hand and she pulled herself up out of the couch,
tube top jiggling pleasantly, her head coming just up to my height.

We went to the foyer window and she stamped a time card, then took
my hand and led me through the open doorway to the back area where
there were small leather couches – almost loveseats – with coffee
tables and a bit of dance floor near each. The light was dimmer here,
and we settled into one of the couches. We did the usual who-are-you
and what-do-you-do chatter until the music changed to a danceable Billy
Joel number.

On the dance floor she got a lot more friendly, melting into my
arms and resting her head against my shoulder. When I casually slid my
hand down her back past the waistline, she pressed herself against me
and traced circles on my lower spine with her fingernails. By the time
the music changed, my hand was familiar with the contours of her
bottom, my head was filled with the scent of her hair and my body was
buzzing with warm fuzzy feelings.

We settled into the couch and she leaned into me, my arm wrapping
naturally around her and settling alongside what felt like a nicely
full and resilient breast. Her lips tickled the side of my neck and one
of her hands found its way along the inside of my leg. I was enjoying
the hell out of this but wondering just how far we could go in what was
basically a public space. The way the couches were arranged, I
couldn’t actually see the people in them, just the tops of their heads.
Head, singular in one case, and I wondered where that guy’s dance
partner was until the head leaned back and I saw it to be a woman’s
face, eyes tightly closed and mouth open in what had to be an
expression of passion fulfilled.

About that time my companion’s hand made its way up to my zipper,
and I leaned back in the loveseat as she moved her palm back and forth
over my bulge. She moved her lips to my ear, and with an agonizing
slowness licked her way around it and into the center. In a husky
voice she mentioned that I seemed a little tense, and she might be
persuaded to help out with that.

“Persuaded?” My mind wasn’t working terribly quickly through the
erotic feelings she was raising in me. I squeezed her breast and let
my hand make its way slowly down her side to cup her bottom, my fingers
exploring those curves just as her fingernails outlined the swollen
contours of my shaft. “Not that kind of persuasion, sweetie,” she
said, “I’m a working girl, after all.” A light finally dawned in my
head, but not so urgently that I didn’t take my sweet time sliding my
hand over her entire bottom on its way to my hip pocket where my wallet
was ensconced. Two minutes later, a pair of Andrew Jacksons had
changed allegiance and my hand was nicely tucked under her skirt,
discovering that she had dispensed with underwear.

She deftly unfastened my belt and slid my zipper down, then
slipped her cool fingers into my briefs. It was almost a shock to feel
the contrast between them and the heat of my cock. Without observable
effort she threaded my cock out into open air, and wrapped her hand
around it. Her thumb was rolling repeatedly over the top, and my brain
was being split into a rainbow between that and the way my fingers felt
embedded in her own moist channel. I leaned back in the couch, rocking
my head from side to side as my lips moved soundlessly.

She produced a handkerchief from somewhere, and the next thing I
was conscious of was spurting into her cloth-covered hand, her other
hand stroking my balls as she urged me to “Be a good boy, give it all
to Mamma”. I managed to hold my vocal response down to a soft moan,
and her hands moved until I had nothing left to give.

I was impressed, to say the least. But I thought my head would
explode when the handkerchief disappeared and she ducked her head down
to my lap to give my cock a thorough tongue-washing. The next thing I
knew my pants were zipped up and my dance partner was helping me stand
up on shaky legs. We walked back to the foyer window, and she
repunched her time card. Then she turned to me and gave me a sizzling
kiss while her hand played lightly between my legs. When the kiss
ended, she smiled at me and said “I hope you come back soon – you’re a
wonderful ‘dancer’!” With that she turned and sashayed toward the TV

The same latina was on duty when I got to the exit window, and she
checked the time and quoted me a number. I paid it, only slightly
disturbed by how much this brief afternoon dalliance had cost me. I
was remembering that other area in back, the one where only the woman’s
head was visible. In my mind I was already planning for my next visit.