The Dancing Diva

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

The silver sphere spun beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, casting a splintered rainbow of flashing lights over the men seated at the small tables, the cocktail waitresses in their abbreviated costumes, the small, elevated stage upon which the topless dancers pranced, and over the curves of Daphne's swelling breasts, rounded hips, sleek, firm buttocks, and long, tapering legs.

Daphne loved to dance. More to the point, she loved to be the center of attention, and nothing focused men's interest as much as a beautiful woman dancing with her bouncing breasts and flexing buttocks on display beneath swirling lights while rock and roll music blared from hidden, oversize speakers. Daphne was paid well for exhibiting her charms, because the patrons of Dancing Divas were generous, despite—or maybe because of—their intoxication. Daphne liked to think the men were intoxicated by her beauty, rather than the liquor they drank non-stop from the moment they arrived in the gentlemen's club until closing at 3:00 a.m.

Most of the club's patrons conducted themselves fairly well. There were wolf whistles and comments, of course, and even some touching of her calves, thighs, and buttocks, although contact with her or the other dancers was, strictly speaking, prohibited. She didn't mind a hand on her leg or ass, but she didn't like men trying to grope her breasts, which, after all, had cost several thousand dollars, and she especially didn't appreciate the few whom were emboldened enough by the alcohol they'd consumed to venture to grab her crotch. None ever had. Daphne was far too quick and lithe for some drunk to put his hands anywhere she didn't want them. A hand on her leg or ass was good for business, but, beyond that, as far as Daphne was concerned, a patron's admiration became rudeness.

One of the regular customers, a short, fat, baldheaded man named Sam, was seated at his usual table. Located a mere two feet from the stage on which Daphne bumped and ground, flaunting her breasts and buttocks as she danced, Sam's table offered an close view of Daphne's charms and was within touching distance. More than a few times already, Sam had approached Daphne with a folded dollar bill in his sweaty, meaty palm, slid the money under the waistband of her G-string, and patted her bottom or caressed her thigh. Her thong was festooned with ones and fives. There were even a few tens and twenties among the bills she wore like a garland around her waist. Many of the bills were from Sam. Each had bought him a pat or a touch or a fondle or a squeeze or a pinch.

Sam was drunker than usual tonight, and he yelled suggestive comments to Daphne as he watched her flounce and bounce upon the raised stage. Most of them were drowned out by the rock music that blared throughout the discothèque, but Daphne did hear a few of his remarks. They were predictably coarse. She pretended not to hear them, hoping Sam might be discouraged by her silence disregard of his invitations and propositions. He wasn't, not tonight. "Wanna fuck you!" he cried. "Wanna put it in your deep, hot ass!"

Daphne edged away from his table, gyrating her hips at a table occupied by a young black man who was dressed like a pimp. The black man grinned up at her. "Shake it, momma!" he called, tucking a folded five under her thong.

She smiled at him as she cupped her breasts in her hands.

"Hoo-eee!" he cried, laughing.

 

The night wore on. Candy relieved Daphne, who retired to the dressing room to catch her breath, count her tips, and repair her makeup for her next performance, a half an hour from now. She slid the folded bills from her waistband, unfolding and smoothing them flat on her makeup table. In the past hour, she'd earned another two hundred dollars, making a grand total of $1,200 for the seven hours she'd been dancing. At Dancing Divas, the dancers decided their own schedules, but they had to notify Tom Eddings, the club's manager, a week ahead as to how many hours they planned to work each night. Daphne had elected to work eight hours tonight. She wished she'd decided to work only half that number, but then she'd probably have earned only half of the money she'd made in tips. With an hour left to go, after her break, she'd maybe make another couple hundred. One thousand four hundred dollars wasn't bad for eight hours of dancing, she thought. She smiled at the thought of Sam, drunk on his ass, patting her bottom and shoving tens and twenties under her waistband. Alone, he'd probably contributed several hundreds to her night's take. Maybe she should shale her ass in his face at the end of her next show, by way of saying thanks.

She turned to the mirror framed by the illuminated light bulbs and checked her makeup. A girl had to look her best on stage. Daphne blotted perspiration from her brow and neck, applied a bit more foundation, dabbed her cheeks with powder, outlined her full, soft lips with lipstick, and rubbed some blush into her stiff nipples and areolas, making them a richer, riper pink. She smiled at the beautiful, full-bosomed young blonde in the mirror, and the blonde smiled back at her, a playful glimmer in her sapphire eyes. "Darling," Daphne said to her reflection, "you are divine!" No wonder the guys emptied their wallets in tribute to her beauty. There was no need for false modesty. Like the wolf whistles, suggestive comments, outright propositions, caresses and pinches, and dollar bills stuffed into her thong, the mirror also made no secret of her beauty. Daphne Dee Light was a truly gorgeous woman.

 

Her break over, Daphne resumed her place on the stage. A rock song blared, and she went through the routine motions, stretching and twisting and writhing to make her breasts jiggle, her ass twitch and tremble, her tummy roll, and her calves and thighs flex. She pouted, licked her lips, gasped, moaned, and groaned, thrusting her pelvis rapidly back and forth, and working her buttocks. The men stared at her, fascinated. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape, and their fists pounded their tabletops as they roared their encouragement and approval. A dozen men tucked money under her waistband, patting her fanny and caressing her thighs. In a few minutes, her waist was again wreathed in legal tender. As before, Sam was her greatest and most generous fan, shoving tens, twenties, and even a fifty into her G-string. She smiled at him, and he grinned back.

As the end of the hour approached, Daphne crossed the stage, dancing close to Sam's table. She bent low, so that her buttocks jutted out, offering the short, heavyset, baldheaded man a close-up view of her golden globes. She shook her ass in his face as she looked back at him, between her spread legs, grinning at his lust-enflamed stare. She saw him rise from his table, his crotch bulging despite the enormous quantity of alcohol he'd consumed, a handful of bills in his pudgy hand. She was glad she'd paid him the honor of displaying her ass to him in such a suggestive and sexy manner. It looked as if her gesture was going to pay off richly.

Sam reached the edge of the circular stage. He reached out with the handful of money, and Daphne flexed her ass cheeks encouragingly. The drunken patron grasped the G-string's thin waistband, to tug it outward, but lost his balance and fell. As he plummeted to the floor, he ripped her thongs from her, showering the stage with the dollars that had been ticked inside the waistband and revealing Daphne's secret to the crowd of her admirers. They gasped, their eyes huge and their mouths wide, as they saw that their favorite dancing diva was a transsexual!

Below the carefully trimmed thatch of pubic hair that decorated her lower abdomen, a cock and pair of balls dangled, jiggling like fleshly jewels. Above the loud music, Daphne heard the gasps and cries of astonishment. A few men looked angry. They stood abruptly and strode from the club, shaking their heads in disgust. My career is over, Daphne thought, feeling tears flood her eyes.

She noticed that Sam wasn't hurt, at least. The rotund drunk had managed to stand. He tottered, staring at his favorite topless dancer's penis, dangling before the shaved scrotum between her long, sleek thighs. Sam blinked, squinted, and stared again, obviously trying to sort out the conflicting images of Daphne's lovely face, full, high, round breasts, slender build, concave stomach, rounded hips, firm, globular ass, long, smooth legs—and cock and balls. After a moment, he grinned and began to applaud loudly, in obvious appreciation of Daphne's transsexual beauty. A moment later, another patron joined in the applause. Within seconds, the many men who'd remained in the club were also clapping. The house resounded with their loud, heartfelt applause, to which they added whistles and cheers. One by one, scores of her admirers approached the stage, showering her with money. She watched as hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dollars were cast at her feet. For fifteen minutes, it rained money.

Daphne went to the edge of the stage, stooped, and kissed Sam upon the mouth. When the fat, bald man cupped her breasts in his plump hands, squeezing the soft, sleek mounds, she neither pulled away nor protested. Next, she suffered him to squeeze her full, firm ass cheeks. She also allowed him to stroke and caress her genitals, thankful that Sam had remained faithful to her in his admiration of her beauty, even after he'd inadvertently revealed her secret. As far as Daphne was concerned, he'd earned the right to sample her charms any time he liked.

From that night forward, Daphne's performances at Dancing Divas always ended the same way—with the revelation of her secret, thunderous applause, a shower of thousands of dollars, and Sam's soft caresses of her breasts, her buttocks, and her cock and balls.

  

  

  

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