I thought that was really ironic. See, here’s the thing. Kacey’s sister is pole dance instructor. She’s not a stripper, but a dance instructor. When I was in college, a stripper pole was something slutty girls spun around while taking off their clothes and simulating sex in smokey strip clubs while hormy men stuffed dollar bills in their garters. These days, there’s this whole new fad where middle-class white moms book dance parties with their pretty friends and hire instructors (like my friend, Kacey’s, sister) to come teach them how to “pole dance” while they drink wine and giggle. It’s become a thing and some girls, like Kacey, actually get into it and go to pole dancing competitions and everything. “It’s an awesome workout and it has nothing to do with stripping,” Kacey said one day while we were eating lunch together. Yeah. I guess so. That’s why the girls in the competitions look like strippers, move like strippers, and give all the (straight) guys watching a hard. My harden nipples crushed into his chest as our tongues dueled. Michael’s weight caused me to fall back on to the couch, pulling him down on top of me. My legs opened up, flanking his hips as we kissed. I could feel his penis against my heat, separated from my moistness only by the thin, sopping wet fabric of my panties. It had softened after his orgasm, but the contact with my indecently clad vagina was having a slow affect on it. It became heavier, less yielding, and as it rubbed across my tender, aroused vulva, I broke the kiss with a gasp. I arched my back, driving our pelvises together, and pulling in air in a drawn out moan. Michael took this opportunity to focus his attention instead on my neck, nibbling at my ear and running his tongue and lips under my jaw. He scooted backwards, disappointingly removing his penis from its contact with my pussy, but slowly kissed his way down my body, stopping to nuzzle and suck on each of my breasts. The sensation caused by his actions.
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