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The Striptease


"Got a Black Magic Woman. Got a Black Magic Woman ..."

It's taken me a long time to get up my nerve to actually do this
... strip, that is. Even though it will be a private performance. I
mean, what if I'm no good? What if I turn the gentleman off, instead of
on, as I intend? Wait a minute, I better remember who I'm talking about
here. Unless I stick him in a tub of ice water, I can't turn the man off.
It's impossible. Besides, he keeps telling me I move, not like a
goddess, the way a normal man would, but like a stripper. So I'll give it
a try ... but what image do I want to project? That's easy ... sexy,
sensual ... geez, but what music?

"I got a Black Magic Woman, got me so blind I can't see ..."

It's got to be slow, but not too slow ... something I can really
dance to. Let me go through my music ... "Never Been to Spain?" Well,
that's slow enough and I can move to it without bouncing like a
basketball. Oooh here's one ... "Witchy Woman" by the Eagles. "Raven
hair and ruby lips ..." close, but no cigar. Good theme, tho. Let's see
what else do I have that's "witchy" ... "Bewitched, Bothered and
Bewildered..." I don't think so. Oh, oh here it is ... "Black Magic
Woman" by Santana. Mmmm, I can do this one.

"... That she's a Black Magic Woman. She's tryin' to make a devil out of
me."

Let me set the stage a little ... I'm 25 years old, 5 feet tall
and about 105 lbs ... small waist, slender hips, large bust ... My hair
is a dark reddish brown with one white streak over my left eye. Of
course, my hair is waist length, so that white streak is about 2 and a
half feet long. I choose my outfit for the night — let me start from the
outside. A black floor length cape with a hood. A two piece skirt and
blouse set, also black, with buttons from neckline/ waistband to hem. The
skirt is very full, so when I twirl, it stands out from my legs, revealing
what I'm wearing, or not wearing, under it. Fingerless, elbow length
black lace gloves. Black lace stockings that match the gloves. Three inch
high black spike-heeled pumps. A black garter belt with satin ribbon
trim. A black satin "corselette", the saleswoman called it, that laces
from the bottom of my black lace bra to my waist. And black lace string
bikini panties. I've shaved carefully so there will be no unsightly hair
... anywhere. I do look good, if I must say so myself.

"Don't turn your back on me, baby. Don't turn your back on me, baby."

It takes days to figure out how to style my hair. I know I want
to put it up, and then take it down sometime during the dance. But my
hair is very thick. And I don't want to be pulling pins from it during
the entire performance. I finally get it. Two hair pins would hold it
up. Remove them and shake my head ... down goes the hair. And I practice
with it up so I know it will work. What about my face ... that class in
theater makeup from college will help. Emphasize my best features — eyes
darkened, lips reddened and moist, cheekbones hollowed — and make myself
look as exotic as my ancestors.


"Yes, don't turn your back on me, baby. Stop messin' round with your
tricks."

I issue the invitation. "My place. Tomorrow night — 8:30. Use
your key. Sit. And wait." I've dressed the house, too. The lamps are
dr*ped. Even the doorway is dr*ped. The couch is gone, as is much of the
furniture from the room, and replaced by a large overstuffed chair. I've
turned off all the lights except those few dr*ped lamps. And the candles
... many, many candles. He's on time. I go back behind the dark, dr*ped
doorway where he cannot see me. He comes in, looks around and smiles. I
can see he's eagerly anticipating whatever I have planned. He sits in the
only chair in the room, across from the doorway from which I watch. It's
time. I start the music.

" Don't turn your back on me, baby. You just might pick up my magic
sticks."

I let the sounds of the keyboard play and step into the room with
the first notes from the guitar. My hood is pulled up as I stalk to the
middle of the room. When I reach it, I spin, bringing my arms and the
cape up like wings as I unfasten it. Putting on my most sultry look, I
use the cape as a matador would, spinning it around my shoulders, in the
air, until it lands on the back of the chair, behind him, having been
propelled there by my hands. I trail my demi-gloved fingers down the side
of his face in a beckoning gesture, but when he tries to follow, I push
him back in the chair. I turn away from him and stalk back to the middle
of the floor, throwing an evil grin back over my shoulder at him. I reach
my destination and bend from the waist with one leg to the side,
presenting him with a nice view of my backside pressed tightly against the
material of my skirt, as I begin to work on the buttons.

"Got your spell on me, baby. You got your spell on me, baby."

As the buttons come undone, more and more leg is exposed until, on
a certain note of the guitar, I sweep the skirt around in a circle and it
lands in his lap. I face him and sway to the music, eyes closed, as I
begin on my blouse ... this time from the top. As the buttons are opened
below the level of my breasts, I hug myself, pressing my breasts together
until they seem to overflow the bra. His eyes are glued to my chest,
waiting for the flood, but it never happens. The blouse comes off and
lands on his knee. I move close to him, facing him and bend over. I pull
the pins from my hair and stand, throwing my head back as I do. My hair
comes free and spills to my waist.

"You got your spell on me, baby, turning my heart into stone.*"

He reaches for me, but I spin away, the ends of my hair striking
him as I move. I move close to him again, close enough that he can smell
my perfume — "Obsession," the perfume he gave to me because he said that's
what I'd become — mixed with the slightly musky aroma of sweat from the
dance. Still moving to the pulsating music, I begin on the laces of the
corselette, giving a small, self-satisfied smile as his eyes follow my
fingers. The corsellete comes off and I drop it where I stand. My tongue
snakes out to moisten my lips as my hands caress the bare skin I've
uncovered.

"I need you so bad ..."

I reach up and cover each breast with the palm of a hand,
seemingly weighing them in my hands. My hands glide to the tip and gently
tweak each nipple as I shiver. I slide my hands down my bare midriff
until they reach first the garter belt, then the band of my panties. I
slide my panties down my hips and step out of them. I hear his sharp
intake of breath when he sees I'm bare, totally denuded of hair, which
affords him a better view of all my charms. I straddle his knees, still
swaying to the music, reach behind me to unfasten my bra, and let it fall
into his lap. My breasts are at his eye level, I can see the hunger in
his eyes and feel it in his warm, moist breath as it flows over my skin —
hunger for me. I back away from him, slowly and stand still as his eyes
travel over my body, a body clad only in stockings, garter belt, heels,
and gloves. I turn away and walk toward the doorway. The music reaches
its climax as I reach the door. I stop, place a hand on the doorway and
look back over my shoulder. He's still sitting, still watching. I smile
and angle my head toward the bedroom. Then I slip through the doorway.

"Magic Woman I can't leave you alone."

End of Story