Secret Dancer

Alison plucked the coupon off the counter like evidence. Strip club. Her father's wallet? Her mind snapped to betrayal until the cab rolled up and spilled her stepmother out—mascara blurred, heels crooked, leopard print stretched taut over nothing respectable. Alana froze. Alison lifted the paper between them. “This yours?” Silence answered. Alana closed the door, set her purse down, and admitted it quietly: she danced for money and for the eyes that watched her. She needed Alison silent. Alison named her price. A lap dance. Here. Now. Alana weighed shame against survival and chose to move. She settled on her stepdaughter’s thighs, hips rolling in small, reluctant circles. Alison felt the heat through thin fabric and cupped one small breast, fingers sliding beneath the bikini string. The knot gave. Alana whispered no, but the top slipped anyway. Alison confessed she’d watched through the shower door more times than she could count, memorizing the way water slid over Alana’s ass. Her hands continued downward, peeling the panties aside despite the protest that she only stripped to the waist at work. Two fingers sank in; Alana clenched around them, slick against her will. Alison stood, stripped, then dropped to her knees. Her tongue dragged over swollen clit, relentless, until Alana gasped and pulsed, thighs shaking. She climbed up, straddled her stepmother’s mouth, and ground down. Alana licked while her own fingers circled furiously. They shifted, scissoring tight, slick skin sliding, then twisted into sixty-nine, both mouths full and both bodies trembling until release hit them at once.