A brassy fanfare sounded and the second stripper came on. A slim one, too, as though in answer to everybody's prayers, young and cute and tiny and amazingly energetic, a veritable little hoyden of a girl. With red hair, imagine! Under the flashing strobe like floodlight, I couldn't tell if she was a dyed Mexican or a misplaced Irish colleen. Her costume was black but pretty much immaterial; in that wildly volatile manner of hers, she wasted no time shedding a few pertinent items of apparel and getting right down co the bare essentials.

Her breasts were simply adorable, so pert and precocious after those big balloons awhile ago. Even my own body soon began to respond to their enticement and I had to squirm around in my seat to soothe the itch. All the more so a moment later when she whirled and gave us a prolonged rear view, grinding her bare bottom like a naughty coquette; such a delectable little fanny! Oh, it was quite a performance she put on, more real than theatrical. Toward the end she seemed to go into a fit of ecstasy, shivering and shaking in a way that just couldn't have been faked, reaching the climax of her act in a series of shamelessly abandoned pelvic convulsions that must have brought her to the verge of orgasm. Or beyond? I couldn't tell for sure. It was pretty wicked, though, dragging the entire audience right along with her, right into that same stew of excitement. When she finally made it to the wings, there was a collective sigh of relief before the crowd regained poise enough to function physically and start applauding. And then, of course, the clamor rocked the joint to its foundations.