Until this day I don't think I fully understood how the relatively short relationship even got started between Max, my apartment roommate, and Sheila, his exotic-dancer-girlfriend. Maybe, subconsciously, I didn't want to know. You see I had a hidden crush on Max's beautiful lover and felt guilty for something I could never do—steal her away from him. So my secret love, my furtive passion, was certainly much more than a temporary infatuation. To make matters worse, my preoccupation to bury and refute my latent, lesbian tendencies was a major source of sexual frustration for me. I never had enough courage to act upon my deep, embedded, explosive desires to be with a female.

Sheila was just the kind of woman I always fantasized about. Her soft, high cheek-boned face poured into an angelic, dimpled, pixie chin. Those large, green eyes, long lashes, and thin eyebrows pierced my soul when she looked me. Her long, brown hair—perfectly combed—rained down in shimmering waves down her muscular back, to curl just above the cleavage of her tight ass cheeks. Her upturned breasts, large areolas and erect nipples, buff body, thin waist, and muscular legs made my mouth water. In my daydreams her full, pouting lips often locked onto mine. Standing or sitting near her made my clit throb and my vagina gush.

At work Sheila was a perfectionist and took pride in her choreography, stylizing and synchronizing her erotic body movements to the thumping heartbeat of the club's dance music. Her sets were lively, original, and very sensual. I appreciated her gym-toned, conditioned body performing hard during her imaginative and playful routines. The first time I saw her dance, I lusted for her.

And then there was Sheila's boyfriend, Max, a considerate, safe, honest, trustworthy roommate and friend. He was generous with his time (and his girlfriend) and regularly asked me to ride with him to the outskirts of town to the all-nude gentlemen's club where Sheila worked late as one of the principal dancers. Shy at first I normally accepted his invitations with nonchalant excuses: I didn't have much to do, or it would be nice to get out of the apartment, or I was bored at that moment, or some other nonsense. But I always found a new reason to tag along to be near my Sheila—to see her, to greet her, to touch her, to smell her.

As a welcome respite after work, Max's evening entertainment-of-choice was the club, to down a few beers, to munch finger food for supper, and to watch Sheila put on a great show with the other exotic dancers. He claimed our nights out there were "easy on the eyes." Besides, he knew the owners, and we sometimes got in the door without a cover charge.

After we arrived I would always walk behind Max, appearing to be the bored, uninterested, out-of-place tagalong. But secretly I loved to watch all of the exotic dancers and their performances on stage, their bodies in motion, and their teasing interaction with the audience. A few of the dancers flirted with some of the female clientele as well, which was particularly aggravating to me; jealousy and frustration were constant reminders as I gazed at my dancers' beckoning faces, mouthwatering nipples, muscular thighs, and perfect asses while they strutted their stuff for me. Far too bashful and intimidated to object, I often sighed to myself, a fish out of water competing with a mostly male crowd. Could I compete, as well? When it was time for us to leave, I felt excited and discouraged at the same time; my true feelings and passions for the gorgeous dancer of my sex remained pent-up and deep within me.

For the dancers the club installed showers, which Sheila used to freshen her unblemished skin before coming home, except on Saturday night, when she waited to soak in a steamy tub back at her apartment with fragrant aromatherapy oils or bath beads. She was always pleasant to be around, to talk with, to look at, to touch, and to smell. I wished I could rub my body all over hers—I wished her flesh was mine.

No matter what her mood was after her night's work—and after her hello-smooch and hug from Max—Sheila always greeted me with a friendly face, a warm smile, a pleasant hello, a two-armed hug, and a delicious kiss on my full lips. After Max and I would pick her up, and during our drive back to the apartment, I often caught myself leering at Sheila's model profile as she sat in the front seat with Max. It was embarrassing in a fun, sexy kind of way, having to turn away when she caught me staring out of the corner of her eye. But there were times she would glance back at me to smile, never saying a word about my eye flirting.

Could she tell by my facial expressions, my body language, my eyes, my lips, that I lusted for her? Did she ever lust for me?

I wondered—I wished.

Max never seemed to catch on to any of my secret obsessions, like my sitting with her in the car, releasing my libido to conjure up waking, Sapphic fantasies of Sheila and me in bed—panting, sweaty, writhing, rolling bodies: tonguing and rubbing inflamed skin and flesh. On my return trip to reality, I had to shake my head to free myself of my intimate couplings with her. Our drive home from the club with Sheila in the car made my panties wet. I would have to change into fresh underwear when we arrived back at the apartment.

Max enjoyed dining out and occasionally drove the three of us uptown for a late evening supper, but Sheila liked the intimacy and quiet time with him back at our or her apartment. She often objected with Max on this subject, saying she "lived" the nightlife during her working evenings, so the apartment provided her a quiet sanctuary from a demanding public. To his overt disappointment, Max often deferred to his cocooning, cuddling pet.

My early goodnights to the two of them forced me to hole up in my bedroom, alone and thinking of her, liberating my frustrations through a hot, prolonged, self pleasuring session with my obsessive fingers or a G-spot-friendly vibrator. And there was an added clandestine attraction for me, if Max and Sheila had sex: I would recline in my bed, naked, spread-eagle, quietly masturbating—waiting patiently for Sheila to cry out from her orgasm, timing mine with hers. I would listen for her peaking groans that penetrated the thin, sheetrock walls of the apartment. Although Sheila and I were physically apart, I cherished my unseen, aural voyeurism with her. We always came together, and I always slept soundly afterwards, she in my dreams.

* * * * * * *

It was my four-to-twelve shift on a Saturday at the customer response center, to answer the usual round of inane, evening service requests and filling out report paperwork. The end of a busy and hectic workweek was near for me, and as usual, images of Sheila entered my thoughts. Earlier in the week, she asked me, so sweetly, to borrow a CD of mine for some dance music and a song she wanted to play during one of her sets at the club. I would have hired the group to play for her! Suddenly, my ringing phone disturbed my quiet work, shaking me from my waking dream of Sheila's gorgeous, sexy body.

Max was on the line to ask, "Hello, Renee?"

"Oh, hi, Max," I replied. "How are you?" I was slightly disappointed that he interrupted my reverie of my girlfriend. Nevertheless, it was an opportunity to talk about her to get me hot.

"Listen," he started slowly, sighing, "something's come up."

Max began his standard apologies this way, but for some reason, this sounded different. There was a long pause on the phone as if he waited for me to say something, so I went fishing.

"You still there? Is everything all right, hon?" I asked.

"It's Sheila," he said, without further explanation. Again he seemed to wait for me to speak.

"Is something wrong with Sheila?" I gasped anxiously. "Max, you're scaring me just a little."

"No, no—nothing is wrong with Sheila, Renee," Max said, then took a deep breath. "May I ask a very important favor of you? Could you be a sweetheart and meet Sheila at the club tonight and drive her home?" Max pleaded his odd request.

Excited at the prospect of picking up my secret girlfriend, alone, I took a silent breath and replied coolly, "Of course I can, Max, right after my shift. I'd love to." Then I asked the obligatory question, "Aren't you at home already?" Another long pause by Max caused the hair on the back of my neck to straighten.

"I have—" Max's voice cracked.

"Maxwell, you either tell me what's wrong, or there's going to be hell to pay when I see you," I chided. "Now, tell me!"

My threat was ignored, but he finally replied, "I have to work a lot of overtime to get my project done for Monday." It was the second part of an obviously transparent, lame excuse. Painstakingly, Max continued, "I just won't be home tonight. In fact, I may have to stay here through the weekend to . . . to get this thing done on time."

"Listen, I know you too well, buddy, and that's just bullshit," I whispered loudly as the night janitor stood nearby to stare at me, then resumed mopping the tile floor.

"No, it isn't bullshit," he returned, somewhat perturbed, and paused again. "I just won't be home."

"Max, are you sure everything is OK?" I asked, now at a loss for the right question—I had Sheila on my mind to confuse my emotions.

"Everything will be fine, Renee. You do know me all too well." I heard him swallow. "You also know that I don't hold grudges. I am—and will always be—your friend," he said, strangely.

Puzzled, I appealed, "Max, honey, can you please tell me what's going on?"

"Sheila is fine, Renee. I stopped by the club to see her. We . . . we talked. When you see her tonight, she'll fill you in on all the details." Max then took a breath. "I have to go now. Maybe I'll see you Monday?"

My initial concerns gave way to confusion and anticipation. On one hand I tried to concentrate on what Max told me (or kept from me); on the other hand, I couldn't believe my good fortune at the chance of being alone with Sheila.

With my face away from the phone, I inhaled to catch my breath to reply, almost tripping over my words, "Max, if you two are fighting over something stupid, I'm really going to be pissed!" Then I softened, "She does have my CD and it's the easiest chance I have to get it back from her after her set tonight."

"You've always been a good friend, Renee," Max said before a relieved sigh left his lips. "Listen, I have to get back to work, now. Give Sheila . . . give her a kiss for me?" he requested, upbeat for the first time.

Controlling my breathing and voice, I consolingly replied, "Sure, Max. I'll tell her you called and that you love her, and I'll give her a kiss for you."

I tried to convince myself that everything was all right, restraining my breathing to relax my nerves. But I let my imagination run wild at the prospect of picking up Sheila alone. Vivid fantasy images blossomed in front of my glazed-over eyes of Sheila French-kissing my pussy. My clit throbbed and my slit dampened the crotch of my panties.

Max breathed through his nose and into the phone. "I always loved your innocence, Renee. Someday, soon, I bet you'll make someone, feel very, very special. Goodbye, honey," Max said softly.

The phone clicked to a dial tone.

"Goodbye . . ." I murmured, talking only to myself. My body felt tingly and numb at the same time.

Fortunately my work shift at this time of day kept the office and building empty, except for the cleaning people. The janitor left my work area, and since no one else was around, I pulled my chair forward against my desk, closed my eyes, and rubbed my wet crotch. Surprised at the moisture between my legs that quickly dampened my stroking fingers—making me even more excited—I thought of masturbating and moaning loudly in the bathroom, but the janitorial staff chose this day to scrub down the floors and toilets. Damn! I had to hold off, my sexual tension increasing as the evening's time crawled—to spite me.

Daydreaming of Sheila kept my mind and body from productive work. My eyes tried coaxing the wall clock's hour and minute hands to the finish line of my Saturday night shift. Finally the interminable workweek ended, and I quickly shut off my computer, locked my desk, secured the office, exited the building, flew down the stairwell, shot out of the building, and started my car.

Since my apartment was on my way to the club, I challenged myself, figuring I could stop there first and change into something sexy (for her), then be back on the road within minutes. With elevated hormone levels flooding my body, I was pumped to pick up my secret passion. Rapidly snaking through town to avoid the evening speed traps, I arrived at my apartment entrance, ran upstairs, disrobed, slipped into dry panties and the pullover knit dress—the one that hugged my hips so well—slid into my good pumps, and shut off my apartment lights, all within in four minutes of my arrival. Back on the road and out to the highway, I careened down the road for the outskirts of town.

Oh, yes. I just loved those outskirts.

Upon my arrival the club, I scanned a nearly full parking lot and spotted an open stall. I parked and exited my car, key-locking the doors, and raced to the main entrance door where the smiling, beefy, part-time bouncer-doorman greeted me.

"Good evening, Carter," I sang. "Not limo-ing tonight?"

"Good evening, Renee," he said, grinning. "No, not tonight. Better money here on a Saturday evening. By the way, no cover needed from you. Thanks for coming by to pick up Sheila."

"My pleasure," I finally replied, thinking Sheila's predicament to get a ride home obviously made the rounds.

"You're easy on the eyes, tonight, Renee," Carter said, winking at my skimpy outfit as he opened the door for me.

I felt sexy this evening, even for a guy like Carter. Glancing at my erect nipples and undulating butt, he waved me inside. Feeling really turned on, I had to tease just one guy before dedicating my night to Sheila, so I stopped two paces into the hallway, bent over to expose my panties and muscular thighs, intentionally removed my pumps, then quickly slipped them back on. Standing up straight I flipped my long, brown, scented air at him and slowly tugged my dress down over my hips.

"These fucking shoes," I cursed in mock disgust. "That does it! I'm going to become a nudist. Say, Carter, what does your wife think about clothes?"

Dumbfounded, Carter swallowed hard, ogled my legs and wiggling ass, and sighed, "Sima loves them."

"Too bad," I said, grinning back at him, strutting away. "Later."

Although the flirting lifted my ego, I felt tentative entering the main hall of the club: dark, sparkling, and noisy. But I felt lucky and liberated, thrilled to the excitement at being on my own—and on a mission. A large crowd, mostly guys, occupied many of the tables around the dance floor; only a few empty chairs and tables were visible. And there she was—Sheila was performing on stage as I arrived. Quickly shuffling past the foot of the dance floor, I made my way to an empty, two-seat table near the far end of the bar. Away from the stage action, I first tried to pretend not to watch the show—but tonight—alone, I was enthralled with Sheila.

I had to look.

Within a minute of my sitting down, a young, topless, petite, freckled, buxom, redhead stepped lively to my table. "Hi, honey, I'm Wild Flower. What can I get you?"

"Hi, I'm Renee. I'll just have a ginger ale, on ice, with a lemon." Catching myself at the last moment, I almost told her I wanted a Sheila. "Wild Flower," I continued, glancing at her innocent, pretty face and the down at her full, round mounds, and large, edible nipples. "That's a cute stage name."

The waitress tried to engage my eyes. "Thank you," she gushed. "Say, Renee, I recognize you. You come here often with Max, right?" she asked, smiling. "You must be a friend of Sheila's."

"Max, my roommate, dates her," I explained, returning my stares to Sheila on stage. "I suppose I can call her my friend," I said, compressing the truth—I really wanted to brag that Sheila was my sex-kitten lover.

"Yeah, Max. He was here today to see her," Wild Flower said, her smile disappearing from her face. She paused to look at me to see if I would help complete her thought. Instead, I smiled back. Her face flushed red. She subtly changed the subject, smiling again. "I think Sheila's really hot. She's our best dancer. What do you think, hon?" she asked, tilting her head to one side in an effort to entertain my eyes.

Slowly turning away I gawked at Sheila dancing on stage and replied in slow, staccato spurts, "Yeah . . . hot . . . dancer . . . best."

For a moment Wild Flower watched me watch Sheila, then spun toward the bar to fetch my drink. My pupils dilated at Sheila's pole-dance routine. She seemed to be in exceptionally good form and mood this evening. It must be my CD. It was no big thing, but I was so proud of myself having helped her with the choreography.

My eyes glued to Sheila's provocative performance as she humped her crotch along the stainless steel stage pole. When she looked seductively at two male college students at the front table nearest stage left, I wondered if they visualized a pussy sliding down a long, hard cock. My fantasy, of course, had her slit sensually stroking my legs and inner thighs. Another thirty-something business-type, egged on from his cohorts, approached the stage to offer a fiver to slip into Sheila's G-string. She bent down, pecked him on the cheek, and tongued a thank-you, her breath fluffing up his wispy hair. I freely grinned at the machismo spectacle, putting me in a hot, sexy mood.

Within a few minutes of my order, the smiling, bouncing Wild Flower returned with my soft drink. I slid a few dollars toward her hand. She placed a dry paper napkin in front of me, set a sweaty glass on it, and tried one more round of is-she-interested-in-me-or-not.

"On the house," she said, sliding back my money toward me. "Say, Renee, after work, me and my one girlfriend, Angel, are going out for something to eat," she said. She looked down at her hand, and with her middle finger, deliberately smeared a script "R" on the black, polyurethane tabletop near my elbow. "Would you like to come along? I bet you'd have a good time."

I had to respond this time and really look at Wild Flower, finally realizing she was hitting on me. I kept my options open, if for no other reason than to tease back. "Thanks, honey, but I'm just here to pick up Sheila. Maybe another time?" I patted her hand.

"Anytime would be nice," Wild Flower sighed, smiling. "I'll check back in a bit, to see if you need anything else—from me."

Keeping her options open, Wild Flower's hand slid off the table to glide along my neck and shoulder. Without flinching I watched her fingers out of the corner of my eye. Goose pimples bubbled up my arms from her delicate stroking. She then stepped behind me, her hard nipples brushing the middle of my back. She finally walked away from my table, glancing back at me, grinning broadly. Her bouncing breasts, tight ass, dancer legs, and edible thighs, were enough to make me reach down, in public, to rub my throbbing pussy.

But I held back and came to my senses, to concentrate on my favorite dancer. As her first set ended, I caught Sheila's eye. Sashaying her gorgeous, strutting figure over to the DJ's station, she whispered in his ear and pointed in my direction. The DJ nodded and smiled at me, pulling a microphone to his face.

"And we have one of our frequent guests in the house this evening," he boomed, his deep, radio voice reverberating through my body. "Renee, why don't you come sit down at the stage rail to receive a personalized dance from Sheila as her thanks to you for picking her up tonight."

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