Let's write a story about Strippers!!

Unfotuntely Lacy did not have time to freshen up and the unmistakable odor of KY and her own juices soon filled the interior of the cab, causing the driver Slappy to begin masturbating which in turn caused him to crash into the back of the limo just ahead of them in traffic.....

The irate limo driver jumped out of car and stormed over to the cab to give the cab driver a piece of his mind.

In the meantime, an irritated woman of a certain age, dressed in Prada and Harry Winston, decided to survey the damage done to her ride.

While the cab driver and chauffer, by this time calmed down, were exchanging insurance information, Lacy, having changed her clothes in the back of the cab and now wearing a turtleneck sweater and tweed blazer, over smart boot cut jeans and low heeled boots, joined the 3 already on the street.

"Can we settle this with a blowjob, or do I have to take my clothes off again?" asked Lacy.

The grande dame, quickly giving the once over to our young scholar, murmured, "My dear, I have never received a blowjob, nor do I wish to start receiving them now. Your cab driver has made me late for a seminar I'm giving at the university on haute couture, and this is hardly the time for negotiations."

"The universtiy?" That's were I'm headed for my mid term in string theory, and I only have 10 minutes to get there.", bemoaned Ms. Putana.

The socialites eyes snapped to attention. "Dr. Dover's class? That bastard won't waste a minute in failing you for being a scant minute late. I'm not usually this generous, actually I'm not generous at all, but I have an old score to settle with Ben. Get in the limo, we'll go together."

"Can I get a raincheck on that blowjob?" asked the driver.

Ignoring the ignorant comment, Lacy joined her new benefactress in the back of the black limo. It smoothly pulled back out into traffic.

"Thanks ever so much!" enthused Lucy. "Oh dear, where are my manners! My name is Lacy Putana, Ms.......?"

"Chokondik,.....Betcha Chokondik"

Lacy's eyes widened and she feel back onto the ostrich skin seat..."Oh dear" she thought "Betcha Chokondic. She.....she was the best known, highest paid lap dancer during the entire decade of the 70's!"

Stumbling over her words, Lacy managed to get out, "I'm...I'm ho-ho-honered to met you Ms. Chokondik"

"Please call me Betcha. My maiden name is Dont. I am one of the Tasselberry Donts. I considered hyphenating my name when I married, but that simply wasn't done then, you know."

"oh Ms. Chokon.....I mean Betcha" Lacy corrected herself, shyly ducking her head", I know you must have heard this a ZILLION times, but...well, you've just been such an inspiration. Not just to me, but so many other girls who willingly become strippers in order to further their education, or have the time to pursue other worthy endeavors, like finding a cure for AIDs, and the heartbreak of psoriasis. Before you, so many people believed that 99% of women who went into this profession where skanky crackhead ho's and unintelligent to boot."

Betcha stared at Lacy with a bitter look..."Yes, at least a zillion times."

Lacy, having the honed instincts of a stripper, the ones that told her to zip her lip before a construction workers boot crashed into her newly capped teeth, decided to shut her piehole.

Betcha turned away, looking out the window of the limo, thinking..."A zillion times, a zillion times, a zillion times".....as her mind drifted back 15 years.....

"Muutherrrrr...I must have told you a ZILLION times I am NOT going to become a stripper!!"

Betcha once again found herself confronting her daughter, her lovely lithe daughter, Iliketa.

"How did I give birth to such a person?" Betcha found herself wondering.

At 17, Iliketa Chokondik, with the beauty of Helen of Troy, and a natural 38DD, insisted on covering her assests with with dowdy tunics that hung off her rack, suceeding in making her look 50 lbs more than she weighed. No one could see her 26 inch waist, curvy buns or long tapering legs.

"But Iliketa, you have such natural talent. Plus with the money I've earned as the top diva fashionista insures you can devote all your time to your art."

Betcha, since being 9 years old, had the dream of being a top fashion designer, and with her moves, bumps and grinds, had been able to raise the capital to acheive that goal. She had to admint though, the dance had become of near equal importance in her life. She had known enough to age gracefully and get out of the clubs before men started suggesting she was less than attractive. But, she had her memories, damn good ones, and felt her daughter needed to experinece the thrill.

"Mother, Ivan has opened my eyes. He's taught me that strippers are nothing but vile whores, and will not let me become part of that life."

"Besides," at this point Iliketa seemed to steel herself for the response she knew would come, "I'm going to be 18 years old in 2 days, Ivan Poindexter Knightly and I plan to marry as soon as possible. I plan on becoming Mrs. I. P. Knightly the instant I can."

Betcha heart fell to her feet. No, no this cannot be. Not only was her daughter saying she was going to marry this sour puss, the oldest son of the self rightous clan that had a vendeta against the profession of striping, she wouldn't even keep her proud Chokondik roots. Even hyphenating her name to Mrs. Iliketa Chokondik-Knightly would acknowled where she came from.

"Iliketa....can't you see I.P. doesn't love you....he's only marrying you to get to me!"

C'mon!

Someone got to have some imagination....no writers here?

I used up all of mine on this thread.

"Whatever, Mom," Iliketa replied, shrugging her shoulders. "But it seems like everytime I find a man to love, you tell me he's not right for me. Remember Mike Hunt? I loved Mike Hunt more than anything in the world. But you told me he wasn't good enough!

Now I've found I.P. -- and you want to put a stop to it. Well, you can't!

Iliketa grabbed her fake fur jacket and ran out the door. "I.P!!," she almost sang. "I'm on my way, and I can't wait!! .....I. Peeeeeeeee!!!!!"

"Excuse me! Um, excuse me!" Lacy started nervously rapping her knuckles on the thick clear glass that separated the chauffeur in the front seat from her and Betcha in the back. "Sir! This is where I get off! Sir!"

Betcha turned to her. "Iliketa, now you'll know what you should've known all along. Teddy! Teddy Pilaf!" The chauffeur turned to Betcha and pulled back the glass. "Yes, Ms. Chokondik?"

"Execute Plan 69-Minerva."

"You mean, the S.W.I.V.E.L.I.N.G. H.I.P.S.?"

"Yes. Proceed, Pilaf."

"But, but Ms. Chokondik!" moaned Lacy. "Who's this Iliketa person? And what's (are?) the S.W.I.V.E.L.I.N.G. H.I.P.S.?"

But it was too late, and Lacy was overcome by chloroform gas seeping through a hidden panel near the floor. Ms. Chokondik's hat had a veil, and before Lacy blacked out she realized the veil was a small yet stylish gas mask.

When Lacy awoke, the car was just pulling into the parking lot of an impressive Neo-Georgian building with the following sign:

Strippers Wanted In Vegas, East Lansing (and) Indianapolis (for) Naked Gracious Harmony -- Institute and Pleasure Spa

Lacy gasped. All her worst fears were realized. It was a stripper deprogramming center.

Lacy continued to gasp, as much at Betcha's unexpected betrayal as at the noxious fumes of the chloroform. Once she had lost consciousness, Betcha and Teddy opened the back door of the limo and lifted her out. Dragging the limp Lacy to the side door of the building, they were met by a tall, muscular man in his late 20s. He wore an outdated designer suit with a heavily starched white shirt and tie, an unusually straightlaced outfit for someone so young. His gold nametag identified him as C. Tytass, Head Deprogrammer.

"Christian!" Betcha exclaimed. She was astonished to see her one-time protege here. The last time she had heard from him, he was in Falls Church organizing NEA protests.

"Yes, it's me...And what do we have here?" Tytass wondered as he lifted Lacy's head and peered into her incredibly blue, but unresponsive, eyes.

Betcha smirked..."Some little trollop that's fallen by the wayside. Underneath that Ivy League attire, you'll find crotchless panties I'm sure"

"ah....another sinner, on the road to perdition. Well, she won't be the first one we save, or the last I'm sure....It's sin city out there." said Tytass, shaking his head.

As Tytass called on the inhouse phone for assistance in dragging Putana into a holding cell, Betcha watched over to the window overlooking an expanse of neatly clipped lawn, bordered with pussy willows.

"God forgive me for what I'm about to put this Putana through, but, it's for a good cause. Finally a way to destroy the puritanical ideals of I.P. Knightly and his lacky Ben Dover once and for all. God might forgive me, but will Lacy?"

I don't mean to interrupt, but I just had to say that you guys are frickin' hilarious! I feel bad just being a looky-lou, but I'm not very good at this kind of thing-- but I will try to contribute if time permits (perhaps a dollar bill in your g-string, Chai?)...Carry on, please!

Meanwhile, in a neighboring cell, Ivana B. Urslave grabbed a tiny cel phone out of her crotchless panties. "Just .. one .. chance. Pick up pick up pick up!"

It was the recording.

This is the headquarters of Fluff-Anon. We can't come to the phone. State your case at the beep.

"This is agent Urslave, I ...."

The retractable whip that had knocked the phone out of Ivana's hand zipped back into its hidden holster. Ivana stared into the shadows in horror. "Oh.My.Gawd."

Lacy woke briefly to the sound of Ivana's body being dragged away. Damn, now I'll never get to know my cellmate, she thought as she felt Christian frisking her for at least the fifth time. Then, blackness and a few grunts.

Igor strolled into the bar and noticed the stripper gyrating on the pole. Not realizing it was merely a pole of the metallic type, used for stripping purposes, and not the Pole that Hitler had tried to eradicate, Igor pulled his pistol from his pocket and shot the bitch between the eyes.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd a voice was heard to say, "Now...why did you have to do that?"

Igor blew the smoke from the end of his pistol and exited quietly out the back door.

"Let's go, Teddy," Betcha commanded as she slid into the hot leather seat. As the big, black limousine made its way back to the headquarters of her couture design firm, Chokondik reflected on the years that had passed since Iliketa's elopement.

It had been hard to swallow, but faced with the possibility of losing all contact with her only child, Betcha decided to make peace with her son-in-law, I.P. Claiming to have experienced a religious conversion, Betcha convincingly adopted the moralistic tone and mannerisms of a right-wing reactionary.

After a few years of maintaining this facade, Betcha fooled I.P. and Iliketa to such an extent that the wealthy I.P. was willing to loan his designing mother-in-law enough money to start her own lingerie business. In return, she promised to take on Christian Tytass, I.P.'s ne'er-do-well nephew, as her assistant. Coco Flannel Lingerie had prospered under Tytass's watchful eye, but it would never be enough to satisfy a Chokondik's ambitions. Secretly, Betcha diverted profits and created her own line of decidedly more provocative fashions which she skillfully marketed under the label "Slippery When Wet."

Tytass, of course, never suspected. Eventually he left Flannel for a lobbying position with Falwell's Liberty University.

Betcha wondered what happened to him after that.

Well, here he was, deprogramming strippers of all things. I.P. would be proud, Betcha chuckled. Glancing at the chauffer to make sure he was watching the traffic, she reached down and adjusted her Slippery thong. Damn leather seats, she thought.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. The limo swerved, but could not avoid hitting a Russian immigrant who had run out into the street without looking.

"Merde!" cried the limo driver. He immediately stopped the car to check on the Russian, who lay bleeding at the curb. He checked for a pulse. Yes, he was still alive, but barely.

Betcha was close behind. Ever the opportunist, she pocketed the fallen man's pistol when no one was looking, then took his wallet.