Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 22

Then the ‘main act’ of the night was introduced. ‘For their first season here in Cyprus, all the way from England, the ***** Girls!’ (I’ve got no idea what they were actually called!). But English, eh? Interest piqued. To the strains of Donna Summer’s steamy song, Love to Love you Baby, six hot blonde dancers took to the stage and started their routine. It was by no means Pan’s People or Hot Gossip (IYKYK!), but that didn’t mater, no one really cared about the standard of their dancing. Almost immediately they had shed their light, sheer robes and were naked, apart from tiny thongs.

Quickly, the girls paired up, and as Donna moaned and groaned to the beat, they embraced, rubbed their tits together, fondled arses and inner thighs, and basically dry humped each other, also in time to the music. As the song reached its climax, so did the girls, simulated I have to assume. Rubbing their thong clad mounds against each other, and stroking the other’s breasts, they all “orgasmed” simultaneously, before collapsing in each others arms.

I for one, was now sporting a raging hard on, requiring careful adjustment to maintain trouser comfort. Stunned silence in the audience quickly became rousing applause, as the dancers grabbed their robes and hurried off stage, to the back rooms of the bar.

Chris and I discussed the act, marvelling at how explicit it was (it was later deemed to be too much so, even by lax Cypriot standards, and had to be toned down somewhat.) As we chatted, and as was required of them, the six girls, now dressed, albeit quite sexily, appeared from the rear of the bar. To our surprise, two of them made a beeline for our table (I guess we looked harmless enough to them among the rough looking crowd) and asked if we ‘wanted company’, to which we obviously said yes. They introduced themselves as Pip and Pat (pseudonyms, as I have absolutely no idea of their actual names now!) Pip sat next to Chris and Pat next to me! Within seconds, a waiter appeared from nowhere, and we parted with a King’s ransom for the mandatory drinks!

The pair were virtual clones of each other. Early to mid twenties, blonde (probably wigs), medium height, lithe fit dancers figures, including large, though not massive, firm looking breasts. Pat was obviously braless under her tight halter neck top, as her nipples were prominent and proudly on display. Having seen them both virtually naked just a few minutes previously, it was hard not to visualise them like that now. I’ve never been great at the ‘chat up’, and my lecherous thoughts stymied me even more than usual, this was not working out well!

Fortunately though, Chris had the gift of the gab, broke the ice and led the conversation. Where were they from in England?, Geordies it turned out. How long had they been here? How long were they staying? What made them come to Cyprus (the money!) Out of politeness, they asked about us too, but in truth they didn’t care. They were really only there because they had to be.

Another wallet shrinking round of drinks was bought, as Chris desperately tried to engage Pip, but she was being quite sullen. After a bit of probing, she admitted she was not at all happy with her situation. She didn’t mind the stripping, she was used to that. But she hadn’t realised she’d be expected, as she put it, to ‘whore herself’ on the bar floor. She wanted to go home to Newcastle, but knew that would leave her colleagues in a difficult position as contracts had been signed hiring them as a group of six, so she was sticking it out for their benefit.

Pat, on the other hand, was quite buoyant. The money was good. They would be doing stints in several locations (Nicosia, Paphos and Larnaca) in addition to Limassol, so getting a good look around the country. The beaches were great, as was the nightlife on their days off; and she could earn good “tips”. My ears pricked at that word.

With the earlier wine and the subsequent bar crawl, I was getting quite pissed by then and before I knew it I’d blurted something stupid like “Tips, what for your dancing?”. Without turning a hair, Pat replied, “Sort of. Would you like to tip me?”. I nodded, yes. Without further hesitation, she stood and headed for the front door of the bar, beckoning me to follow, which I did. So the accounts were true. Tips could buy you ‘private dance performances’!

Pat led me round to the back of the bar and into what appeared to be a storage room, crammed full with spare tables, chairs and other bar paraphernalia. Looking back, I was being insanely stupid. I could easily have been robbed, beaten or worse. But the alcohol had numbed most of my brain, and the tiny remaining sober part was now centred in my cock anyway! I got lucky; in more ways than one. A “tip” was negotiated. My wallet was well depleted by then, so the ‘dancing’ she would do was to be quite limited.