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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, ...

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