I am reckless on a pole, trusting my legs and arms in a way certain to cause damage. It is a lover I hate and I ride it relentlessly, caressing it in a sensual way that leaves nothing to the imagination. The beat moves through me and I get lost in its strength, pulsating against steel, spinning away only to return to it, my heels a blur of clear sparkle, my thoughts lost in the movement.
Everything is a swirl of bright lights, the dark back wall of the stage, the glossy black of the floor, the chrome of the pole. I can’t see the stranger or those blue eyes, can’t see the men who protect him, or the glow of his cigar, the five-o-clock shadow that had coated his jaw, or the dark clean lines of his suit.
My bra is the first victim. One quick unclasp, the release of heavy breasts as I spin slowly downward, my legs suspending my body upside down above the hard floor. One outward fling, and sparkles and black sequins become airborne and joyful in their flight. I keep my panties on, the thin fabric the only thing between me and the pole.
When the final beat hits, I am panting, my back against the pole, my legs trembling slightly from the performance. The lights flicker off and my eyes move, traveling across the empty room and over to his. The eye contact is terrifying, the cigar tight in his mouth, a fierce look in his eyes. It is more than simple arousal, a hungry and possessive stare that rips pieces of me off and marks them as his, each dagger of eye contact laced with blatant desire that he makes no attempt to hide.
“Come here,” he commands.
I move carefully down the stage’s steps, my sky-high stilettos wobbling slightly on their downward descent. Then I am before him, watching as his hand moves, adjusting himself, the hard line of his cock outlined in his pants. He glances down at it, then at me. “Suck me off.”
I hesitate, the look in his eyes intoxicating, a vivid blue that commands. Against my tongue, the questions formulate. How much? What about your security? I swallow the questions, along with the sentences that I typically say. I’m not a prostitute. How about a dance instead? I don’t want to dance for this man. I want, more than anything, to unzip his pants and wrap my lips around his cock. I want to feel the arousal, to know that it is all caused by me, to know that this beautiful wealthy man finds me attractive. Despite the shitty club, or my worn-out bikini. I fall to my knees, the carpet scratchy against my bare skin, another reminder that what I’m doing is wrong. I think whoever picked it out had us in mind, wanted every stripper in this place punished whenever we fell to our knees and broke the sacred rule that everyone in VIP loves to ignore.
My hands work the smooth leather of his belt, the zipper of his pants. I flick my eyes up, glancing behind him, where motionless and silent, the two bodyguards stand, their eyes forward and hands clasped. I look back to him, pulling apart the top of his dress pants. He is wearing thin boxer briefs, and I slide my hand into them, a hiss coming from his mouth when I wrap my grip around his cock.
“Your hands are cold. Just use your mouth.” There is a slight break in his words, a catch in the vowel that gives me confidence, my eyes closing as I tilt the stiff length of him toward me and lower my mouth to his tip.
He’s big in my mouth, my lips sliding over rock hard thickness. He groans and I place my hands on his thighs, working my mouth up and down his shaft, taking him as deep as I can manage before withdrawing, the sounds of the blowjob loud in the quiet room.
There is the creak of leather as he settles back against the couch, his thighs flexing under my palms. “Keep going.” I do, my lips stretched around his thick length, his cock flexing against my tongue. Minutes pass, and then I feel his hands, firm on the back of my head, pulling himself deeper into my mouth. He growls and his cock twitches, his cum filling my mouth, his grip tilting back my head, his eyes capturing mine as he finishes, intense blue orbs of possession locked on me. Then his eyes close and his head drops back, his cock pumping one final release into my mouth.
I pull slowly off of him, moving backward on my knees, my attempt to stand uncoordinated, my left foot choosing an inopportune time to fall asleep. One of his bodyguards steps forward, helping me to my feet, a fold of crisp bills discreetly pressed into my palm. I don’t know who he’s hiding it from. There are only four of us in this room, and every one of us was an audience to what I just did.
I glance toward the man, who is sliding his belt into the clasp. He looks away, making eye contact with the other bodyguard. “Let’s go.”
Of all of tonight’s words, those two cut the hardest. Even more than suck me. I feel cheap and used, the fat roll of cash burning at my palm, and if I was a stronger woman, I’d give the money back.
But I’m not a stronger woman. I’m a broke idiot of a girl who needs rent money and who has been in this same place a half dozen times before. At least most of the men thank me. Most ask for a hug, or a kiss, or at least fake kindness.
I watch them leave, and I am suddenly alone in the room. I open up my palm, my fingers slowly moving through the bills. A thousand dollars.
It doesn’t seem like enough for my dignity.
CHAPTER 3
I leave a hundred dollars on the dining room table, along with a check for the rest of the rent. The house is dark, snores coming from Dibs room, and I step into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stripping in the middle of the tight spot.
I don’t know what I expected. That he would pull me to my feet and onto his lap? That he would nuzzle my neck and plant kisses on my mouth, and ask me on a date? He was probably on I-10 right now, his limo headed somewhere else. Or on a private plane, the Destin airport just a stop in his flight plan. A short stop for gas. Something to eat. A blowjob and dance.
I test the water with my hand and step under the spray, pulling the curtain closed, the rings rattling against the rod. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, putting my face under the water. If only he hadn’t been so beautiful. It’s easier to forget the ugly assholes that leer while adjusting their beer gut. This man … I come up for air, wiping the water out of my eyes, my fingertips black from the mascara. This man had been painful in his perfection, his intensity only enhancing his fierce good looks. He is probably married. A father. He probably has some perfect model in a mansion sleeping on thousand-dollar sheets and waiting for his return. No way a man makes it to his age without being snatched up.
Not that it matters. He didn’t come into Sammy’s looking for a wife. He came into Sammy’s looking for exactly what he got. I squeeze some face wash into my palm.