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“Thanks for being a good sport last night, Wills.” Simon is leaning over the edge of my booth at a respectable distance, but with a low enough voice to not be overheard. “I know it isn’t always the easiest situation we put you in around here . . . but you know, good that you make the effort. It makes a difference. Right or wrong, they respect you more for it. Hope you didn’t spend too much.” He finishes with a smile and I return it softly.
“No problem. The reports you wanted are on your desk, and I also finished the project analysis Jeff was asking about the other day. I know you don’t need it right now, but I thought it might help with the meeting tomorrow if you had the outline for the diversification plans.”
Simon’s eyebrows raise slightly and I see the wheels in motion as he begins to nod. “Actually, that could be really helpful in pushing the budget in the right direction.” He gives the top of my desk a little tap. “Thanks, Wills. I don’t know what we would do without you.” He is already gone, half in his office, head in the meeting tomorrow—exactly where it should be and not thinking about my strip club spending.
I go to the gym after work. Not because I want to work out at all, but so I can get rid of some excited energy and soak under the shower after. Then change into something more appropriate for my evening plans.
Generally, I imagine women in strip clubs want to stand out and be noticed. Be seen. I do not. So I go for dark pants, a black shirt, my hair up, and subtle sweeps of makeup. I take the same spot at the bar as the previous night and the waitress gives me a warm smile before sliding me the same drink from the night before. I see all too clearly how this could begin a habit.
It fills a desire so effortlessly. Except . . . I’m not one of the desperate men in here. I know what I want and I know how to get it. Well, mostly.
“How do I get a dance? Private?” I ask, sounding confident.
The waitress doesn’t even blink, simply leans forward. “With a specific girl?”
I nod, and I know she knows which one without me saying a word. I must have been more obvious than I thought. Her head nods to the side. “Take your drink to the second booth. Get comfortable, pay the amount on the account in there. Private dance is all yours.”
I take my drink, standing slowly but walking with the confidence I don’t really feel. I have written my name and number on a piece of paper and wrapped it around a bundle of cash. Money is easy for me. Getting what I want with it is also easy for me. I’m still a Rutherford; let’s not forget.
It will be her choice if she calls later or not. I promise myself I won’t come back if she doesn’t. And with this thought, I slip inside my booth and pay my dues.
5
Lola
Iget a tap on my dressing room door followed by a note asking for a VIP dance--Lola specifically. A new client. That’s the kind of request we crave, the ones that turn a slow night into a big earner. And I know if I give a new client a good time, they will become a Lola superfan and give me plenty of repeat business. I glance at the mirror one last time, not that I have any doubt. I know I look sexy as fuck.
I slip inside the booth, its darkness illuminated by a neon purple glow. Soft leather seats form a semicircle with a table and pole in the middle. The steps up are narrow. My skyscraper plexiglass heels mean I have to take the stairs slowly, but they also make the curve of my instep look sexy and show off my perfectly painted purple toes. Wouldn’t you like to start there and work your way up? they ask, in a way only a good pair of shoes ever could.
I recognize the woman even before I catch her gaze. She sits in her suit, shirt loosened, looking almost casual this time. Drink in hand.
I might have been surprised that it was her, but I’m not. I remember how closely she watched me dance last night. I remember the hunger in her eyes.
It will make a pleasant change to dance privately for a woman. Neither of us speak.
My hands drop to my waist and I pull the knot on my silky robe. The fabric falls straight to the floor in the spectacular way that silk does.
I watch her gaze drag up my body as I stand tall in the center of the table. Her eyes are hazel, I think. Brownish gold with flecks of amber. Beautiful.
Watch me.
The pole behind me rests between my shoulder blades and my hips thrust forward, so she has no choice but to let her eyes linger over my curves--drinking in every dollar she is paying for.
The woman looks composed and immaculate one minute and nervous and flighty the next. She reminds me of a beautiful gazelle as her golden eyes flicker and scan my body. She licks her lips; she is hungry for me.
I’ve done this so many times before. I start into my well-rehearsed routine.
I slide down the pole. My knees spread wide, thighs parting, and my tiny black thong barely hides my sex. My head falls back, hair cascading down my back, and this thrusts my chest forward. The neon light glides over my skin, lighting me up, and my breasts spill from the silky fabric of my bra.
My hands reach up and take the pole, my body rising before I spin. I dance for myself as much as I dance for her. I love to dance and to feel eyes on my body. I let the rhythm pulse through my veins, every thought in my head laced with sex. My leg curls around the cold, thick steel and I gasp as I feel that cool press against my pussy through the silk. I feel myself getting wet and I like it.
My knees find the floor. The steel is polished to perfection, so my inner thighs reflect off the surface as I crawl forward. My eyes meet hers, wide and full of that good girl need to please--but with edges of steel that tell this woman that I could have her on her knees in seconds, worshipping me, if I wanted.
My palms rest against my stomach, sliding upwards and cupping my breasts, lifting their weight before I let them go with a bounce. My fingers continue higher, teasing over my chest to my neck where I pull the string. And finally, my breasts are free and her gaze is on them. I wonder if she realizes that she is leaning forward.
We move in sync as my legs swing from the table. She finishes her drink and sets it aside. My heels find the floor and I turn, so close to being naked except for that tiny slither of black silk that slips between my cheeks. As I bend forward, I feel her hand on my ass. Clients aren’t supposed to touch us. I know she will have read this when she signed up to this, but sometimes I let touching slide and this time is one such occasion.
Her hand feels good on my ass.
