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I arch my back and push back into her touch and feel her grab a handful of my flesh. Electricity runs through me. My job is sexually charged in general, and at times like this, extremely so.
I spin on one heel, knees rising up onto the leather to straddle her lap. I drop my hips and drag my pussy against her pants. She looks as though she might explode at any second. Her hands are instinctively on my thighs. I choose to let them remain there.
Up close, her face is beautiful. I like the sharpness of her cheekbones and the lovely heart shape of her face. I like her expensive looking hair that is a million shades of honeyed gold glinting in the lights.
She is clearly from a very different world than the one I inhabit, and it seems wild that our paths have collided here. Resulting in my straddling and grinding down on her.
I usually do the grinding for effect only, but right now I’m doing it for my own pleasure. I feel pressure against my clitoris and I like it. I moan involuntarily and watch her eyes widen. Her pupils dilate. She gulps, anxiously.
I know I am very wet and I wonder if she is too.
I wonder if she will think of me later. If she will ache for me. If she will dream about how good I would be to touch, to taste.
My body tells her how good sex with me would be. I would blow her fucking mind.
My hands reach up to the ceiling, stretching my body out, and I rise up higher, moving my pussy away from her lap. I look down, watching my breasts trail upwards against her. I lower my hands to run my fingers through her perfectly blowdried golden hair, guiding her soft chin to the perfect angle so I can feed her desires.
I offer my breast to her lips and I know I am going to let her take it.
My nipple hovers barely a centimetre from her pale pink painted lips.
A couple of seconds pass almost as though she is giving herself permission before she opens her mouth. I sigh, letting her reach out her tongue to glaze my nipple. I lean forward so she can feel the weight of my breasts against her pretty face, drowning her in my femininity. Then I rise higher. Her open mouth tries to take more. I feel the drag of her teeth down my stomach. She is inching closer and closer to my pussy and I can feel her gasps against my skin.
As I stand over her, I lift my right leg and rest my heel on a ledge. My legs are wide open for her now. I reach for her shirt, pulling her to me as I thrust my hips forward. The silky cotton of my thong is the only barrier between my sex and her eager tongue, and I feel her mouth grazing against it, desperate to take a bite. The heat of her breath warms my clit.
I look down into her amber eyes as she looks up at me. She is flushed, needy, eager, and wanting. And so am I. I want her to take that taste and yet—I pull her back. Our allotted time is just about finished anyway, but that is not the true cause of my abruptness. She reaches up and her fingers run down my stomach, hooking in the band of my panties. A wad of bills is tucked inside.
I feel a disappointment that I never have before. This was a transaction--an exchange taking place at the same time that my mind and body had drifted. I had started to believe it was something else. I flash her the famous Lola smile, step out of her space, and slip away, shaking away the feelings as I walk.
What was I thinking, anyway? I have no idea who that woman is, but she is here for one thing and one thing only—just like every other girl and guy who have come through the door before and everyone who will come after.
I sit down heavily in front of the mirror as I wipe away the makeup. I’m done for the night. I have time for another dance, but I no longer have the will nor the motivation in me. Plus, I made plenty on that last one. I slip the bundle of money from my panties and slam it down harder than I intended on the dresser. Maybe I really am getting too old for all this shit, I think with a sigh.
Then I notice it. The note wrapped up under the band. I peel it out slowly, my fingers unfolding the soft pink edges, because of course a girl like her would have pastel notes to pass to strippers in wads of cash.
A name and a number. Did it need more? No, it’s enough to shake the mood I have been in and a glow runs through me. It wasn’t a payment, she had slipped me a note in the only way she knew how to via the private dance and the tip, and as the pad of my fingertip runs over the piece of paper, I feel the softness of her name fall from my lips. “Willow.”
What should I do with my day off? Spend it overthinking about a phone number? You are absolutely correct. I unfolded and folded the paper so much that if I hadn’t already memorized it, I might not have been able to make the numbers out.
My mind has been going a million miles an hour trying to come up with all the reasons it’s a bad idea to text her. To try and help, I started a list:
1. You barely know anything about her.
2. She is definitely very rich.
3. I bet it is some kink, uptown girl thing going on.
4. Terrible idea to date a client.
5. I don’t even know what she wants.
6. I could lose a lot of tips if I start giving out free dances at home . . .
That one I added to make myself smile, which it did. And of course I had counter answers for them all with a list of reasons why I should text her. And what it all boiled down to was this: What did I want and what did I have to lose?
So, here I am now, taking out my phone, adding her name and number, and typing quickly. I press send without a pause.
Hey Willow. It’s Lola from McLandons. How are you?
