Magnolias Games

The hostess at the front counter of the Dahlia is always the most modestly dressed woman in the place. Tonight, she chose an elegant red silk

qipao

patterned with white cherry blossoms, and took the time to pin up her hair in an elaborate chignon. When a man first enters the Dahlia, the hostess is the first woman he sees, and she knows how to scare off the riffraff with a silent glare. It's the most high-end strip club in Biloxi, after all; on a regular night, nobody gets past the front counter without a membership card. But

this

isn't a regular night.

Positioned in a comfy chair beside the security monitor, I see Mark Campbell on the screen as he gently pushes open the heavy oaken door and shuffles inside, nervously fumbling with something in his pockets all the while. Miss Maggie told me he was a shy one, and now I see that she was right. The guy's a good six feet tall, but he's thin as a rail, and his shoulders have a natural hunch to them. He avoids the hostess' unwavering gaze as he makes his way to the front counter, even as she gives him her most cordial smile. In spite of all that, he's cuter than I pictured him: his eyes are a clear and vibrant blue, his skin is well-tanned, and his dark hair is neatly combed across his scalp. As skinny as he is, he must work out. And as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I can't help but picture him naked...

Like every first-time visitor to the Dahlia, he's dressed to make a good impression, wearing ironed grey slacks and a finely tailored blue suit jacket with a little gold anchor pinned to the lapel. That last little detail confirms my suspicions: it's him. I remember Miss Maggie telling me that he liked to sail.

"He's not quite in the yacht-owning class yet,"

she had said.

"But he's still young. Give him time."

Sherri, the hostess, doesn't bother with her usual look of stern intimidation. Instead, she just raises one eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Mark summons up his courage and looks her in the eye, smiling a thin-lipped smile.

"I'm, uh... I know you guys normally use cards. Membership cards, I mean. But I got a call. Somebody's, uh... Somebody's expecting me. That's what I heard, anyway... My name's—"

"—Mark Campbell," Sherri finishes. "I know, honey. I recognized your face as soon as you came in. But you were just so cute, stuttering like that."

Mark smiles a little wider, but his eyes dart nervously from side to side. The girls of the Dahlia have been expecting him. Whatever the night holds for him, they all know more about it than he does.

I've got to hand it to Miss Maggie. She knows how to treat a man right, but she also knows how to make him feel powerless.

On the monitor, I watch as Sherri waves and gestures at him to follow her behind the front counter.

"Right this way," Sherri says.

He follows her through a little doorway behind the front desk, parting the pair of silken blue curtains that obscure the hallway to the main floor. Sherri's hips gently sway from side to side under her tight wrap of red silk as she guides him through the hallway, and I can't help but giggle when I catch Mark sneaking a quick glance at her pert backside.

As Mark walks out of frame, I take a final deep breath for good luck and look myself over in the wide mirror before me. Just above the mirror, a row of lightbulbs bathes me in unforgiving light, exposing every little blemish and imperfection in my features. But I'm insecure by nature, and I learned a long time ago that I can't always trust my own opinion of myself. And after an hour of pampering myself in front of that mirror with makeup and a hairbrush, I know I'm as ready for this as I'll ever be.

My hair—ordinarily a pale, ashen blonde—is dyed a vibrant shade of red. I picked the shade out myself, with Miss Maggie's approval. It's not quite the eye-searing crimson of a ripe strawberry, not quite the warm brown of a stick of cinnamon, but somewhere in between. Most nights, I wear it long. But tonight, it's playfully pinned above my head in a pair of small, girlish buns. The fashion magazines call the style "space buns." Miss Maggie wasn't so wild about that choice, but I stood by it.

I still remember that first night that she undressed me in front of the mirror in her bedroom, her hands gently brushing my bare breasts as she let me look over her prized collection of lingerie. It wasn't the first time I'd been naked in front of her, but I still blushed.

"You're a beautiful girl, Kara,"

she had said, in that tender voice of hers.

"There's no reason you shouldn't enjoy the sight of your own body. Just relax."

I'd smiled at that word of reassurance, in spite of my jittery nerves. As soon as my hands stopped shaking, I'd chosen a dainty pair of sheer black panties patterned with white polka dots, paired with a lacy elastic bra and a dark pair of silken thigh-high hose. I stood still as a statue, watching my reflection in the mirror as Miss Maggie hooked my bra and slipped on my stockings, then felt her hand lovingly patting my bare bottom as she pulled my panties up.

"Good choice,"

she had said approvingly as she adjusted my panties.

"That cut goes perfect with your hips. Enjoy wearing that little number while you're still slim enough for it. I don't think my big ol' behind could handle it any more."

Miss Maggie's nearing 40 years old, and she idly jokes about her weight every once in a while—but in my fantasies, she's as close to perfect as a woman can get. She's got the figure of a Countess: tall and elegant, with a disdainful Roman nose, full lips quirked by a mischievous smile, and dark chestnut hair like a waterfall of ringlets. As I look my body over once again, savoring the feel of that lingerie that she gave me, I can't help but imagine her sparking blue eyes looking over my shoulder.

Though I've never spoken to him, Mark must feel the same way. He

is

one of Miss Maggie's boys, after all. One of the ones that Miss Maggie didn't mind throwing my way as a treat. He knows damn well that he wouldn't be entering the Dahlia for free without her invitation. Everybody knows that the place is her territory; within its walls, her word is law.

Swallowing hard, I step into my snug-fitting high heels and amble out onto the main floor of the club, masking my apprehension with a carefree smile of contentment. As a long saxophone riff echoes from the main stage, the dim overhead lights pulse and waver, painting the dancers' lithe bodies with shadows.

At the bar, the rattle of ice from a cocktail shaker mingles with the saxophone like a castanet. My own footsteps, heavy and purposeful, ring out like a steady drumbeat. But then the dancer on the main stage—a bronze-skinned goddess called Katrina—eases herself down into a chair, her eyes flashing as she parts and crosses her legs in time with the beat, her nimble fingers tugging at the strings of her bustier as the full swell of her cleavage threatens to spill out.

I catch Sherri's eye just as she escorts Mark out onto the floor. She recognizes me in an instant, and playfully winks at me. Distracted by Katrina on the main stage, Mark's eyes glaze over, his mouth practically falling open with shock as he surveys his surroundings.

I feel a naughty little flutter of excitement as I remember that he still has no idea what I look like. For all he knows, any one of the dancers on the floor could be the one about to give him a private show. As I see his stunned eyes darting from face to face, I know exactly what he's thinking.

Which one is she?

At a far corner of the room, a well-dressed man lounges in a leather armchair as Anabelle—a petite girl with the figure of a ballerina and a face like Tinkerbell—entices him with a playful twirl, her cute butt twitching rhythmically as she caresses her slim thighs.

On the other side of the room, a dancer—whose name I never bothered to learn—teasingly wraps a shawl around her shoulders to hide her bare nipples, strutting proudly as heads turn in her direction.

Like a patient mother guiding a child through a toy store, Sherri puts a gentle hand on Mark's shoulder as she leads him through the throngs of dancers and spectators. When they're nearly across the room, she points towards a door set into the wall. It's marked with a painting of a flower: a

dahlia

, the club's namesake.

She hums to herself as the lights strobe and the music swells, fishing a tiny key out of a purse that she carries by her side. With that, she unlocks the door and waves Mark inside, showing off the walls lined with polished mirrors, the hip lighting fixtures shaped like orbiting moons, and the plush white leather furniture—a stuffed armchair, an ottoman, a wraparound couch, and a single cushioned wooden chair with vertical slats.

"Make yourself at home, darlin'," Sherri says with a sweet smile. "She'll be with you in a minute. Hope you enjoy the show."

Before she closes the door, I hear Mark ask a single question, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

"...But who

is

she?" he asks.

Sherri laughs him off.

"Don't you worry about that," she says, her hand on the doorknob. "You two are gonna get to know each other

real

good."

With that, she swings the door shut and locks him inside. Our eyes meet as she spots me in the crowd. The key glitters between her thumb and forefinger.

"How you feelin', Kara?" she asks. "You ready for this?"

I shrug.

"If I wasn't ready, I wouldn't be here," I say. "I guess that says something."

She laughs.

"It's alright to be nervous. I used to be a dancer here, way back when. The first time I stepped up on that stage, I couldn't stop shaking," she says.

She gives her hips a playful wiggle as she rests one hand on her thigh.

"Nothing wrong with that, though," she says. "It's the Dahlia. Shaking's what it's all about."

She hands me the keys. I give her a bashful smile as I accept them.

"Good luck, girl," she says. "If Magnolia Hayes trusts you with one of her boys, I know you'll be fine. As for that poor boy, though..."

Her voice trails off as she giggles maliciously.

Her boys...

There's that loaded phrase again. Sherri must know all about that.

Miss Maggie's an old-fashioned woman. She's never bothered with any of the fancy jargon that goes along with her "hobby." She'd never dream of making a man call her "Mistress"; "Ma'am" is just fine with her. And none of her lovers are "slaves," as far as she's concerned; she never calls them anything but

"My boys."

As Sherri walks away, I remember Miss Maggie's final word of advice to me.

"Be gentle with him,"

she'd said.

"If he says 'stop,' go ahead and stop. Just because he's one of my boys, that doesn't mean he doesn't have his limits. But still... Don't be afraid to have some fun with him. There's nothing wrong with a little fun, right?"

Nope. Nothing wrong with that at all...

I hang back for five minutes. Just long enough to make his skin crawl with anticipation. Then I walk towards the door, slide the key into the lock, and turn the doorknob.

As Mark lounges back on the smooth couch, his eyes go wide as my silhouette fills the doorway. He stares and stares, his eyes drinking in every inch of my frame from my dainty feet to my cute hair buns.

The last time Miss Maggie let me have my way with one of her boys, I never spoke a single word to him. This time, I rehearsed for a week to get my voice just right for this moment. When I open my mouth, my voice is a gentle coo, my words as smooth as silk.

"Hi, honey," I whisper. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time. I figure you must be Mark. I'm Renée

.

"

I'd suggested

"Renée Rouge,"

to go with my new red hair. Miss Maggie told me it was too cheesy. That time, I listened to her.

As I lock the door behind me and walk over to the center of the room, I wait for Mark to say something. His eyes stay glued to me, and the most he can manage is a single whispered sound.

"Uh..."

I cross my arms across my breasts and look down at him, raising one eyebrow as I give him a moment to compose his thoughts.

"Thank you..." he finally says. "I swear, I never... I never come to places like this. I never even think about it. I just... I... I got an invitation."

"It's alright, honey," I coo. "I know all about that. And I figure if you were the

wrong

kind of guy, you wouldn't have scored that invitation. I'm not gonna judge you for being here in this room. And you're not gonna judge me either, are you? You know it's a

privilege

to be here with me. Isn't that right?"

He nods.

"...You're beautiful," he breathes.

It's the first time he's said something without stammering. He doesn't bother to lavish me with sweet words of praise; he says it like he's stating a simple fact, as clear as the coming of the next sunrise. I do my best to stay playful and composed, but I feel goosebumps rising at the small of my back. Nobody's ever looked at me like this, with such rapturous awe.

I smile—not a cruel, taunting smirk, but a blushing grin of genuine happiness.

In spite of our risqué surroundings, and in spite of my elaborate get-up, there's a gentleness to Mark that can't be tainted by the glitz of the club floor. I see now why Miss Maggie chose the private room for our rendezvous. Most dancers at the Dahlia use the stage as a barrier from the audience, all so they won't have to see their ravenous spectators for who they really are. But now, even with the intimacy of this tiny room, I see nothing in Mark but a timid man eager to please. And in that moment, my apprehension fades like a Summer rainfall on hot asphalt.

I bask in this upwelling of confidence as long as I can. But I've got a job to do. Can't forget that.

"Thanks," I say. "She was right about you. You're one of the good ones."

I don't say who I mean by

"She,"

but I figure he must know.

"I think I like you, Mark," I say. "But if we're gonna do this, you've still got to play my rules. While you're in this room, you'll do as you're told. If you've got a problem with that, you're free to leave whenever you want. Are we clear on that?"

He nods, now suddenly avoiding my gaze.

I feel a tiny little prickle at the nape of my neck as I mentally prepare my next words.

"Right. Now, most people come to this place when they want to get an eyeful of some beautiful girls. They want to be right there in the front row when their clothes come off. You're a gentleman, but be honest: you were hoping I'd strip down for you, weren't you?"

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, still avoiding looking at me.

"Look at me, Mark," I order, my voice suddenly a bit sharper and more authoritative.

He looks up, and our eyes meet again. He nods.

"Yeah," he admits. "I, uh... I guess I'd hoped—"

"—Well, keep hoping. You're a special guest of the Dahlia tonight. And when you're a special guest, the rules are a little different. You don't get to watch me strip tonight.

I

get to watch

you

strip."

As soon as I say those words, he looks like he's stepped into freezing water. He stares at me with unbelieving eyes, his mouth again falling open with shock.

"You can't... You're not..."

"I

can't

? And why not? I like you, Mark. I really do. But you don't get to make the rules tonight.

I

do."

His gaze falls to my feet, to my immaculate nails painted the same shade of red as my hair. For a moment, his mouth just twitches as he struggles to make words. For the second time tonight, my heart flutters with naughty glee as I remember just how powerless Mark is tonight. Maybe I'm enjoying this more than I should be.

"It's okay to be nervous," I tell him. "But you're still gonna do as you're told. And I'm giving you an order:

Take. Off. Your. Clothes."

"No, I mean...

I

can't," Mark says, finally finding his words.

I can't.

It's an odd choice of words. Is he really just shy? Or is this something more?

"It's alright, honey," I coo. "You can trust me. You wouldn't be here if you didn't really want to do this, would you?"

I expect him to shake his head. But instead, he shuts his eyes. His chest heaves up and down as his breathing speeds up.

"...I trust you," he finally says. "'I'll be alright. I promise."

It's as good a response as any.

I give him a moment to collect himself. When he finally opens his eyes, he looks up at my face—now impassive and devoid of mercy.

I gesture upwards, and I give him a single command.

"Stand up.

Now

."

Again, I remember Miss Maggie's advice.

"Don't raise your voice, no matter what,"

she'd said to me.

"Remember, he wants you. What man wouldn't? If he really makes you angry, there's no worse punishment than leaving him alone in that room. If he knows his place, he'll do as he's told—even if you whisper every order."

For a moment, I wonder whether her advice will prove true. But then he rises to his feet, his fiercely blue eyes locked with mine.

I smile with approval.

"That's it..." I say. "Take your time. We've got all night."

He bows his head. He's past the point of no return, and he knows it.

His shoes and socks at the first to go. He wore black leather wingtips—reserved for special occasions, I figure—and they slip off of his feet with just the tiniest movement as he kicks them off. As he peels off his socks, he neatly lays them inside his shoes, then slides his shoes over to the side of the couch with one bare foot.

Avoiding my gaze, he slips out of his jacket and unbuttons his shirt. The jacket is the most expensive thing he's wearing; it's well-cut and impeccably ironed, and each sleeve is patterned with three gold buttons to match his gold pin. His shirt is white silk, patterned with some elegant graphic design. At first glance, I take the patterns for polka dots, but now I recognize them as tiny

fleur-de-li

s. He can hide the nervous look in his eyes, but can't quite hide the tremor in his fingers as he fumbles with each button. As his shirt flutters to the ground, my eyes savor the smooth contours of his firm bare chest, lavished by the sweltering sun of a thousand summer days by the Mississippi coast.

Miss Maggie told me he liked to sail. Now I can't picture him doing anything else. His shirt falls to the floor, and I imagine his firm torso twisting and flexing as he wrestles with a set of coarse ropes, his half-naked body showered with saltwater as golden sunlight mingles with drifting azure waves.

But this is no fantasy. As he stands rigidly at attention with downcast eyes, I remember that. He's mine to command, and he'll share in each beat of this perfect moment. So I'll take it slow.

"Good. Now take off your pants. Don't be shy," I say gently.

Resigned to the solemn task of obeying me, Mark moves his fingers down to his waist. His belt jingles as he unbuckles it, and his fine grey slacks fall down to his knees, unresisting, as he unbuttons them.

Under his pants, he wears boxers of finely knitted silk in a rich green paisley pattern, just tight enough to show off the thick contours of his powerful thighs.

As he steps out of his pants and kicks them aside, he raises his head to meet my gaze. There's no defiance in his eyes, nor any hint of resentment or fear. He knows that there's no turning back, and there's nowhere else that he'd rather stand but in this room. Even still, there's still that hint of apprehension—as if he's sharing some shameful secret in the final moment of his disrobing.

There's something coming that I didn't plan for. But what?

For now, it doesn't matter. For one last moment tonight, he's dressed just as immodestly as I am. But that moment won't last.