Private Dance

From the stage I can see all the way to the back of the smoky club. Scan the blank, bored faces of the customers; old, dried up men feebly sipping overpriced, watered down drinks in a strip bar on a Tuesday afternoon.

The music in the background is deafening, the volume increased to compensate for the lack of conversation. I gyrate my hips in time with the throbbing bass, hands complicit in a crude pantomime of masturbation; a black g-string barely covers my crotch and fully exposes my ass. Swiftly remove the skimpy undergarment to the cackling delight of a vaguely familiar toothless man with a patchy white beard. I flash a hollow smile of acknowledgment at him.

Cheap bastards never pay much at this time of day, but one can always hope.

I writhe on the floor spastically; legs spread wide open, totally displaying the smooth pink lips of my cunt. The remains of my costume are scattered in various places on the stage; all I leave on is my tall black leather boots, a black lace choker clamped tight around my neck and a pair of black silk gloves that cover my forearms.

I never remove the gloves.

As I straddle the pole, I spot him, hidden away at a small table beside a support beam. His shoulder length hair is jet black, tied back in a ponytail. A tight olive green sweater shows off his broad chest well. Deep blue eyes obscured by wire rim glasses penetrate my skull. Feel my skin flush bright pink; nearly trip over my heels.

His gaze never wavers.

I move through my third song with renewed intensity; every movement is subtly injected with the slow heat of my desire. Stroke my large breasts delicately with my hands, teasing my full, red nipples to erection. I slide to the edge of the stage on my hands and knees, the submissive pose an offering especially for him. He grins enigmatically.

I have to meet him.

My set finally ends. I gather my outfit together and exit the stage. I feel his perceptive stare burning through the back of my head as I make my way towards the washroom, slicing past the next dancer like a blade. Need to fix myself up a little bit before I can summon the nerve to speak to him; a little narcotic courage usually helps.

Rick waves at me from behind the bar. His shaved head reflects the flashing lights like a mirror. I smile wearily without stopping; my feet hurt and I really have to piss.

I make it to the stall and plop down unceremoniously on the cold toilet. Relief washes over me; I held that in for too long. As I sit on the throne my thoughts drift back to my set, to the man in the green sweater. I have never been attracted to a customer before, yet I find myself drawn almost magnetically to him.

Want to feel the delightful pressure of his lips on mine, his body slamming hard against my pelvis. My right hand drifts south, attentively stroking the tender folds of my labia. Insert one silk-encased finger, then another, causing me to gasp softly. Someone enters the bathroom, jolting me out of my erotic trance. I flush and proceed to get dressed.

Open the door and walk to the white ceramic sinks. Ginger is leaning over the basin beside me, touching up her eye make-up. Her long copper hair is held back by a purple scrunchie.

'Hey girl,' she says, cocking one eyeball in my direction while applying mascara. Her supple hands are surgeon steady, experienced.

'Hey.'

I dig in my handbag; pull out a small brass mirror, a razor blade and a plastic dime bag half filled with cocaine. Set the equipment on the counter; meticulously cut two huge rails.

I offer Ginger one, but she declines. Pull a crumpled five from inside my boots; roll it into a tight cylinder. Snort up one line from the mirror, then another in the opposite nostril.

Warm ice slides down my spine; my mind expands, clarifies as my face goes numb.

'Do you always do so much at once?' Ginger asks absently.

She already knows the answer. My habits are notorious amongst the other girls.

'My feet are killing me,' I say; lean up against the sink to rub one foot.

Ginger smiles as I place my paraphernalia back in my bag. Check my nose in the mirror for any remains. Clean as a whistle.

'When are you on 'til?'

Ginger's innocent question startles me. Nearly drop my handbag.

'Eleven.'

'Are you okay?'

I pause before answering, nervously readjusting my skirt hem.

'I'm fine,' I say, the response more terse than intended.

Imagine his strong hands yanking my hair, forcing my mouth down onto his cock and choking me with warm salty cum. I feel the familiar wetness of arousal soak my panties.

A strange sense of anticipation tingles my flesh. I shiver as we exit the washroom together. I'm not usually anxious while working; maybe it's the coke.

The music is slow, sinister, with a rumbling distorted beat. The vibrations permeate my body, skin pulsating in rhythm with the bass. Ginger wanders off into the depths of the club; a thick young man in a purple football jersey approaches her. They talk for a few moments before heading off together in the direction of the private booths.

I saunter over to the bar with languid ease. Rick already has a double rye and ginger waiting for me. Swiftly down half the glass in one swallow.

I feel electric, predatory like a hungry lioness.

Peek back towards the stage to see who's presently dancing. A short blond in white hot pants and a spandex crop top flounces around awkwardly, her belly swollen with pregnancy. She told me her name yesterday, but I forget it now.

Must not have been very original.

Rick grins at me tightly, casually wiping condensation and spilled beer off the bar.

'One of those days?'

I gulp back the rest of my drink before replying.

'It's always one of those days.'

Rick laughs roughly, his guffaws swallowed by nasty coughing. He shuffles off to tend to a customer.

I glance around the club, vainly attempting to catch a glimpse of the man in the green sweater. Can't see him anywhere. Fuck.

'You dance beautifully.'

The voice is sensual, thick and creamy like warm caramel. I pivot slowly, already knowing it was him that spoke to me. He is taller than me, but not by much.

'Thank you,' I say; hope he didn't hear my voice crack.

'My name is John.'

'Noelle.'

John takes one gloved hand within his own, brings it to his lips and kisses it tenderly. I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin through the flimsy material; my body trembles with restless delight.

'Why do you wear gloves?'

Oh shit.

'Would you like a private dance?'

The offer blurts out too quickly, makes me appear overeager. I hide my obvious discomfort by squeezing John's well-defined forearm suggestively.

He nods slightly.

The sounds of the club seem muted, a distant memory. All I am aware of is the musky fragrance of John's cologne, the mesmerizing effect of his eyes.

John and I make our way to a booth, arm in arm. Thick blue shag carpeting blankets the floor. Brass table lamps cast a dim glow over the diminutive cubical. Sit down beside each other on a blood red plush loveseat. We are separated by only several inches of space; seems like a small chasm.

I ask John for the money. He digs into the front pocket of his tan cargo pants, pulls out a crisp twenty, neatly folded in two. As he passes the bill to me, our fingers momentarily touch; my hand jumps away from his as if scalded.

'Did I do something wrong?'

The note of confusion in John's steady, certain voice seems out of place, unwelcome. I silence it, placing one fingertip over his lips.

A new song begins, the second of the current dancer's set. I stand up suddenly, towering over John. Bend forward slowly, teasing his chiseled jaw with my thick mane of auburn hair. I brush my tits against his chest, sliding down to his crotch.

John's cock is rigid, rock hard against my soft breasts; the large tent in his pants gives an indication of its ample size.

On my knees my power feels reduced, the tension thick as fog. Thin fabric and a zipper are the only obstacles keeping me from swallowing his engorged member, enveloping it between my lips, my teeth.

My breathing begins to quicken. Slither up his torso like a snake, blowing lightly on his neck along the way. I pull away, turning my back to John. Slowly unhook the clasp of my black leather bustier, carelessly dropping it to the floor.

Heart is beating like a trip-hammer, clit rock hard, painfully aroused. I am dangerously close to climaxing; he hasn't even tried to touch me.

I straddle John's leg, grinding my cunt hard into his thigh. Lean back into the cradle of his torso. John's body is tense with obvious restraint. Grab his left hand, firmly placing it on my right breast. He kneads the soft tissue savagely, pinching my nipple with vicious enjoyment.

My body shudders as my pussy spasms with an orgasm, drenching his pant leg.

I drop myself onto John's crotch, rubbing my ass over his rod. His hips thrust into me aggressively, almost knocking the wind out of me. I hike up my leather mini-skirt, revealing the twin orbs of my backside. His palms caress the marble smooth flesh, coaxing a throaty purr from me; I arch my back like a cat.

John's fingers dig sharply into my flesh. I cry out in delicious pain; a warm trickle of blood flows down my ass.

I am overcome with the desire to touch him, skin to skin, our sweat intermingling. I want him to hold my hands, kiss my bare palms, but the silk holds razor sharp memories.

The air is crisp with electricity; the erotic charge sends sparks up my spine, into my brainstem. Feel the soft fabric of my gloves sliding down my forearms, exposing the scarred tissue beneath. Jagged wounds glare menacingly upward.

My youth was spent repeatedly cutting the meat, almost to the bone; embroidered my frustration on my arms with a small metal jackknife. I was desperate to make myself weep, scream, experience some kind of sensation beyond the bitter turmoil in my head. My skin is a tapestry of self-loathing that constantly haunts me, like a revenant.

I can't breath; I feel naked.

John intently strokes the rough surface of my wrists with his fingertips, as if reading braille. Tugs on one glove, yanks it off completely.

It drops lifelessly to the floor, like discarded skin.

I can't bring myself to look back at him, to see his face contorted in mute revulsion at the brutal slashes that criss cross my forearm. I've seen that shadow of disgust gloss over people's eyes many times.

'You are so beautiful.'

The incredulous warmth in John's voice melts away insecurity. I peel off the other glove, the cool air tingling my flesh like a static charge. The coarse stubble on his chin scrapes against my shoulders. Shut my eyes tight, imagining his head between my thighs, cheeks scouring the tender skin like sandpaper.

John continues to caress my arms, his long fingers creating gentle friction. His hips grind insistently against my ass; he's nearing climax, and I am not far behind. My entire body begins to smolder from John's sweet attention, sweat glistening in the hazy light.

Our bodies mould together like wet clay. I feel John's body tighten, the intensity of his orgasm evident. My eyes water, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I restrain a wail of ecstatic release, my pelvis rocking brutally against John's softening erection.

The last song ends.

My next set begins in a few minutes.

As we exit the booth and re-enter the club, I drop the gloves on the sticky floor. John encases my hand in his. I pull away before he can say anything we'll both regret the next day. I hate empty promises, hollow expectations.

I don't look back as I make my way back towards the stage; I know he's still standing there, I can feel it.