"Susan. Better get ready, Helen's finishing up."
I sighed. "I'll talk to you later, Chloe," I told the girl I had been chatting with and went over to the backstage fridge freezer. I grabbed a pair of ice cubes and held them on my bare nipples until the latter were hard and the former had begun to soften. Then I picked the most melted cube, tugged my thong to the right of my shaved pussy and quickly dashed the ice cube across my slit. Some of the girls get aroused just by performing, but that exhibitionism has never worked for me.
I checked myself in one of the dressing room mirrors – thick smear of red on my lips, making them seem bigger than they are; dark make-up around my eyes for that exotic look. My large, coppery nipples prickled. My thing was "Elrissa – Mistress of the Night". What it meant was smudgy make-up and black leather lingerie.
I grabbed my bra off the radiator, hauled on the straps and settled my breasts into the cups. "Gimme a hand, Chloe?"
Chloe was new. "I'm not that kind of girl, Suze."
"Oh well," I joked. "You can tongue my cunt later. Just tie my bra."
She did and I slipped on the gauzy night-gown – also black – that was the last part of my costume.
Helen came in to put on a thong before going out to work the floor. "Big crowd tonight. Plus a few businessmen."
Businessmen meant a lot of money for us.
Helen headed out just as I heard the manager, who doubled as announcer. Speaking like a boxing promoter.
"She's here! Immortally beautiful and immortally insatiable. She'll take your soul with her hot little hole. It's...Mistress Elrissa, Queen of the Night!" The promotion surprised me.
When the first chords of Sympathy for the Devil started I strode through the curtain. Initially my act had me wearing high-heeled black leather boots. But they so got in the way that now I just worked bare-foot like the other girls. It was for the best anyway, that podium was near frictionless so our skin didn't get rubbed raw.
I pranced about for a while, holding the pole at arm's length and circling, shimmying my hips at the ring of customer's around me and looking to see what business would be like for our "extra" services. At this distance from the spotlight I could see them clearly, and I was able to discern a fair number of small, and not so small, bulges. In my slow spin I trod on a small sticky patch. Usually security's pretty good, but sometimes some horny prick that can't wait yanks it out and hoses the runway.
I pulled myself towards the pole, spiralling into in, then rapped my arms and legs around it, pulling it between my breasts, seemingly tit-fucking the biggest cock in the world. I was in the centre of the spotlight now; the crowd invisible to me I seemed almost to be dancing for myself. Again I spun to give everyone a view, stopping with my back to the curtain, so that I was visible, though better to some than others, to the whole horseshoe of seats surrounding the stage.
I threw my head back and moaned loudly – whether they could hear it over the music or not, they undoubtedly saw it. Then I moved my head back to the pole, first kissing it swiftly, then wrapping my tongue around it. Finally, I gave it a few long strokes, like a cat slurping cream.
All this had taken about a minute. I didn't work in one of those high-class clubs where the dancing has to be good. This sort of town wouldn't support it. Our dances had two points, letting the customer's see the goods and getting them so horny that money became meaningless to them. Or as our manager – and dance coach – put it in induction – "let 'em see your cunt and make 'em happy to pay to fuck it". In fact, we mainly did oral.
Now was the main part of my act. Holding the pole with my legs, I let go my arms and leaned back, shimmying out of the transparent night-gown. As it slipped down my left shoulder, I readied myself and, as it dropped, slowly fluttering in the air, I caught it, rubbed it over my tits and tossed it to my left. I was down low now, so I stopped holding with my legs and, sitting, turned so my back pressed against the pole. Again I gave a moan – which our manager called "Susan's night howl" – and undid my bra. This was the only leather bit of my costume, and the only bit that we weren't willing to replace each night. I always threw it to an employee in the crowd, who'd make a big deal of sniffing it and generally acting like I smelled of pure sex, before he took it back stage to have it washed. He couldn't always get it, but he did often enough.
I let the bra hang on my breasts, held only by my cold-hardened nipples. I teased for a while before letting it fall and throwing it to Charlie.
My breasts weren't all that big. They were a fair bit larger than average, full and round, heavy but at 26 still happily swaying in gravity's face. To be accurate, they were the biggest natural tits at our club, but while mine were a size or two below double D, a few of the girls went a bit size-crazy when the manager – who also doubled as, in his words, "hands-on pussy tester extraordinaire" – said they'd need implants, and went into the far ends of the alphabet.
Now was an important part of my act. I stroked and pinched my breasts, fingered my artificially hardened nipples and acted like I was in heat. Club policy was that we had to look aroused as we danced. How we did this was up to us, and there were three categories. At least half, like me, faked it with the ice-cubes. A slightly smaller number just got off on performing. This did make for a better performance for those few who could hold of arousal until they were dancing – there's no way to fake nipples hardening and a pussy getting dripping wet as you dance. In the first two categories, dancers tend to last a while. The third is different.
These are the girls, some wannabe nymphos, others just young and stupid and, sometimes, stupidly rebellious, who think it's all some baroque sex party. They finger themselves before they go on stage, rubbing their little college-girl clits to orgasm then performing. If you have more than one of these dilettantes, they'll sometimes lick each other out, flick each other off, or 69 before dancing. I'm a working girl – I don't want to see two young girls ineptly sucking pussy on my dressing table. These girls don't last long. Usually once they've serviced a few customers and realised that mostly they won't get off and that there is no – zero, zilch – glamour involved, they quit.
I think Chloe hovers between the second and the third of these categories. She's definitely an exhibitionist, but I've seen her masturbate before she goes on and she doesn't seem to treat it quite as just a job.