I'd seen her a few times at our local nightclub; I only visited the intimate small town establishment on Thursday nights, when the DJ played rock music, and only when my work rota permitted it. The young brown-haired lady I watched from the raised bar area was present on every occasion I frequented the basement nightspot. But she was out of my league; she exuded confidence and sexuality, dressed to attract attention, and had the erotic power of a porn star. I was a 33-year-old slightly overweight divorcee with the start of a receding hairline.
The first couple of times I saw her, I was just one of another 300 revellers in the nightclub. The time after that, we spoke. I bought her a drink at the bar, and we chatted above the thumping beat of AC/DC and the nostalgic melodies of Green Day.
Then just last week, she teased me; we got a table at the rear of the club, next to the coat check, and beside the bar. The alcohol helped; I always found it difficult to speak to new people, but we conversed easily, and her sex appeal and flirtatious behaviour encouraged me to invest a small chunk of my bonus money in her inebriation. She coquettishly intimated and exaggerated, hiking her short skirt higher when our drinks ran dry, before I staggered to buy replenishments.
Khristyna blew kisses with her soft red lips, and she daintily rubbed the back of my hand as she discussed sex. I'd evaded the subject and had not mentioned my proclivities. My divorce was still raw, and I had found it difficult to find women who had similar perverted kinks in the small Cheshire town. Instead, I imagined the scenes of depravity that the coquettish Lithuanian described as she revealed her fantasies and experiences. However, as my alcohol consumption rose, I shared more of my sexual desires.
She giggled as she saw my expression, adjusted her tight top and suggested we get another round of drinks. Clearly, I was on a promise.
Actually, she had tormented me. The Eastern European immigrant had seduced and then discarded me, kissing me goodbye as she staggered from the nightclub to "go home" to her flat. She promised to text me as she shimmied out of the club, wiggling her bum in her incredibly tight skirt before she ascended the stairs.
For days, she dominated my sex-heavy dreams; I fantasised about running my lips over her naked bosom and parting her legs to explore her wondrous womanhood. Probably waxed or shaved, hairless to not impede my view. Each night, I visualised the ravishment of the cheeky sex bomb, and I woke to a painful erection.
I discussed my predicament with my friend the day before the next nightclub session; the assistant nurse was an accomplished womaniser and had the phone numbers of the shadiest contacts in the small town. "Twenty five quid," he suggested. "It's a drug that loosens inhibitions. She'll be gagging for it. Just slip it into her drink and bone her!"
It sounded unethical and illegal. A medical consultant should not entertain the clandestine application of drugs to a sexual partner, and yet the following day I dressed to visit the nightclub with a small sealed paper packet in my pocket, intending to tip the contents into Khristyna's drink. I knew she'd be there; she messaged me.
That Thursday night, I arrived as the doors opened, bagging the table in the far corner. The dark venue, lit by strobe lighting across the nightclub, left a few of the tables near the coat check in gloomy shadow.
Khristyna bounced over to me, dressed in a shiny black short skirt with a tight bustier and dark stockings. She grinned when she saw me and flounced onto the chair opposite. "Hiya Joe. I've had a crap day."
"Drink?" I asked, and walked to the bar to buy her favoured tipple - a vodka and lemonade. My hands shook as I picked the hi-ball glass; there was no way for me to empty the contents of the paper packet in my pocket without a dozen witnesses seeing it.
As the night wore on, and Khristyna flirted more explicitly and drunkenly with me, my mind whirred as I struggled to find a way of getting the contents of the inch square paper sachet into her drink.
Under the cover of the club darkness, I ripped the top of the sachet in my right hand and gestured towards the stage. "Hey, isn't that guy waving at you?" With one smooth motion, I reached for my beer on the table, emptying the white crystals into her glass.
My heart pounded. There were over 300 potential witnesses to what I had done, but as I waited for the shouts and challenges, no-one uttered a word. "What guy?"
"Oh, he's gone now."
The dark-haired beauty chuckled, and I hurried to the toilet to calm my nerves before returning to the table to buy us both another drink. But the polluted tipple worked; she kissed me, sliding her dainty hands over my navy shirt.
She tasted divine; the harsh bitterness of the lemons on her tongue with the sensual beauty of the Lithuanian kitten. "Let's go," she whispered, nibbling on my ear. I couldn't wait to depart, stumbling into the cool evening with my new sexual conquest. She opened the car door of a parked red vehicle nearby. "Taxi?"
The hooded driver grunted. "Yeah, where to?"
"17 Roseberry Gardens," I replied, scooting in the back seat with the sexual powerhouse. Her hands rubbed my thighs as she pushed her lips onto mine, and the ten-year-old car lurched forwards. She could not stop touching me; I tugged at her tight rubberised corset, exposing her large breasts on her lissom frame to my fingers.
Touching her nipples sent a frisson of excitement to my cock as I rolled the points between my fingers. She pushed her lips onto mine as the car sped along the streets, braking gently at our destination. "We're here," the driver muttered, reaching into my pocket to get my wallet and pay our cabbie.
Hands grabbed my wrists, pulling them away from my body towards the front seat. Two clicks signified she had cuffed me in one smooth motion. Khristyna smirked as she readjusted her corset and picked my wallet from the floor.
"You can't do this," I spat. They had set me up to be mugged, and I looked out of the window; this was not my house, but a desolate industrial estate.
"Doctor Joe Whittall," she read, picking my driving license from the leather wallet. "We need to talk, yes? This is my sister, Silvija."
Our cabbie pulled her hood on her tracksuit and grinned with a hint of menace in her eyes. She looked like an older version of her younger sibling; they had the same shaped nose, the same thin red lips, and both had long chestnut brown hair. "And I saw you put something into Khristyna's drink." I gulped. "In the club. I watch you, and you tried to drug her."
My date sucked in air through her teeth. "Nasty. We should teach him a lesson."
"We could say no more. No harm done. Take all the money from my wallet, and I'm sorry, I'll never do it again." Khristyna laughed. Her seductive chuckles enchanted me in the nightclub, but in the situation, her actions felt sinister.
"No. And any noise, and we ensure you are Doctor Joe Whittall with no balls."
Khrystina chortled. "She's always wanted to castrate a man."
