Sir & Pet Meet Cute Ch. 01bywriter_girl©
Men always tell her she has an innocent face. Even when she stands nearly naked before them, writhing against the pole like a cat in heat. Even when she straddles their laps and teases their cocks with her bare breasts and wet pussy until they come in their pants.
This man is no different.
"God," he says as he tucks a crisp new hundred into the red satin garter on her thigh. "Big blue eyes and rosy cheeks. You look like the fucking girl next door, but you sure as hell don't move like her."
"I am the fucking girl next door." She trails her fingers along his jaw, enjoying the rules that keep him from touching her though she is free to touch him. She tosses her glossy brown hair over her shoulder and winks. "Just ask my neighbor."
"Ask him what?" The man replies, dazed by the light touch of her fingers, and the sight of her sweat-slicked bare skin.
"Ask him how he fucks me."
The man stiffens; the illusion has shattered. "I'll bet your neighbor thinks you're a waitress. I'll bet he doesn't know you spend your nights cock-teasing men and pretending to like it."
"But I do like it," she says as she meets his gaze. "I live for it."
She likes being naked in a room full of horny men who can look but not touch. She likes to watch them get hard while she works the pole. She likes to make them come when she gives lap dances. And they know it.
Men watch her when she enters a room. They look up from their beers or their blackberrys, or the women they are talking to, and they stare at her. They run their gazes over her body like possessive hands.
They should be intimidated by her fresh, clean beauty. They should be ashamed of the things they want to do to a girl who looks so soft and innocent, but there is something about her that makes men want to get her dirty. There is something about her that makes men want to see her crawl.
Perhaps it is her eyes. They are large and limpid and china blue, fringed by a sweep of sooty lashes; beautiful windows the soul she does not posses. Beneath her beauty, there is only hunger; a warm and wicked void begging to be filled. Every man who sees her wants to fill her, to fuck her, to sate his most depraved cravings in the ever-hungry haven of her pliant flesh. No man can stop himself, nor save himself, for she is a honeyed trap, a spider's web, a sticky pit of dark desires.
In ancient times, men might have ascribed a supernatural cause to the desire she inspired in them. Men might have called her a demon, a witch or a succubus. These days, they are too proud to succumb to such silly superstitions. Yet if they are wise, they will avoid her, for the truth is this: she is Trouble for any man who touches her, and that is just the way she likes it.
When she returns to the dressing room, the other dancers fall silent. Half a dozen pairs of colored contacts glare up at her from half-a-dozen spray-tanned faces. The other dancers look the way strippers should look. They are gym-toned, hard-bodied, and hard-faced. They wear their styled-stiff hair and big false breasts the way soldiers might wear body armor into battle.
They like the money that comes with stripping, but not necessarily the job itself. They have other selves outside the club, other names. They have husbands, boyfriends, lives. And they know—have known from her first day here—that she isn't like them.
"Freak!" Hisses a dancer whose stage name is Kitty.
She raises a brow as she draws on her thin dressing gown.
"Yeah, I said it." Kitty continues, walking forward with her rock-hard triple-D's thrust out ahead of her like the prow of a ship. "I said what we've all been talking about when you're out on stage: Freaks like you give the rest of us a bad name."
"Do I?" She smiles slightly. This is not the first time she's had this conversation. There have been other dancers at other clubs. And really, she can't blame them. It's obvious she enjoys being onstage, that she gets off on it. Sometimes she comes as she writhes against the pole in front of all those watching eyes. Sometimes she comes when she straddles a stranger's lap and rubs her clit against the hard bulge his erection makes in his pants.
Who wants to compete with that? Pity the poor dancer who has to walk out next, mechanically thrusting her hips in a lackluster imitation of lust; each of her practiced moans a separate, hollow lie. What is such a performer to men who have just witnessed the real thing?
The managers of the clubs always love her because she attracts rabid repeat customers—men who will come in every night she is working; men who will spend themselves broke in futile bids to win her favor.
Needless to say, the other dancers always despise her. Not that she cares.
She turns from Kitty to peek at the audience through the tacky tinsel curtain at the entrance to the stage. A new wave of customers has come in. Young men in Vegas for the weekend and cruising for a wild time. She spots a pair she likes.
They are a matched set—one dark-haired and one golden; one is sweetly handsome while the other has a cruel edge to his masculine beauty. Both are in their early twenties. Hot faces and hard bodies, just the way she likes them. They are friends, it looks like—comfortable enough with each other not to bother to hide their erect cocks beneath folded hands or crossed legs.
"How about this," she says. "Kandy is supposed to be onstage in fifteen minutes. I'll trade sets with her and leave afterwards. You'll have the field to yourselves for the rest of the night."
"How about you just leave," Kitty says. "Go check yourself into Nymphos Anonymous. Go work out your freaky issues somewhere else."
She ignores Kitty's words. "Kandy?"
"Yeah," the other dancer says. "Anything to get rid of you, even for the night."
She gives Kitty and Kandy a saccharine smile before heading to her locker to change for her next set.
As she walks away, she hears Kitty say, "I swear, I'm going to make Marco fire her." Marco is the club's owner. Kitty believes herself to be Marco's girlfriend even though their relationship consists of little more than a once-nightly blowjob performed by Kitty while Marco takes his business calls.
She dresses for her next dance with a smile on her face. She dons long white gloves and a short, sky-blue peignoir for the set. She knows the color of the peignoir brings out her eyes, and the delicate, ruffled design makes her look even more wholesome and innocent than usual. The gloves have another purpose, though.
She peeks through the tinsel curtain. A dancer whose stage name is Cherry has just finished her routine and is crawling across the floor to pick up the scattered one and five dollar bills thrown onto the stage by the few men who were paying attention to her set. Like the audiences in most clubs, this one does not pay much attention to the girl on the stage; there are too many distractions.
Half a dozen other dancers cruise the tables, making small talk and trying to hustle the customers into buying lap dances. Lap dances are where the money is—a cock-tease set to music. The dancers perform for customers at their tables, grinding their g-string clad crotches into the customers' laps while pressing their hard, fake breasts into the men's faces.
For a higher fee, dancers will perform in the semi-private confines of the Champagne room. The Champagne room is dark, the music is loud. No one can tell quite what a dancer and customer are doing. Many men like to imagine they will unzip their flies, free their stiff cocks and fuck the dancer as she writhes on their lap in the semi-private darkness.
This is why most clubs employ a robust and well-trained security detail.
As a policy, she never dances in the Champagne Room. She does not fear the darkness, or the men who believe she will fuck them for money. Her distaste for the Champagne Room is not a matter of what she doesn't like, but the result of what she does like: an audience.
She watches Cherry leave the stage and join the other dancers circling the main floor of the club like sharks circling an empty tank, hungry and on the hunt. Now, it is her turn to take the stage. She walks through the curtain.
The music dies. Silence on the sound system. Every conversation quiets when participants who had been shouting to be heard over the pumping music suddenly find they are just shouting. They look around in confusion. And then, they look up at her.
She stands motionless, perfect, even in the glare from the garish red neon lining the runway. She clutches the neck of the peignoir closed, and looks around, wide-eyed, like a first-timer frozen by stage fright. She knows she looks innocent, lost, and out of place among the predatory professionals cruising the room. But looks can be deceiving.
She is the most dangerous woman these men will ever meet.
The music fades in, a trance cover of the blues song "Pour Some Sugar in My Bowl." She walks forward, desire in her eyes and sex in her stride. She struts a full circuit of the runway, letting the room see her. She has them. She owns their attention.
...I can stand a bit of lovin' oh so bad / I feel so funny, I feel so sad...
She wades into the audience, trailing her gloved fingers over patrons' shoulders as she passes them. She removes her right glove a finger at a time as she walks, and when it is off, she trails it over the bulge in a customer's pants before tucking it into his shirt pocket.
Next, she starts working on the left glove. By the time she removes it, she is standing in front of the men she spotted from backstage.
Holding her glove by the open end, she trails the empty fingers over the blond one's crotch, smiling at the way he splays his legs to give her a better view of the erection he is sporting. She winks, balls the glove up and tucks it into the waistband of his pants before returning to the stage to finish her set.
She sheds the peignoir with a shrug, leaving her naked, except for her g-string. She never takes her time disrobing. She is as eager to be naked in front of her audience as they are to see her that way. She wants to know they're watching her, wanting her and imagining themselves fucking her.
She is upside down on the pole, holding herself off the ground by the strength and skill of her thighs when the blond man discovers the key card hidden in the sleeve of her glove. It belongs to a local boutique hotel—a place that is clean, safe, and close to the club. The room number is written on it in black sharpie.
He meets her eyes as she trails her hands over her body. He points to himself, and she shakes her head. She holds up two fingers and then traces them from her throat to her pussy. Both men get the message. She slips her fingers beneath her g-string and begins to touch herself while the audience looks on.
Now that she has secured her entertainment for the rest of the night, she is free to engage in her favorite game. She keeps her eyes open as she touches herself, scanning her audience for what she wants. Finally she sees him, sitting back in the shadows—a middle-aged man, in a suit shirt and trousers with a wedding ring glinting on his finger. He has freed his cock from his trousers and is stroking it, moving his hand in time to her fingers. She meets his gaze and holds it as she touches herself, enjoying the feeling of control it gives her to know she arouses him.
Pressure builds in her body, but still she clings to the pole, tightening her thighs and abdomen, waiting for the moment. She likes the challenge—holding herself upside down and immobile while her body screams toward orgasm. Wet heat builds in her pussy. Blood pounds in her head.
The man in the audience spurts into his cupped hand. She comes with a shudder, and a moan loud enough to carry over the music. Her thighs twitch, but she doesn't fall from the pole. She raises her arms and loosens her thighs. She slides down the pole into a handstand, cart-wheels her feet onto the floor and lands in a full splits to the cheers and cat-calls of the audience.
In the shadows, the bouncer lays his heavy hand on the middle-aged man's shoulder and then points to the door. The customer has been caught behaving like a depraved, desperate man; like a pervert. He has been kicked out of the strip club. Because of her.
She smiles. Her audience believes she is smiling for them, for the small bills they have thrown on the stage at her feet. She loves they way they think they own her when they watch her. She loves the way they think having the money makes them the one in charge. But they're wrong.
She is the one with the power, the one who arouses; the one who drives them over the edge. That feeling—the feeling of being in control—is almost better than an orgasm.
She leaves the money on the stage. Ones and fives—she won't crawl for small bills. After all, it's not like she needs it.
"Another one kicked out," Kitty says when she arrives backstage. "You are one seriously messed up bitch."
"Tell me something I don't know." She says as she retrieves her purse and coat from her locker.
"You need help." Kitty says.
"All I need," she tells Kitty, "is a good fuck, and co workers who stay out of my business." She drops her g-string and ties the sash of her coat closed over her naked body.
Before leaving, she makes the rounds among the club's staff. She tips the DJ and the waitresses, the bartenders and the bouncers. She is generous with them, and they appreciate her for it. They bring drinks to her patrons first. The DJ always plays her requests, and when she steps on stage he silences the music to get the crowd's attention. The bouncers and waitresses always tell customer that she is the best girl in the house when a patron asks their advice. The club's staff appreciate her almost as much as the other dancers hate her.
She thinks it is a fair trade.
Her last stop is Marco's office for her cut of the credit card charges and other fees she brought in. Marco Giordano sits the chair behind his empty desk like a potentate on a padded throne. He is the youngest son of a semi-notorious crime family, and dresses the part of the gangster complete with sleek Italian-made suits, slicked-back hair, and a pistol in the waistband of his pants. He issues orders like he expects to be obeyed, and propositions his dancers as though it is an honor instead of an insult.
Thus far, she has refused the honor though it means she must pay higher stage fees and tip outs for the privilege of dancing in his club. There are other clubs she could dance in—and they would all be happy to have her—but Marco, perhaps due to his family connections, has an endearing disregard for the law and an admirable knack for avoiding it. He has never asked for her name, or any form of identification, even though the police have been looking for any excuse to bust him for almost two years.
He looks her over as she stands before his desk. He may not know her name, but over the past months he has come to know her habits and her predilections. He knows she never sticks around after she tucks her gloves into a customer's pocket. He knows she is naked beneath her short red trench coat; that she is wet and horny, and eager to get to her assignation.
The cash he spreads out on the shiny surface of his desk is short three hundred dollars.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" she asks.
"I think you're in a hurry," he answers. "You're desperate as a cat in heat, and you can't wait to get that itch scratched. I think you'll take what I've given you. We both know you aren't in this business for the money."
She glares at him.
He leans forward and pulls the sash on her coat. The red coat falls open, baring her naked body to him. She doesn't bother to close the coat. He looks her over from her hard nipples to her shaved cunt.
Marco is a big man, stocky, but all muscle. He has a thick neck, and big, rough-fingered hands that look like they will hurt when they close around her wrists.
They are alone in his office; he could do anything to her. Overpower her, push her onto his desk and force her legs apart. His cock will be thick and hard, just like the rest of him. It will stretch her until she cries out, hurt her until she comes.
He pulls her forward by the edges of her coat and tweaks one of her pert nipples. He laughs when she shudders. "God," he says. "You really will let anyone have you, any time. You need a keeper."
"Not you," she says. But she doesn't move away from him. She despises him, and that is the problem. She knows he will be cruel when he fucks her. She knows he will give her just what she craves.
"Why don't you let me help you scratch that itch, and we'll talk about your cut when we're through?"
"In other words, if I fuck you, you'll pay me what you already owe me? I'm not a prostitute or an idiot."
"Get this straight," Marco says. "I don't owe you anything. You don't have a name or a social security number. You don't fucking exist. That means you'll take what I give you, and like it."
The rough tenor of his words excites her. If they weren't arguing about money, she would goad him to anger; she would challenge his dominance until he put her in her place. But sex and money are two very different things for her.
Like many people who work in their industry, Marco conflates and confuses the two. He believes she's weak. He believes that she likes to be used and fucked in her business deals the same way she likes to be used and fucked by her lovers.
He doesn't understand the situation. He will, though. She'll make sure of it.
She grabs the money from the desk and steps out of his grasp. "This isn't over."
She exits the building through the back door and enters the dark parking lot with her keys in her hand. A silver Jaguar is parked in the space closest to the door. Marco's car. She scrapes the key along the side as she passes, gouging the paint. When she reaches her red Corvette, she gets in and drives away without a backwards glance.
In Chapter Two: Two cocks, one pussy and a whole lot of trouble...