Gigolo

All people and places depicted in this story are fictional.

***

The Mediterranean Club

The man felt two immediate pangs the instant he spotted her. First, he was stirred by her delicate beauty, her vulnerability. Her evident fragility. Second, he realized his plans had changed. Seducing and fucking her tonight would be work, not recreation.

As always, the man had felt all eyes on him when he first entered -- he cut a striking figure -- but he had purposely faded into the background by taking a seat at the far end of the bar. He surveyed the nightclub for 20 minutes, sipping his club soda with lime. After he'd spotted her, and watched intently for long enough to confirm his first impression, he continued to peruse the Mediterranean Club. Strategizing. Even though his batting average was absurdly high, a detailed plan was always required.

After everything fell into place, he got up and began walking towards the trio he'd chosen. They were on a girls' night out, perhaps college seniors, but more likely friends still keeping in touch after graduation as they transitioned into the workforce. Dealing with the reality of entry-level jobs.

All three eyed him as the man approached, taking in all 6 feet 4 of him. Cut, lean, stylish, exuding strength, grace and masculinity. He arrived at their table just as the band finished another rowdy rock song. He chose the timid one, rather pretty, definitely shy. What some would term thick.

"Excuse me, but did you come here just to sit and talk? Or would you like to dance?" The man extended his hand.

He watched her catch her breath and noted how her eyes widened. She, along with her two friends, had been certain that the man would ask one of them. They were the beautiful ones. She collected herself quickly, took his offered hand, and said, "I'd love to."

He purposely did not ask her name. In fact said nothing else. She wasn't a particularly good dancer, but, as his teacher, Rebecca, continually reminded him, he was so smooth, so skilled that he made every partner better. Immediately. She fell into his rhythm and gait, and he effortlessly guided them around the dance floor, passing right in front of the vulnerable brunette he'd first selected, and then his partner's two friends.

As the man escorted her back to her table, he told her she danced as beautifully as she looked, and her face flushed a darker shade of pink. As his partner sat, he stared at her truly beautiful friend, but suddenly pulled his eyes away, to the other, the saucy blonde, and asked if she'd honor him with a dance.

He was gratified that he'd read things right. The blonde's glance flitted to her friend -- the one the man had looked at but not asked -- and both her eyes and her smile conveyed her sense of surprised, but smug triumph. In similar situations throughout their friendship, men had always first noticed the brazen blonde, but, by the time they decided to try, they usually approached the real beauty.

Not tonight.

Dancing with her was an experience, and confirmed the man's earlier impression. This one was hot, willing. Available. She did not miss an opportunity to brush her ample breasts against him, and her fingers -- in his hand, on his shoulder, on his waist -- gave little caresses whose meaning was obvious. Come on, big boy.

He again maneuvered them on a tour around the floor, passing in front of, and making eye contact with the fragile one, then his partner's friends. The one he'd snubbed seemed appropriately miffed.

When the dance ended, though it was obvious the blonde wanted more -- much more -- he led her back to her table. Upon arrival he asked, "Would you three mind if I joined you for a bit?"

Of course they did not -- he was hands-down the hottest guy in the club -- and he pulled an empty chair from a neighboring table and placed it between thick and blonde. Which served 2 purposes. It further annoyed the snubbed beauty, and gave him a direct view of the delicate woman across the dance-floor.

It was time to ask for names. He did. The blonde, aggressively flirting, leapt in first, volunteering that she was Vicki. His first dance partner was right on her heels, "I'm Lisa."

The man's eyes became intense as he scanned the beautiful face of the third woman, whose pique mandated her silence. He softened his stare, smiled and said, "Let me guess. You're Ms. Doe. May I call you Jane?" His eyes laughed as they locked on hers.

It won a hint of a smile and a response, "Good guess, but I'm Monica."

"Monica." The man elongated her name, rolling it on his tongue, savoring its taste. "I'm pleased to meet you." Just before the silence lengthened enough to become awkward, he flicked his eyes between the other 2 and added, "All of you."

Vicki, always the most forward, prompted, "And you are...?"

"I'm Cyr." The man sighed, shrugged his shoulders, added a self-deprecating smile, and went on, "Yes, I know it's odd. But you don't know my mother." When the giggles subsided, he continued, "My mother believes she is descended from a Catholic Saint, Saint Cyril of Alexandria."

Always eager, Vicki beat Lisa to the punch, "Really? How fascinating!" The coquettish cant of her head matched the batting of her eyes.

"Yes, a saint." After the requisite pause, Cyr added, "Just like me."

Lisa was ready this time and got in first, "Idk, you look sort of like a bad boy to me." She blushed again, not believing she'd actually said that.

"Well, Saint Cyril did rape and pillage, and arrange for the murder of his rival, so you all had best keep an eye on me."

Vicki, "Oh, you can count on that, Cyril."

"I've always hated Cyril; please call me Cyr."

Cyr was delighted when Monica joined in, "Like Cyr Galahad, perhaps? A knight in shining armor?"

Vicki, letting her eyes quickly dip lasciviously low before pulling them back to Cyr's face, "No, I think more like Cyr Lance. A lot."

Seeing what he'd been waiting for, Cyr chuckled and said, "Good one. Oh! Please excuse me for a minute."

The delicate beauty he'd selected when he first entered the club was with someone, half of a couple. As he had watched them closely, he noted that her beau had been pounding beers, and Cyr was across the dance floor and at her table before beau had even entered the Men's Room. To take care of beer business.

Cyr bowed slightly when her surprised but intrigued eyes found his. It was a courtly gesture and would have seemed out-of-place, odd and dated from anyone else. "May I have the pleasure?" His hand extended.

Her consternation was apparent. He'd noted how bored, even annoyed, she'd been -- her guy was constantly on his phone, ignoring her -- and he'd seen how avidly she'd watched the other couples dancing.

The war between temptation -- she obviously wanted to dance -- and convention played out on her visage. Can one dance with someone other than the guy you're with? Cyr was looking at her face, staring really, and he knew it had the usual, intended effect. Impinging on her space, creating an edge, but making a connection. When he raised his eyebrows, worked his smile, and added, "Please," she decided.

"Sure." She took his hand and off they went. She danced well and Cyr was able to utilize much of his practiced skill. He was gratified that she noticed how all the other couples became aware of them, and knew she appreciated their admiring looks. It was a slow, romantic song, and his fingers played on her back and waist, his breath on her neck, and he knew his body heat was enveloping her. When Cyr drew her ever closer as the dance went on, he felt their connection grow and solidify.

He was not unaware of the sullen look on her beau's face when he returned and discovered where his girlfriend was. The plan was progressing nicely.

"Oh drat, that ended far too soon," Cyr lamented, leaning close and tickling her ear with his breath when the music stopped. "You dance so beautifully. I wish... I don't suppose the guy you're with would..."

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the elated, rosy glow on her beautiful face and how her brown, almost amber eyes twinkled when she looked up at him. "I better not, but thank you. That was wonderful."

Cyr felt a twinge of regret at seeing the puzzled, confused looks on the faces of the trio as he rejoined them. "My sincere apologies, ladies. I realized that I knew her, from a dance class we had together years ago, and I just had to reconnect. She dances well, but is in a serious relationship now. Hey! What a great song! Lisa, up for another go?"

She was, of course, delighted to be chosen over her friends again.

Afterward Cyr let her find her own way back to their table while he procured another round of drinks. As he leaned on the bar waiting, he made notes on his phone. Of everything Monica had said while the four of them were talking.

He'd chosen the trio specifically to affect the brunette. To make it clear to her that he could have any woman he wanted. So that when he paid special attention to her, it would be meaningful. His job tonight was to pry her away from her boyfriend, and provoking twinges of envy and jealousy helped. But Cyr was seriously intrigued by Monica and would pursue her. Eventually.

As he put the fresh drinks on their table, Cyr said, "Monica," again savoring her name, "will you please dance with me?" As it had been her turn before, when he asked Lisa for a second dance, she was predictably irked. But the long, slow dance he'd arranged for with the band had not been up next, so he chose Lisa. His second, truly sincere, "Please," did the trick however, and Monica took his hand.

"Love Me," by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller was a hit for Elvis in 1956, and was the first of the songs he'd run through with the leader that the band knew. He'd guessed that a couple Ben Franklins before, with the promise of 2 more after, would be sufficient to buy a long, slow, soulful rendition.

It was.

Cyr made a point of saying nothing. Monica proved to be the best dancer of the three, and, though still annoyed at how he'd snubbed her, by the second minute she was swaying and smiling, responding to his every lead.

He pressed.

His hands, seemingly of their own accord, edged lower, to where her hips began to blossom. He let her hear his delighted, "Mmm," before returning them to her back. Where they continued working, moving, exploring.

"Oops. Sorry, Monica," Cyr whispered in her ear. He wasn't really, not at all, but when his audacious, disobedient hand had descended again, onto the swell of her buttock, he quickly apologized and disciplined it. According to the rules.

Of course, it strayed again. Cyr loved Monica's slight shudder when it landed, and did pull it up. But not immediately. "Sorry, again, it's just that you're so very, very..." He let his sentence tail off, knowing Monica would wonder what it was he was going to say. What she had missed. Knowing that she would long to hear it.

Over her shoulder, Cyr noted the looks on the faces of Monica's two friends and was pleased that the yearning in their eyes was also in the eyes of the fragile brunette. Monica settled her head into his neck when his hand urged it, and he enjoyed her warm breath feathering his skin as the sax player gave a particularly sexy rendition of the chorus.

Though he did allow his arms to tighten, pulling Monica very close, and enjoyed how her erect nipples brushed his chest, he made certain that he didn't push his pelvis to hers. And that, though Monica was truly beautiful, amazingly alluring, and her proximity was highly arousing, he did not allow himself an erection. Nothing obvious. Ever.

The long, sultry song finally came to a close, and as the band held the last chord almost too long, he gave Monica a firmer hug, looked at her from two inches away, and drew closer still. "Damn. Sorry," he whispered as he pulled back, thinking she would have accepted the kiss. "You are just so beautiful I couldn't help..." After a pause he continued, "There is one thing you do need to know about me, Monica, regarding who I've asked to dance. Whenever I have a wonderful meal, I always save the best bite to eat last."

He watched the panoply of emotions play over her face. How she'd loved dancing, being skillfully led, being made better by someone who was truly expert. How she'd gotten more and more into it, letting her inhibitions slide from her. How she'd thrilled to his hand going where it shouldn't have gone. And then how reassured she was that he pulled it back. Just as she had been when he caught himself and didn't try to kiss her. Cyr especially loved how her face lit up when he told her he'd waited to dance with her, saving the best for last. And how she shivered when she realized he'd also alluded to eating her.

There was silence at the table when they returned. Lisa and Vicki had been watching closely, and were disappointed that what always seemed to happen had happened again. That guys always went for gorgeous Monica. As they smoldered, Monica sat entranced, her mind and body intoxicated by the intimacy of the dance. Reading all that was going on, Cyr let the stew simmer.

Until he didn't. "God! What a great song! We need dance, all four of us. Come on, ladies, on your feet!"

He pulled them up one by one and loved how other dancers, now having seen him perform and acknowledged his prowess, followed suit, forming groups. How bouncing, frolicking bodies filled the floor, delight and joy spilling over. Of course, his chosen woman was still sitting. Her surly chump of a boyfriend was evidently not into dancing.

When, out of frustration, maybe hurt, she got up and headed for the Ladies Room, Cyr excused himself and, after dropping by the band to deliver his promised tip, he followed. While waiting he made more notes on his phone from the conversation with the trio.

As always in these situations, Cyr felt genuine regret that he was being so manipulative, using Monica and her friends to get to the brunette. But, also as usual, it was justified, all in a good cause.

When she came out of the restroom he started walking again. He was so intent on his screen that he accidentally bumped into her.

"Oh! I'm sorry... It's you!"

"No problem. I'm sure it was my fault..."

"Would you please do me a huge favor?"

"Well, I guess..."

"Please tell me your name. I've been wondering ever since we danced. I'm guessing Brunhild?"

Her laugh was small, but lovely. "No, that's not it."

"Rapunzel? You have lovely hair." She did. Delicious milk chocolate tresses cascading down in unruly curls, the tips just touching the surprisingly large points atop perfect petite breasts. Cyr let her catch his eyes flitting lower. Only tracing the path of her locks, of course.

Her giggle was even more winning than her laugh. "Nope, not Rapunzel. Getting warmer, though."

"Ah! I've got it. Cinderella! A secret princess. Your skin is flawless, you're almost too beautiful, your bearing is regal, and you dance with a grace that is magical."

Cyr liked how her eyes enlarged with each compliment, and how she had followed his subtle lead and was ambling with him down the hallway, away from the dance floor.

"No, now you're getting colder."

They reached the fire door at the end of the hall. The end of the line. "Please. I can't stand the suspense. Just tell me."

Cyr had moved in very close. As he had when they'd danced. He knew that what Rebecca called his "animal charisma" was in full flower, and he stoked it, letting his pheromones flow and his body language convey his very real attraction.

She stopped biting her lower lip and said, "I'm Amy. Not very exotic, I'm afraid."

Cyr leaned closer still and kept moving in as he said, "If such a fascinating, alluring woman as you also had an exotic name, it would be too much."

His fingertips feathered her cheek as his lips lightly brushed hers. Cyr shuddered and stood back. "I'm so sorry, Amy. I just was so entranced that I lost myself. Please accept my apology."

Her eyes confirmed what her body divulged. She'd liked it. Very much. And would like it again. However, following the rules, Cyr retreated. He told her his name, the story of how he got it, and then glanced at his watch and abruptly excused himself, saying he had to run.

Amy looked puzzled, dismayed that the intensely affirming attention from this fascinating, attractive man was ending. Cyr matched the yearning in her eyes with his own, then he turned and walked quickly down the hallway towards the dance floor.

He spied Monica walking out the door of the club and ran, catching up just outside the Med. "Ladies, you're leaving? So early?"

Vicki, always hopeful, said, "We all have to work tomorrow, so need to get going."

"But I didn't get your numbers! It was lovely dancing with you all. I had such a nice time, and..." His eyes completed the question, and of course Vicki was first to volunteer her number. He entered it and Lisa's into his phone, knowing he'd never call. But saving face for them. Monica would hear from him. Just later than she'd like.

As Cyr was re-entering the club he saw the end of Amy and beau's spat. He was alarmed and ready to sprint when the guy drew back his clenched fist, but relieved when he just slammed it down onto the table. As he stormed off, Cyr noted the distraught, cowed look on Amy's face. He rushed to her.

"Ah Rapunzel! So nice to see you again!"

Amy brightened, giggled and of course said yes when he asked her to dance.

The band found its groove when it started the Cuban tune, and salsa is one of Cyr's fortes. He began vanilla, just letting them sync, his right hand pristinely on her left shoulder blade, her right in his left. Cyr kept scanning her face, letting his eyes communicate. Fun. Interest. Attraction. Serious attraction.

As Rebecca also says, Cyr is totally easy to follow, his hand pressure indicating each move before he initiates it. Amy picked everything up. Spins, slipping close then parting, dips, and even when he spun her so her back was to his front, she got it all. And she loved it. As did he.

She also loved how the other couples on the floor noticed them and made room. Though Cyr had eschewed competitions, Rebecca always said he'd be a natural, and as the dance went on, Cyr became more adventurous. Amy got lost on one spin, in danger of spiraling out of orbit, but Cyr saved her and smilingly mouthed, "Oops," as he put her into another dip.

The next dance was a slow one, and, as Amy melded her body tightly to his, Cyr was certain.

***

The gym.

"Uhhnnngghh!"

Cyr grunted loudly, striving mightily to get the bar up for the second-to-last rep of the third set of bench presses. He chuckled to himself, amused at the similarity between the involuntary sound he'd just made and how he'd grunted last night, driving the last jet of semen into Amy's fecund pussy.

The night had gone well. According to plan. First, he'd made serious eye contact, putting himself on Amy's radar. Then he made certain that she saw how receptive, even eager, the other three women were as he danced with them. Tweaking her, provoking her interest. After their seductive first dance, he engineered the tête-à-tête and small kiss when she'd visited the Ladies Room, and, once her boyfriend had left in a huff, during their final dance he knew she'd leave with him. Even when he delayed, telling her he had to check something first.

He did.

Cyr had used the side exit, spotted the guy leaning on his pickup, and didn't see any trace of a gun. No problem.

Of course the jerk -- Amy called him Joe -- had confronted Cyr after he'd escorted Amy out of the bar, pulled her to him and kissed her. Seriously kissed her.

The encounter with Joe was brief. Decisive. When Cyr baited him by telling him to scram, that Amy was with him now, Joe lost it. He was musclebound, slow, and drunk, and when he charged like an enraged bull, Cyr had deftly stepped aside, swept his feet, and put him facedown on the pavement none too gently.