Potential Ch. 02

I audibly gasped. Fortunately, no one was looking at me - not Devlin, not the blond, not any of the other patrons - but as adrenaline began pumping through my body, I felt like I had the eyes of the entire bar on me.

Like I had in my dream last night.

Mentally running through some katas (it's weird, but it works - I'm a very physical person, and just picturing myself moving can be enough to calm me down) my breathing soon steadied, and I put on my apron and got ready for my shift.

Marty was nowhere to be found; I considered skipping the rest of my shift as a protest until I got paid, but I knew that I couldn't do that.

Not as long as the blond was around.

Approaching Devlin's table, I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. My eyes which never left the blond, even as I took everyone else's orders. He avoided my gaze, looking pointedly at the dancers on the stage, at the grimy floor, at the flickering light behind the bar.

After everyone else had ordered, I forced my attention away from the succubus towards Devlin, just for a moment. It wouldn't be right to ignore him.

"Hello Amanda," he said, and my heart skipped a beat. He'd never used my name before - it was always girly, sweetheart...one time he'd tried "toots", but my glare had apparently gotten through, and he'd never used that particular term of endearment again.

"I believe an apology is in order."

I froze for a second, my mind racing, trying to work out what I needed to apologize for. Had I messed up? Had I taken their orders too slowly? Or worse, had I brought him the wrong drink?

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I reminded myself that I was an excellent waitress, and that I had nothing to apologize for. Especially to a demon.

"Oh?" I said casually, trying not to reveal the sudden anxiety I was feeling.

"Last night," he said softly, and suddenly every demon at his table was acting like the blond - they all had extremely important things to look at. Anything that wasn't us.

"I can assure you," he said, clucking his tongue as he spoke, "my boy has been sufficiently...punished."

The blond's stare intensified, and he started examining the wooden table very closely.

"Nothing will ever happen like that again, not on my watch. As you can see, I've brought him back - don't take this as anything but an indication of my...control."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at the last word, but I didn't move. I couldn't move. I just kept staring at Devlin attentively, soaking up every word.

"If you ever have trouble with one of mine, bring it to my attention immediately. I don't take my patronage of this fine establishment lightly."

On any other night, I would have scoffed at his description of the seedy bar, but I just kept gazing into Devlin's eyes, enthralled. He lifted one hand, and slowly ran the back of his hand down my cheek.

Normally, I should clarify, the club has a strict "no touching" policy. But even though that guideline is occasionally broken (often by my fist and a demon's face) - more importantly, I have an even stricter "no touching, ever ever ever, especially by a demon" policy.

But Devlin's stroke didn't trigger it. I didn't flip him over and stand on his neck until he was begging for mercy - something I am more than capable of.

I just shivered.

"Do you understand, girly?" he said, a half-smile appearing below his cat-like eyes.

In response, I nodded, and with that he leaned back and the spell was suddenly broken.

"So," he said casually, "when are we going to see you up on that stage?"

"When pigs fly," I said breathily, and he laughed.

"I could make that happen."

###

For the rest of my shift, I avoided Devlin's table. I avoided all the demons in the joint. I kept an eye on the blond, but I trusted Devlin - sure, he was a demon, but he also seemed like the kind to keep his word.

I trusted him.

And sure enough, the blond didn't misbehave all night. I don't know what getting punished by a creature of Devlin's power would look like, and I hoped I'd never find out. For the rest of my shift, the blond didn't so much as catch a dancer's eye or order a drink - I was glad that Misty wasn't on tonight...although considering her experience the previous night, I would be surprised if she ever returned.

When Devlin eventually left, the blond shuffled out after him, and for the first time I noticed he was limping.

I mean, considering I literally stabbed him to death the previous night, just ending up with a limp was pretty impressive...but I suspected that the limp had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Devlin.

As the last few patrons left, I realized that I still hadn't seen Marty all night. His office door had remained firmly closed, but that didn't mean he wasn't in there - I'd once worked a 12-hour shift, and had him stagger out at the end of it, his ever-present leer sleepier than usual.

My knock went unanswered, but after I loudly informed him that I wasn't afraid to kick the door in, the lock was hastily undone and Marty appeared, sporting a sheepish look.

"Amanda!" he said, his eyes darting around, avoiding my face. "I didn't know you were on tonight."

"Pay, Marty." I growled. I was still feeling a bit light-headed, and was not in the mood for his crap.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

I sighed, and Marty gulped.

"Come on honey," he said, wincing slightly at the way my eyes narrowed at the term. "You can't just hit me up for extra cash whenever you're feeling a bit broke. Besides, wasn't Devlin in tonight? He's a generous tipper."

Devlin's tip hadn't been any larger than normal, in fact. After his little speech, I thought he might have thrown a few extra shekels my way, but - perhaps in an effort to reestablish our professional relationship - he'd tipped his usual amount, to the cent.

Not, of course, that his usual amount wasn't a hefty tip.

"Cut the crap," I said with a yawn. The spaciness that had been chasing me all day suddenly hit, and I was suddenly exhausted. "I want my money, and I want it now."

"Of course," Marty said, and pulled out a wad of bills. "Here's tonight's pay."

He counted out my usual amount, and handed it over. I stared at it for a few seconds, my brain struggling to process what was happening.

"No," I finally said, "not this money. I mean, yes, this money, but...yesterday. You were short."

"Nonsense," Marty said, his confidence seemingly starting to return. "I don't make mistakes with money, you know that."

Again, I was forced to pause and reflect on what he was saying. He was right - normally he was quite fiscally precise...but no, I'd counted the money, and he'd short-changed me.

I'd been furious. I remembered that, but for some reason, it was hard to summon up that anger again.

"Come on," I whined, stamping my foot. It wasn't exactly the image I was trying to project, but I wanted my money and I wanted to go home.

"Of course," he said, his leer back and his tongue poking out slightly as he spoke, "if you did want a bit of extra cash, there's one thing you could do..."

"What?" I said, still feeling three steps behind.

"Get up on stage one night," he said, just a moment before I'd realized where the conversation was going.

"Fuck off and die," I instinctively replied, but a sick shudder went through my body at the thought. Normally the idea was repulsive to me, but for some reasons his words felt...they felt oddly appealing.

It would be an easier way of getting some more money, which I could always use. Hell, who wouldn't? And the dream last night had made it seem so...

Sexy.

A jolt of arousal passed through my body at thought. What was going on? Did I want to be a stripper? Did I want to strip for Marty?

No. No, Marty was repulsive, and my body wasn't for the eyes of Marty...and Devlin...

And the blond.

Marty was looking at me, a strange look on his face, and I realized that I'd just been staring at him for goodness knew how long, considering the prospect of getting up on stage, revealing myself to everyone. Showing off my toned legs, my firm ass, my body that I spent so much time taking care of...

Ah, crap. I was still staring.

"Good night," I said softly, and rather than make a jibe or a snarky comment, he nodded back.

"Good night, Amanda."

###

On the way home, I picked up some food from a diner. It was well after midnight, but I convinced them to make me a breakfast meal - for some reason I was starving, and desperately craving bacon and eggs.

Marty's suggestion just kept running through my head. It definitely shouldn't have been - it was an offer that he'd been making every day for months and months now, but the dream from the previous night had gotten in my head, and the reasons not to strip suddenly felt less and less important.

The second I walked through the door, I attempted some katas to distract myself. For some reason, they didn't seem to be flowing as smoothly as they should - I knew what my body should be doing, but it just wouldn't obey my commands.

After a few minutes I threw my hands up in frustration and gave up. Katas typically had a very calming effect, but today they were achieving exactly the opposite. I stripped off, and examined myself in the mirror. I'd like to claim that my excellent physique was due to my rigorous workout program and impeccable diet, but the Potential was responsible for most of it.

And, I was forced to admit, it had done a great job. My hips were wide, my waist was thin, and my breasts were small, but sat proudly on my chest. My nipples were thin, pink and long, and my complexion was perfect - I'd never had a mole or a pimple, something I'd never really appreciated before.

But my best feature was probably my ass. My uniform at work requires a tight shirt and bright hotpants - I'd quickly replaced the shirt with a loose button-up (something Marty had been wise enough to never complain about), but the hotpants I'd kept. Largely because they ensured that the tips kept flowing, but I'm not going to lie; I enjoyed occasionally catching guys staring at my ass, even with naked women on-stage they could be checking out.

My butt is larger than you'd expect - I doubt that's anything to do with the Potential, that one's probably on me and my workout. But even though it's slightly out of proportion to the rest of me, it works - it's pert and round and yeah. In my opinion, it's a helluva fine ass.

Glancing between my legs, my mouth twisted into a frown. I liked what I saw, I guess - my privates aren't exactly something I spend hours thinking about, y'know? But the memory of how it had looked the previous night wouldn't leave my mind, and before I knew what I was doing, I'd pulled out a pair of scissors and a razor.

Twenty minutes later, my smile had returned. Bikini season aside (well, what passes for bikini season in a town without a beach) I've never really worried about what's happening with my pubic hair, but I had to admit: the bare look really suited me. I turned to the side a few times, admiring my hairless snatch and freshly-shaved legs before tiredness overtook me and I headed straight into bed.

As my head hit the pillow, one last thought hit me before I drifted into sleep.

Crap, I thought. I never ended up getting that money from Marty.

###

I was on the stage again.

This time though, everything was clearer. Sharper. It didn't feel like a dream. Well, it did if I looked closely enough - the corners of the room were blurry, the crowd was still faceless, but everything was far more detailed than the night before.

And I could see myself.

That was what made it clearest that I was still dreaming - even though I was me, I could see me, see what I looked like from the front row. Tonight, I was wearing a bikini, in the colors of the flag. My tits were covered in stars - not just on the bikini, but on my breasts as well. They overlapped, like I had been exquisitely painted. My tits were stars and my crotch was stripes.

The entire audience stood up, and I saw him again. My heart raced at the sight of him.

My master.

The thought filled me with butterflies - he was my master, my owner. He was the reason I existed, and he was certainly the reason I was on-stage. In that moment, I knew exactly who had painted me - he'd covered me with stars. Lovingly, slowly, adoringly, he'd turned me into exactly who he wanted me to be, and now I was on-stage.

Now I was on-stage for him.

The music started, and a look of panic crossed my face as I realized it was the national anthem. I couldn't dance to the anthem, could I? It was disrespectful, unpatriotic. I don't love much, but I do love America, and taking my clothes off to the Star-Spangled Banner just felt wrong.

But then he nodded, and I knew that I would.

I knew that I had to.

My duty wasn't to my country, not any more. It didn't matter - nothing mattered except my master. My duty wasn't to the USA, it was to him.

If he wanted me to strip, I would strip.

Without hesitation, I began swaying my hips back and forth, running my hands up and down my body. All other thoughts were gone, except obedience. I wanted to obey him - I needed to obey him. It was my duty, my purpose.

It was all that I was, and all that I would ever be.

###

I slept through the first alarm. And the second, and the third. (What can I say? I like to be punctual.) By noon I finally woke up, dripping wet, my hand between my legs, franticly stroking my freshly-shaven puss.

With a gasp, I leapt out of bed, and within 5 minutes I was out the door, glad that I kept a stick of deodorant in my schoolbag - I had already missed one lecture, but by skipping my shower, I could be there in time for the second.

And after the wild dreams I'd had, I needed it - I was drenched in sweat and my own juices.

I had never had much in the way of sex dreams before, or at least not ones that stuck around. But this was was...it was like it was burned into my memory. The sounds, the smells, the feel of the club. All those eyes on me, my wanton exhibitionism, the utter feeling of obedience.

As the bus approached my college, I could feel myself getting wet again.

###

I thought I'd been spacing out the day before, but that was nothing. I arrived just as the lecture was starting, and this time I knew I wasn't imagining it - every eye was on me as I entered the hall, and even the lecturer stopped speaking to watch as I blushed my way to a seat in the back. Several of the guys actually turned right around to watch me sit down, and only turned back when the professor cleared his throat and began speaking again.

I genuinely have no idea what he was talking about - I spent the first half of the lecture casually running a finger up and down my leg, enjoying the smooth, freshly-shaven feel. During winter I don't normally worry too much about the state of my leg-hair, but I was really enjoying the sensation. It was so easy to imagine that my hand was someone else's, stroking my skin, sending tingles down my spine...

As the lecture ended and I got up to leave, everyone's attention was suddenly on me again, and I felt myself going red. It was so much like the dream - so many eyes, staring hungrily, admiring my form...

Glancing down at my outfit, it suddenly struck me why I was getting so much more attention than normal. I usually wear a hoodie to school, or a drab sweater at best. In my hurry that morning, I'd grabbed some of my "party" clothes.

Honestly, I don't have much opportunity to party, but on the rare occasion I have a night off and I don't feel like catching up on sleep (or working out), I have an outfit that I'll wear out to a bar - somewhere far from Marty's, both geographically and in tone.

It's pretty nice, if a little dated. It's a small black dress - it's got a bit of a v-line, but nothing too risque, and it ends far enough above my knees that if I twirl and you're standing at the right angle, you can sometimes get a glimpse of my panties. Not that I ever twirl while I'm wearing the dress, of course.

For some bizarre reason, I'd decided to wear my party dress to school that day. The contrast to my usual outfit had attracted the eye of all the guys in class...and, I couldn't help but notice, some of the girls.

Like I said, I don't normally care much about attention (although the blood rushing to my face would suggest otherwise) but it was nice to know that even without doing my hair or makeup, my 'night out' getup still looked good.

I didn't have time to make small-talk with any of the cute men crowding around me, so I pushed through them and headed to my next lecture. I'm not really sure why I bothered - I paid even less attention to that one.

I'd thought that sitting up the back would help, but it just meant that there were so many more guys to check out. I'd run out so quickly that morning that I hadn't even had a chance to..."take care of business", and so I was still riled up from my dream the previous night.

Not to mention the attention of all those boys.

So I didn't take a single note in that lecture. I got my book out, but I found myself doodling doodles - hard, thick cocks, like the ones that surely surrounded me.

It's not something you normally think about, but it's true - every man you encounter, every dude you meet...between their legs they have a rod, a dick that grows uncontrollably hard and thick every time they're turned on. A cock that grows at the sight of a pretty young lady, as they imagine all the pleasure that she can provide them, as they imagine what she looks like in the buff, as they mentally strip away her clothes and imagine her heaving breasts, bouncing up and down as they gyrate on top of their hardness, as they lower themselves onto the guy they're into, guiding their hard cock into their wet, eager pussies...

I blinked twice as I realized how graphic my thoughts were getting. Wow. I really, really needed to get off...unfortunately, I wouldn't have a chance until I got home after work. Perhaps I'd wear my original uniform tonight, see how many more guys I could distract from the dancers on-stage. Make my nipples nice and hard, make them visible through my shirt, bend over whenever possible and draw all the guy's eyes to my butt, make them want me...make them hard...

Crap. I was doing it again. It felt like weeks since I'd last cum, and every thought was leading to sex. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd gotten laid - it had been at least a couple of years; even then, it had just been a one-night stand with a guy I'd picked up from a bar.

He'd been checking me out all night, and his eyes on my body had quickly turned into my hands on his. I'd gone back to his place, pulled out his cock, put my mouth over it and pleasured him until he came down my throat, several spurts of his thick, salty cum...

Suddenly I noticed that someone was looking at me. No, not just one guy, but several. My entire row was staring at me - five guys and two girls, a range of emotions on their faces as they stared at me. With a start, I realized that I'd started fellating my pen, running my tongue around it as I got lost in the memories of whatever-that-guy's-name-had-been.

My face burned redder than it had ever been as I realized what I'd been doing, and I hurriedly packed up my bag and fled the lecture theatre.

I needed to work off some steam, and fast.

###

I could have gone home. I had enough time before my shift to head across town, get myself off, and still be on time for work...but somehow, instinctively, I knew that once I started playing with myself I wouldn't be able to stop. I couldn't remember ever being this turned on...maybe lately I'd been neglecting my needs, ignoring my body's wants and focusing too much on work, school, working out...