Chapter 25
S CARLETT
It works.
It’s sort of like an out-of-body and deep-in-my-head experience. The lights help a lot by blocking my view of the audience.
It’s not supposed to be like that. Typically, these places encourage you to interact with customers.
I’m not doing that.
I feel very confident that my private parts are not subtly visible, yet even so, I feel icky from all the stares glued to me.
I swear this will be the last time I’m doing this.
Today and tomorrow.
That’s it.
No matter how good the money is. I get too frazzled for putting myself out there. The patrons cheer me on as I demonstrate how athletic I am.
I smile––what I think a smile is––and spin around before grabbing the pole and doing my routine.
I’m a pretty decent pole dancer, and I’ve heard that good pole dancers make north of ten thousand dollars a month in the big cities, which is way more than my teacher's salary.
Having principles is bad in this economy. It’s always been bad, it seems.
The crowd keeps cheering me on.
I’ve told you I'm good at this, and now that I'm getting the hang of it, I’m giving them my best.
Sultry squats and back extensions. Grabbing the pole and lifting myself up. Squeezing it behind my knee and slowly sliding around.
It’s a beautiful sequence that usually makes people forget about their hard dicks and appreciate the effort that goes into performing these acrobatics.
Some people applaud me. And I hope the jerk in the back office––the manager––if he’s watching––I’m sure he is–-already regrets being a knucklehead with me.
Of course, I’m getting a few requests to remove my bra. That’s not going to happen. Some girls do that. Some go out there wearing pasties. Some may take their panties off if a client is generous enough to open their wallet and make it worth it for them.
What they are doing is not what I’ve been doing. I’ve gotten away with not doing it by balancing out my lack of compliance with a nice acrobatic show.
A few more moments pass, and cash starts flowing in my direction. From ten-dollar bills to one-hundred-dollar bills.
The calls keep coming, yet I ignore them. But there’s something else I can’t ignore.
There’s this odd feeling that I’m being watched.
Of course I’m being watched. There’s an entire room full of people, mostly males, and they’re all staring at me.
But this is not that.
My brain notices something different.
The patrons out there are mostly background noise, and that’s not what's getting to me.
But this?This weird feeling?
This is what's getting to me.
It quickens my pulse and makes me aware of it as it nags at my perception. It almost makes me adjust my moves so I can peek around the room.
I struggle with that idea a lot as something inside me wrestles with that thought.
A battle ensues in my head, and as I try not to lose my balance and fall off the pole, I struggle to make sense of this.
As my performance comes to an end, I straighten and move away from the pole before prancing to the edge of the stage, which is part of my routine.
People love my moves, their loud voices hovering over the stage.
I make out a few silhouettes and the low-hanging lights, as well as a few faces without a clear identity.
Overall, I don’t spot anything unusual. Some patrons are dressed casually. Other sport more fancy clothes.
It’s a typical crowd, with their ages ranging from the late twenties to the early sixties.
I spot a couple of silver foxes.
So what’s up with feeling like I've been watched?
I’m sure any woman working in this field, or any kind of field, has felt like that at one point or another.
So I dismiss it.
Big mistake, it might be, but I won’t waste my evening trying to find suspects where there aren’t any.
As my performance truly ends, I gracefully pick up the cash, shove it into my bra, and sway my hips away from them in a wave of protests.
A few people are clumped together backstage, and the next two dancers rush to the stage as they dance together.
And then, there’s my grumpy boss.
He stares at me like I pissed in his coffee.
“Was it good?” I ask, panting, and he gives me a sour look.
“It was all right.”
It must’ve been great. Prickly characters like him never like to be proven wrong.
“Sure. It would’ve killed you…” I say, and without finishing my thought, I move past him to enter the backstage changing room.
I’m prepared for a rebuttal if he follows me inside, but luckily, I spend a few moments in peace before changing and getting ready for my next performance this evening.
EWAN
Earlier
Is this woman out of her mind? Where has she been until now?
And what the hell happened to her?
Has she been this wild woman all this time?
The woman rolling her hips on the stage?
And have I lost my touch completely?
I can’t believe I’m seeing what I’m seeing, and I want to pinch myself.
Is this the same cutie rocking a pencil skirt who made me hard between my legs?
The woman with her arms around my neck?
The one who’s locked lips with me?
The one who asked me if I was a mobster?
Who is this woman?
Different scenarios played out in my head as I walked to the lit entrance of this place a few moments ago.
I was convinced I’d find a shabby place despite the fancy appearance and some losers salivating over the girls trying to make a quick buck.
I didn’t expect to witness such a performance.
And for sure, I didn’t think this woman would hug that pole with her sculpted legs like it was an Olympic sport.
I’ll be damned.
She was soft and smelled nice when I had her in my arms. She cuddled like a kitten, not a lioness.
That smile on her face does me in.
It’s blank––any fool can see that––but I hope she’ll have it when she is on her back and I enter her slowly.
My hard-on twitches, and I do the honorable thing and adjust myself under the table.
That’s what I get for being critical about the men who touched their dicks under the tables. Now I’m one of them.
Good thing I had the inspiration to ask for a booth that is not in the line of sight of anyone dancing on the stage.
I didn’t want her to spot me.
Hell, no.
That would’ve spelled being a creep and a loser, a combo not many women are fond of.
I adjust my package, but my cock only swells before stirring again, stiff as a twig, and as I reach under the table and cup my groin, I feel the throbbing tension, and I can’t take my hand away.
My touch rests on my erection––a terrible idea––while my eyes move over her body and her face.
Her eyes.
Look at her damn eyes.
Again, where was this woman?
Had she been a stranger I saw in a bar, a restaurant, or a hotel, I would’ve had her then and there.
There is something about her.
Does the people she works with know this woman?
Of course not. And I won’t rat her out. I do questionable things myself, so who am I to judge?
Still, I wish Elisa could see Miss Scarlett.
The good teacher. Colley’s crush.
She is a good teacher. She’s also a good woman. And she’s also this.
Her lips grab my attention more than they should, and as I study them, crazy images flash in front of my eyes, and I feel their softness against me as if my fantasy is happening in real time.
And then their warmth and the lipstick smeared across my veiny hard-on, and her tongue slowly moving around the head of my erection while my blood zips through my veins.
Propped back in my seat with an untouched drink in front of me, hidden in the dark, I cup and squeeze my bulge and do the unthinkable, massaging my erection.
As bad as this is, it also feels good.
She smiles––the object of my affection––and I get more tension in my groin.
How could I mess it up so badly with her, and why did I have to overthink everything?
Once in my life, I’m trying to do the right thing, and look what it’s gotten me.
A lonely erection and the embarrassment of watching her dance for a bunch of jerks who’ve paid hard, cold cash for this.
Their hands reach inside their pockets, and cash starts flying around the stage.
She continues her routine, unimpressed.
Her legs open and close around the pole, her soft tits moving when she lifts her arms, her shorts highlighting her ass.
I can’t see a damn thing through her bra or shorts, but I imagine her nipples hard for me and her juicy clit peeking through her slit, ready to be licked.
I so much want to have my mouth on this woman right about now.
I’d do anything for that to happen except one thing.
I wouldn’t take her by force.
I’d love to do it as a play, to have her writhe beneath my frame. To allow me to be rough with her. To pull her hair, toss her down, and forcefully spread her legs. I’d do that.
Have her scratch my eyes out while I’d be laughing before entering her and filling her up until her eyes would roll back, and we’d both know the game was over.
That she is mine to pump into, consume, exhaust, and transform into my little plaything.
That she’d not make it out of my grip before getting filled with my cum and being wobbly on her feet, with bruises from my teeth around her neck like a dainty collar.
But she and I are not exactly in a fuzzy space right now. There are issues to be discussed, and her trust in me is shattered.
So, yeah, we’re not in a good place. Not to mention my stalking her.
She snuck up on me yesterday evening––of course she wasn’t there by accident; we’re two peas in a pod in that regard––but still, that doesn’t make my presence here easy to swallow.
She’d be angry if I learned her secrets. And she’d feel humiliated and throw a fit. She might want to gouge my eyes out and not because of the lustful reasons above.
All and all, it would be a disaster, and we might or might not reach a resolution after hate fucking each other.
You never know which way these things go.
Certainly, they wouldn’t be the ideal layout for a great relationship or building a future together.
It’s funny that I’m still considering that under the current circumstances. ‘The woman of my dreams’ does a split in the air for all the men in the room to see, and I can’t even tell her that I’m here.
But that will change.
Just watch me put an end to all this, toss her over my shoulder like a caveman, and ride with her into the sunset.
For now, I look after my erection, squeezing it gently, indulging in that dribble of pleasure, imagining myself on top of her, ravishing her, and never letting her out of my sight… again.
When the tension becomes unbearable and the pull almost too hard to fight, I remove my hand from my bulge and drink water instead of hard liquor.
This will end tonight.
One way or another.
With this thought in mind, I rise to my feet and head to the bar, where I ask for whoever is running the establishment.