Every Last Dollar #2
The space is partitioned off by dark drapes. It’s intimate without being hidden. Plush seating. A small, raised platform. Ambient light low enough to feel exclusive.
And behind the bar inside the section—
My Z Baby.
Her long, bouncy curls spill over her shoulders in soft waves.
She’s wearing a fitted black uniform that hugs her waist and hips—structured and intentional.
The neckline dips just enough to be suggestive without being vulgar.
My eyes move to the stockings I can wait to rip.
Then the garter I can't wait to have stuffed in my mouth along with her panties.
Control. I want them to take it from me.
She looks up.
Her eyes drag slowly over me. Her gaze moves from my loafers to my suit to my gold canines.
“Well,” she murmurs, voice low and amused. “You clean up dangerously sexy.”
I lean against the bar, relaxed. “You look like lust with a liquor license.”
She smirks, stepping closer. “What are you drinking tonight, Professor?”
“Whatever you recommend, Z baby.”
Her breath hitches at the nickname. Her fingers glide over bottles with practiced precision. “You trying to behave?”
“No.”
She pours deliberately slow—maintaining eye contact.
“You nervous?” she asks quietly.
“About what?”
“Seeing her dance.”
I consider that.
“I’m curious and aroused that the thought,” I answer honestly. “But never nervous.”
Her lips twitch.
“You look good in here,” she adds, softer now. “Like you belong.”
I meet her gaze. “I belong wherever my women are.”
The air between us shifts.
Heat. Recognition.
She slides the glass toward me. “When you say things like that on purpose—be prepared to follow through.”
Her gorgeous neck is exposed. Perfect for the taking. I grab her throat gently and pull her to me. “I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” I murmur as I kiss her lips.
Before she can respond, the lights dim further. Music begins to pulse through the room, low and hypnotic.
Zaria straightens. Her professional mask sliding back into place.
“She’s first up,” she says.
I take my seat with my glass in hand. My heart is steady but alert.
Somewhere behind the curtain Lena is preparing to step into a version of herself I’ve only imagined.
Tonight I meet Soleil.
The way Zaria’s fingers linger against the bar and her eyes flick between me and the stage. I’m not the only one anticipating what’s about to unfold.
The room shifts before she even appears.
The lights dim deeper into a thick and saturated violet hue. A hum of eagerness runs through the crowd. Anticipation tightens the air.
As I take another sip of my drink, she steps out.
Soleil.
I forget how to breathe for a moment.
The Swarovski crystal two-piece bikini catches the light like it was cut from stars.
Every movement fractures the glow into a thousand tiny sparkles across her body.
The crystal Louboutin Cassia platform ballerina pumps make her legs look impossibly long and made for wrapping around my ears.
Her skin shimmers like it’s been brushed in liquid gold.
High glamour makeup sharpens her features.
Though it’s nothing compared to the confidence in her eyes. It undoes me.
The opening notes of Arch & Point roll through the speakers.
She doesn’t rush. When the song says, “Baby arch your back and point your toes.” She does just that on the floor. Seated at the base of the pole like she was poured there. One hand curls around the metal—slow and deliberate. The other traces the line of her thigh—not for the audience—for herself.
Her spine rises one vertebrae at a time.
Controlled by a body roll that moves like she’s trying to unravel my sanity.
Chest first. Then stomach. Then hips. The arch of her back is obscene in its precision.
You can see her technical training in the routine.
She doesn’t move sloppy. Her movements aren’t rushed.
Deliberate is the word that comes to mind. She knows that I’m salivating as I watch her. She knows precum is oozing out the tip of my dick watching her control every person in the room.
Her head tips back exposing a throat I plan to bruise with pleasure. Her lips part in a breath she refuses to fully give.
The pole is not just a support. It’s her partner.
She presses her hips forward until her back is deeply and unapologetically arched.
Her shoulders open as her fingers grip the pole like she owns it.
The crystal stones scatter violet light with every subtle shift.
She ascends the pole slowly. Thighs hugging it with just the right pressure.
Arms flexing with quiet strength. In this moment she’s the definition of prowess and power.
Suspended above the room as she extends one leg into a perfect line with her toes pointed like she’s still in pointe shoes. This routine is showing that ballet never left her bones. The other anchors her. She holds there—all curve and tension—daring the room to look away.
No one does.
She transitions seamlessly when Pussy Is Mine slides into the sound system. The tone changes. The heat deepens.
Her descent is slower than the climb. Filled with teasing. Controlled.
When she graces the floor, the routine shifts.
Her movements become closer. More intimate. Hips rolling low and deliberate. Hands tracing the planes of her body as if mapping it for herself before allowing anyone else to witness it.
Then she’s crawling toward me. Every movement fluid and measured. Eyes locked on mine. I don’t move. I can’t.
Her hands ease up my body. Paying close attention to the rigidity in my slacks.
The gentility of her hand brushing along my shaft makes my body quiver.
Before I can grasp what’s happening—she’s straddling my lap—grinding directly on my hard dick.
I’m so close to fucking her in front of all these horny motherfuckers and she don’t even know it.
Her hand guides mine to the seat of her bikini bottom.
The hook comes through the speakers, and I sing it directly to her. “Tell me that the pussy is mine, yeah.”
I move them to side as I run my fingers through her wet and a sticky pussy lips.
She bites her bottom lip at the sensational pleasure coursing through her body.
Before her body causes her to fully breaks character—she eases out my lap.
The scent of her perfume cuts through the club air.
The crystals brush against my suit jacket, cool against the linen.
As a final act of ownership, she takes my sticky fingers covered in her essence and sucks them clean.
The hunger in her eyes pulls me to the edge of need. Her dominance leaves me there.
I pull hundreds from the inside the pocket of my jacket and let them rain all over her beautiful ass. In this moment the crowd fades and it’s only the three of us.
She leans forward, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You and Zaria belong to me tonight,” she whispers softly. “Don’t leave without me.”
With that declaration she kisses my lips softly. My jaw tightens. My pulse spikes. She pulls back with a smirk. She finishes her routine with a final arch that leaves the room roaring. I’m still seated when she leaves the stage. My is blood pumping steady and hot.
I feel Zaria is behind me before I feel her hands slide over my shoulders and down my chest. Her touch is deliberate and unhurried.
“Soleil’s trance,” she murmurs against my ear, “is truly a sight to behold.”
I chuckle, still feeling Lena’s heat.
Zaria’s palms roam briefly with confidence and just enough to stoke what’s already burning.
“I’ll meet you at Lena’s,” she says quietly as she kisses my neck.
I nod once and my dick jumps in acknowledgment as well.
When the staff returns with my locked phone and the check is brought discreetly, I add five thousand to the tip without hesitation.
Not for show—but because I’m that nigga. I’ll spend every dollar when it comes my women.
I step back into the night air. The violet light still lingering behind my eyes. Anticipation has me tightly wrapped in its grasp because I know the evening is far from over.