Watch Me

Zoë

ZO?

THREE OF THE men at the table watch me approach, their eyes tracking me with an avid hunger, but the man closest to me doesn’t even turn around.

“This is my friend Mata Hari,” Rachel says as I arrive, in the specific silky voice she uses as “Jazmyn” when we’re working. She runs a hand along the back of my shoulders, the sharp acrylic tips of her nails scratching pleasantly across my skin. She’s like a small pet, speaking in purrs and wielding little talons. When I put an arm around her soft shoulders, a good two or three inches below my own, her glossy black hair feels like fur against my inner arm.

I’m glad she’s stopped rolling her eyes when she uses my stage name, like pretty much everyone else who works here. “It’s not sexy,” says the manager, Big Rob, at least once a week. “Why not Amber? Or Savannah?”

“Mata Hari is a renowned seductress!” I usually say, and he rolls his eyes.

But the men at the table just smile back—the empty, bland smiles of men who aren’t really listening. They don’t care what my name is. They didn’t come here to learn about me. They came for a feeling. A fantasy.

And I don’t mind that at all. It’s why I love stripping. Because being the fantasy turns me on, too.

“Hi.”

I smile in a way that I hope is both sweet and sexy, tilting my head and feeling the smooth curtain of my hair sweep over one shoulder as I do so. I straightened my naturally wavy hair and added a weave tonight, and I’m enjoying the way it feels—heavy and sinuous as it swings across my back and over Rachel’s hand.

“Hi,” replies the auburn-haired man at the far end of the table with a wide, confident smile. The two men on either side of him smile too and nod. The fourth man, the one with his back to me, finally turns his head and gives me an appraising look. He doesn’t say hi, or smile, but his face isn’t unfriendly. He just seems quiet. Serious.

He’s also staggeringly attractive. Dark, almost black hair, with salt and pepper starting at the temples. A carved face, like it’s been sculpted from marble, and deep mahogany eyes.

In fact, all four of these men are good-looking, and they look like they have money, too. Suit jackets are slung on the backs of the chairs and the handsome, dark one has a large, expensive-looking watch that draws my eyes down to where his massive hands are resting on the table.

We like this demographic. They have money to spend and are usually more respectful than the rowdy, younger guys.

“It’s Nick’s birthday,” Rachel-as-Jazmyn tells me, smiling between me and the dark-haired man, “and he’d like a lap dance from you.”

I’ve only been giving lap dances for a couple of months, and Nick is something I haven’t encountered yet—a genuinely hot man I actually feel a nervous tremor about being close to.

For the most part, the clients are men I’d never choose for myself. They can be unattractive or just unappealing—or very drunk. But stripping is a job, and the job is to sell the illusion of seduction. I learned quickly how to compartmentalize my feelings and act the part.

But this man is a test of my professionalism. “I’d love that,” I say—sincerely, for once—and place a hand on his shoulder. It feels like a granite boulder.

“Great.” The auburn-haired man waves his hands upward to urge his friend to his feet. “Go on then, Nicky.”

Nick stands and shoots the redhead a frown. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man a lot of people call Nicky.

The other man laughs jovially and reaches across the table, thrusting a short stack of twenty-dollar bills in my direction. Ten, I count quickly. This job has given me an almost supernatural ability to discern the value of cash at a distance.

“Take good care of him,” he says with a wink, and I smile as I take the cash from his hand.

“I will.”

Surreptitiously, I peel one bill off the top and slip it to Rachel, a courtesy for calling me over, and then lead Nick towards the VIP area at the back of the club.

There are six booths with heavy curtains that close for privacy. I sashay to an empty one, my platform heels forcing me to sway from side to side as I walk, and indicate the padded bench as I stash my money bag underneath it.

Nick sits and leans back, long legs stretching across the entire length of the booth. His crisp, white dress shirt lays flat against a muscled stomach, two buttons open at the collar. He doesn’t smile nervously, like some customers do. He doesn’t laugh or try to make small talk. He’s composed and confident, and it’s a little bit intimidating. Usually, the clients are the ones trying to impress me .

When I’m on stage, it doesn’t matter to me if the men watching are attractive or not. It’s the act of being seen that I like. The freedom of moving my body purely in a way that feels good, with no thought to shame. But lap dances are different. There’s an intimacy to them that brings out people’s inner feelings. Often it’s nerves, but Nick doesn’t seem to have any. He’s a cool customer.

“Happy birthday, birthday boy,” I say in a low murmur.

I step over the long bridge of his legs to lower myself onto his lap until we’re face to face.

This job has changed my physical boundaries in a lot of ways, getting me used to being close to strangers—to touching and being touched by them—but feeling his hard thighs under mine and smelling the warm, soapy smell that emanates from his chest area makes my cheeks warm in a way that isn’t typical for the VIP booth.

He smells fucking good.

I brace his legs with my hands, the muscles so hard it’s like gripping steel bars, and roll my hips slightly so that the fabric of his pants skims my inner thighs. When I lift hooded eyes to him, the look he’s giving me back triggers an electrical pulse in my rib cage. It’s not the glazed look I’m oh-so-familiar with—the distant look of booze and lust that the men in here normally have. It’s sharp, present, and so frank I have to blink away so I don’t forget what I’m doing.

I take in the grey at his temples instead, and the slight lines around his eyes. He’s definitely much older than I am, but there’s something so sexy about him. It’s more than the chiseled lines of his bone structure and the obvious power of his physique. It’s the intensity below the surface. The heat in his eyes belying his cool exterior. There’s no doubt about it, he’s fucking hot. And being this close to him is making my blood thrum in my veins in a way it’s not supposed to.

This is exactly why Tate doesn’t want me to do this, I think guiltily, taking a deep breath to clear my thoughts. I need to compartmentalize my feelings and be purely professional. I need to be a good girlfriend.

So I shake back my extra-heavy mane of hair and try to snap out of it while I give the lap dance preamble.

“I’m going to take my top off, and you can touch me from the waist up. No touching from the waist down. And is it okay for me to touch you on your chest, arms, and shoulders? And your legs, here?” I give his hard thighs a squeeze and don’t even make a dent.

“Yes,” he says.

It’s the first word I’ve heard him speak, and his voice is deep and rich.

Of course.

I take another breath and close my eyes for a moment to get grounded, listening to the music and getting a feel for the beat—my pre-dance ritual.

This would seem silly to the other girls. I can imagine Rachel saying to me in that teasing way she has, “You know this isn’t actually dancing , right?” But I am a dancer, and this is a dance, in the purest sense of the word. My body is the vessel that will communicate desire between us. It’s my responsibility to provide a good experience, and I take that seriously.

Steadied, I exhale and roll my hips, the music starting to pulse through me, just like the rhythm of his chest, rising and falling. There’s an indefinable harmony when everything syncs together, the music, the client, and me, and the energy becomes fluid and smooth. That’s the dance.

I bend down and slide the front of my body up the front of his and then rest my knees on either side of him. I close my thighs around his hips until I can feel his belt buckle against my clit.

The obscenity of revealing myself to strangers and turning them on is one of my core kinks. Even if the client isn’t a certified DILF, it’s not unusual for me to get a little hot while I’m giving a lap dance, but I’ve never experienced it like this. Nick is handsome, he has sex appeal, and his smell is making my pheromones sing. He’s rippling with a raw strength that makes me want to rip off his shirt and trace each muscle. When I roll my hips again, I brush my pussy across the top of his legs, sending my nerve endings snapping, which I shouldn’t do—I know I shouldn’t do—but it buzzes me with an intoxicating heat that is too gratifying to resist.

“You were incredible on stage,” he says, low and deep, as I arch my back to lift my breasts and simulate riding his lap, allowing myself the lightest of contact. “Quite… performative. You’re a trained dancer.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and I nod. “Ballet.”

Five months ago, I moved to the city to train with the Regency Ballet School, and eventually audition for their company—a dream of my mother’s I hope to achieve in her memory. Like her, dance is my first love, although confining myself to the rules of ballet has always been a challenge for me. I prefer a freer, more interpretive style of dance, something I’ve surprisingly found an outlet for at the Paradise Lounge. I know my sets are different from the other girls’, and some of them make fun of me for it, but I’m proud of my performances. Big Rob tells me I’m the biggest draw at the club. So I ignore the haters and do my own thing.

Discovering how much I liked stripping has empowered me in all kinds of ways, from unleashing my creative expression to teaching me that I am an exhibitionist by nature. Exposing myself is a delicious, thrilling pleasure, and doing it now, on the lap of a forty-something, professionally-dressed, dirty-daddy type, feels even naughtier for being that much more desirable.

I’ve already been topless on stage, in front of Nick and all of his friends, but reaching back to remove my bra now, in the close space between us, is more private, more carnal, and more arousing. My nipples pebble as I unhook the band and feel it loosen around my ribcage, but Nick stops me before I go any further.

“Slowly,” he commands, deep and authoritative, and I freeze in obedience.

I have a weakness for men who take control.

My boyfriend, Tate, is confident and brash. He’s trying to make a career as a video game streamer, playing violent characters online and winning fans through his charisma. But in the bedroom, he’s a passive participant at best. It’s a good thing I’m already kneeling on the bench, because Nick’s tone of voice makes my knees weak.

I slowly finish unclipping my bra and then hold the cups in place with my hands. I tilt my chin and give Nick a small smile as I squeeze my breasts together with the bra and then release, fondling myself through the lacy material.

I know my breasts are one of my best features, although I didn’t always think so. Since puberty, I’ve been told they’re too large for ballet. I envied the girls in my classes with their small, flat boobs and muscular chests. But at the Paradise Lounge, they’ve earned me accolades. The girls, management, and staff comment on them almost daily—alternately with envy or praise. Rachel jokes that my stripper name should be “Perfect Ten.”

Nick certainly doesn’t seem disappointed, watching as I rub my hands over my nipples and making a low noise in his throat before growling, “That’s good, Mata Hari. That’s good.”

For the very first time in all the months I’ve worked here, hearing my stage name said like this and how awkwardly it interrupts the sexy energy between us, I realize how silly it sounds and give a little giggle.

“Does it feel ridiculous calling me that?” I ask, dropping my mask of seduction.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation, and then rewards me with a full, beaming grin, the first one he’s given me yet, his eyes dancing with humor.

The smile transforms his face from stern to approachable, and it changes everything between us. For a moment, the veil lifts—he’s just himself, and I’m just me: instead of Mata Hari . I grin back unselfconsciously, and the smiling between us feels far more intimate than any lap dance.

“Mata Hari was a renowned seductress,” I say, biting back a laugh at myself as I repeat the same thing I say to Big Rob every time he brings it up. It suddenly does seem very silly.

“I know who Mata Hari was.”

“All the girls here have the same kind of name. I wanted something with… gravitas.”

“Gravitas?”

This time, he throws his head back and laughs, and it’s the most intoxicating sound I’ve ever heard. His whole body vibrates with it.

I have the absurd urge to hug him—to bury my nose in his neck, press my body against his, and breathe in his smell.

“This is the last place on Earth I expected to hear a word like gravitas. ” He narrows his eyes at me like he’s trying to figure me out, and the crinkles around them look sexy as hell. “How about Salomé? She was a ‘renowned seductress’ as well. And a dancer.”

I almost drop my bra in surprise. “That’s actually a great suggestion! Salomé. That’s biblical, right?”

“Mm-hm.” He presses his lips together to contain his smile, but his eyes still twinkle at me. We’re sharing a moment so unlike any moment I’ve ever had with a client before—a real moment, genuine and so close that I wonder what it would be like to just lean forward and spontaneously kiss him.

Instead, I just grin stupidly at him until he breaks eye contact first, dropping his eyes to my arm, where he lightly lifts my loose bra strap and says, “Now, where were we?”

Ah yes.

My job.

Mentally, I shake my head to get back into character, to drop the veil back down between us again and become… well, Salomé , this time. I squeeze my breasts together, let the bra drop into my palms, and then slowly pull it away.

“Good.” He exhales and stares at my body, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Since I started giving lap dances, a lot of hands have been on me, but very few of them have been welcome. They’re just part of the job, part of offering my body up for money. But tonight, I want Nick’s hands on me. I’m craving his touch. I slip my fingers into his and slide his palms up my body until they’re cupping my breasts, his warmth pulling blood to the surface of my skin, giving me goosebumps.

His dark eyes are black with heat when he lifts them to mine. Such beautiful dark eyes— just like Tate’s, I try not to think. They may kind of look like Tate’s, but Tate has never looked at me this way.

“How does it feel,” he asks me, “when you’re on stage, knowing that all the eyes in the room are on you?”

“Oh, I don’t mind it at all,” I answer truthfully, circling my hips and pushing my breasts against his hands. “I’ve been performing for years.”

“I mean, how does it feel to have all those eyes on you when you’re naked? Men looking at your breasts, your pussy. How does it feel to perform for a room full of men who want to fuck you?”

His eyes search mine, looking for my reaction. But if he’s trying to shock me, he’s got the wrong girl. I know exactly what stripping is, and I know exactly why I do it.

“I like it. It turns me on to expose myself.”

Maybe I thought I would shock him back. But it’s clear he likes my answer because his lips curl at the corners, and his black eyes flash at me with even more interest.

“Why does it turn you on?” he asks. “Articulate it.”

“Articulate it?” I tease, lifting an eyebrow. “Is this a college class? Perverts 101?”

He indulges me with a smile but insists. “Tell me.”

It’s his dance, his time. If he wants to hear me expound on my inclinations as an exhibitionist, that’s his choice. So I search myself, as I have a hundred times in my life, for the reasons I want to be watched and give him a thoughtful answer.

“It’s about vulnerability, I guess.” I suppress a shiver as he brushes his thumbs against my nipples. “And power. Being naked in a room full of clothed people makes me vulnerable, but it also makes me feel more alive. More real. This, conversely, gives me power. If the men in the room, as you say, want me, then I have power over them. I have power because I have what they want—I am what they want.”

Even just talking about it turns me on. Some of my kinkiest fantasies involve being the only naked person in the room—something similar to what I experience at work, only this time I’m available for everyone to use… and use, and use, and use…

As if he can read my filthy thoughts, Nick’s eyes burn so hard with interest, it’s like watching kindling take fire.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “That’s good.”

I swivel my hips again, and this time I brush against a hard ridge in his crotch.

He’s hard.

Heat flames through me at the realization.

Erections certainly aren’t uncommon in the VIP booth, and usually, I politely skirt them, avoiding contact to keep it from getting uncomfortable. But this time, I tease my crotch over the bulge in his pants again, unable to resist how good it feels—how the thought of his cock getting hard for me makes my insides ache pleasurably. Strangers’ hands touching me and strangers getting hard as they imagine fucking me is the stuff my arousal is made of. I rub my breasts against his hands and grind shamelessly on the hard bulge in his pants.

I’m getting hot, foggy-headed, distracted—fixated on the throbbing ache that’s building inside of me until the music is drowned out by the pounding of my blood in my ears. With my palms flat against the wall behind him, I lean forward and draw the warm, clean smell of him in, undulating my body like a wave until, this time, the ache inside of me seizes up tight, and I gasp.

I’m on the verge of coming.

I’ve gone too far.

I straighten up and take a sharp breath, missing the warmth of his hands as they slip down my sides, and stand to put some distance between us. I need to get a grip. I turn around and bend over, lifting my ass so he can see the thin strip of fabric covering my pussy, but there’s no touching between us.

Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts.

He runs his hands up the backs of my thighs, and it feels like sparks are rippling out from his fingertips and traveling over my whole body.

We’re not really supposed to remove our bottoms in the club, although some girls do. But some girls turn tricks in the VIP booth, too. As long as it’s just for show, I don’t think it’s so bad to tug my thong down over my hips, showing this most private part of myself to a stranger and knowing he’ll see how wet I am. How aroused.

I want to be a good girlfriend to Tate, I do. I tell him that stripping is just a job, that certain lines never get crossed, and that he has nothing to worry about. But the truth is, there is something in me that Tate can never fulfill. Something shameful, something dirty. I would never want him to know how hot and breathless I can get in a small booth with a strange man. How my darkest fantasies involve this and so much more—men taking me for their pleasure, one after the other, using me as a vessel and an object. Being watched. Being exposed. Being seen.

But they’re thoughts and nothing more. Nobody needs to know about the dirty things I dream of doing in private. I am a good girlfriend to Tate, and there are lines that never get crossed. This is just a moment, a fantasy… a job. I would never betray his trust. And showing myself isn’t the same as being touched.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“That is a beautiful fucking pussy,” says Nick, in such a raw voice that a fire spontaneously combusts in my belly. I can hear the desire in his voice, how much he wants to touch me, and even with the space I’ve put between us, I’m aching like he has his hands all over me. “You’re doing such a good fucking job turning me on, sweetheart.”

His praise undoes the little that’s left of my self-control. I push thoughts of Tate out of my mind as I sit down on his lap again, this time with my back against him, and reach for his hand. I lift it to my waist and let my pussy rub against his erection, feeling the roughness of his pants directly on the aching center of my need.

I’m going out of my head, thinking about his cock, thinking crazy things. Just losing all fucking reasoning.

This man is intoxicating me. I’m drunk off his touch and his smell, his low voice, his dark eyes. I lift his other hand to my breast and keep rubbing myself against him, making him groan.

He grinds back against me—so hard and so close to actually fucking I have to ignore the tiny warning voice in the back of my mind, the one trying to form the word Tate . I can’t pull myself out of the moment. Feeling him move against me is too good. I can’t stop.

“I loved watching you dance,” he breathes in my ear. “It changed the whole energy in the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch you. All those eyes watching you. Wanting you.”

His voice is rough, his breath hot against my shoulder, his words stoking the heat pulsing between my legs. My lips part, my breath unexpectedly catching at his words, my hips still moving with a cadence of their own.

Yes.

All those eyes watching me.

“You like being watched,” he observes.

“Yes.”

His right hand trails down to my inner thigh, holding me against him so that his erection is pressed even harder against my ass as I move.

The pressure building inside of me is unbearable and I can’t stand it any longer. I need his touch like it’s an oxygen mask, like my life depends on it. I place my hand over his and slide it up my leg until his fingers brush over my pussy, and then he starts rubbing me—small, rhythmic strokes that make my stomach clench.

“Imagine if they could see us now,” he murmurs, and just like that, a convulsive orgasm rocks through me.

I shudder, release, find my breath, and then, for a brief moment, I sag back against him, utterly transported—unaware of who I am or where I am. Just warm, heated goo melting against a hard body, breathless sensation coursing through me in gentle, shivery waves.

And then full consciousness descends upon me all at once. An avalanche of thoughts. Sudden clarity in the aftermath of my release, like an anvil falling from the ceiling.

“Fuck.”

I get off his lap, moving away from his hands so suddenly there’s no time for grace. I careen forward like a massive animal waking up from sedation. Panic slams into me.

What have I done?

“Fuck.”

I pick the pieces of my lingerie up from the floor and rescue my money purse from under the bench without looking at him, as if I can undo what happened if I move fast enough.

“Hey,” he says in a concerned voice.

But I can’t meet his eyes.

I just cheated on Tate, and that’s all I can think about.

I did exactly what he was afraid I would do—the one thing I kept telling him again and again I never would.

Stripping isn’t like prostitution .

How many times did I tell him that?

It’s just dancing. No touching.

“Hey,” says Nick again, a little louder.

“Sorry,” is all I can muster.

I slip through the curtain without looking back at him and rush past the bar, ignoring the looks as I scurry through the crowd naked, laser-focused on getting to the dressing room and away from what I’ve just done.