Chapter 8 Nik
NIK
My staff knows better than to call me ‘Boss.’
And they sure as hell know not to act like I own the place when I’m in it.
Conor won’t figure out my double life. Even if he did sniff something off, he’d never piece it together that this club is just one link in the chain of businesses I run off-ice.
He’s too clean-cut for that.
He pays his taxes. Calls his mom every Sunday. Coaches kids’ hockey in the off-season.
Sure, he likes his women, but he’s the type who thinks the mafia ended in the ‘80s or only exists in mob movies.
“Wow,” he says now, looking around the club like he’s just walked into a cathedral. His awe is genuine, his voice low and reverent. “This place is really nice. Clean, you know? I’ve been to some titty bars before, but none of them were like this. You said you know the owner?”
“Very well,” I say drily.
He nods, impressed. “Well, whoever he is, he runs a tight ship.”
I glance around, “He takes pride in it. The dancers are well-paid and well-protected. They’re clean. Talented. Beautiful.”
“I can see that,” Conor mutters, eyes wide as he takes in Sphinx, one of our most celebrated public dancers.
Sphinx is a trained, professional dancer. She toured with a major contemporary company for years before returning to the city to care for her aging mother. She doesn’t want the private work, but she finds empowerment in dancing on the main stage.
We toss back a drink.
Just as Conor’s starting to settle into the scene, I shift to stand. He blinks. “Wait, where are you going?”
Dominic answers for me, casual and amused. “He has a private dancer.”
“Oh,” Conor breathes. “Well, fuck.”
I nod and head to the east wing of the private rooms.
Mine is always reserved, untouched by anyone else.
The moment I step inside, the familiar chill settles over me. It’s instant relaxation as I remove my belt and shoes, sit in the velvet chair, and pull on the custom mask that fully shields my vision and identity.
And then I wait.
For her.
Seconds drag into minutes.
Minutes into like forever.
I become annoyed and restless, but more than that, I am distressed and anxious.
What if she doesn’t come back?
What if she really was just a silly, impulsive girl, dared to do something reckless and thrilling, never intending to return?
I grit my teeth so hard that they might break. Patience is not one of my finest characteristics, and I am angry enough to break something.
But then a soft, hesitant knock at the door.
A turn of the knob. A quiet click as the door closes again.
I don’t move. I hold my breath.
My first instinct is doubt.
They must’ve sent Sarah again. Ana didn’t show. They went for the fallback. And Sarah is who I don’t want right now.
But my anxiety lightens when I smell her perfume, that soft, sweet scent that calms me.
The tension in my shoulders releases. My stomach unknots. My pulse, which had been hammering, falls into rhythm again.
She says, “Hello,” and her voice trembles a bit.
The session begins, doors bolted, music playing.
And then there she is. Dancing.
“I’m glad you came back,” I say. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I…wasn’t sure either,” she says. Then adds, “Thank you for the invitation.”
My mouth quirks at one side.
Ana moves with more confidence tonight. Her rhythm is smoother. Her touch is less hesitant. Her fingers find my chest, my shoulders, then my thighs. I feel the heat of her skin even through my clothes.
When she turns, her long hair brushes against me, and I clench the arms of the chair.
It takes a hell of a lot of control not to wrap it around my fists, to pull, to tilt her head back and find the place on her neck where her pulse pounds.
I want to touch her so badly.
My fingers twitch against my thighs. I try to keep the ache from turning me into a lust-driven madman. My cock strains painfully against the inside of my dress pants.
I can’t take it anymore.
“May I touch you tonight, Ana?” I ask, my voice low, frayed with desire. “I want to touch you.”
“What would you do if I said yes?” she asks.
I find myself grinning. I like this game.
“Well,” I say. “First, I would free your lovely breasts. I would touch the soft skin there. I would let the cool air harden your nipples, and then I would roll them between my fingertips. Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”
I have no idea what she looks like, but I have a strong image of a young woman biting her lip, perhaps touching her own breasts, ever so lightly, imagining the touch of a man there. My cock hardens even more at this thought.
“Does it matter what I enjoy?” she asks after a few heartbeats of contemplation. “Aren’t I here to turn you on?”
“In a way, yes,” I say. “But touching you would turn me on. Very much.”
“Keep going,” she says, still dancing, her ass dipping to graze against my lap, where my cock is dying for attention. “What else would you do?”
“I would dip a finger, just one, between your slick folds. And I know they’d be wet because you left traces all over me last time.
I would press just the tip of a finger inside, just enough to make you mad with desire.
I’d make you beg for me to slip that finger inside, then two.
A third would stretch you wide, perhaps to the point of pain.
The heel of my palm would press against your clit.
In and out. In and out. Painstaking. Slow.
And you would pant for me. You would press against me.
You would beg for it. Harder, faster. But I would make you wait.
I would make you crazy with lust, and my hand would be soaked, and only when you were mindless, crying with the need to come, would I pick up the pace. ”
“Oh,” she breathes. I think it’s supposed to be a question, an urging to say more, but it comes out only as an aroused single syllable.
“Not this time,” I continue, “But next time, I might turn you over my knee. I might redden your round ass with my palm. I might spread your cheeks and touch that part of you that is so intimately private you blush just talking about it. And I might finger you there. Gently, at first. Then harder. And then, while one hand plays with your perfect ass, the other might find that hungry pussy once more. And I’ll fill you both while you come for me. ”
She’s stopped dancing, her breathing shallow, her hands on my chest.
“Yes,” is all she seems able to manage.
That is all I need. I put my hands on her back, pull at the thin straps of fabric to free her luscious breasts. And yes, they are luscious. Firm and round, heavy, with peaked nipples and soft skin. She arches into my touch as I feel them, worship them.
“Do you want me to kiss these?” I ask.
“Yes.” That breathy hiss again.
“Ask for it,” I say. “Beg.”
She stills for a moment. I assume she’s deciding her limits. Usually, I negotiate these things in advance with dancers, but since Ana is not a dancer, she may not yet be aware of her limits.
“Pick a color,” I instruct.
“A…color?”
“Pick one. It does not matter which.”
“Um. Blue?”
“Blue is your safe word, Ana,” I say. “It is a hard stop, no matter what. Ponimat?”
“Pony-what?” She asks.
I chuckle, thumbs rubbing gently against her nipples. “It means, understand?”
“Oh,” she says on a breath. “I understand. Yes. Blue means stop.”
“Now, ask me to do what you want.”
She shudders, her back arching. “Kiss them. Please.”
“Oh, babochka,” I say, clicking my tongue. “You can do better for me. You will do better.”
She doesn’t. Not yet. But she wants my tongue on those perfect, pert nipples, so I oblige. Her audible gasps are enough to drive me mad.
“Touch me,” she says. It’s quiet. I almost don’t hear it over the music.
“Touch you…”
“Please,” she says, this time with a frantic note in her voice.
“Turn around.”
She does, and I pull her to my lap, one hand on her belly, one pushing her legs wide.
I reach up beneath her skirt, finding her pussy bare and wet.
I find those folds and, as promised, tip one finger at her entrance while my thumb plays at her clit.
She moans, pushing her hips toward my hand.
I laugh, but give her what she desires. One finger, then two.
Slow. Painfully slow. Three fingers and she stretches, but not like she would with my cock inside of her.
It’s a delicious thought, but I restrain myself. Restrain my desires, focusing only on her small noises, only on the smell of her perfume and her arousal, only on the way her body tenses, the way her pussy clenches around my fingers.
“You like it when I touch you like this, don’t you?”
She responds with a moan and rides the wave, hungry, until she finally shudders, spent.
Ana sags against me, boneless, and I pull her into my lap, stroking her back as she gathers herself. After a long while, she asks, “Do you expect me to return the favor?”
I chuckle. It’s so obvious that she has little experience pleasing men.
Certainly, she has no experience in a place like this.
And it makes me happy, happy that she is unspoiled, that I am free to mold her to be whatever I need her to be.
It will be my pleasure to teach her to feel pleasure, to give pleasure.
“You are a rookie,” I say, smiling into her hair. “I feel confident in saying that you lack the experience to please a man like me fully. I have dark desires, Ana, and you are a light.”
“Teach me, then,” she says quietly. “I want to—”
The chime goes off.
I growl, frustrated that we don’t have more time, as Ana finds her feet.
She says ‘thank you,’ just like she did last time, and when the door unbolts, she is right there to open it, to slip away, out into a world where we will be strangers.
I am left behind, cock bulging in my pants, with only the scent of her on my fingers to prove she was even real.