Chapter 2
Private Show
Jonah
Ilove private shows. As extroverted as I am, I love the change in energy going from the big stage to an intimate setting. Sometimes they don’t even want me to dance; they just want to talk. I think there’s something about my energy that’s comforting to people.
I’m lounging on the leather tufted couch, when a redheaded woman stumbles into the room as if pushed, and stands there in a pose that is the opposite of comfortable.
She’s wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck dress that goes to her knees and a pair of heels.
I’m five feet away, but even in the low light I can make out a waterfall of freckles down her bare shoulders to her hands.
Her back and shapely bottom are facing me as she takes a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I hate my sister,” she says to the closed door.
“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be.”
“No, I do.”
She still seems tense. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
She doesn’t answer or move right away as the low beat of sexy club music passes between us. “I’m going to turn around, and you will not say anything. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a shuddering breath, she carefully turns on the ball of her foot, and my mind races when her stunning freckled face and piercing green eyes light up my memory.
“Professor Wilde!” I beam.
She lurches forward with a warning glare and finger pointed at me. “Shh! Don’t say another word.”
Oh my God—it’s my former biology professor, who I’ve had locked up in my spank bank since my first senior year. I took her nature study class as a required cultural enrichment course and failed it, but man, she’s the only reason I kept going back to class. Or signed up at all.
She’s a bombshell.
Wait, isn’t she married?
“But—”
She slaps her hand over my mouth. “No. You’re going to dance for me, and you will not say a word. I’m going to leave here, and we’re both going to act like this never happened. Nod if you agree to these terms.”
I nod, and my dick swells. There’s something so sexy about her taking charge like this.
In all my fantasies about her, I was always the one taking control, bending her over her desk or pushing her up against a bookshelf.
At school she was always soft-spoken and mild-mannered, unless she was actively denying my advances.
What started out as flirtatious remarks to gain favor and better grades, turned into frequent takeovers of my mind while rubbing one out.
But that mild-mannered woman is nowhere to be found. There’s a dominating powerhouse standing above me with her fingers ever so slightly digging into my jawline, and I’m confused but certainly turned on by this change in pace.
There’s definitely a wet spot on my sweatpants now.
I’m not going to question this. I want this.
I stand slowly and keep my eyes trained on her. She’s a petite woman, and I tower over her, but the fire in her gaze tells me she’s in total control. She takes my spot on the couch and reaches into her dress to pull out a stack of cash from her bra.
As hot as that is, I hold up a hand. “No charge.”
She furrows her brow. “Why not?”
Kim said I had twenty minutes, and I intend to make every second count. There’s a bouncer stationed just outside the room for the safety of the dancers and patrons. If Professor Wilde had wanted to, she would have stepped out the second she recognized me—but she didn’t.
“Did you request me specifically?” I ask.
Her throat works, and I’d bet anything if it wasn’t so dark in here I could see blush spread across her face. But her face is locked tight. “Yes.”
She knew who she was getting. She requested me, her former student.
The corner of my mouth quirks. “I’m not charging you for something I want, too.”
Her only reply is a sharp inhale1.
My cock strains against my G-string as I tap the remote mounted on the wall for a new song to start. With a salacious smile I couldn’t wipe away if I tried, I saunter back and relish the way she drinks in my body—landing on the tent I’ve created in my pants.
Normally, I have a fairly standard routine for these private shows, but I can’t remember how it goes now. Her full attention is all I want.
When I’m close enough, I prop a knee on the cushion next to her thigh and grab the back of the couch. I’ve never been close enough to smell her, because surely I would have remembered this lavender and vanilla scent.
I roll my hips against her chest and then duck down to run my face against the side of hers.
Even with the music pumping, I can hear her heavy breathing.
I grab her hands, place them on my ass, and grind against her.
Normally it costs extra for people to touch me, but even without accepting a dime from her, I feel rich being under her touch.
Firm, curious hands slide down my thighs and squeeze.
They glide up my back and over my shoulders before I stand up and carefully peel away my white tank.
I sway my hips—rolling in time with the music—and drop my arms down.
In a second, I am straddling her again and trying to wrap her wrists with my shirt.
But all too quick, she’s retracting her hands and discarding the shirt on the floor in a huff.
“Don’t tie me.”
“Okay,” I whisper, thankful she let me say even that.
“But you can touch me,” she says, guiding my hands until they’re a centimeter from her chest. “Would you like that?”
My dick throbs before I can answer. “Of course, ma’am.”
With her change request, I redirect her hands to the back of my head.
My hands glide down her chest and, holy smokes, I’m touching Professor Wilde’s tits.
I’m rubbing my very hard dick against her and she’s letting me.
I know this is my job and I probably shouldn’t take it personally, but a woman of this caliber is allowing it, so I’ll shut up.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” she rasps, and a delightful melody of praise hums through my body.
I stand up and flash her a grin before turning around and sitting in her lap.
I lean against her, and her hands travel from my hips to the juncture between my thighs and groin.
It’s then that I notice it—the absence of her wedding ring.
It’s like finding an unexpected gap in a defensive line, and I’m booking it for the breakaway.
If I’m honest with myself, I wouldn’t stop at this point even if she wore a ring.
I really want to speak. I want to tell her to touch me and play with me and get me fired. I want her to whisper in my ear and tell me I’m pretty again.
Before I move her hands where I want them, she’s dipping them under the waistband of my gray sweats, and her nails scratch along my thighs.
I swallow hard and watch as she slides down my sweatpants, but they get caught on my unmistakable erection.
But she doesn’t pull them down any further. Not yet, at least.
“Do you like that?” she whispers into my ear. She snuggles in and I internally combust. “Do you like when I touch you?”
I nod and let out a super manly whimper.
One of her hands leaves my thigh briefly to grab a few bills, and she slides them under my G-string. “I’m so glad you’re finally listening to me, Jonah.” She holds the stack of cash in front of our faces and asks, “How far will this get me? You may speak.”
“Anything you want,” I whisper way too fast. Again, I don’t give a shit if I make any money from this encounter, so I don’t bother counting it. I don’t even bother taking it. I should pay her for this!
“Will you get in trouble if you give me exactly what I want?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to get in trouble?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she purrs. “Now pull your slutty gray sweatpants down and show me how bad you want it.” In two seconds I’m fully naked as Professor Wilde’s tiny, beautiful, freckled hands touch my chest and toy with my nipples. “Stroke yourself.”
In a flash, I give a rough tug to my aching head.
Boy, if you had told me three years ago that Professor Renée Wilde would watch me stroke my cock and bite my earlobe, I would have paid better attention in her class.
I would have been a teacher’s pet. Front row, hand raised, and assignments on time.
I would have been begging her for extra credit during office hours.
Her body behind mine is soft and warm. Her chest and butt were the primary focus of my time in class.
I desperately wanted her to show some cleavage, but she always wore sweaters, which only made me want to unwrap her.
I wanted to strip her bare, kiss up her thick thighs, and lay my head on her soft stomach while she pet my hair.
But this—with her tweaking my nipple while the other hand massages my abs—it’s better than any fantasy I’ve ever had of her.
I stroke myself and wait with bated breath for her to say anything. Is she going to comment on the size of my dick? I think it’s a good size. Commendable. Admirable, even. I keep everything bare down there. Does she like that? Does she not? Fuck, what does she like? I want to be what she likes.
“Can I touch—” she whispers.
“Yes,” I huff, the eagerness in my voice painfully obvious.
Warm breath ghosts over my ear, and she trails fingertips from the base of my shaft to the pre-cum dripping over my crown, sending me hurtling toward an early grave.
“Do… do you like it?” I ask nervously.
She grips the head, and my lower half tightens. “I told you not to speak.”
A sound of soft frustration falls out of me because for the first time in one of these private shows, I want to be the one who talks.
“You want my praise, don’t you?”
I nod far too many times, and her grip intensifies.
“You haven’t earned it yet. But you can prove yourself to me. You always talked too much in my class... Maybe you should put that mouth to better use.”
AM I DREAMING RIGHT NOW? There’s no way this is real life.
“Yes!” I jump off the couch and turn around, pulling her legs apart and dragging her closer in two seconds. I shove her dress up past her waist, and my nose runs along the fabric of her satin panties like a magnet.
Oh God, it’s so warm and wonderful here.
She lifts her bottom to help me pull off her panties, and they’re discarded somewhere. I don’t know; I’m too busy staring at the gorgeous red curls between her legs.
“We don’t have much time,” she warns.
I shake myself from my brain freeze, spread her open with both thumbs, and dive in tongue-first. She’s not very wet, but within a few moments, I lick every inch of her plush center and she’s glistening. Her moans send shivers down my spine, and my cock begs me to bring him out to play.
“Yes,” she breathes and grabs a fistful of my long hair. “Your fingers now. Fuck me with your fingers, too.”
I do, in fact, die when I insert two fingers, and she gasps when I locate her sweet spot. Knowing I bring her this kind of bliss makes her pleased expression even more beautiful.
Please tell me I’m doing a good job.
Renée—Professor Wilde—rides me, smothers me, the evidence of her arousal coating my face. “Don’t stop,” she commands. “I’m almost there.”
I want to say I wouldn’t dream of it, but the last thing I’ll do is remove my mouth from her. I reply with strong suction to her clit as I thrust my hand in and out, the sound of wet slapping flesh more captivating than the music playing in the background.
Every muscle in her body constricts. “I’m coming! Keep going but stroke yourself.”
In five pumps flat, I’m coming too, shooting my load somewhere on the floor or the base of the couch, I don’t know. Mind blank, I’m blissfully lapping up her cum as our bodies sag.
The descent of our mutual climax is short-lived when there’s a familiar knock at the door. “Time’s up,” the bouncer says from the other side. “You have ten seconds.”
Renée is up in a flash, stumbling over my kneeling form and pulling her dress down. “Thank you,” she huffs. “This never happened.”
She’s almost at the door when the words fall out of my mouth without permission. “Was I good?”
As her hand rests on the doorknob, she turns back and a genuine smile lights up her flushed, freckled face. “You were a very good boy.” She shuts the door behind her, and I’m left feeling proud, a little confused, and kneeling in a puddle of my own cum.
It’s nearly closing time, and Renée is nowhere to be found when I get back into the club. Neither is Angie, Robyn, nor her whole bachelorette party. I guess we’ll have a lot to talk about at family dinner tomorrow.
Back in the dressing room, I collect all my tips for the night, but I don’t bother counting them.
I can’t hear the surrounding conversations, and I barely register my drive home or walking my giant dogs down the janky sidewalk.
All I can think about is Professor Wilde coming undone for me, her calling me a good boy, and the insatiable urge to do it again.
That’s all I think about when I take my shower and jerk off to the same dream. It must have been a dream.
When two wet noses nudge me, my eyes peel open, the early afternoon sun warring with the blackout curtains. “Morning, boys,” I grumble. I sit up in bed and plant my feet on the hardwood floor and rub my eyes.
I share a rowhouse in North Philly with three roommates, but my one-hundred-eighty-pound Great Pyrenees dogs prefer to sleep in my room in the bunk beds I made them. It’s a tight fit, but I don’t mind. They’re a lot of work though, especially in the city.
Dry food clinks around in the bottom of their metal dishes, and they dive in. I give them a good scrubby pat behind their fluffy white ears. “Good boys.”
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear that phrase again in the same context.
How hard would it be to find Renée Wilde?
1. Give It To Me by Timbaland, Justin Timberlake, Nelly Furtado