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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
*Lace*
Jess hears her music begin. Before hurrying out, she rushes to explain that she swapped with one of the other dancers so she could dance our sets back to back when she was covering for me. Which means my set is next. By the time I finish getting ready and enter the main room, she is just wrapping up her second song.
My excitable disposition amplifies. Ecstasy pills come by the street name “Dancers” for good reason. Well, one of many street names, at least.
The song ends, but Jess sticks around for a bit, gathering the bills off the stage. Looks like she made bank, as usual. A bouncer approaches to help speed up the process. I wait until my song starts then collect the available small towel and spray bottle we keep at the stage entrance before stepping on.
Using the sultry tempo to pace myself, I sashay toward the pole with slow and light steps, swaying my hips. Time to pull on my killer acting skills. I play the temporary role of maid, misting the pole with cleaner and giving it a nice, thorough rub down. To make the necessary process of cleaning the pole between sets as sexy as possible, I add in a toe touch and tempt customers behind me with the quick flutter of a twerk while twisting my grip around the base and stroking up once more for good measure.
“Knock ‘em dead.” Jess bumps me with her shoulder, taking the bottle and towel from my hands before sauntering off to pluck more money from whomever she impressed most.
Rinse and repeat. After all, we have a job to do. Money to make. People to please. And, oh my stars, does my body ache to please.
Garnering the attention of customers when so much is happening on stage can be a challenge, but I think my little tease did the trick; a few left to schedule some one-on-one time with Jess, but several thirsty customers remain.
With my first song already nearing the end, it’s time to start the process of revealing more skin. I hold the pole with one hand and walk around it while unraveling a small section of lace from my leather corset with each slow step. The leather fringe from my micro skirt swings with each strut, revealing brief peeks at the lace stocking welt tattoos beneath.
When the last of the string lace is loosened and my corset gapes open, I draw a line from my neck, down between my breasts, and past my navel before tracing the same line up again. The corset straps slide off each shoulder, fully exposing my breasts, and the material drops to my feet.
The next song begins. I lean back against the pole and palm my thighs, pushing downward until my fingers are curled just above my knees. Then, I slowly ease into a squat. Pole between my ass cheeks, I rise back up until my legs are straight, then bend forward, cupping my breasts. The man directly in front of me becomes the recipient of a playful wink.
My hands travel to the single button on the side of my skirt, and I remove the last piece of my outfit, careful not to snag a nail on the sheer, nude suspender pantyhose underneath.
I straighten once more, turn to show that same man the opposite side of my assets, grab the pole with both hands, and hop up, thrusting into a spin while pinching the cool metal between my thighs and crossing my feet at the ankles. The motion gives me enough oomph for a few good twirls around, and I descend a little lower with each one until I’m against the stage and can begin some floor work.
To kick it off, I flare one leg out to the side, spreading open for them, then run my hand up my inner thigh and flick a finger under the strap of my g-string. I flip over and push into a belly slide, ass up, snaking toward the closest customer. He slips a folded bill between my breasts, but the bill flutters to the stage as I curve upward into an arc and wiggle them for him with a grateful smile. Easing up onto my hands and knees, I crawl over to the next man.
I noticed a time or two that this guy has been riveted since he sat down. He flashes me a smile, and I give him a coquettish one in return before maneuvering onto my ass, unfurling my legs into a V in front of him, and dropping one foot into a half-circle. The man’s hand moves to the stage, fingers pushing some bills over the edge. While I normally have no trouble making sure these guys follow the house rules, the drug that continues to rave stronger and stronger has me wanting nothing more than to be touched and stare at all the amazing, flashy lighting.
But the customer needs to be able to assume for a moment that I only have eyes for him. A desire only for his attention. Propped up on one elbow, I reach my hand between my legs and draw a light finger over the material of my g-string and down farther until the tips of our fingers meet. He curls the bills into my palm, and I drag them up the sheer material of my pantyhose before slipping them into the part just above my tattoo, giving the illusion of tucking my tip into the ink, when I’m really pinning it against me under nude hosiery.
Snapping my legs together results in a yummy, attention-grabbing heel clack. The next guy jolts to life and shifts in his chair. I crawl to him and perform a bit more before moving across the stage and doing it all over again for the customers on that side, getting lost in the process and working on muscle memory and the haze of a building high.
As the final few notes play, I begin gathering all the loose bills as quickly as possible with the help of the bouncer. Then, I make my way off stage, ready to chat up the customers who seemed most googly-eyed. First, my focus floats up to Kris as I step down. She tilts her head toward the oldest man along the edge. The more he spends with me, the larger her tip out bonus at the end of my shift. I give my personal detective a curt nod in thanks, and her focus returns to the DJ equipment.
The man she indicated was the one who locked in on me right away. Age is not always an indicator of willingness to throw an entire paycheck at a favorite dancer, but it appears this time the two characteristics go hand in hand. I mosey that direction, my undoubtedly blown pupils locking on his kind, soft eyes.
As an added perk, he looks like the chatty type, and I am dying to have a conversation right now. “Hey, you got a name, sugar?” I ask, taking liberties and plopping down right onto his lap. The poor fella nearly seizes from his nervousness, hands dropping and eyes darting around at security.
“Ah… Sugar works,” he responds, fingers twitching. He lets out a breath of stale whiskey, and his lips twitch up into a partial smile. “Knowing what to do with my hands is not usually an issue,” he states. “This sure makes it strange.”
Closing in on his ear, I whisper over the seductive song serving as background music for our intimate conversation. “Well, if that bouncer were to conveniently look the other way, what would you do with those hands, sugar?”
Trying hard not to drift to my freed breasts, his eyes haze and widen all at once. “I imagine simply wrapping them around you would be comfortable enough.”
I dart a glance over my shoulder and wait for Mav to look my way before giving him the signal. He conveniently turns a blind eye, and I flash my new friend a grin. His eyes wrinkle in the corners, and he wraps me up in an embrace.
The body warmth, the security of his arms, and the rough material of his jeans brushing against my bare thighs is all unfairly aphasic. Wiggling to steal as much contact as possible, I take one of his hands in mine and study it. Calloused. Wrinkled. But the tips are all smooth as silk, which I find quite intriguing. “So, sugar, what do you do with these hands… when you’re not groping exotic dancers?”
“I’m a traveling welder.” When I drag my fingers along the soft pads, he explains. “When I was in my twenties, I put my hand down on a hot piece of metal, and it seared my fingerprints straight off.”
My eyes spring wide and lock with his. “So, you could be a criminal and get away with all sorts of misdeeds!”
He belly laughs. “Yeah, I suppose I could, but I’d probably screw up the execution of said misdeed and get caught anyway. Been losing hair for some years now.” He points at a balding spot on the crown of his head. “If nothing more, they’d find a piece on the scene no doubt.” He pauses for a few seconds. I can tell he’s trying really hard to figure out how to turn the conversation toward me in a way that relates to the same topic. “I imagine if you keep up with this occupation long enough, your hands will toughen up a bit, too. Gripping a pole the way you do and all.”
I hold my hand up and study my own fingers under the dim lighting. Still pretty soft and dainty. “Maybe.” I drop my voice. “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but eventually I hope to do something other than dancing.”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh, you don’t say. Never would have guessed. Your secret is safe with me. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Well, Daddy…” I elaborate the name jokingly, but the man’s throat moves over a hard swallow, and I realize what he’d really prefer to be called rather than sugar. “Something in construction. I don’t know, maybe own a handcrafted furniture business or something.” I shrug, trying hard not to think of my own father at this moment. He is, after all, the man responsible for my carpentry skills.
“Well, that’ll certainly toughen up your hands. Though, I must admit, I think many men would prefer for them to be soft.”
I bob a pointed finger at him. “I think you’re quite right.” We both fall into a short, comfortable silence. A new dancer is on stage, but he remains gentlemanly and reserves his attention for me. Knowing this can lead to so much more, I use the opportunity to ask, “Would you like a private dance, Daddy?”
Without hesitation, he responds. “Very much, please.”
