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It was time to text Vince.

***

Gemma

I practically knocked Cara off her pretty little feet.

“Saturday night!” I squealed. “The big night.”

“Whoa!” She grinned. “For real?”

I nodded. “I’m so nervous.”

“Nerves are good,” she said. “Enjoy it.”

I twirled around the pole over and over, jumping into position to begin our routine run-through. Our dance was taking shape, really good shape, and so was I. My calves were gaining tone, my arms too. I hoisted myself up, gripping the pole tight between my thighs.

“Looking good, Figi. Real good.”

“Couple of weeks to go,” I said. “I’m looking forward to being up on that stage. Another fantasy ticked off the list.”

“You’ll have to come up with some more,” she smiled.

I doubted I’d have any problems on that front.

***

Jason

I checked out the barn preparations to find Steve had done a great job. He’d installed spotlighting, heaters too. A huge fucking mattress on the floor, and chains hanging down from the beams overhead. My cock was hard just looking at the place.

“Will it do?” he asked.

“Perfect, mate. You’ve done me proud.”

“She really up for this? Four of us at once?”

I smiled. “Wait and see.”

“What happens after? You going to see her again?”

A horrible niggle at the back of my mind. “No idea.”

“It would be a fucking shame if you didn’t.”

Yes. Yes it would.

***

Gemma

I crammed in chatline all day Saturday, struggling to keep myself occupied through the nerves. Chelsea was still holed up at ours, resident in our living room with enough clothes and beauty products to last any normal human being twelve months straight. The media was still after her blood, and she was withering for it. How I’d hate to be so vulnerable to the whims of the masses. Hate to be on their radar at all, in fact.

I showered and shaved and scrubbed and douched, claiming I had an hour down between shifts, then retreated to my bedroom with a sneaky bottle of wine for the final preparations.

I’d chosen a white slip. Sheer white. White that showed the dark buds of my nipples through the fabric and offered almost no resistance to prying fingers. I covered up with a pair of leggings and a thick black jumper. A fool-proof disguise. Then I had a large glass of wine for my trouble.

I tamed my hair and did my make-up, hands jittery and awkward. A second glass did wonders for my nerves, but nothing much for my co-ordination. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long while before giving myself the thumbs-up. I’d do. Just about.

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