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“Well?” I purr. Did I just fucking purr like a goddamned cat? I sure as shit did. The heat pooling in my lower belly is making me want to rub my body all over his just like a fucking cat marking its territory.
What the fuck am I?
“Well, what?”
I laugh, looking down and smiling to myself as I notice the impressive bulge pressing behind his zipper. “Do you make a habit of looking at my tits and choice of nipple coverage?”
“I’m a man, Red. I notice everything.”
“Hmm,” I murmur. “It is a club full of naked women after all.”
“That it is, Red. That it is.” He reaches his hand out, lightly tugging on the tassel attached to my left nipple.
Already being turned on doesn’t help the erotic sensation of the tassel pulling at my nipple. I hold back a moan as Trigger chuckles. “I gotta go find Ghost. I’ll see you later?”
I find myself not wanting him to walk away, which is weird as hell and so unlike me. “My set is in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll make sure I get a front row seat,” He says with a wink before he turns away.
My skin is on fire as I watch him walk away with lowered eyelids. Part of me just wants to go back to the dressing room and wait for my turn on the stage, but my main goal tonight is to make enough to pay all of my bills for the month and to buy a new skin cream I’ve had my eye on.
It’s a bitch being a natural redhead with fair skin. The amount of money I spend a month just on shit to make sure I don’t get too much sun is ridiculous. Don’t even get me started on the expensive as hell sunless tanners. I blame my cunt of a mother for her fair skin genes.
I find one of my regulars sitting at one of the corner stages. I begrudgingly make my way over to him after he catches my eye and beckons me with a head nod. At least he’s a good tipper, that’ll make the next ten minutes go by. It’s not necessarily the person, I just absolutely loathe lapdances. They aren’t my thing.
“Hey, Freddy,” I coo in what I call my stripper voice and run my long coffin shaped nails along his shoulder blades.
Throwing my leg out in front of him, I straddle his thighs. He smiles, his bright white teeth that no doubt cost him a fortune shining bright against the strobelights. “Pebbles.”
Freddy isn’t a weirdo. Thank all my lucky stars for that. He’s one of the only guys I don’t really mind dancing for. He always tips at least two hundred dollars for just ten minutes. He comes in twice a week, always in a suit with his tie loosened around the collar.
There have been times when I didn’t even dance for him, only sat and talked for a few minutes. Today doesn’t seem to be one of those days as he runs his smooth, manicured hands up my thighs.
During Freddy’s ten minute dance, three different songs play over the sound system, and I’d bet he’s slipped no less than a hundred and fifty dollars under the straps of my barely there thong.
It’s a well known unofficial rule in dancing that you never, under any circumstance, kiss your client. But after a fifty dollar tip the first time I did it, Freddy always gets a kiss on the cheek, leaving my dark maroon lipstick print on his clean shaven face. I always immediately go to the dressing room, scrub my lips, and apply a new coat of lipstick.
“Have a good night, Freddy,” I call and blow him a kiss as I turn in the direction of the back room.
“Wait! Pebbles!” Freddy calls over the music.
I spin towards him, careful not to topple over in my sky-high heels.
“I’ll see you tomorrow? Put me down for thirty minutes,” he says walking towards me, he slips a hundred dollar bill in the only open spot at the front of my thong.
“You got it, sugar,” I wink, my fake lashes fluttering against my cheek.
I only have ten minutes to freshen up and get dressed before I have to be on stage.
I use that ten minutes to put my money in my locker, scrub my lips and put a new layer on, go pee, and slip into the purple mesh and sequin halter top that matches the purple thong I am already wearing. I curse as I pull the nipple tassels off when one gets stuck uncomfortably to my areola. I change my shoes into a pair of violet leather boots that come to just above my knees. Most of the girls hate dancing in boots, but I love the practicality of them. In these boots, I can easily shove a small foam pad in the knee section to protect and cushion my knees for any floor tricks I may throw.
I’m situating the knee pad in my left boot as Foxy comes through the curtain at the front of the dressing room.
“Your turn girl. They are a rowdy one tonight!” she squeals as she squeezes her large bucket of money against her chest.
The opening chords ofAmerican Womanby Lenny Kravitz blast through the speakers and I come through the curtain, bouncing back and forth as I clap. Some of the patrons clap along with me, especially some of the ones that know me.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the end of the stage where the pole is. As soon as Lenny sings the first ‘American Woman’ I grab the pole and hold onto it, using all of my upper body strength to flip myself over in an ayesha. I let the pole spin me around, and when my balance is just right, I move my legs, causing my ass to shake just like I know these sex crazed men love.
