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I slide one foot up onto the lounge, silver heel pressing into the velvet, knee resting against the back of it. The other leg slowly swings to one side, heel on the shiny floor of the stage, the v of my thighs wider and wider as the lace parts open, and Ihearthe low moan in the room as I expose my most intimate flesh to the eyes of the men scattered around the room.
I should be looking at the men at the table, enticing them, distracting them. But as I arch my back, showing myself off, I can only look at the man at the bar.
Suddenly, it feels as if I’m putting on a show for him, and only him.
And to my utter shock, I realize that I’m wet.
Genuinelywet, and not manufactured with some well-placed lube or saliva. I feel the rush of warmth, the dampness between my thighs, and the soft moan that slips out of my mouth is real. When my hand drifts lower, two fingers slipping between my outer folds to slide over my clit, I’m so slick that my hips jerk with the sensation, the sudden sharp burst of pleasure that jolts between my thighs, making me moan all over again, a low, needy sound.
I’ve neverreallycome on stage. I don’t think I’ve ever really come with a client. It’s always fake. It’s hard to be aroused when the focus is on pleasing and performing for men I don’t really want to please or perform for, men who I’m not attracted to, who usually have the exact qualities that I’d prefer to avoid. Submission often genuinely turns meoff, except on rare occasions. Nikolai was one of those occasions—I can think of one other, though right now, I’d prefer not to. On a stage like this, usually, I’m too focused on the performance to really have an orgasm.
But right now, I think that by the end of the show—I will have come in public for the very first time.
Something about that thought frightens me and makes me want to stop it. It feels like a loss of control, and I slow the stroke of my fingers, dampening the pleasure. I feel my body’s resistance to that, theneedbuilding deep inside my core, and my gaze meets the man at the bar again. He’s looking at me with a sudden hunger that wasn’t there before, his eyes frozen on me like he’s never seen anything like me in his life, and I realize suddenly that if there weren’t rules about it, if it wouldn’t get him thrown out of this place and probably worse, he’d be on this stage right now.
That’sthe way he’s looking at me. Like he’s having to physically hold himself back from charging up here and fucking me in front of everyone.
Claimingme.
Making me his.
The kind of thing that would normally make me dry as a desert. But the expression on his face sends a thrill through me, my pulse beating faster in my throat, and without realizing it at first, I look directly at him, locking my gaze with his as I start to spread myself open with my fingers, displaying my most intimate flesh for the viewing pleasure of everyone watching.
When I first started to work here, that gave me a thrill—being watched, knowing that everyone in the room was aroused by me,wantingme. It was a rush of power, a feeling that I held everyone in the palm of my hand, that I could make them do anything I wanted if I let them touch, taste—or even just let them believe that they might get to.
It wore off over time. Like any job that was enjoyable once but lost its sheen, I suppose—but this felt worse somehow, like a part of me had been rubbed away, erased, a part of me that I had once very much enjoyed.
This feels like coming back to myself. Like everything I forgot, I could feel comes rushing back in, heat flooding through me, pleasure shimmering over my skin as I arch into my touch, fingers rubbing against my clit as I moan and twist on the lounge, no longer just pretending. I close my eyes briefly, luxuriating in the touch of the velvet against my skin, the wet heat against my fingertips, but it’s no longer the thought of everyone else in the room being aroused by me that’s making me ache, that’s tightening that knot of desire deep in my belly until I can feel my thighs tensing, the orgasm getting closer and closer.
It’s just him. And when I open my eyes again, he’s still looking at me, that hungry look on his face, as if he’s never seen anything he wants more. One of his hands is on his thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of his pants, the other hand tightly wrapped around his whiskey glass as he watches me, and it spurs me on, my fingers circling my clit in exactly the way I know I like, my breaths coming in small, shallow gasps as I feel myself getting closer to the edge. I’ve forgotten about performing for the room, forgotten that I’m on stage doing a job—about everything aside from the way his gaze makes me feel, and I roll my hips against my hand,needingthat final push over the edge into the ecstasy of release—then I see his jaw clench.
I see the way he shifts in his seat, the quick, jagged motion of his hand raising his whiskey glass to his lips, swallowing it as if heneedsthe burn of the alcohol in his throat as badly as I need to come, and I know he’s hard. I can imagine the thick ridge of his cock, pressing tightly against the fly of his pants, straining to be free, throbbing, and I can imagine how it would feel inside of me, filling me up, his hungry hands and mouth on my skin—
My mouth opens on a cry as a sudden rush of pleasure floods through me, my legs parting as my hips shudder and jerk, and all I feel is the bliss of release compounded by the heat of the unknown man’s eyes on me from across the room, seeing me come, and deep down I know I’m coming forhim.
It also happened sooner than it should have, for the purposes of the show I’m meant to be putting on.
Fuck. I press my lips together, fingers still circling my clit as I come down from the high of the pleasure, hoping Nikolai won’t be angry with me. I open my eyes, looking towards the bar, and I see the man still staring at me, a look of such intense longing on his face that it makes my breath catch in my throat.
It’s been such a long time since anyone has looked at me that way, with such nakedneedin their expression. Not even Nikolai looked at me like that—yearnedfor me that way, and it sends another shudder through me as I suck in a breath, still idly touching myself as I force myself to drag my gaze away and refocus on the game in front of me.
It’s almost over. I can see the distracted expressions of most of the remaining players, eyes watching me, flicking between my drenched pussy and spread legs, and their own hands of cards. I can see the disappointment in some of the men lingering near the table, the ones who have already folded, and I know what they’re imagining. I know they’re all thinking of what they would have done with me if they’d won, the pleasure they’re missing out on. I feel that burst of satisfaction again, the rush of power, and then I see a man standing up from the table, and realize the game is finished.
Matvei won.
My heart sinks, the high of my climax quickly receding as I slip my hand away from my thighs, pressing my legs together.Well, what did you expect? He had his head in the game the whole time.
I tell myself, as I sit up, that there’s nothing to be gained from being disappointed. I would have ended up spending a session with him regardless, so I might as well find out sooner rather than later what kind of client he’s going to be. If he screws up, he won’t get another night here, and I won’t have to wonder what it’s going to be like.
Without meaning to, I glance towards the bar. The red-haired man is gone, and there’s an odd sinking sensation in my chest, a flush of disappointment that makes no sense. It’s not as if I were going to spend the night withhim—I know enough about the kind of people who come to the Rose to feel fairly sure that he was a friend of the man who had the pass. He didn’t have the attitude of someone who has the kind of money to buy time with me.
Which, ironically, made me like him more.
Matvei is speaking with Nikolai, and I sit up fully, swinging my legs over the side of the lounge. It doesn’t matter where the other man went. I’m at work, and right now, Matvei is discussing the terms of his prize with Nikolai.
I do my best to push the red-haired man out of my head. I won’t see him again anyway.
Right now, I need to focus on the client that Nikolai apparently needs me to handle.
