AngelusInMotion Posted Friday at 01:48 PM Backstage, your body is already moving in front of the vanity mirror, rolling your shoulders, watching the silver-and-black floral decoration on your purple silk bra catch the light. The fabric is tight enough to lift your breasts high and proud. The matching skirt hugs your hips as if it were ***ted on. The hip scarf, heavy with coins, flashing silver every time you snap it, and the high girdle cuts a line that makes men stupid. Your long, straight, red hair drops down, finishing the killer look. You’re thirty-one, not twenty-one, and the harsh backstage lighting doesn’t do you any favours, but out there this body still knows how to lie. Tonight's theme is “Oriental.” Tonight, you are fantasy made flesh. It’s a Tuesday in a gentlemen’s club that pretends it isn’t a strip club. The tips are usually pathetic, and the audience is typically drunk. Tonight, the room is especially empty, and that’s perfect - fewer witnesses. A small lamp on the wall flashes silently five times. It’s show time. -- The music begins softly, a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. You step into the harsh neon light, but in your mind's eye, you’re entering the stage of a famous concert hall. Your body starts to move, and with each hip sway and arm roll, the lights reflect off your costume, bathing you in gold. You let the rhythm settle into your body, guiding you into movements that feel both natural and deeply purposeful. With every graceful turn, you ***t the air with shimmer and motion, captivating the audience without a single word. You dance for no one and for everyone, letting the rhythm lick up your spine. You dance not to reveal, but to suggest—to let them feel the sensuality woven into every beat. As the melody builds, your movements deepen, spiralling outward like a story unfolding in light and shadow. And when the final note dissolves into silence, you hold still just long enough for the room to feel the lingering heat of your dance before you gently step back. You’re two steps from the curtain when you feel it - eyes that don’t blink, don’t cheer, don’t look away. Black suit, white shirt, no tie, no smile. Every other gaze in the room is loose and greedy. Mine is a blade. It slides straight between your ribs and pins you in place. It’s hungry. --- You have a couple of minutes before the next dance, so you go back to your vanity. Your fairy godmother, also known as Stacy the stage manager, comes by and hands you a shot glass. Stacy is your only real friend in the club. She used to be a dancer too, before an *** ***d her to retire. Luckily for her, the club owner adores her, as do most of the girls, so he made her the stage manager, and now she basically runs the show. She’s one of the most beautiful women you know, but what you love most is her fluency in sarcasm and a sense of humour as dark as her coffee. Knowing she practically lives at the club, you ask if she knows anything about the man sitting at the bar, the one with the eyes that feel like they’re looking straight through you. She hesitates before answering, just long enough to make your stomach tighten, and tells you that I’m bad news. That you should stay away from me. You try to get more out of her, but she won’t elaborate, and soon enough, your time is up. The second song starts. You *** yourself onto the stage, trying to focus, but your eyes keep finding me. You begin hesitant, almost shy. Then something shifts. You stop dancing for the room. You dance for the man who hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, hasn’t looked away once. Every hip drop, every slow circle of your ribs, every coin that flashes silver—it’s all for him now. And when the music ends, you’re breathing hard, flushed, terrified, and more turned on than you’ve ever been on this stage. The lights dim. Silence stretches. Then, slowly and deliberately, I lift one hand and crook a single finger. Not a request. A summons. Your feet start moving before your brain even agrees. --- “Good evening, Sir, I hope you’re enjoying the show”, you say, letting the practiced bedroom voice do its work. It’s never failed you before. It fails now. I look you over once, slow and clinical, the way a man evaluates something he has already decided to buy. For a second, you feel like a piece of future property, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Then the wolf's smile flashes. You must have passed. "You are very pretty", I say in a low voice, now looking straight into your eyes. A minute ago, you were half-naked on stage and untouchable. Four words from me somehow make you blush like a little schoolgirl. "Thank you", you manage to utter. "Sit" You sit. "Do you drink?" I ask, and when you nod your head, I pour a bubbly wine into a flute you could swear wasn’t there before. You pick up the glass in both hands, taking both comfort and courage from it, and start drinking. I move my chair closer to yours, so that we're almost touching. My eyes never leave you, and I can see your chest going in and out as your breath gets shallower. I watch the way your fingers tremble around your glass, the way you’re trying so hard to look composed. You’re not fooling me. Your body gives you away long before your words ever could. I let my own hand drift slowly along the bar top, not touching you, not yet—close enough that you feel the warmth of it brushing the air beside your skin. “I like pretty things”, I say softly, my eyes never leaving your face. And though I still haven’t touched you, I can see the breath catch in your throat as if I already had. And when I finally let my hand find you, I do it slowly enough to give you every chance to move away. You don’t. My fingers settle against your skin, warm, deliberate. The moment I touch you, a quiet shiver runs through your body. You try to hide it, but you fail. Inside your head, every alarm bell is ringing. You know you should get up and go this instant. But at the same time, the place where my hand rests feels like it’s burning like wildfire, while a shiver runs through your entire spine. I’m not the first club patron to flirt with you and offer you a drink, but no one has ever made it hard for you to breathe like this. Nobody made you feel so… lacking in confidence, and definitely not that fast. You look at my hand, my fingers gently stroking your skin. You can see that I see your shiver, and there’s nothing you can do to hide it. You also can’t hide your nipples from poking through your bra with evident excitement. You bite your lips, take a big gulp of liquid courage from the drink in your hands, turn your eyes straight into mine, and ask me: “Do you have a name I can call you?” “You called me Sir before. I liked that”, I say, my big smile unwavering. “And… what do you want from me… Sir?”, you ask, somewhere between tease and anxiousness. "I don't want anything from you. I want you. And I'm the type of man that usually gets what he wants." I spread my fingers and grip, no longer so gentle. You gasp, more from surprise than actual ***, my voice and words ringing in your ears, and the champagne and tequila having a little party in your brain. “Sir… Please…I… I am… I’m working, please…” You hear yourself say the words, and you’re not actually sure what it is you’re begging for. Do you want me to stop? Do you want me not to stop? You try to steady yourself and take a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of my cologne, and it does not help your situation one bit. "I see…”, I finally answer after what seems like eternity. “In that case, it seems the real question is not what I want - it's what do you want? You see, it might not look like it right now, but you actually have all the power here. You have options. For example, you can ask me to leave you alone, and I will. You can give me your phone number. Maybe I'll call, and maybe I won't. Or you can ask me, very politely, to take you out of this hole right now and fuck you until you forget your own name. I have a driver waiting outside. You can ask for whatever you want, but you do need to ask”. “I have one last dance…”, you stutter. The thought of me leaving right now didn’t sit well with you at all. You needed more time to think. “One more dance, and then, and then we can leave”. I release my grip. You go back to the stage, and the music starts again. This time, your dance is intentional. Sensual. This last song is the most erotic of the three, and you’re milking it for everything it’s worth. You’re dancing and making sure that I see you. --- When your dance is finally over, you turn to me and signal with your hand for me to stay put and wait. I smile, and you rush backstage, trying not to bump into everything and everyone there. Stacy asks you what’s the rush, but you completely ignore her, not actually noticing she’s there. You grab your bag and your coat, barely manage to put on your shoes, and start running back to the bar, hoping to whatever gods are out there that I didn't leave. But I'm still there, waiting patiently. Once again, you take a deep breath, muster all the courage you can, and say, "Okay, Sir, I'm ready." "No. Not yet...” You are utterly confused and have no idea what I meant by that. "You need to ask." You take a second to try to find your voice, which seems to have disappeared. “Ask me” “Sir, take me away from here, please.”
Recommended Posts