He isn’t a regular by any stretch, but he’s definitely a creature of habit. I’d only seen him a total of four times before I began plunging the room into darkness—and I’ve only felt his presence a handful since—but I never miss the short glass, two-fingers, neat. My stomach flutters remembering those dark, penetrating eyes focused solely on me, glued to my every move, every sway, reading my body like a book. I’d never been more turned on in my life than the day I laid eyes on him—a perfect stranger.
He is the reason I now perform under the cover of darkness. I know if I had to see those eyes watching me, I’d never make it through my performance without combusting.
Times like this, I wished for a private dance. A chance to get up close and personal with my mystery man, but not knowing only added to the experience.
Asking around about Him isn’t an option. I’ve made it a point not to get close to the personnel. This isn’t the type of place I want to make friends. I came to dance, make a quick buck, and go home. No, the people I choose to associate myself with are classy, intelligent, and would never be caught dead in a place like this. If anyone found out what I did for a living… I’m not sure what would happen, but I’m not willing to find out.
Sensing Him watching me, I feel a familiar thrill tickling my insides. True heat spreads through my limbs, pooling in my stomach and lower as I imagine those dark eyes. What is He thinking right now? Is He imagining me, like I’m imagining him, his hands on my hips, his hot mouth tasting my skin? Pressing my breasts to the pole, I draw my focus inward, silently devoting this dance to Him.
I’ve built up a lot of strength since I began dancing, and I use that power now to pull myself up the pole. Wrapping my legs around it, I lock my feet at the ankles and release my hands. Arching back, my body folds over, until I hang upside down with only my legs to hold me. With my long black hair sweeping the floor, the gentle curve of my throat exposed, and gravity drawing my breasts up to full, round mounds, the effect is nothing short of erotic. When I allow my hands to touch my fevered skin, I imagine they are his, and find myself hoping he is doing the same.
When the dance is over, I collect the cash and hurry off-stage just as the lights come up. Just before I duck through the curtains, I glance toward the corner. My breath is lost the instant those dark pools of black meet mine. My feet continue to carry me to safety, but I don’t miss the seductive curve of his lips, nor the promising wink he sends me.
TWO
I rap my knuckles on the door twice—two quick, rapid taps. It’s our signal. Sometimes, I pretend that this is a little game we play to keep the intimacy alive, but the reality of it is that the man behind the door is more concerned with secrecy. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess why.
I don’t know what possessed me to accept His invitation, but I’ve been coming here every second Thursday and every first Sunday for months, ever since he’d taken an interest in my routine. He knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about Him, except that he likes control, an occasional glass of scotch, and he fucks like a god.
If I had to explain it, it’d sound crazy. The truth is, I have no idea how I got here. It just happened one day, and it keeps happening. And I’m not inclined to stop anytime soon.
He could be married. He could have kids. He could be a drug smuggler. I have no way of knowing, but I know that the few hours I spend in his bed are some of the best, most exhilarating moments of my life. At least when I am old and gray, I’ll be able to say I had lived.
The door cracks open revealing nothing but darkness and I am sucked inside by a strong, unyielding arm. A squeak of excitement leaves me as I am whirled around and my back is slammed up against the door.
Hard, punishing lips crash down on mine, and a hot, wet tongue forces its way past my teeth. I moan shamelessly as my purse drops to the floor and my hands find the short fine hair that I know to be as black as the midnight sky.
My mystery man is always hungry after watching me dance.
Ripping the button on my jeans free, he plunges his hand into my panties and groans as his fingers part my moist folds. “Jesus fucking Christ. Always so wet,” he mutters as he nips my jaw, and then begins moving down my neck.
I am always ready for this, for Him. Maybe it’s because he’s my only source of sexual release besides my fingers since I broke it off with Eli last semester, or because he is so talented in the sack. But the truth of the matter is that a part of me gets off on the mystery. Our sex is just that—sex. It’s wild and dirty and passionate and honest. Strip away the mystery, and you lose all of that. Maybe not right away, but one day.
Relationships almost always have an expiration date. I’m not naive enough to think our arrangement doesn’t, but at least I know I won’t lose anything in the process. When my mystery guy gets bored, I figure I simply won’t see him again.
Right, I should be concentrating on what he is doing to me now. We only have so much time together, and I don’t want to miss a second.
I feel Him lowering down to his knees, and I kick out of my shoes. I luxuriate in the feel of smooth, strong hands sliding patiently down my sides to my thighs, taking my jeans with them. My pants are then tugged free from my ankles, and they land somewhere in the room with a heavy plop. My panties follow them, and in an instant, I feel the magical heat of his mouth cover me.
Thrusting my fingers into his hair, I hold Him to me as he sucks my clit between his lips and feasts. He loves this. It’s always the first place he attacks, and who am I to deny him that pleasure?
As his fingers push up inside me, my eyes cross and I tilt my pelvis higher, trying to get closer to that tricky little spot that needs his attention. But he isn’t in the mood to play for long tonight. Must have been a long week. Of course, I’m only guessing because we never talk. About anything.
I don’t even know his name, and he doesn’t know mine. Like I said, we know virtually nothing about each other. Sex is all that connects us. Fantastic, life-altering sex.
I whimper in protest as his fingers and mouth leave me and he stands. In the slashes of light coming in through the window across the room overlooking the river, I can see that he is still dressed to thrill. He’s wearing some kind of casual dark suit ensemble. I want to rip it off him and run my hands over all that honed muscle hidden beneath.
The light catches on his wolfish smile, the white of his teeth breaking up the dark, and he wipes his fingers over his mouth.
“Get naked and climb on the bed, ass in the air.”
I shiver at the rough sound of his voice and I rush to do as he says. That voice haunts my dreams—dark and smooth, just like the liquor he drinks. I’ll do anything he says, so long as he keeps talking.
With my butt up in the air, I look over my shoulder and watch as he removes his own clothing then climbs up behind me. Running the flat of his palm from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck, goosebumps break out all over my skin as he wraps a handful of my long, black hair around his fist and yanks my head back.
Gripping my hip in his other hand, he pulls me back against his straining erection. “I’ve missed this ass. Did you enjoy teasing me up on that stage?”
I scream as his hand comes down on me, my skin singing from the force of it. “Yes,” I pant, pushing my hips up higher.
He smacks me again, and I swear my head spins. Like I said, we have passion between us. We know we aren’t committed to each other, but he likes to tease me as though we are. It is the game we play.
“You like shaking those tits and this ass for all those sweaty, horny fucks, don’t you? It gets you off.”