“Missed you,” she says, slowly pulling back. “You still taste good?”
“We’ll find out if you want,” I say.
Aroused, I hesitate: though I’ve finally found her after months of searching, I’m now not really sure that I want to start up again with this woman. Annie can be a mixed blessing. An unusually sensitive person who will allow me to fuck her any time and any place, she has the ability to pull me from the black hole in my soul. But there’s another side. Once, several years ago on Christmas Eve, when we were playing in the front room just after dinner and just before church, she grabbed my dangling manhood in her teeth. (Please understand, of course, that we had been drinking.) When I didn’t respond the way she hoped, she bit, at first gently, then harder and harder. I tried to push her away when, with an angry snarl, she gave a hard yank, a dog tearing a piece of meat. Pain shot through me like a hundred lightning bolts. Immediately seeing that she had wounded me, Annie panicked, wept apologetically, grabbed my manhood and tried to stop the wound with her tiny hands. “Get a towel from the kitchen!” I shouted, visions of John Wayne Bobbit bouncing in my brain. As she ran to the kitchen, I looked between my legs and saw blood dripping down my legs and onto the carpet. “Hurry, you little cunt!” I screamed. Instead of calling a physician, Annie drove me, bundled in a light green dishtowel, to the ER where some young smart ass right out of medical school stitched me up.
This is what I remember as I now watch this gorgeous little beast dance. Once again, it is Christmas Eve, and in my bones I ache for Annie.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, you little dickbiting bitch,” I tease her, placing my hand on the back of her head and pulling her lips onto mine. As I kiss her, I run my free hand over her nipples, and she reaches down, places a hand between my legs, and grabs my hardness through my pants. When Annie finally draws her hand away, I tell her that I’ll be sitting at one of the tables under the big stage across the room.
“Come and join me when you’re done,” I say. She nods and smiles. For old times’ sake, I want once again to spend the night with her and enter her savage garden of delights.
II
I met Annie years before in another joint. At the time, five years out of high school, she had taken several classes at the college and had a two-year-old daughter, whom she left with her mother. She didn’t know who the father was. “One of hundreds,” she told me. She danced at Cat’s Place, a purple and pink one-story topless nightclub located in the industrial area of Vegas and just behind Stupak’s Tower, the tallest building on the Strip.
The place had the best dancers in town. Many were university or community college students trying to make a little extra cash. I had been invited to the club by two of my students. In their papers and out-of-class, they had alluded to this specific club, and at the end of spring semester had asked me to come, all promising at least one free dance. Expressing my preference for another club located downtown, I had politely refused. But finally, late in August of the same year, my girlfriend having flown to Seattle to attend her sister’s wedding, the fires of desperation exploded within me and I agreed.
I sat at a table in the back of the club with Angela and Marci; I forget their stage names. Angela wore a thin black net top revealing large tanned breasts while Marci was dressed in a small white blouse, open at the top, and a plaid schoolgirl dress. No sooner had they excused themselves to go to the back room when a small Oriental girl pulled herself away from the bar, walked over to me and asked if she could sit. “Be my guest,” I said, gesturing her to sit in the chair next to me. She gently sat on my lap, her left arm around my neck, gazed longingly into my eyes, and smiled coyly. It wasn’t the mechanical smile you might expect from a dancer whose chief means of livelihood is stripping in front of gawking men and making them hard; this one was warm and teasing, the kind you get from someone who likes you and wants to know you better. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim light, and her raven hair was swept back out of her face and flowed down to the small of her back.
“What’s your name?” she cooed. While she had a tinny, singsong accent, there was laughter in her voice. Before I could answer, she kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“The professor. Call me that for now,” I responded.
“Don’t play games with Annie,” she said, reaching between my legs and feeling me through my slacks. I was already partly hard. “I know who you are,” she added.
Slightly over five feet, she had an engaging manner. When I pulled her blouse open, admired her nipple rings, and then kissed one of her nipples, she commented, “I like that.” When I slipped one of my hands into her panties and found her already wet, she purred.
I don’t know what happened to my students. I didn’t much care. I bought Annie drinks, talked, asked her to dance, and finally slid inside her as she sat on my lap. It was a darkly glorious moment: with people wall-to-wall, dancers performing on each of the four stages, Annie pulled the crotch string of her panties to the side as I unzipped and then slowly, gracefully eased herself on top of me. She took all of me. To a casual observer, she must have looked as if she were performing a normal, slowly pulsing dance.
III
That night, I left the club with Annie. We didn’t go right to my place as I had planned. Hungry for steak, Annie suggested we stop somewhere and get a bite to eat. Because she lived on the west side, she named a small family restaurant miles away from the Strip on Sahara. At the time, I had no idea that Annie’s wildly passionate nature went beyond her sexual desires; I had no idea that mine did as well. At the time, I didn’t know myself.
I still can’t remember the name of the place: a cozy Italian restaurant located in one of those new shopping centers with squat, stucco buildings that age in five years. Across the street was a soccer field, and several adult teams were practising under the lights. While I ordered something typically Italian – spaghetti, I think – Annie asked for a steak, done very rare.
“Your steak will be very bloody, almost raw,” the waitress said. “Did you know that?”
Sitting next to me in the booth, her hand between my legs, Annie smiled and responded, “That’s the way I like it. The bloodier the better.”
As we waited in a semi-dark corner for our salad, Annie looked at me, asked, “Ready for a little fun?”
“Always ready,” I said, heart pounding.
Swiftly, she unzipped me, reached her small hand in through my fly, and grabbed me.
I laughed at Annie’s boldness. The waiters stayed in the other room, so I figured we could do pretty much what we wanted. When I unbuttoned Annie’s blouse, she put her head between my legs and slid her warm, moist mouth over my cock.
“That’s my girl,” I remember saying.
Visions of angels dancing in my head, I leaned back, and as I did I glanced across the restaurant. When we had first come in and sat down, I really did not see anyone else in the restaurant. But now, my eyes adjusted, I glanced across the room and noticed, in a far booth, a couple about our age, maybe a bit older. They were both shooting glances our way between, I suspect, mouthfuls of lasagne or chicken Marinara or whatever they were eating. I remember remarking to myself that the woman, a beautiful, stacked blonde with blood-red lips and long red fingernails, looked good enough to eat.
“Whatsamatter?” Annie mumbled, raising her head.