eyes. They're worth a stare, hidden by a mask of small Swarovski crystals. Only the light gray of my irises show through the slits. My dark blonde lashes are hidden under deep chocolate mascara.
“Two hundred for twenty minutes,” he says. He has deep black hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that might be a greenish-hazel if there was more light.
Voices erupt, drowning his and I fluster, backing away.
My masked eyes meet security.
Just like Thorn promised, he interrupts the bidding frenzy with quietly spoken words. “Five hundred, and she's yours for the virgin session.”
My eyes snap to his, thinking I've been discovered. But no, he simply means this is my first lap dance. Ever.
My shoulders drop, and I relax a little.
The man who said two hundred dollars nods at the security guard. Another man, complete in a tux and tails, brings a ticket on a silver tray, his eyes moving over me once.
It's enough.
I feel dirtier than when I arrived.
The man with coal black hair holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside his. It's warm and dry.
Other girls’ faces meet mine as I slide behind a door bearing the number one. I don't know who they are because they wear small masks as well.
It's okay because I don't know who I am anymore.
“I'm Jay,” he says as he loosens his tie.
I stand there stupidly.
He laughs and sits on a large chair. The plush burgundy faux suede hides a myriad of crimes.
Like the one I'll commit.
“Come here,” he commands in a low voice, his eyes burning into mine.
I walk to him. The beads that made me feel sexy a half hour ago sting like many bugs biting my flesh as I move.
I stand in front of him, and he doesn't touch me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt. Jay takes the loop of the tie over his head and tosses it aside. My eyes roam his muscular torso as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. He does serious gym time.
I recognize the look of hard work instantly, my hand was not the only thing I rehabilitated.
I'm sore from my own workouts. A permabruise etched on the inside of the wrist of my bad hand testifies to my two weeks of pole dancing. But pain won't end me. After what I've been through, physical pain is just another obstacle.
It's the mental that's killing me.
“Straddle me,” he says.
I mount him like I did Thorn, my upper thighs quaking. Is it horrible that because it's not Thorn, that somehow it's better?
Music creeps into the room from strategically placed speakers. My eyes flick to the side and note scattered tissue paper, lube, condoms, and a neat pile of sex toys in an antique porcelain box.
Glass.
Rubber.
I turn my face away, tears making me hold my eyes wide so they don't fall.
Jay sets a fifty dollar bill on the end table next to the chair. A cut glass dish holds the bill perfectly. It twinkles in the low light while it holds filthy money.
I move, and he says, “I want to touch your breasts.”
My eyes shift to the money. I swallow and, after a brief hesitation, nod.
He bends forward and whispers, “Keep moving... yeah...,”
He groans as I grind against him, my face averted. I stare at the gilded wallpaper, trying for an out-of-body experience. I memorize the geometric shapes. I feel his fingers push aside the glittering v of my top. A finger brushes my nipple, and I nervously increase my pace. My nipple hardens like a traitor, and my heartbeat speeds up in unrequited fear.
I won't embrace it or I'll scream. This stranger latches onto my nipple and sucks as I increase the friction against him. I gasp a little at the contact. I guess touching my breast can mean his mouth, though I'm not expecting it.
I disassociate myself further, my eyes tracing the fleur de lis wallpaper. My grinding stresses my muscles, my fight against adrenaline exhausts me, and the need for money spurs me forward anyway.
His breathing tells me when it'll be over, and then it is. He presses my naked breasts against his face and shouts into the center of my warm
“Two hundred for twenty minutes,” he says. He has deep black hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that might be a greenish-hazel if there was more light.
Voices erupt, drowning his and I fluster, backing away.
My masked eyes meet security.
Just like Thorn promised, he interrupts the bidding frenzy with quietly spoken words. “Five hundred, and she's yours for the virgin session.”
My eyes snap to his, thinking I've been discovered. But no, he simply means this is my first lap dance. Ever.
My shoulders drop, and I relax a little.
The man who said two hundred dollars nods at the security guard. Another man, complete in a tux and tails, brings a ticket on a silver tray, his eyes moving over me once.
It's enough.
I feel dirtier than when I arrived.
The man with coal black hair holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside his. It's warm and dry.
Other girls’ faces meet mine as I slide behind a door bearing the number one. I don't know who they are because they wear small masks as well.
It's okay because I don't know who I am anymore.
“I'm Jay,” he says as he loosens his tie.
I stand there stupidly.
He laughs and sits on a large chair. The plush burgundy faux suede hides a myriad of crimes.
Like the one I'll commit.
“Come here,” he commands in a low voice, his eyes burning into mine.
I walk to him. The beads that made me feel sexy a half hour ago sting like many bugs biting my flesh as I move.
I stand in front of him, and he doesn't touch me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt. Jay takes the loop of the tie over his head and tosses it aside. My eyes roam his muscular torso as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. He does serious gym time.
I recognize the look of hard work instantly, my hand was not the only thing I rehabilitated.
I'm sore from my own workouts. A permabruise etched on the inside of the wrist of my bad hand testifies to my two weeks of pole dancing. But pain won't end me. After what I've been through, physical pain is just another obstacle.
It's the mental that's killing me.
“Straddle me,” he says.
I mount him like I did Thorn, my upper thighs quaking. Is it horrible that because it's not Thorn, that somehow it's better?
Music creeps into the room from strategically placed speakers. My eyes flick to the side and note scattered tissue paper, lube, condoms, and a neat pile of sex toys in an antique porcelain box.
Glass.
Rubber.
I turn my face away, tears making me hold my eyes wide so they don't fall.
Jay sets a fifty dollar bill on the end table next to the chair. A cut glass dish holds the bill perfectly. It twinkles in the low light while it holds filthy money.
I move, and he says, “I want to touch your breasts.”
My eyes shift to the money. I swallow and, after a brief hesitation, nod.
He bends forward and whispers, “Keep moving... yeah...,”
He groans as I grind against him, my face averted. I stare at the gilded wallpaper, trying for an out-of-body experience. I memorize the geometric shapes. I feel his fingers push aside the glittering v of my top. A finger brushes my nipple, and I nervously increase my pace. My nipple hardens like a traitor, and my heartbeat speeds up in unrequited fear.
I won't embrace it or I'll scream. This stranger latches onto my nipple and sucks as I increase the friction against him. I gasp a little at the contact. I guess touching my breast can mean his mouth, though I'm not expecting it.
I disassociate myself further, my eyes tracing the fleur de lis wallpaper. My grinding stresses my muscles, my fight against adrenaline exhausts me, and the need for money spurs me forward anyway.
His breathing tells me when it'll be over, and then it is. He presses my naked breasts against his face and shouts into the center of my warm
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