Page 2 of Watch Me

I brace his legs with my hands, the muscles so hard it’s like gripping steel bars, and roll my hips slightly so that the fabric of his pants skims my inner thighs. When I lift hooded eyes to him, the look he’s giving me back triggers an electrical pulse in my rib cage. It’s not the glazed look I’m oh-so-familiar with—the distant look of booze and lust that the men in here normally have. It’s sharp, present, and so frank I have to blink away so I don’t forget what I’m doing.

I take in the grey at his temples instead, and the slight lines around his eyes. He’s definitely much older than I am, but there’s something so sexy about him. It’s more than the chiseled lines of his bone structure and the obvious power of his physique. It’s the intensity below the surface. The heat in his eyes belying his cool exterior. There’s no doubt about it, he’s fucking hot. And being this close to him is making my blood thrum in my veins in a way it’s not supposed to.

This is exactly why Tate doesn’t want me to do this, I think guiltily, taking a deep breath to clear my thoughts. I need to compartmentalize my feelings and be purely professional. I need to be a good girlfriend.

So I shake back my extra-heavy mane of hair and try to snap out of it while I give the lap dance preamble.

“I’m going to take my top off, and you can touch me from the waist up. No touching from the waist down. And is it okay for me to touch you on your chest, arms, and shoulders? And your legs, here?” I give his hard thighs a squeeze and don’t even make a dent.

“Yes,” he says.

It’s the first word I’ve heard him speak, and his voice is deep and rich.

Of course.

I take another breath and close my eyes for a moment to get grounded, listening to the music and getting a feel for the beat—my pre-dance ritual.

This would seem silly to the other girls. I can imagine Rachel saying to me in that teasing way she has, “You know this isn’t actually dancing, right?” But I am a dancer, and this is a dance, in the purest sense of the word. My body is the vessel that will communicate desire between us. It’s my responsibility to provide a good experience, and I take that seriously.

Steadied, I exhale and roll my hips, the music starting to pulse through me, just like the rhythm of his chest, rising and falling. There’s an indefinable harmony when everything syncs together, the music, the client, and me, and the energy becomes fluid and smooth. That’s the dance.

I bend down and slide the front of my body up the front of his and then rest my knees on either side of him. I close my thighs around his hips until I can feel his belt buckle against my clit.

The obscenity of revealing myself to strangers and turning them on is one of my core kinks. Even if the client isn’t a certified DILF, it’s not unusual for me to get a little hot while I’m giving a lap dance, but I’ve never experienced it like this. Nick is handsome, he has sex appeal, and his smell is making my pheromones sing. He’s rippling with a raw strength that makes me want to rip off his shirt and trace each muscle. When I roll my hips again, I brush my pussy across the top of his legs, sending my nerve endings snapping, which I shouldn’t do—I know I shouldn’t do—but it buzzes me with an intoxicating heat that is too gratifying to resist.

“You were incredible on stage,” he says, low and deep, as I arch my back to lift my breasts and simulate riding his lap, allowing myself the lightest of contact. “Quite… performative. You’re a trained dancer.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and I nod. “Ballet.”

Five months ago, I moved to the city to train with the Regency Ballet School, and eventually audition for their company—a dream of my mother’s I hope to achieve in her memory. Like her, dance is my first love, although confining myself to the rules of ballet has always been a challenge for me. I prefer a freer, more interpretive style of dance, something I’ve surprisingly found an outlet for at the Paradise Lounge. I know my sets are different from the other girls’, and some of them make fun of me for it, but I’m proud of my performances. Big Rob tells me I’m the biggest draw at the club. So I ignore the haters and do my own thing.

Discovering how much I liked stripping has empowered me in all kinds of ways, from unleashing my creative expression to teaching me that I am an exhibitionist by nature. Exposing myself is a delicious, thrilling pleasure, and doing it now, on the lap of a forty-something, professionally-dressed, dirty-daddy type, feels even naughtier for being that much more desirable.

I’ve already been topless on stage, in front of Nick and all of his friends, but reaching back to remove my bra now, in the close space between us, is more private, more carnal, and more arousing. My nipples pebble as I unhook the band and feel it loosen around my ribcage, but Nick stops me before I go any further.

“Slowly,” he commands, deep and authoritative, and I freeze in obedience.

I have a weakness for men who take control.

My boyfriend, Tate, is confident and brash. He’s trying to make a career as a video game streamer, playing violent characters online and winning fans through his charisma. But in the bedroom, he’s a passive participant at best. It’s a good thing I’m already kneeling on the bench, because Nick’s tone of voice makes my knees weak.

I slowly finish unclipping my bra and then hold the cups in place with my hands. I tilt my chin and give Nick a small smile as I squeeze my breasts together with the bra and then release, fondling myself through the lacy material.

I know my breasts are one of my best features, although I didn’t always think so. Since puberty, I’ve been told they’re too large for ballet. I envied the girls in my classes with their small, flat boobs and muscular chests. But at the Paradise Lounge, they’ve earned me accolades. The girls, management, and staff comment on them almost daily—alternately with envy or praise. Rachel jokes that my stripper name should be “Perfect Ten.”

Nick certainly doesn’t seem disappointed, watching as I rub my hands over my nipples and making a low noise in his throat before growling, “That’s good, Mata Hari. That’s good.”

For the very first time in all the months I’ve worked here, hearing my stage name said like this and how awkwardly it interrupts the sexy energy between us, I realize how silly it sounds and give a little giggle.

“Does it feel ridiculous calling me that?” I ask, dropping my mask of seduction.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation, and then rewards me with a full, beaming grin, the first one he’s given me yet, his eyes dancing with humor.

The smile transforms his face from stern to approachable, and it changes everything between us. For a moment, the veil lifts—he’s just himself, and I’m just me: Zoë instead of Mata Hari. I grin back unselfconsciously, and the smiling between us feels far more intimate than any lap dance.

“Mata Hari was a renowned seductress,” I say, biting back a laugh at myself as I repeat the same thing I say to Big Rob every time he brings it up. It suddenly does seem very silly.

“I know who Mata Hari was.”

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