This is part of a WIP - a teaser, if you will :)
I arrive at the club and find Mr. Chase waiting for me in room seven, just like the first time I served for him. "Lucky number seven." He'd said with a wink and a knee-melting grin. Today, he's wearing gray wool slacks and a black shawl-collar cardigan. It's a change from his usual shirt and suit jacket and I want to touch it, to see if it feels as soft as it looks, but groping Mr. Chase's chest might get me fired. He glances up from his phone when I enter the room.
“Bring five bottles of the usual whiskey. I doubt we’ll need that much, but I don’t want you leaving once my guests arrive.”
He certainly knows how to get to the point, but he's answered the question I was afraid to ask. If he expected me to go back out to the bar half-naked, I'd do it, but I wouldn’t be particularly happy about it.
“What time do you expect your guests?” I ask, more timid than I want to be.
He glances at his phone. “I told them five, which means Johnson will be half an hour early, and the rest will be half an hour late. You have time.”
On my way to the bar, I take the opportunity to tell myself to breathe and begin stocking lucky number seven with the bottles of Scotch, several pitchers of water, and enough glasses to go around. After three trips, I settle into my task of setting out drinking glasses and napkins. It's calming, ignoring him, getting lost in my own thoughts until he sets his phone aside and beckons me. Suddenly nervous, I move to the couch he’s sitting on and stop just short of his bent knees. “Is there anything else you’d like me to bring?”
“No, you’ve taken care of everything,” He gazes up at me, unspeaking, making my nerves go haywire. It’s like his eyes stare straight through me, like he can search out all my embarrassing secrets, everything I’ve tried so hard to conceal from other people. I’m desperate to break this charged silence. “I could bring some more water, or—”
“No,” he cuts me off, looking at me for a few more long moments. God, I want to fidget with something, but I keep my hands wrestled to my sides.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
I swallow involuntarily. I knew, intellectually, at some point I would have to undress, but I didn’t expect it to happen like this. Standing in front of him, exposed. Him, staring up at me, completely at ease, like he tells girls to take off their shirts every day of the week. Maybe he does, for all I know. I raise my shaking hands to undo the first button on my shirt. The soft lapels fall aside, exposing my collarbone. Shy and embarrassed, I glance up to meet Mr. Chase’s gaze. He’s staring at me intently, so I undo the second button and the silk drapes away, revealing the black lace of my newly purchased bra. I bought it with him in mind, standing in the changing room, deciding he seemed like the type of man who liked lacy lingerie. The color was a conscious choice as well. He wouldn’t like red, too obvious, but judging from the way his pupils have dilated slightly, I’d say I made the right decision.
I realize I’m aroused, standing here, partially exposed to him. It’s almost academic, this discovery, as I note my quickened breathing, hard nipples, throbbing pussy. It only lasts a second though, before I’m completely overwhelmed both by lust and what it means.
I like the way Mr. Chase looks at me. I like the implicit humiliation of the situation: him, cool and in control, sitting down, fully dressed. Me, exposed, subservient, taking off my clothes for a man I know almost nothing about.
I want it.
I want him to humiliate me. I want to beg.
Learning new things about yourself is always unpleasant, mainly because you usually don’t learn good things. Nobody suddenly figures out they’re beautiful or witty or awesome at giving compliments. If you’re beautiful, people tell you. It’s not a surprise.
But if you’re ugly, people are so careful to never mention your appearance at all, that you go years before you’re struck with the sudden knowledge that something is wrong with your face.
I feel like that now. Like some passer-by on the street has called me a nasty word and I’ve gone home and stared at myself in the mirror and realized it was true, that I was hideous.
It’s not normal to think about the things I’m thinking about. Sex is supposed to be white sheets and rose petals, long kisses and sweet caresses. Not this, not broken open inside a high-class strip club. All of this passes through my mind in the few seconds it takes me to lower my hands to the third button of my shirt.
Mr. Chase reaches out and touches my hip, carefully, with just the tips of his fingers. “Slow down, there’s no rush. I want to look at you.”
That’s the problem: I want him to look at me, and I don’t want to want it. Maybe if I hurry to get my shirt off, I won’t have to time to focus on how much I’m enjoying the whole situation. But it’s not up to me.
Mr. Chase is paying me. I have to do whatever he wants.
I shiver, thinking about all the things he could make me do. And I would do them. I’m certain I’d do anything, whatever he wanted, or close enough.
I slow down, remembering one of the dancers I saw giving a striptease the night before. I should imitate the things she did. I slide the third button halfway out of the hole, then look at him from beneath lowered eyelids, my hair falling over my face like a curtain. I bite my lip and it seems to work. Mr. Chase exhales through his nose as his thighs spread apart slightly. I glance down at his lap and am thrilled at the sight of the bulge in his trousers.
It occurs to me for the first time, that I’m not the only one aroused by my performance. Mr. Chase is turned on too, maybe just as turned on as I am. Well, obviously, I tell myself. He’s paying me to take my clothes off. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t find me appealing on some level. Knowing that rationally however, is wholly different from seeing the undeniable proof of his desire right in front of me.
Mr. Chase wants me.
My skin is hot, like the chandelier overhead is the mid-summer sun, not a soft glowing luminance. My pussy is throbbing steadily now, my panties are damp, I’m already slicking myself with need for him, and he hasn’t even touched me.
I exhale and undo the last button, letting the two halves of my shirt fall apart to hang loosely at my sides, exposing my bra and my flat, brown stomach. I’m fighting the urge to cover myself with my hands, forcing myself to pull my shoulders back, shake my hair out of my face, and stand as tall and proud as I can. But, I’m terrified and confused.
I don’t let it show. Mr. Chase can look all he wants.
My nipples are rock-hard and I’m sure they’re protruding through the thin lace of my bra. I watch his face as his gaze rakes over my exposed body, his blue eyes dark with arousal. Nobody’s ever wanted me like this and it feels so good. Powerful almost.
“Take off your bra,” His voice is deeper than usual, with a ragged edge to it that sends a shiver up my spine. I reach behind to unhook the clasp and slowly, slowly, draw the straps down my shoulders, taking care to keep the cups in place, covering my breasts. Finally, I let the bra slide away down my body, catching one strap in my fingers, tossing it onto the back of the couch like I’ve done this before.
The cool air in the room is refreshing to my overheated flesh. I glance down at myself, trying to see what Mr. Chase sees. My breasts are small, but firm and round - nothing like the lush feminine curves of most of the dancers, but not terrible, not unappealing.
Mr. Chase clearly likes them.
The bulge in his pants has grown bigger, his lips part while he stares at me before standing abruptly, right in front of me, so close our bodies almost touch, close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Gorgeous creature,” he murmurs, and I watch, frozen, as he lifts one hand to set it on my shoulder.
“Mr. Chase,” But I can’t think of anything else to say. Every cell in my body yearns for him.
He draws his hand down to cup my right breast, moving his thumb to slide over my nipple, making me gasp at the way it feels. My skin tingles just from the light pressure of his fingers, and as he toys with my nipple, I’m almost overwhelmed by the urge to slide to my knees and beg him to fuck me. I can’t think of anything I’ve ever wanted more.
“Your pussy’s wet, isn’t it?”
His voice is so gentle, it takes me a moment to absorb the words, but then it hits home and my cheeks flame. I shake my head, not denying it, but unable to answer. He can’t possibly expect me to agree with him.
“Tell me,” Still gentle, but insistent.
“Yes,” I whisper, humiliated beyond measure, but his thumb is still moving, teasing me, and I want him. I don’t want him to stop touching me.
“Good girl.” The approval in his voice is nearly my undoing.
Then, as suddenly as he moved it there in the first place, his hand is gone. “The others will be here soon, will you pour some drinks, please?”
I’m baffled. I don’t understand how he can switch gears so quickly. It takes me a few moments to redirect my brain from thinking about sex and hunger and his fingers and my pussy.
“Yes,” I reply after too long of a pause.
“Thank you. I need to speak with Rhonda.”
And just like that, calm as anything, he heads for the door. When it clicks shut behind him, I shove my hand down my skirt, inside my tights and underwear, and stroke myself until I come, thighs quivering, still standing in the middle of the room.