by SR Jones
“Ah, Ilya, her first night and you buy the girl Cristal; she’ll be getting used to the finer things in life, and I’m afraid the ordinary customers will disappoint.” Allyov’s smile is cold, and his words scare me. Have I done something wrong?
“I hope indeed that after me, ordinary customers disappoint. After all, I am not a customer as such, am I? Although, tonight, perhaps I will be,” Ilya says.
Allyov pronounced his name, Ill-yah. It’s not soft but harsh, sounding the way Allyov says it. Harsh like it’s owner.
“You want a dance?” I ask him. Not sure if I should or not, but hey, I am here to work, and not to stand around chatting.
“Yes, but for now, talk with us, if it is okay?” He looks to Allyov, who dips his head.
“Whatever my friend wants, my friend gets,” Allyov says, and I get the distinct impression that includes me.
Shit, I thought this sort of thing didn’t happen here. Didn’t Michelle just tell me that I’d only have to sleep with one of the Russian mob guys if I wanted to? Although the want wouldn’t be the issue with this man, but I made a promise to myself. No. More. Bad. Boys.
“How long are you in England?” Andrius asks Ilya, and he shrugs.
“However long this takes. A week or so, I think.”
They are speaking in English, and I think it’s as a courtesy to me.
Allyov orders drinks for Lucien, himself, and Ilya. Andrius is still nursing his whiskey.
“I will have to get home soon. It is my wife’s birthday, and if I miss the whole night, there will be trouble.” Allyov gives a long-suffering smile, and Ilya returns it.
“If I missed my wife’s birthday, she would cut my balls off,” he says.
Crap, he’s married. For some stupid reason, my heart sinks.
“I am sorry to hear about your loss,” Andrius says with a dip of his head.
“It is hard, but it was for the best. She isn’t suffering anymore.” Ilya takes a sip of his drink, winces slightly, and then swallows it before tossing back the whole glass and banging it on the bar. “Enough of this Western crap. Vodka. Chilled.”
The barman nods and gets out a bottle of Grey Goose, but Ilya shakes his head and points to the Beluga a few bottles along. The barman takes it down and places it on the shiny surface, then grabs a silver tray onto which he places iced shot glasses from the fridge.
Ilya pours shots for everyone, including me. I don’t want to be too buzzed. I already feel as if I’m in a bit of a dreamworld. This is all a bit surreal. First night on the job, and I’m at the bar with the owner and some extremely dangerous men.
Candice walks by and shoots me daggers. Great, this is probably going to make me unpopular with the other girls too.
The men chat, and I’m stood on the outside of the group, feeling stupid, like nothing more than a prop, so once more, I try to leave.
I place my glass on the bar top, thank Ilya for the drink, and turn to go, but he puts a hand around my waist and stops me. “Ah, don’t go; stay. I like you. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you; you’re very kind. I can give you that dance later, but I ought to go. This is my first night, and I need to work.”
He sighs. “Very well, but I will have that dance.”
Thirty minutes later, Michelle comes to find me, as I’m starting a five-minute sit-down in the back. I’ve given two private dances and been bought two more drinks.
“You’ve got a guy waiting for a dance. Booth four,” she says with a smile. “Doing pretty good for your first night.”
Am I? Things are slower than I expected, and at this rate I won’t be making the money I need to bail my stupid-ass brother out.
As I approach the booth, I smooth my dress down. This is the part where I get totally naked. The last two men were easy. Young. Nervous.
I like the younger men. They always seem more respectful somehow, which isn’t what I imagined before I started stripping. It’s the older men who can be demanding and have a sense of entitlement. The ones in their fifties seem the worst for some reason, perhaps because of the era they were brought up in; who knows.
Stepping into the booth, I falter when I see Ilya sitting, his legs apart, in a relaxed pose. Sitting this way makes his powerful build all the more evident.
“I think it’s time for my dance, Rita.”
“Rita?” I frown.
“You remind me of the movie star, Rita Hayworth in that film Gilda.”
I laugh at that. “I wish I looked like her, Ilya.”
“You have a style of her, how do you say, a … reminiscence. Something about you reminds me of her, even though you don’t look like her exactly.”
“Do you want me to strip like Gilda did? Just a glove?”
His eyes darken. “Oh no, my Rita, I want it all. I want to see you, all of you.”
I swallow and force down my nerves. “It’s thirty pounds for a five-minute dance,” I say. “You aren’t allowed to touch me, at all.”
“No touching, I understand.”
There is a music system in the booths that pumps the music playing out in the club in full blast, but I don’t press the button to turn it on. I can hear it well enough to move my body to the beat, and for some reason, I want to hear him clearly, to decipher any responses Ilya makes.
I begin by moving my body slowly, sensually. I’m not in time to the pounding beat, and I don’t care. I go to that place in my head where I’m a goddess, projected on the screen as hundreds of men watch me with hungry eyes. I really do feel like Rita Hayworth when I dance. I feel alive, sensual, beautiful even.
After a while I take off one glove, then the other. I follow this with my dress, but underneath it I am wearing a slip over my lingerie, so there are more layers to the tease. The slip comes off next as I writhe and move my body sensuously, my hands caressing my skin.
I unhook my stockings and make a big show of peeling them off. My flesh goose bumps as the material slides over it.
I’m good at acting as if I’m wildly turned on, and most dances give me a bit of a thrill, but this time I find myself horribly aroused. Almost embarrassingly so. Will he sense it?
Once my stockings are off, I position myself between Ilya’s splayed legs, my back to him, and bend forward. I let him get a good eyeful of my silk-panty covered ass, and then straighten before bending the other way, letting my hair brush over his chest.
He makes a sound, a low groan in the back of his throat, and it makes me want to break the rules. To tell him to touch me. I don’t. I can’t. It’s more than my job is worth.
Instead, I carry on my routine.
My bra comes off next, my breasts cupped in my hand before I let them go, my nipples erect. They’re always erect, though; they keep the air cool in the booths for that very reason. Makes the punters think the girls are horny for them, only this time, this girl really is.
I can hear Ilya’s breathing increase as things get more heated. His thighs are tense, the muscles straining the fabric of his pants.
I’ve never had a man as big as him, and I wonder what it would be like. The rock star failure was skinny. The bad boy was leanly muscular, and the other men I’ve had have been various shades of average. This man is almost six feet of hardened muscle, covered in olive skin, tattoos, and veiled violence.
I can smell his cologne, and it’s gorgeous. Sensual, musky, with a hint of something sweet, maybe vanilla. Every time I glance at parts of him, I get a gorgeous visual. His hands are big, tan, and beautiful. His forearms too. His shoulders are broad, and I can clearly make out his pecs and biceps through the thin cotton of his shirt.
He isn’t allowed to touch, but I am. Only the arms and shoulders with my hands, and the rest of their body I can skim my breasts over, so I do.
I balance myself on him by placing my hands on his pecs, and holy hell! They are hard! So damn hard. Then I dip down and up, letting my breasts brush over his shirt, his shoulders, and then I let them almost touch his face, his mouth.
His breath huffs out warm against my nipples, and I gasp.
His eyes snap to mine, and I know I must look shocked. I’ve never done anything like that before, never responded in this way.
Crap, I need to move this on.
I turn away from him and shimmy out of my panties, bending down and giving him the show of a lifetime. From where he’s sat, he’ll be able to see my clean-shaven pussy as I bend over.
Once my panties are off, I turn to face him and straddle him completely this time. I’m at the finale now. Nearly done. My legs are parted, and I expect him to do what all men do—stare at my pussy and tits.
I look at him only to find his emerald green gaze locked on mine.
He lifts his hands, and I flinch. He’s not allowed to touch. As much as part of me wants him to, I know I could get into deep trouble if he does; plus, another part of me is scared to let him.
Ilya doesn’t touch me. What he does is infinitely more intimate. He moves his hands over me, not touching, but tracing every part of me with his palms only millimeters from my skin.
I feel his warmth as he passes his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, never touching, but so close he may as well be.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says.
This is too much. The air between us is heavy with want and lust, and honestly, I’ve never experienced anything like this before.
I need to lighten the atmosphere. “I bet you say that to all the women you have naked on your knee.” I laugh.
“You’re the first woman I’ve seen naked in over a year, since my wife died,” he says, and I know it is the truth. I see the emotions race through his gorgeous eyes.
Desire. Sadness. Guilt. Torment.
I can see he’s shutting off, closing down. Any minute now he’ll end this dance and walk out of the booth, and I will never see him again, and for some insane reason, I can’t bear that.
Taking hold of his hand, I do something completely inappropriate, and frankly crazy. I take his hand and place it on my breast. As soon as his warm palm covers me, I shiver and close my eyes. God, he feels so good.
I force my eyes open and find him staring at me, his lips parted, his breathing ragged.
“It’s not wrong to want some human contact,” I say. “I don’t know anything about you, or your wife, but it’s not wrong.”
He leans forward and takes my mouth in a kiss. It’s soft, fleeting, and heartbreaking.
Gently, he moves me off him and stands.
“Thank you for the dance,” he says. “It was beautiful. You are beautiful.” He opens his wallet and takes a wad of bills out. There must be hundreds of pounds there, but I shake my head as he hands it to me.
“No. I … I enjoyed this as much as you. I can’t take that. Don’t want to take it.” It would sully this weird thing between us if I did.
He nods and puts the money away, then he reaches out and takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and rubs it as if testing how it feels. Then he turns and is gone, leaving me reeling.
The rest of my shift passes normally. I do three more personal dances, and one is a pain because the guy is in his thirties, absolutely stinking rich, if his clothes are anything to go by, and an obnoxious asshole who keeps trying to grab a feel. In the end, I cut the dance short and throw the card he purchased back at him, telling him I don’t want his money. It takes thirty pounds out of what I’ve earned this evening, but I don’t take crap. It’s a lesson I learned early on.
To be a lap dancer, you need a lot of confidence, a big personality, and to show no fear. The men in these clubs can be lonely, or silly, or young, but sometimes they can be dangerous. Predators. And predators can smell fear. Long ago I learned never to show it.
“How do you feel your first night went?” Michelle asks me as I take a breather in the dressing room.
“Not bad. I could have done with a few more dances, but it wasn’t bad to say I don’t know the place yet.”
“You caught the attention of Ilya,” she says, and her face isn’t pissed off like Candice’s was, but it’s not friendly either.
My face heats as I remember the intimate dance. I don’t want her to notice, though, so I look away and busy myself with the makeup bottles in front of me.
“He’s dangerous.” Michelle is watching me. I can feel her gaze burning a hole in my back.
Tell me something I don’t know.
The man is a startling juxtaposition. He’s obviously violent, it covers him like a second skin, but with me he was gentle, and he mourns the loss of his wife.
“I don’t think I’m in any danger from him; he’s grieving,” I tell her.
“You know, the Nazis did the most terrible things to their enemies, but they loved their families.”
I frown and put down the lip gloss I’d picked up. “Are you equating Ilya to the Nazis?” I meet her gaze in the mirror.
She smiles, and it’s soft, caring. “No, honey. I’m simply saying that some of the most monstrous or dangerous of men can be sentimental for their own blood and family. Doesn’t mean they are good people.”
“Like Andrius?” I say.
“No, not like him. Andrius is … an enigma. All I know is he’s never had a dance, and Lord knows enough girls have tried. He’s never asked any of the girls for anything. Do you know how many of Allyov’s men have at least had a dance for free? All of them, except for Andrius. He’s dangerous, but I don’t think he’s the same as Allyov and the rest. Ilya is the same.”
“He paid me for the dance.” I shrug. He would have given me a ton more if I’d have taken it.
She sighs. “Okay, ignore my warnings. Be careful is all. Working here is good because Allyov runs things with an iron fist. His men, though, are dangerous, and the men he mixes with from other organizations similar to his own, even more so because they aren’t under his control.”
“Is Ilya from a similar organization.”
She smiles again. “Ilya is the same as Allyov but within his own organization.”
I flinch and can almost feel the blood draining from my face. He’s that senior? Oh, crap.
“Well, I’m finished for a few days after tonight, and not on again for a week because the shifts fell that way when I claimed them, so I doubt I’ll see him again.”
“Okay. Oh, and watch out for Candice. She seems to have her nose a bit out of joint.”
“I will. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Two hours later, I’m weary but happy. The final part of the night picked up, and I gave ten private dances in all. Much better than the first half. I haven’t seen any of the mob guys since, so assume they’ve gone elsewhere. I change into my normal clothes to go home. Normally, I wear jeans and trainers, but because this is my first night, and I didn’t know if I’d have to have a word with Allyov before my shift, I had made more of an effort. Tonight, I have on slinky black trousers, heels, a silk shirt, and a good bag. I leave my hair and makeup as they are. I’ll shower when I get home.
Heading outside, I turn right onto the main road. The taxi rank is only a few minutes from here, and often the town center is busier than during the day at this time. I’m not nervous or worried.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
I ignore the voice, not realizing they are talking to me until a hand grabs my upper arm, the fingers digging in. I whirl around to see the same dick who got all handsy inside holding onto me.
“Yes?” I keep my voice calm, glancing at the door of the club. Crap, it’s firmly shut, and there are no bouncers in sight. There are people around, but most are across the busy dual carriageway, or off into the distance.
“How about you give me that dance you owe me?”
I’m glad I gave the fucker his money back. “I don’t owe you a thing. I gave you the card back, which means you got half a free dance. I need to go. My daughter is waiting.”
I don’t have a daughter, but bringing up a kid often puts a dampener on any desire to se
e me out of work. It doesn’t do the trick this time.
“She won’t mind waiting, I’m sure.”
He starts to move in the opposite direction of the taxi rank, basically pulling me with him. Shit. My heart rate spikes, but I stay calm. I have homemade pepper spray in my bag. Totally illegal, so I don’t want to use it because if I do, I might be the one to get into trouble, but I will if I have to.
“Listen, let me go, okay. You don’t want to mess around with me because this club has very strict rules, and some scary people run things here.”
He laughs. “I don’t give a fuck. I’m not from around here. Only here for one night. Got a room in some shithole motel down the road. We can have some fun, and then I’ll be gone.”
“Let me go.” I pull away from him and raise my voice.
“Fuck you, you stuck up bitch.”
One moment, his grip on my arm is tightening, and I’m desperately trying to think of a way to open my bag one-handed; the next moment he’s crying out and letting go of me.
It takes me a second to get with the program. Ilya has pulled the man from me and has him up against a wall.
Andrius and the other man, Lucien, are here too. The club door is swinging shut when I turn around, so they must have only just exited. No Allyov, but these guys were still there. Must have been in some back room. Thank God they were.
“Are you okay?” Andrius asks.
I nod, managing to find my voice, but shocked at how shaky it is when I finally blurt out. “Yes, thank you.”
“She asked you to let her go,” Ilya says to the man.
“It’s all good,” the man says with a smarmy smile. “We were playing.”
“I don’t think she was playing.” Andrius joins in the conversation. “We have a very strict policy here. You don’t touch the girls. No fucking touching. You broke the rules.”
“Okay, I won’t come here again. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not,” Andrius drawls. “You should be, though.”
“Why?”
“Because the man holding you up against that wall goes back to Russia tomorrow and has absolutely no reason not to pulverize your smirking face.”
The man swallows hard and starts to babble nonsense, basically begging.