by Sharon Kleve
Heads turn as I walk through the crowd, in a figure hugging silver strappy dress barely touching my mid-thigh area.
From a distance, through the ambience of the sexy atmosphere in the club, I can see table forty-four. My heart skips a beat, as I recognise Mr. Clarkson and Mr. James, the guests from Park Hotel. They both look in my direction beaming from ear to ear. It’s too late for me to turn around and decline the private dance request. On cue, the DJ puts on one of my favourite dance songs. As soon as I hear Rihanna’s provocative lyrical content of Rude Boy, I smile and put extra sass into my long confident stride as I walk over to table forty-four. On arrival, I bend down low and rest on the table, blessing both men with a glimpse of my cleavage.
“Gentlemen, what a pleasant surprise! Happy Valentine’s Day in advance for tomorrow.” I say through pouted lips.
“Rita—Red, same to you, nice to see you,” Mr. Clarkson responds.
His eyes dart toward my cleavage, and then back up to my eye level. As embarrassed as I feel to be caught out like this by a couple of paying hotel guests, I remain in character. After all that’s what they’re here for.
“I hope our London gentlemen’s club match those back home in New York?”
“No competition—London rocks hands down.”
“Why thank you, Mr. James.”
I lean into the table farther to meet Mr. Clarkson’s gaze.
“A little birdy told me someone on table forty-four requested a private dance?”
“That’s me.”
“My pleasure…Mr. Clarkson.”
I bat my eyelashes at him as I take his hand in mine. As he stands up, I lead him away from the table and into the crowd. I look over my shoulder and spy Mr. James smiling to himself. I give him a cheeky wink. In response, he raises his whisky glass.
“You kids have fun now,” he calls out to us.
“Oh we will. Follow me, Mr. Clarkson.”
I lead Mr. Clarkson by the hand through the dining area, swaying my hips seductively as I walk in beat with Rhianna’s lyrics. As we approach the private entertainment area of the club, I pull back the black satin curtain. My private room for the night is lit up with soft red lighting from the chandeliers. I watch Mr. Clarkson cast his eyes with approval over the leopard print cushions, sleek black leather sofa, the mirrors placed on all four walls and my pole strategically positioned in the middle of the room. I’ve seen that look of approval many times every time a new guest has paid for the privilege to enter the private dance area.
Normally I’d feel no nerves when I entertain a client back here, after a while it becomes pretty routine. Tonight my stomach flips from side to side with butterflies. Mr. Clarkson is different. He’s not someone I’ve met for the first time. A few hours before, we shared a very pleasant afternoon sightseeing around London. I assumed all along he had no idea this is my other line of “work.” To him, I was an innocent receptionist— or so I thought. Somehow he worked out I’m a lap dancer. He asked for me personally. Somewhere along the line the cat was let out of the bag.
“Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I glance back at Mr. Clarkson as I head over to the sound system to select a slow seductive song. Feeling Good by Michael Buble comes to mind, but my hand has other ideas, as my finger selects Beyoncé’s Naughty Girl.
I glance back at Mr. Clarkson on the sofa, and see he has the look of lust in his light brown eyes, as he sits back casually. As the beat of the music kicks in, I don’t take my eyes off Mr. Clarkson. I throw back my head and raise both my arms above me, as I walk sexily over to the centre of the room. I run my hands down the curves of my body and then grab the pole and look him dead in the eye. I wonder how he found out I work here? For now, I put that thought to the back of my mind. I didn’t feel like dancing tonight, but I have a very special client in the hot seat. A few hours ago before I started work, I fantasised about how I’d spend an evening with him, just us in private. With that thought, I forget the slow, almost romantic routines dancers are encouraged to perform on stage. We’re allowed to be sexy, but not too provocative— or offensive. We British lap dancers sometimes have a prudish way about us, compared to American lap dancers. I laugh to myself as I grab the pole with both hands, lift my feet off the ground, and execute a perfect spin.
For Mr. Clarkson, tonight I’ll dance as if no one is looking. As a dancer, I’ve spent many hours watching YouTube clips of other dancers showcasing their skills around the world. I’ve always been impressed by the freeness and athletic ability of pole dancers across the Atlantic. With Beyoncé’s Naughty Girl in the background, I’ll perform like a dancer at the fully nude gentlemen’s club Magic City in Atlanta, Georgia USA, rather than the reserved Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club of London, UK. My boss will have a fit if he walks in, but Mr. Clarkson is worth the risk.
After a few tricks on the pole, I slowly lower the straps of my silver satin dress and step out, in nothing but a black throng and my five-inch heels. I watch Mr. Clarkson’s reaction as his eyes drink me in, like a well that’s been rained in after a long drought. I walk over in my thong and heels and then sit on his lap. As I straddle Mr. Clarkson face on, he whispers in my ear.
“You’ve certainly got a lot of skill with the pole, Rita.”
I give him a smile as I gyrate sexily in his lap. I know exactly what I’m doing and the affect this has on each man that sits in this very chair. I’m caught off guard as he crosses one of the club’s boundaries. With both hands he cups both of my breasts. Look but don’t touch runs through my mind, but the words won’t leave my mouth. Gently he rolls both of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. In response to his gentle touch, I throw my head back and close my eyes as pleasure rushes through me. The lower half of my body takes on a rhythm of its own, a slow sexy gyrating motion in his lap. He doesn’t stop there, as I open my eyes and look down, he takes my left nipple in his mouth. Wrapping his right arm around my lower back he pulls me in closer to him.
“Mr. Clarkson, you’re breaking club rules there’s a strict no—”
I stop mid-sentence as a moan escapes me. His tongue expertly plays with my nipple, as both of his hands grab hold of my behind. I rock, slowly in motion with his caressing touch. I can feel his semi-erection in his pants mounting as I continue to rock against him. He slowly brings his right hand forward from my behind, and places it between my legs. His attention leaves my breast, as he looks up at me he moves the thin lace of my thong to one side between my legs. It’s almost as if he’s seeking permission to touch me further with his gaze. Judging if I’ll resist him or allow him to enter me. I don’t break his gaze. Slowly and deliberately, he slides in his middle finger inside of me. Once connected, I melt yet again at his purposeful slow and sensual touch. As he moves his finger in and out of me, I move the lower half of my body against his slow deliberate rhythm.
“You are so beautiful, Rita.”
Mr. Clarkson whispers again, as he places light kisses on my neck. The sound of my name snaps me back into reality—I’m at work. Mr. Clarkson is a paying client, and we’ve broken every rule in the book.
“Richard— Mr. Clarkson we’ve got to stop. Sorry I—”
“Shh, no one will even know, Rita.”
He kisses me softly on the lips. He tastes of whiskey. I don’t fight it, I kiss him back while he continues to slowly penetrate me with his finger. As we kiss deeper and more passionately he builds up his speed and deepness within me. I’m on the verge of an earth shattering climax.
“No, stop c’mon. Let me give you your Valentine’s Day dance. That’s what you came for— remember?”
He doesn’t object as I slide off of his lap and stand in front of him. I drink him in as if it’s the first time I’ve seen him. A small smile creeps across both of our faces.
In just my thong and heels I sashay over to the stereo and restart my dance song, then take to the pole. In just my lace thong and heels, I dance as if my life depends on it. If I can’t be in
timate with him at least I can please him with a dance. I watch Mr. Clarkson closely, I can tell he’s turned on.
As we lock eyes he winks at me. I can’t help but blush. There is more to this, this is not just a private dance request— but for tonight that’s all it can be.
CHAPTER SIX
Farewell
Valentine’s Day Park Hotel, London
The next evening Richard packs his small suitcase, as he waits for a taxi to take him and Dan back to London Gatwick airport. Last night Rita give him a lap dance, that blew every other private dance he’s had out of the water. She is super talented on the pole. It was like eye candy for him to watch her long, slender, porcelain body move in such a seductive way.
The intimacy left him wanting more. He’d be dishonest to no one but himself if he said she did not leave him hot under the collar. It was just the wrong time and place, for last night to go any farther.
After her dance and their intimate moment, he went back to Dan in the main guest area. He was smiling from ear to ear. He gave nothing away. There was no extra money spent for his “extra” time with Rita. He never offered— so she did not feel like he was using her, and she never asked. Last night was a mutual overspill of lust and want between the two of them. A knock at the door brings his mind back to the present.
“Richard, hey you ready buddy? Our driver is downstairs waiting.”
“Yeah, I’m on my way.”
Downstairs at the reception Sophie greets Richard and Dan, Richard looks around but there’s no sign of Rita.
“Good evening gentlemen, I hope you had a pleasant stay with us at the Park
Hotel?”
“We did, thank you. We’ll be back for sure,” Dan responds.
“Yep, maybe sooner than you expect.”
Richard adds as he turns around and spies Rita entering the building, in her pristine and highly starched receptionist’s uniform. This evening she has her hair piled high on her head and her make-up is subtle. She does a double take as she notices Richard standing by the large reception desk. He gives her a wink, and laughs to himself as he notices her blush.
“Good evening gentlemen, I hope you had a pleasant stay in London and enjoyed your time at the Park Hotel?”
“Rita, evening nice to…ah—see you.” Dan greets her in a rather nervous tone.
“Mr. James, same to you.”
“And Mr. Clarkson, how are we this evening?”
“Ah, I’m fine thanks, feeling pretty rough after a late night last night, but nothing I can’t handle.”
He responds and flirts with her. Rita blushes again, and nervously moves a wave of her fire red hair behind her right ear.
“You enjoyed your last night in London then?”
“I did indeed, Ms Rita. I hope to be back soon, and experience the city again.”
I watch Mr. Clarkson slide one of his business cards across the reception desk toward me.
“Here’s my business card and an address where you can mail me the signed copy of Harry Potter, when J.K Rowling is back at Waterstones.”
“Oh yes, your book, thank you for reminding me. Do you have it for me?”
“I sure do.”
My legs are as wobbly as jelly in my heels, I feel light headed on lust and happy thoughts as I watch Mr. Clarkson pull out his copy of the latest Harry Potter book, and slide it over to me.
“Thank you, I’ll be sure to let you know when J.K Rowling back at Waterstones.”
“Thanks, I look forward to it.”
As Richard observes Rita he notices how radiant she looks this evening. No one would believe or even imagine, that she had spent the night working the circuit at Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club.
“Mr. Clarkson, Mr. James. Ready when you are, sirs.”
Dan and Richard whip around at the sound of their names, and wave to the driver at the hotel entrance.
“Well, we guess this is goodbye ladies. It’s been a pleasure for us. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. James.”
I respond as Sophie busies herself answering the red flashing reception desk calls. I leave Mr. Clarkson with a long lingering look, before he turns and follows Mr James with a confident walk toward to hotel’s exit. I wish I could kiss him good bye…oh how I wish.
Three weeks later
Mr. Clarkson’s departure left me wanting more, without a doubt. One night I could not help myself, I logged onto his company website following the address on his business card, just so I could see his face again.
The afternoon we spent together sightseeing around London, and the steamy intimate moments at Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club did something to me. It woke me up and made me feel alive again. It’s been too long since I let a man get close to me, and connect with me. Normally, while out with a client as his escort or even while being intimate with a paying client of Elite Escorts I can close off those feelings of want or connection. With Mr. Clarkson on the eve of Valentine’s Day, it was impossible.
Working both day and night jobs has kept me busy over the last few weeks. Tonight, I took the night off I simply feel like curling up on my sofa, with a glass of red wine and a good romance novel. I never confessed to Sophie a word about what happened between Mr. Clarkson and I, it’s too risky.
You may be wondering why I work at Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club and do the occasional escort job with Elite Escorts? Simple, it’s the thrill of both jobs that keeps me going back as well as the money. Each night you never know who will walk through the doors at Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club. I’ve danced for some famous male and female celebrities both British and from overseas. As an escort, dining at some of London’s most sought after restaurants with powerful business men in suits is a great way to make money for just putting on a beautiful dress and a pair of heels. Would I ever stop? That depends, mainly on there being a reason to stop. Falling in love could be one of them.
I finger Mr. Clarkson’s business card and blush at his note on the back. “Rita, thanks for the underwear, FYI you look great in black and a pair of heels.” He guessed it was me who left a random pair of worn knickers in his bathroom, the day of his business meeting. My blush turns into a wicked cackle as I relive our short time together and smile. I have his signed copy of Harry Potter ready to send off to him.
I pull out my laptop and then log into my e-mail account to send him an e-mail.
From: Rita Lane
To: Richard Clarkson
Sent: Friday 4th March 2016 19:00 GMT
Subject: How Are You?
Hey Mr. Clarkson,
How are you? I hope all is well your side of the Atlantic. I have your book here for you, on Monday I’ll put it in the post to you.
Rita
Ps. I’ve thought of you often since you left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Seconds
Across the Atlantic as Rita’s e-mail pings in Richard’s inbox. He’s knee deep in financial accounts and spreadsheets. It’s Friday afternoon and he can’t wait for the weekend to start. He opens her e-mail up, and then braces himself for what she has to say. For three weeks, Richard daydreamed about their one night in London together. The thought was on constant repeat in his mind.
He smiles to himself, at least he knows he is not alone and she’s spent time thinking of him too— often, from what she confessed in her e-mail. He places his Excel spreadsheet to one side and types out a response.
From: Richard Clarkson
To: Rita Lane
Sent: 4th March 2015 14:00 GMT-5
Re: How Are You?
Hey Rita,
I’m really happy to hear from you. Please call me Richard. Things are good my end. I can’t wait for the weekend to begin, right now I’m tied up with Excel spreadsheets and numbers. I guess it’s evening for you over in London, what are you up to?
Great news about my book. I too have thought of you over the last three weeks. I’m coming to collect my book in person— yep you read that right. I’d like to m
eet you again in London, and pick up where we left off…Can I take you to dinner? Somewhere nice around Soho maybe? I know there are some great Chinese restaurants in that part of London.
Richard’s inbox pings almost instantly with a new e-mail.
From: Rita Lane
To: Richard Clarkson
Sent: Friday 4th March 2016 19:15 GMT
Subject: How Are You?
Hey
Are you serious? It would be amazing to see you again. I had a wonderful time with you on the tour bus. And while at “work”. When are you thinking of coming over? Will you come alone or on another business trip? Where do you plan to stay?
As I send my e-mail, I feel a rush of excitement yet nervous. What will the future hold for Richard and me? My no complications rule is now out the window. I blame too much wine and romantic novels, for my U-turn on Richard’s role in my life. He was just a client, one that I enjoyed spending time with for one night. Now he’s crossed the line to potential love interest.
From: Richard Clarkson
To: Rita Lane
Sent: 4th March 2015 14:20 GMT-5
Re: How Are You?
Hey Rita
This time it will be just me. Looking at my work schedule I can fly over for a weekend two weeks today, providing I can find a flight. I’ll stay at a different hotel this time, hopefully you’ll join me.
From: Rita Lane
To: Richard Clarkson
Sent: Friday 4th March 2016 19:25 GMT
Subject: How Are You?
Hey Richard,
Sounds like a plan for sure! I’ll book that weekend off of work.
Let me know how your search for a flight to London goes.
Ps. How did you know I worked at Stringfellows Gentlemen’s Club?
From: Richard Clarkson
To: Rita Lane
Sent: 4th March 2015 14:30 GMT-5
Re: How Are You?
Hey Rita,
Great I’ll keep you posted. Keep the weekend of the 18th March free I’ll be over for sure.