by Nicola Jane
You hang back, frozen in place but all eyes are suddenly on you. Even though it's immediately clear you are the only two people inside the ring, your eyes scan the small space hoping there's someone else hidden there. Someone that's about to engage in combat for the entertainment of the rowdy men who are now shouting at you.
'Oil her up! Oil her up!'
The girl is frowning at you now and jerking her head towards the corner opposite her. It's no use looking behind you and hoping you're just there for decoration. You take up your corner, feet planted as firmly as they can be in stilettos on an oily tarpaulin. Again you look towards your rival for silent instruction. She has a bottle of oil in her hand and a quick glance down shows one hanging from the ropes behind you. You pick it up and pour it over your body, bracing yourself for the onslaught that's sure to follow. Immediately hands grope your breasts, gliding over your skin and disappearing, only to be replaced by more hands. They move constantly, lifting and squeezing, plucking at the nipples and then sliding away again. More hands appear in front of you and you pour oil into them, arching your back as they rub down over your belly and across your thighs. The firm pressure heats your muscles and something uncoils in the pit of your belly. Nerve endings across your skin awaken and your body tenses for pleasure. You take a kind of strength from the stroking hands, as if they're transmitting help and support. They sweep around your back, kneading your buttocks, slipping fingers in and out of each crevice and secret place. One, two, even three digits part the flesh and curl inside you while other hands stroke down and brush your clitoris with maddening imprecision.
A bell rings, high and harsh, triggering an instinctive rush of adrenalin and the crowd stills into murmurs. The hands all withdraw instantly leaving you exposed but turned on as hell. Your opponent steps into the centre of the ring and you have no choice but to do the same. Her stance is low and defensive and it seems she's taking it seriously. She's not the only one. The raucous shouts resume as the men place bets.
'Five hundred on the new girl!'
'Four fifty says it's over in two rounds!'
She takes advantage of your distraction to dart forward and before you know what's happened, there's a smack and you're flat on your back with the wind knocked out of you. She kneels across your torso, pinning your arms to your sides. Her bodyweight holds you to the ground unnecessarily as you need a few seconds to get your breath back. Does this mean you've already lost?
'Come on, flip her!'
'Get up!' Judging by the commentary from the sidelines the match is not to be over so fast.
Perhaps to give you time, or for the entertainment of the crowd, she brings her feet up behind her and pushes them between your legs. The oil means they slip in between your thighs easily and your legs slide and squeak apart with the pressure. She smiles at the spectators and lifts a finger to her lips, licking it suggestively and then reaching down behind her. You feel her finger seek its way inside you, exaggeratedly moving in and out to whoops of appreciation. You close your mind to the feel of it but it's enough to make your legs weak and you need them to be strong if you're to gain any advantage.
You plant your feet on the floor and raise your butt which comes off the ground with a suction slurp as your skin parts company with the oily tarp. You heave her sideways, freeing your right arm as she slaps down. You sit up and throw your weight forward so that you land on top of her. She grunts as your breasts crush against her chest and you both try to grip each other, rolling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs. The men cheer and more bets exchange hands, one guy giving a running commentary as you struggle.
'They don't want to see us kill each other,' she whispers in your ear. 'Put on a show.'
She's right. You relax your muscles and squash some of the survival instincts that have automatically kicked in. Her hands move over your buttocks and stretch them apart as you roll on top of her. You slide your body upwards so your breasts cover her face as if in an attempt to smother her. When she gets you on your back again, you loosen your hold but she keeps her head there and takes one nipple into her mouth, sucking hard and then lapping her tongue over it as it stands up. A jolt of pleasure ripples through you from the nipping, concentrated movement of her teeth and tongue.
Fighting against your lapse in concentration, you buck her off so she tips backwards and quick as a flash you slither over and sit astride her in reverse, pinning her arms to the ground as she did to you earlier. This time you're facing away from her and towards the audience. You hold one finger up, give a big mock shrug of your shoulders and hold up two instead, before placing them in your mouth and licking them. The men roar with laughter and crane to see what they know is coming next. She makes a show of fighting back as you part her thighs with one hand, look down into the pink, petal-like folds of her pussy and push both fingers inside her. Her tight muscles resist and the oil makes it hard to tell if she's as turned on as you were. You almost feel it's your duty to try to make sure. You press upwards, feeling for the most sensitive spot, withdraw and rub across the lips and clitoris. You wriggle your fingers and coax inside her again but there is no answering throb or shiver.
You lean your bodyweight forward, locked in momentary concentration and her arms use the space created to hook up under your legs and pull your body up towards her head. Her palms are flat against your lower stomach but dive down to open you up so what she's about to do is visible. She brings you up to sit over her face and then extends her tongue to lick your swollen clit. Her tongue rasps soft and hard at the same time and when she brings her left knee up, you steady yourself on it, abandoning even fake attempts to escape.
The crowd murmurs as bets are recast quietly while all eyes are on you as if they're taking it more seriously now a victory seems near. You look down to see the bottom of her chin and the tip of her tongue as it darts back and forth between her fingers. You let your knees slide further apart on the greased up floor and the pleasure increases, building into a slow burn that coils in on itself until all your muscles spasm and your legs tremble in triumph. Or defeat, you realise as cheers erupt and money immediately starts changing hands.
The wrestling contest is over and the reigning champion has won.
The end
Or...
She may have dominated you this round, but there’s still plenty more fun to be had so you retrace your steps...
Definitely the Type
It's excitement enough for one night to be mistaken for an escort and then be invited to join one. It's a whole different world but one you're happy to just skirt around the edge of.
'Ah, thanks for the offer.' You sound ridiculously polite but don't know how else to turn down such an invitation. 'But I was on my way home and I think that's still where I'm headed.'
She pulls a mock pouting face. 'You can't say I didn't try. I can see it in your eyes. You are definitely the type.'
'What type?' The question comes out despite yourself.
'The type that gets off on doing something bad.' She gets up to go with a sexy wriggle off the stool. She smoothes her dress down, lingering over her hips. Your eyes follow her hands and she catches you looking. 'Not to mention the type that hasn't gotten off at all in a long time.'
You don't have an answer. The second part of what she says is true enough otherwise you wouldn't have given that idiot from work the chance to stand you up. As for the first part, you're not sure enough to deny it.
She flips out a card from her bag. 'Here's my number. Give me a call when you admit it to yourself. You have a nice night now.'
'You…er…you too.' You stumble awkwardly over the trite words, but she's gone, on her way to who knows what. Maybe one day you'll find out. You turn her card over in your fingertips. Not tonight though.
The end…
Or...
A moment’s hesitation; were you a little too hasty? Give her a call...
Maybe this isn’t quite what you pictured so you retrace your steps...
En
ough for One Night
The real escort, the one whose number he has, would agree but it's not for you. Being paid once for sex was exciting but you're not going to do it again.
You clutch your envelope and open the car door.
'Sure, just call me and set it up.'
You slam the door closed on the night's adventure.
The end
Or...
The night’s still young and there’s plenty of fun still to be had, so you retrace your steps...
A Graceful Exit
You get out at the ground floor and swish past the reception desk and the doormen. What would they think if they'd seen you earlier or if they knew your panties were in your bag? The chill night air scolds you under your dress.
You didn't know you were this saucy.
Who knows what might happen next time you go out at night.
The end
Or...
No need to leave the party so early, there’s still plenty of fun to be had so you retrace your steps...
Returning the Gift
'Ah. Oops,' you mimic. 'What would Hugh do?'
You don't know what's got into you but, with a quick glance left and right, you reach under your dress for the second time tonight. The thong slips down your thighs, falling easily with the weight of the rhinestones. With a little wriggle, you let it drop to the floor.
His eyes widen in surprise, even as his pupils dilate and he throws back his head and laughs.
You smile archly, turn round and strut down the corridor. You only look back when you reach the lift. He's leaning against the doorjamb, still laughing, a rich deep sound that penetrates the quietness of the corridor. You pass 941…the rock star groaning on the brink of explosion…940…the actress murmuring instructions to the oiled up younger man…939…the ambassador's mistress licking the last of the strawberry's juice from her lips…to the lift.
The rush from what you've just done flushes your reflected face in the mirrored doors. This is not a night to go home early and alone. You push the button to take you to the ground floor. One more drink at least. Or maybe that's enough excitement for one night.
Or...
You’ve never felt sexier in your life and you’re pleased enough to take the memory home with you...
You’re on a sizzling high and you’re nowhere near ready to call it a night. You decide to head back to the bar...
Maybe you’ve not quite had your fill of this guy, so you retrace your steps...
Room 942
In a split second the decision is made. In this thong, you're someone else, inhabiting their life just for a few moments.
'I'd better come in then.' You don't wait for an answer before you move forward using purposeful movement to convince yourself as much as him.
He steps back, hitches up his towel and wraps it more securely around his hips. The door swings shut as he lets it go, firmly shutting out the normality of life outside this room. You drop your bag and sit on the side of the bed, playing for time while you muster up the courage to go through with it. Sitting causes the row of crystals to grate against your soft flesh. It's an almost painful pleasure which is the physical equivalent to the feeling of opening yourself up to this complete, albeit very sexy, stranger.
You take a deep breath, sucking in courage with oxygen and take the final step over the frontier. 'Is this what you're looking for?' You push the skirt of your dress up so he can see a flash of pink cloth.
Raised eyebrows and a bemused expression reveal a hint of arousal. 'Looks like it.' He pauses. 'From the front, at least.'
'Sit down.' You gesture towards an armchair in the corner of the room. Part of you can't believe what you're about to do. The rest of you is already turned on at the thought of fulfilling the fantasy. He sits, looking relaxed but you can see the slight bulge under the towel where his interest is apparent. It's the fact he so obeys that gives you the final surge of bravery that you need.
You reach behind you and undulating your hips, slowly turn round as you pull the zip. It parts with a buzzing sound as the dress widens at the top. You peel it over your shoulders until your back is bare and the dress slithers around your waist. You bend forward and inch it down over your hips until the top of the thong and the dip between your buttocks are visible. You turn to face him again so you're standing in front of his knees just out of arm's reach. He blows out air audibly as if he's been holding his breath since he sat down.
'No touching,' you warn.
You move your hips from side to side and help the dress fall to the floor. Now you're just wearing the thong and a lacy black bra, cut low so your breasts are pushed up. You arch your back and swallow dive towards him and then push your hips forward again. If he reached up he could touch you but he obeys your instructions and keeps his hands at his sides.
Emboldened, you take one more step closer, one foot either side of his knees. You're so close his towel tickles the insides of your thighs. Then you step back and turn around so your ass faces him.
He draws in a breath as you bend right over and touch your toes. It must be taking all his self control not to touch the firm, rounded flesh of your ass, with the chain of stones the only thing covering what's left of your modesty. The room disappears and you're somewhere inside yourself, rushing around your own veins, throbbing with every pulse. You hold the pose and sweep your hands up the backs of your thighs and over your butt. You cup the cheeks and part them slightly. His outrush of breath feels like a caress and you long to press back and feel his nose, his tongue, his chin on the tender skin. Standing up straight again you undo the clasp of your bra. You slip the straps off but keep your hands on the front of the bra and turn to lean over him. Your breasts hang inches from his face, and you cup your hands to catch their weight as the bra falls off.
He's not concealing his arousal at all now. His pupils are dilated and there's a light sheen to his forehead. You must look the same. The more you move, the more the thong presses against you. Soon it's going to be you who'll need instructions not to touch.
You lift and massage your breasts, flashing just a glimpse of nipple between your fingers. The nipples are already hard and you roll them between your fingers before brushing them across his face. You shiver as his shadowy stubble scratches across the sensitive skin.
You step back to compose yourself, completely unselfconscious. The feeling of power is as much an aphrodisiac as the sensations themselves.
He can see it on your face. 'If I can't touch you, maybe you should touch yourself.'
You hesitate. There's no doubt that physically you crave the release. But could you do that in front of a complete stranger?
Or...
Enough games, it’s time to take things up a notch...
You’re enjoying this too much to stop now...continue the striptease....
Maybe this isn’t quite living up to your expectations yet, so you retrace your steps...
Innocent Until Proven Guilty
You graze your knuckles on the door in a delicate knock. The thong presses against you and you tingle with the unfamiliar pressure. You wait, wondering if the delay means he's hoping you/the escort will use the key instead.
The door opens to reveal a frowning undressed man, holding a towel up around his smooth body. His hair is dripping into his eyes and a warm cloud of shower scented air curls out from the doorway. 'You didn't see the key?' He speaks with the vaguely annoyed tone of someone whose instructions are usually followed.
'I did,' you reply. 'But I think it and the cash were meant for someone else.' And the thong, you think, but keep that part to yourself.
'Ah,' he says. 'Oops. What a very Hugh Grant romantic comedy moment.'
'Floppy hair and everything,' you acknowledge. Hugh Grant was never so lean and toned though. This guy is gorgeous. You can't believe he pays for sex. 'But his films don't tend to be as X-rated as I'm guessing yours would be.'
'That all depends on my co-star.'
'Well the scr
ipt I read demanded I give you this back.' You take the envelope out of your bag and hand it over. And then all your bravado is sucked out of you in one breath as he squeezes it and looks inside.
'And the wardrobe department insists that you return its costume.' He looks you in the eye and then deliberately aims his glance down to your groin which twitches in response. You can imagine exactly what he's imagining.
This moment has been coming since the second you slipped that little piece of glittering sparkle on. You stepped into a very different kind of evening right then. You could just flat out deny it of course. Or you could give it back. Or you could throw yourself completely into the role and think like your costume's character.
Or...
This guy doesn’t need to know what’s under your hemline just yet, so you deny everything...
Looks like the gentleman has a sense of humour, so why not have a little fun? Return his stolen goods with a touch of mischief...
No turning back now and you both know it. Let him know exactly what’s hiding beneath your little red dress...
Maybe this isn’t quite how you pictured it just yet, so you retrace your steps...
Farewell
'I don't know what you mean,' you say. You try to sound stern but your red face gives you away. You've always been a terrible actress.
'That's a shame.'
You continue to play the innocent. 'What is?'
He puts the envelope down on the side next to the tray of champagne you saw earlier.