Confessions of a Lapdancer. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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      One look at the ambassador’s rosy cheeks and his sweaty brow and I know it’s already working. I waste no time. I slink out of the gown and let it pool at my feet. I step one spiked fire-engine-red stiletto free and then the other. It’s easy to let little moves like this wreck the illusion. Every movement must be fluid. Tripping over discarded clothes or a sticky zipper can lose the momentum you’ve painstakingly built.

      I melt to the floor and crawl towards him. I claw the oriental carpet as I pull myself closer and closer. I can feel his body tense. He is already gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles are white. I pull myself upright and give him a good, long look at my hairless pussy. I slide one finger between my pussy lips and dip it inside me. The ambassador’s not the only hot and horny one.

      He uncrosses his legs and pins them together. There’s the tell-tale sign – the cock rub, a quick adjustment when the strain gets too much. His eyelids are half closed as his whole world shrinks to the head of his penis. I straddle him, feeling my thigh muscles strain to hold my gyrating form inches from his dick.

      He’s gritting his teeth. His back involuntarily arches. I hover lower and brush his cock ever so slightly. He’ll be wondering if he imagined it. He wants to grab my hips and ram his cock inside of me. He’d hand over the keys to the kingdom if I’d ask. He’d whisper state secrets and sell his youngest son right about now, if only I’d unzip his trousers and lower myself on to him.

      Sometimes I try to make clients cum in their pants. I like watching how their faces contort with orgasm and then slowly morph into pink-cheeked embarrassment. But no party tricks tonight.

      I turn it back a notch. I strut away. I cross my legs as if I’m about to spin around. I flick a quick look over my shoulder. I’ve still got him where I want him. He’s squirming in his chair. I bend over slowly, running my hands down my sweaty legs, pausing at my ankles – the naughty schoolgirl begging to be spanked. He’s leaning forward, willing my legs to part. He wants to see my soft glistening pussy.

      Not yet. Be patient. I slide back to standing and strike a strong pose – legs wide, inviting. I twist around and wink then bend over again, this time exposing myself to him. He actually moans. A sly smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I take my time swaying back and forth as I stand up again.

      I turn to face him. I grip my thighs and drag my long, red nails along my lilywhite skin. I cup my breasts, not like most men do, not as if I’m grabbing a pint of beer. I hold them as if they are bubbles ready to pop with the lightest touch. I tense each nipple between my fingers and then draw them up towards my mouth. I flick my tongue over each nipple and eye him as if to say you wish it was you. But it’s me. I’m catching each wave of pleasure that courses through my body. The ambassador’s merely along for the ride.

      The music rises and the beat quickens. I move faster, frantic. Now I’m an animal barely restrained. Sweat sprays from my body with every movement. The music shifts gears and everything but the bass falls away. On the final beat, I stop and pose. My chest rises and falls as I catch my breath.

      For the finale, a little Def Leppard, ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’. I stride over to him, a model on a catwalk. His eyes are insistent and demanding. I hold his gaze. I tease his legs apart with the pointy toe of my shoe. I rest my foot on the chair with the toe of my shoe gently caressing his crotch. I lunge forward. I hold my breasts close to his face. I brush my nipples across his rough, dry lips. The tip of his tongue flicks my nipple as I pull away and I cross my arms tight across my chest. I bend over him slowly and lick my lips as if I might kiss him, but I snap away at the last minute. He groans and his eyes roll to the back of his head. My work here is done.

      I freshen up in the toilet while Jackie collects the payment from his secretary and the bodyguard helps Suzy to the limo. I wonder if he will try to feel her up in her compromised state. I should go out there to make sure she’s OK.

      The gown is a bit wrinkled now, but otherwise I’m no worse for wear. Normally the wig and borrowed costumes make it easy to believe that this person isn’t Geri Carson. Ginger really lives a parallel life. But now without the wig, my reflection in the bathroom mirror makes me uncomfortable. I’ve blurred the line.

      There’s a knock on the door. ‘Coming,’ I say, and laugh to myself.

      When I open the door, the ambassador is looming large in the archway. He is handsome for a near senior citizen. I find his greying temples sexy. It’s the round belly and the hairy knuckles that turn me off. I notice his gold wedding band and wonder where his respectable wife is. Is she upstairs sleeping? Will she have to satisfy the urges that I’d teased to the surface?

      ‘I would like to take you to bed,’ he says.

      I smile. This is the tricky part. Turn them down yet still make them repeat customers.

      ‘I will pay.’

      I slip past him. I don’t want to be trapped in the bathroom. ‘What a very flattering offer, but I really can’t.’

      He catches up to me and pins me against the wall. His stomach keeps us a good few inches apart. ‘I like you.’

      ‘With all due respect,’ I start, and quickly realise that the respect he is due is nil, ‘you don’t know me.’

      ‘But I would like to,’ he says, stroking my arms with his fleshy palms.

      I shiver. ‘Listen, Mr Ambassador, you can’t afford me.’ I side step free and walk away.

      I pause. He did have a nice smile.

      ‘Name your price.’

      And with that I’m gone.

      I race off to find Jackie but the study is empty. It’s dark and looks like a library again. The books and leather seem to have absorbed the sexuality from earlier. I walk to the centre of the room and slowly spin around. I’d like to have a home like this some day, minus the lap dancers and toady private secretary.

      That’s when I notice it – a tiny red light blinking in one corner near the ceiling. A camera. Our entire performance was captured on film. I feel more exposed than I have ever been at the club.

      I run out to the limo, losing one shoe like Cinderella on the way, but I’m too panicked to care. I grab Jackie by the collar and spin her around as she’s ducking into the limo. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ I’m screaming at her. I push her against the car.

      ‘What the hell?’ Jackie shoves me off and looks around. ‘What are you doing? Trying to wake the neighbours and blow our chance for a repeat performance?’

      ‘A repeat performance? He simply has to press rewind and play any time he wants.’ I’m poking my finger into the centre of her chest.

      ‘What in the hell are you talking about?’ She grabs me by the shoulders. ‘And it better be good because no one talks to me like this.’

      ‘They filmed us. The room is wired like a fucking movie set.’ I kick off my other shoe.

      ‘They what?’ Her cheeks flush. She looks up at a light in a second-floor window, probably a bedroom, where the ambassador is already more than likely wanking off watching the video replay. ‘I expressly told them no filming. Filming’s extra.’ She turns to me. ‘I would never let them film without your permission.’ She looks me in the eyes. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’

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