She doesn’t dance to music;
she snakes her hips to the base throb
pumping from the heart of the club,
her grinding moves keeping time
to the thumping beat bombarding the walls.
Remarkably poised, she arches and bends,
a wave smoothly undulating through her lithe body,
peaking with a flip of her ripe peach ass.
Winking at me, she slaps her backside,
then, grasping the pole, takes flight.
Effortless, graceful…
Images of angels fill my rapt mind
but the curve of her hips,
naked bullet-tipped breasts,
soon drag my thoughts to ignoble levels.
She’s no angel.
Artistry can’t mask the devilry in her eyes
or her wicked smirk.
She’s a whore – a purchased pleasure –
dancing to a pulse that races like my own.
I shift in my chair,
gripping oak armrests with slippery palms.
My clothing’s restrictive, sweat prickles my neck,
and heat, such heat, smoulders inside
as with lust, I look on.
She floats, sails, anchored to earth by a silver pole
upon which she slides, fucking the metal.
Her mien, a picture of sinful desire,
mirrors mine – I long to touch her, taste her, take her,
suck on her nipples and fondle her breasts
while she rubs against my flesh, not the pole.
Soaring, head back, she twists and turns,
then, parting her thighs, she fingers her panties
and peels back the fabric stretched over her sex,
to offer a tantalising, teasing, glimpse.
Oh… to bury my face in her snatch,
to drink in her fragrance then thrust my tongue deep,
extracting her nectar…
But unseen eyes shackle me to my chair.
Rules must be obeyed, base needs contained.
My mouth’s dry, heart hammers wildly,
palm prints mark the chair’s wooden arms
and a hot, needy throb leaves me twitching.
Aching, I gape…
Legs hugging the pole, she launches backward,
hanging upside down like a fallen angel.
Staring straight at me, she teases her nipples,
pulling taut teats, pressing and pinching.
Caressing her breasts, she moans enticingly,
then, with a gasp, she’s off again…
Embracing the pole, she flies to the rhythm
of striptease and lap dances; lewd debauchery
and reckless fucking, right outside our private sanctum.
It’s depravity I crave and, suddenly,
I want more – more of her body, her beauty, her sex…
But a red light flashes in my peripheral vision
and she spirals downward, her pace slowing
until she crumples around the pole.
Time’s up.
I watch her rise and, blowing a kiss,
slink silently, slowly, into the shadows.
She’s gone, but in my mind,
she’s still on her knees,
face lifted to me, awaiting instruction.
I hear her whisper, “If you want me, I’m yours…”
