Stripped: Chapter 4b

Start with Chapter 1 here

I’d purged him from my mind – written him off as a menstruation-inspired fantasy. But immediately every inch of my body began to tingle just imagining those eyes exploring me. I wanted to see him. I had to see him.

“Where is he?” I begged hastily.

Candy shrugged and scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “Ummmmm…”

Unwilling to wait for her memory to return to her, I stalked back towards the floor. He’s not sneaking off this time.

I couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving again without a chance to see if what I had experienced was real. I breezed through the entryway to the floor, a woman on a mission.

But Randy grabbed my arm. “Hey, I have a special job for you,” he said.

I barely looked at him, “Not right now, Randy, I have something I have to take care of.”

He pulled my arm hard, slamming me against the door. “Not right now, you don’t,” he insisted, the cheap scotch on his breath invading my nostrils. “I have an important customer and he wants a private dance. From you. He is paying good money to see you so you’re doing this. Follow me.”

Ah fuck. The Pot. He must’ve snuck in on my break. I felt my heart sink to my knees. The only thing worse than losing the opportunity to bore my eyes into my obsessive admirer was replacing that blissful anticipation with the morbidity of a private dance for a man I despised.

God I hate my job sometimes.

Dejected, I followed Randy to one of the private rooms behind the bar and nodded to the bouncer who would be my only advocate for the next ten minutes. Randy led me into the room, remaining by my side as I took my spot by the pole. What, does he think I needed babysitting? I’ve done this before.

“This particular patron has a special request,” he stated dispassionately. He held up his hands, atop which rested a long black bandana. This guy had a thing for cowgirls?

I can be so dense sometimes…

“He’s a very private man. We’re the only club in town willing to cater to his needs. You will be well compensated as will I.” And with that, he turned me around and proceeded to tie the bandana over my eyes.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Randy, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This is a joke, right? You can’t be serious. How am I going to see what I’m doing? What if he tries something?” I was starting to panic; I did not trust this man. And I wasn’t just talking about the Pot.

“Fred is looking after you. You’ll be fine. It’s worth a nice pile of cash to you and a whole lot more to me.”

I knew Randy had always valued money above all else but it was never a major motivator for me. Still, if I was going to get through this, I knew I’d need an incentive. I took a deep breath and began visualizing what I’d buy with my blind money. A MacBook? Vacation? Add it to my savings?

I let these thoughts distract me as Randy’s steps faded away. I was envisioning the upgrades I’d get on my new computer when a whispered conversation took place by the door and a new set of shoes entered the room. The footsteps sounded lighter than I expected, but of course, I’d never done this blindfolded before so the observation was fairly meaningless. I wrapped my hands around the bar, pulling my body into my normal introductory pose.

I stood statuesque until I heard the footsteps stop and the shuffling sounds of a body settle into the chair across from me. I started to move.

Huh. This is actually much easier blindfolded. My signature daydream of Tom Hardy sitting sweaty and glowering in the chair in front of me took over and I swayed into some sensual moves, enjoying the anonymity of my audience more than I expected. Tom was soon replaced with visions of my ball-capped admirer, digging his eyes into me intimately. A picture of my true patron – the Pot – flicked briefly back into my mind.

My brain can be such a jerk sometimes.

I faltered at the image of this massive and dissonant man, scolding myself as I tripped on my heels. The sound of the Pot’s shoes rang in my ears as they rapidly moved closer, no doubt to help me.

No! Don’t touch me!

I cringed, resisting, but the hands that took hold of my arms to lift me back to my feet were not the chubby, sweaty, greedy hands I had expected. They were strong and calloused, but gentle.

It’s not the Pot.

Fred was by my side in a flash, the sound of his heavy breathing all too familiar, ready to haul this man’s ass out at my request.

“It’s ok, Fred,” I said. “This is ok with me.”

I listened – no footsteps. He was hesitating.

“Really, Fred, I’m okay.”

He sighed. “You let me know the moment you need me”. I listened as he retreated to his post by the door.

The patron’s hand was still on my arm as I regained focus. In an uncharacteristic act of boldness, I placed my hand on his arm.

I had to know.

I moved my hand up his arm, running my fingers over the muscles and veins protruding from his rough skin. This definitely was not the person I had feared it was. I hesitated as my hand reached his shoulders – this was definitely not included on the “good girl” list of our code of ethics (I know – the irony is part of the fun); Randy might yell at me again. But then again, he clearly valued this man in front of me who hadn’t moved from his spot since I began my limb groping.

I felt his left hand release my arm and move to my right hand. My left fingers were still gripping his upper arm, subtle flexes of his muscles apparent under my skin as the right side of his body responded to the movement on his left. He grasped my right hand softly, lifting it towards his face, and whispered,”Is this okay?”.

I nodded. My throat had suddenly been inexplicably incapacitated by a massive lump of nerves. I stood stock still as he brought my hand to his face, leaving it lightly on his stubble. I stroked his chin with my thumb.

He wanted me to know he was not the Pot. How did he know I needed that information? I caressed his face, feeling his eyes, nose and cheeks. I didn’t dare touch his lips, desperately though I wanted to. He reached for my hand again, moving it upward to where, finally, I found my fingers resting upon the solid bill of a baseball cap. My heart stopped.

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Still being stubborn? Sigh. Ellie says “never say die” – so here’s chapter 5!


One thought on “Stripped: Chapter 4b

  1. Pingback: Muddy Heels: Chapter 4a | Writers of the Rain

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