You sit alone in a dimly-lit alcove to one side of the room, a tall green cocktail standing untouched on the table before you. Your clothes are dark and well-fitted, and place you towards the more affluent extreme of this humble establishment's clientele.
Like all the -- mostly -- men in the room your eyes are fixed on the stage at one end, where a tall athletic woman with a smooth-shaven head is finally unbuttoning the long dress which has followed her elegant and sensual gyrations these past few minutes like a billowing trail of white flame.
The last button pops open and she gives a twirl. The dress bells outward, raises, opens and finally flies away from her body as she spins... once... twice... on the third revolution she comes to a stop facing her audience, entirely nude. One arm is tight across her breasts, pulling them in and up, while her other hand rests demurely between her crossed legs.
The heavy pulse of the music pauses for a moment, dissolving into a textured swirl of sound as she holds that statuesque pose, standing perfectly still with the spotlights gleaming on her chocolate-brown skin. Then the beat picks up once more, and she resumes her graceful, alluring dance.
Every step is perfectly timed, each spin and swing deliberate and controlled. Her hands always seem to be covering her most intimate parts, revealing only an occasional dark flash of nipple or fleeting view of her hairless crotch. Her bottom she cannot hide, to the evident delight of her admiring fans. As the music nears its climax she stops moving, facing away, and those slender brown cheeks draw my gaze as though I am standing on the edge of a high cliff, unable to tear my eyes from the drop below.
She turns her head and smiles, teasingly, over her shoulder. She grabs and squeezes her buttocks, widening the inviting shadow between them, then slaps the firm flesh causing barely a ripple. She turns, no longer covering herself, and as the music enters its final passage she strides purposefully to the front of the stage, her heavy, naked breasts moving almost imperceptibly with each swing of her hips.
She squats down slowly, and her hands move between her parting thighs to cover the final secret of her nakedness. As the last chord fades she takes her hands away, places them on the floor behind her and arches her back. For a few silent seconds a hundred pairs of eyes -- my own included -- are aware of nothing in this world but the wide-open pink flower of her pussy.
The stage falls dark, and the room erupts in thunderous applause.
Ah, Diana, I think to myself, smiling. What an artiste.
I return my attention to you, sitting there clapping along with the rest of them. You do not whoop or cheer, as many do. There is something reserved and mysterious about you, and the way your darkly penetrating gaze moves about the room with a kind of detached evaluation.
I'm not sure why you have captivated me as you have. There are, by some standards, more attractive men here. But you have a quality they do not, and I am curious.
In the past half hour I've seen a dozen girls come up to your table offering private dances in one of the booths on the balcony level. Women of assorted shapes, sizes and colourings -- this establishment caters to a wide variety of tastes -- have approached you and each one you have declined, always with the same polite smile and almost regretful shake of the head. Perhaps a five-minute look-but-don't-touch lap dance, forever under the roving, watchful gaze of our burly and humourless bouncers, is not enough for you. Perhaps you are looking for more than cheap titillation and thrills.
This suits me perfectly, because what I have to offer you will certainly not come cheap.
I circle the large room, smiling at a few punters but ignoring their beckoning glances. I approach your table, choosing a course that will keep me in your line of sight for as long as possible before I pass by. From the corner of my eye I see you look at me, but I turn my head away pretending to smile at someone in the distance. I walk slowly, and only as I pass right beside you do I meet your gaze. I flash you a smile as I walk by, but do not slow or stop. In a mirrored column ahead of me I see you turn your head to watch as I walk away.
I linger in the shadows at the back of the room, hidden from you. I see you glance around several times, a different expression on your face now. Eager, searching, almost pleading.
Perfect, I think with a wicked smile. It seems I have captivated you as you have captivated me.
I wait a few minutes, then walk by you again in the other direction, letting you observe me from behind. I'm wearing a short black babydoll which only just covers me. Although the lacy fabric is thin to the point of nonexistence, it appears opaque in this tastefully subdued lighting.
When I am only a few paces in front of you I feign a slight stumble, and my right foot slips out of my stiletto-heeled shoe. I bend to retrieve it, and feel the back of the negligee rise up over my bottom. I take my time slipping my foot back into the shoe, treating you to a tantalising view of my round, slender behind. My arse has been called divine, heavenly, peachy and perfect. I wonder which word you would choose.
As I straighten I think I hear you say something, but I ignore you and walk away, bound for a staff-only area where I know you cannot follow.
I wait another fifteen minutes before coming to you again, only slightly concerned that you might have become exasperated and left. You haven't. You are still sitting there, watching the stage distractedly.
Another show has begun. Three women -- already naked and covered in glistening oil -- are engaged in some frankly bizarre erotic display involving a giant inflatable banana.
You see me, and I see you. I meet your gaze the moment I'm in your view, and walk purposefully up to your table. I stand over you, and your eyes roam down from my face over the full round curve of my bust and the black babydoll hanging beneath it, down my naked legs to my feet, and back up again.
It seems you are too spellbound to invite me to join you, so I sit down anyway, right next to you. My thigh touches yours. You swallow.
If you're trying to keep your cool then I'm afraid you are failing. Your desire could hardly be more obvious if your tongue were hanging out.
"Hello," I say.
You return the greeting smoothly, composing yourself, and we exchange names.
"So," I say, "would you like a dance?"
You look almost disappointed that I've come to the point so quickly, but you don't know what I have in mind.
"I don't mean a quick strip out in the open," I say with a gentle laugh, nodding up at the balcony and its little booths. "Nothing so obvious. There are some more... private rooms about the place. And in there, we can take all the time we need."
You say something, but it is lost in the music. I lean closer, letting my perfume wash over you, letting the heat of my body caress you.
"Time for what?" you repeat.
"Well," I say, smiling coyly. "What do you want?"
You seem lost for words for a moment, then change the subject.
"How much?"
