For two weeks, the silly little black box Joelle had deposited inside his glove compartment, had tortured him. So tonight, he resolved to have done with the situation, once and for all. After pulling it from the car, he returned to the house and gently tugged the antique watch from its burgundy, velvet lined coffer. But when he popped open the cover and read her father's words, he collapsed to the stairs.
"To my Joelle, forever you changed the beat of my heart," he hissed as his fingers traced the inscription. It had been a mistake to read it; he knew that before he even opened the ridiculous little trinket.
"Fuck!" he roared. Snapping closed the lid, he slammed his fist against the cinereous marble. A long fissure, like a crooked smile, snaked across its glossy skin in taunting recognition of his wretchedness.
Within moments, the engine of his vintage Mach One roared to life. This time, as opposed to visiting his local haunts and choosing a target, his destination was unclear. This time, without thinking, he found himself on the interstate, driving at a speed unrivaled even in the world of Indy.
***
Daddy's Gentleman's Club was reliably packed that Saturday night. It was hectic beyond compare. The scuffed, graphite vinyl floor was clogged with a sea of sweaty drunkards and dirty old men. A few surly frat boys peppered the room, grabbing and fondling anything with tits. With a deep sigh and crumpled shoulders, Joelle fell into her chair.
"There's no way I'm getting through that without someone tweaking a nipple," she grumbled.
After brushing out her unwieldy crimson wig, she pulled from her bag a tiny bejeweled g-string and matching top that accentuated the fullness of her breasts. It was her favorite ensemble and a sure money maker. Eager to get the night over with, she dressed quickly and applied a coat of Berry Cherry lipstick.
"You have a dance in room two," Daddy announced as he yanked her from the dressing table.
"Ouch," she griped, rubbing her arm, "violence is never the answer."
Joelle was still massaging her bicep when she pushed through the curtain to the suite of private rooms at the rear of club. She had acquired a few regulars, customers who appreciated her particular blend of talents and she trotted in, expecting to greet one of their eager faces, happy for the extra cash she'd make.
When she saw Lucien sitting comfortably on the couch, with a devious smile adorning his face, her heart stopped. Instantly, a wave of rigidity consumed her, as though she were dipped in cement and left to cure.
As always, he was impeccably dressed. Tonight he had shed the more formal button down shirt and wool gabardine slacks, for the more casual look of a thin, charcoal sweater and tan linen pants. Lucien was GQ's wet dream, and sometimes, like tonight, she hated that about him.
Despite the tingling in her loins and the dampness in her thong, the ache returned to her chest and a newly discovered anger consumed her thoughts. Turning tail, Joelle stomped to bar.
"I'm not doing it! Give him his money back Daddy, I won't dance for him!" she yelled, jabbing her thumb in the direction of her tormentor.
Without glancing from his liquor order, Daddy icily replied. "We don't give refunds."
"Then I quit!" she yapped.
"You're doing the dance first. He paid, you play," he threatened.
Pulling a wad of cash from her top, Joelle stormed back into the room. "I won't dance for you," she hissed as she threw the money onto his lap, "there's your cash back."
Lucien casually thumbed through the bills and offered a quizzical stare. "You're five hundred short I'm afraid," smugly he retorted.
"What?" she spat incredulously.
"Your math skills are appalling, I paid six for you."
"What the fuck did you pay six hundred dollars for?"
"An uninterrupted hour," Lucien said offhandedly.
"You're a shit, Lucien," she snarled.
"That may be, but I fail to see the relevance."
"One dance! But you don't get to talk or do that voodoo thing on me again."
Without pause, Lucien nodded once and slipped his fingers across his mouth, as if closing a zipper.
"Spread your legs for me," she demanded. Kneeling at Lucien's feet, Joelle clenched her hands around his knees, deeply sinking her nails into the soft threads of his linen pants, feeling his skin buckle underneath.
He smiled and shook his head, spreading his legs.
"Lucien, spread your fucking legs for me," she jeered.
With a slight chuckle he spread them wider, inviting her to make the next move, and she gladly obliged. Joelle ran her hands the length of his thighs, snaking her body between his legs, stopping when his cock was nestled between her breasts. With a shake, she felt it twitch.
Satisfied he was appropriately turned on, her hands travelled to his strong chest and around his neck. She pulled herself onto his lap and straddled his waist. Unsnapping the clasp between her breasts, she let the shimmering fabric fall to the floor.
Hitching her hips, Joelle ground against his ever-hardening cock. "You like that?" she purred just inches from him lips, taunting him with the possibility of her mouth.
Lucien smiled wickedly in return while threading his fingers up her back.
"No touching," derisively she whispered in his ear.
"You failed to mention touching."
"Your reading skills are appalling," she mocked, nodding to the large "no touching" sign on the wall.
"Very good Joelle, you were paying attention. But I never gave my word that I wouldn't touch you."
