Читать книгу Confessions of a Lapdancer - Литагент HarperCollins USD, J. F. C. Harrison, Professor J. D. Scoffbowl - Страница 4

‘No physical contact. No fraternising. No wandering about. No extras.’ Jackie reviews the rules while Suzy sips champagne and I strip out of my business suit. ‘We are wheels up in two hours, no exceptions. Once our limousine pulls clear of the security gates, we were never there.’

‘Very James Bond,’ I say, contorting to remove my bespoke silk suit. Thank God for tinted windows, or the commuters on Regent Street would be getting an eyeful.

‘More like Pussy Galore,’ Suzy retorts, refilling her glass with more bubbly.

I don’t normally work Tuesdays but Jackie practically begged – and Jackie doesn’t beg. I planned to pull an all-nighter at the office until I got her call on my mobile. Daryll expects my investment analysis with recommendations on his desk by Thursday morning. But I don’t often get the chance to make £1,000 for a few hours’ work.

I slipped out while the rest of the team went to reward themselves at the local Corney & Barrow. Daryll’s got a big client and we are all working our balls off to develop a kick-ass portfolio. I’m the only one on the team who doesn’t even technically have balls, which makes life more difficult, but ultimately more interesting. It used to be that my job in the city paid the bills and my night job helped with extras – like Zeus, my stallion, and a stable in Sussex. But lately it feels like the other way around.

Jackie said our engagement is strictly black tie. That means no latex or vinyl or any other kinky fantasy shit. Suzy’s best in the leather so I get to play the belle of the ball. Jackie unzips the garment bag. She’s loaning me one of the Pearl’s best gowns. I refuse to risk cum stains on the new Christian Dior strapless number I bought as a little bonus. I might as well give myself one since those tightwads at Sloane Brothers save the big bucks for the blokes.

I slip out of my bra and knickers: unsightly panty lines would spoil the flow of the crepe-backed satin. A few months ago I was a buttoned-up investment banker who barely exposed her wrists in public. Now I’m stark naked in the back of a limo sent by some European ambassador. Limos ooze sex. Long moving phalluses. Dark windows. Once I almost fucked the son of a sheikh in the back of a limo. I love fucking while in motion – cars, airplanes, motorcycles, double-decker buses. But that’s on my private time. Tonight it’s strictly cum dancing.

Jackie hands me a scarlet Vera Wang, with a plunging neckline and a side slit that almost meet. I wiggle into the gown.

‘Have I ever told you what nice tits you have?’ Suzy slurs.

‘You’re just buttering me up for some girl-on-girl action, you slut,’ I say, and flick my lacy black thong at her.

‘That’s enough,’ Jackie says, smoothing her long brown hair. She may be ten years my senior, but she’s got a rock-hard ass and tits that would make any 16-year-old bloke stand to attention. ‘We’re almost there.’

She hands me my wig. I exchange my short black spiky locks for shoulder-length auburn curls and transform from Geraldine Carson, investment banker, into Ginger, high-class lap dancer.

I can only imagine what you’re thinking, but please don’t judge me. I’m just a modern woman trying to make her way in a man’s world.

You think you’re different; it’s different.

Really?

Don’t kid yourself; it’s still a man’s world. Men still make more money for the same work. Hold more management positions and own more property than women. But it doesn’t mean they hold the power. Spend one night with me at the Pearl and I’ll show you who’s in control. You stand up in front of a few hundred sweaty men, whose cocks are so tense you can practically see their flies bursting, and tell me you don’t feel powerful. That sexual tension is intoxicating.

And, to be honest, investment banking isn’t all that different from lap dancing. It’s all about knowing your client and developing the right package. Revealing and withholding. It’s the same dance with a different audience. Sometimes everyone walks away satisfied. Sometimes you get fucked and other times you do the fucking.

The ambassador’s private secretary meets our limo at the back of the embassy. He opens the door and lowers his gaze. In my stilettos, I’m a full head taller than he is. He offers his hand and helps me across the gravel. He has an oily olive complexion and smells of garlic. He is used to being invisible. He ushers us in the back door through the kitchen and into the embassy’s study. The staff has been dismissed early and the embassy is eerily quiet. He shows us into an oak-panelled study. I imagine two dignitaries exchanging state secrets over a civilised snifter of brandy – not two fit women lap dancing.

When the ambassador enters with his entourage, he sits in the leather wing-back chair Jackie has positioned in front of the Victorian desk. Everyone but his private secretary and his bodyguard exits. The bodyguard closes the velvet blue-fringed drapes and dims the lights. He positions himself by the only door, a solid wooden number built to withstand a military invasion. Jackie has a whispered conversation with the secretary. Are his rimless spectacles fogging up? She is reviewing the rules and, if I know Jackie, giving the arrogant prick a tantalising taste of what’s to come. She’s here to make sure her girls are treated properly – and to dance if the ambassador fancies a more experienced pussy.

While Suzy flips out her compact and puts the final touches on her Marilyn Monroe look – matte red lipstick, a beauty mark on her left cheek and a little eyeliner to create her trademark cat eyes – Jackie pulls me aside. ‘Slight problem,’ she says, giving me her sweetest smile and batting her eyes at the ambassador. I’m sure that’s gotten her what she wants over the years. ‘The ambassador doesn’t like redheads.’

‘So you dance,’ I say, relaxing a little.

‘He likes the look of you.’ She pulls me closer; she’s squeezing my arm.

‘But I’m a redhead,’ I say through clenched teeth and jerk my arm free. She knows I don’t dance without the wig. I don’t dance as Geri.

‘God, Geri, do it for me, just this once. Don’t be such a bloody ice princess and help a sister out.’

Now we’re sisters? She thinks of herself as the designated fairy godmother for the dancers at the Pearl, but she’s more like the prison matron.

‘It’s only for three foreigners – two of whom I’m not even sure speak English,’ she pleads.

‘For an extra two hundred,’ I say, and loop a finger through one of my curls.

‘You drive a hard bargain.’ She smacks me on the ass.

Damn. She agreed too quickly which means I should have asked for more.

‘You remind me of me,’ she adds.

I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended. I slip the wig off and hand it to her. I ruffle my short hair. Jackie plucks at a few strands on top and I smooth the sides. Suddenly I feel naked.

Suzy dances first. She’s the better warm-up act and will most likely be stumbling drunk by the end of the evening. Jackie turns a blind eye because Suzy has danced at the Pearl for years. She’s everyone’s big sister and drunken aunt all mixed into one. But she knows how to keep her legs open and her mouth shut.

I lurk at the back of the room. I like to build an air of mystery. I finger the dusty volumes on the bookshelf. The ambassador watches Suzy’s routine but he glances at me every so often. I look away and play the shy coquette. My show starts before I even take centre stage. Jackie has taught me well.

Suzy slinks off and drapes herself around the secretary who is responsible for keeping the champagne flowing. He shrugs her off, afraid, I’m sure, of her sweat staining his best suit. I nod at Jackie and Tina Turner blares from the Bose portable sound system – Jackie’s most recent investment after her old boom box died at a high roller’s boardroom party.

I start off slow and keep it simple. I stretch my legs and show him what he’s paid for. I let him unzip me; that’s about the closest he’ll get to touching me for the rest of the night. Jackie cranks up the music and shifts to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ ‘I Hate Myself for Loving You’. After years of practice, Jackie knows how to read the mood of a room. She’s taught me how to synchronise the music and my movement to ratchet up a client’s sexual tension. Tease them. Draw them in and then push them away. Let their libido rise and fall. Make their pulses pound with the beat and their cocks beg for more.

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?’

I want to but I shrug.

She grabs my stiletto and hurls it at the lit window. ‘Bastards,’ she screams. She takes off towards the embassy in time to see the bodyguard slam the door shut. I can hear the deadbolt clank. We aren’t getting back in there tonight. ‘I swear to you, Geri, we’ll get that tape. No one fucks me about like this.’

Maybe I’ve spoken too soon. Maybe I’m in over my head. All I need is for that video to end up on YouTube and life as I know it is over. I can already see the headline: Investment Banker by Day, Stripper by Night. I’ve worked too hard to climb the corporate ladder and tap that glass ceiling to see it wiped away by one stupid mistake.

How could I have let this happen?