Chapter Seventeen 352

Chapter Seventeen

Swayze

The club lights are flashing, giving me an awful migraine. I’ve worked every day this week and I want to go home and rest my feet. The strappy heels we have to wear as our required uniform are beginning to leave scars on my ankles from the constant blisters. I buss a few tables with multiple half empty glasses left by customers. When they go to the back for a private dance, they leave their mess behind.

“Sway!” Phil–who calls himself Dr. Phil when he’s dicking down one of my co-workers he’s dating. Cringy motherfucker –yells through my earpiece, causing my head to pound even more. I huff, dropping off the tray of glasses at the bar.

I roll my eyes before responding into my device. “Yes, Phil?”

There’s a click before his voice blares through my ear drums again. “Is that attitude I hear?”

Rubbing my temples, I stride to the bathroom. I have no idea where he is or I’d talk in person. These headphones are the worst thing they’ve ever done for this place. The snap, crackle, and pops that go off in my ear from people not turning off their mic literally drives me insane. It’s also the reason for these incessant migraines lately .

Once I’m behind the door and stored away in a stall, I answer back exasperated, “No, these headphones are giving me headaches so I’m a little agitated by the situation.”

He cuts back in with no room for sympathy. “Well, get some medicine from Allison and get to the back room. There’s a client requesting you specifically.”

Exhaling a huff of frustration, I slide down my thong to pee. Even after I’ve relieved myself, I sit there enjoying the solitude. My headache is already starting to ease and my shoulders relax marginally from the quiet of the space. I wonder who came in and asked for me specifically for a dance. Tonight wasn’t a stage night for me, so it can’t be anyone new. And my usuals weren’t here tonight. Maybe It’s Gregory. He’s an older client that likes to drop by from time to time and doesn’t spend much time hanging around the main floor.

Leaving the stall, I fix myself in the mirror. I turn to the side, pulling up the thick waistband of my thong over my hips. This always tends to get me more tips because it accentuates my ass, making it look fuller. Next I adjust my bustier so my tits are popping before fluffing out my hair. Once I’m satisfied with my appearance, I head over to Allison. She’s cleaning the back of the bar, putting away clean glasses and wiping down the mat. I watch as she methodically cleans the bottles and assures all the labels are front facing. This is her favorite part of the night. Where she gets lost in her element, and I, for one, enjoy watching. I never like to interrupt her when she’s like this.

As if she can feel by gaze on her, she lifts her head looking right at me. A smile graces the corners of her lips. “Need something, Sway?”

I run my hands over the bartop. “Phil told me you might have some headache medicine.”

She nods and turns to rustle around the shelves under the register and pulls out a white and red bottle. Ahhh, sweet relief. I shake out two white oblong tabs and throw them back. She hands me a glass of cold soda water and I take it gratefully. She knows I’ve grown to love club soda. The fizzles and pops in my mouth gives the water a more satisfying taste. It helps to keep myself hydrated. I tend to get wrapped up in work, and painting when I’m at home. That’s when I seem to forget about basic life sustaining activities.

I hand the medicine bottle back to her. “Thanks, Ally.”

She takes it with a nod and returns it back to its cubby before continuing her task. I, on the other hand, prepare for the last dance of the night. Now that I have a client, the manager will have to finish cleaning up the rest of the club. That’s probably why he was so upset, it was cutting into his Dr. Phil time. I give myself a heavy eyeroll for that thought.

The back is laid out with curtained sections and a security guard at the entrance. Donnie gives me a curt nod as I pass. He basically makes sure everyone is following the rules, which aren’t many. No insertion and no beating the workers. Everything else is free game. It’s kind of like the Wild West but with fewer horses. Not no horses, but fewer horses, because the cocks aren’t swinging. A twinge of pain pricks my heart. That thought makes me think of Daddy, and I hate myself even more for the reminder

I stroll to my usual curtained area and pull back thick, velvety fabric, allowing myself enough light to see who this might be. The air is heavy in here and goosebumps rise on my flesh. The man sitting at the back on the plush couch isn’t anyone I’ve danced for before. He’s thick, almost bulging out of his dress shirt and dress pants. His muscles are accentuated by the fabric trying to melt into the grooves. It’s almost as if his clothes don’t fit him. His beard is full and thick, groomed impeccably to his chest, black and gray fighting for dominance. His hair is styled back into a sharp pull over fade.

He’s a silver fox that’s for sure. Which is my usual client base. I wonder if one of them might’ve told him about me. He’s wearing the standard black half mask the club gives out for high paying clients. It’s to make them feel more comfortable, because I can assure you, their kinky secret is safe at Elitist. No one wants the absolute wrath of the Dr. Phil treatment. But all the same, I do appreciate the covering over his face. It allows me to envision someone I can’t have. Someone who tricked me into loving him. Who hurt me even more in the end.

I’ve resorted to calling him a sperm donor at this point. It helps to curb the raw ache in my chest that stirs when I think of him. What’s even more fucked up is that even though he hurt me, pawned me off to a wicked witch, made me think she was my mother for years, and shot me in the leg when I was trying to help him, he’s still the only one who can make me feel anything. And I hate him for that, because no one will ever be as good as Daddy.

Once I close us in behind the thick wall of fabric, the only illumination comes from the strategically placed red lights. It helps sensualize the mood. I trail my hand over the pole, walking around it so he can get a good look at my assets and get an eye full of what he paid for. These little teases always seem to make them adjust in their seats, but this man hasn’t moved from his position. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. Is he not entertained ?

A song I love starts to play—“Christian Woman” by Type O Negative. It’s one I thought was funny once I finally learned the lyrics, and was astonished they played it in a place like this. A place where sin is abundant and overflowing like a boiling pot. Letting the music take me, I swirl my hips around lower and lower until my ass is on my heels and the steel pipe is cool between my shoulder blades as I rest against it. It’s here for private showings, but getting up close and personal helps with the tips. Plus, here behind the curtains, the closer I get, the quicker they bust and the sooner I can collect.

Once the sweet vocals ring through the speakers, I take to my hands and knees. The carpet rubs harshly against my palms. Regardless of the slight discomfort, I take it slow when the drums come back. The man seems intrigued and leans back, splaying his arms across the back of the couch. His thick thighs are relaxed and spread for me. I crawl in time with the beat until my face is in line with his cock, which is straining in his tight fitting dress pants. I glance up at the man in a show of submission, even though there’s never been an ounce of submission in my bones unless it came to… Daddy.