Sweet Revenge

She eased herself down the pole, gripping it loosely in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. She never took her eyes off of him. She focused on him like he was the only man in the room, and for her, he might as well have been. Other men surrounded the stage, whistling at her and waving dollar bills, but she studiously ignored them like so much rabble. Rather than daunting them, her lack of attention to these curs scrabbling at her feet like dogs over a raw filet mignon seemed to intensify their hunger for her. Soon, she knew, they'd start throwing their money at her, desperate for a glance; anything to show she knew they existed.

Of course, she'd leave them disappointed.

Kneeling at the bottom of the pole, she slowly extended her arm and leaned back, spreading her knees wide and grinding against the metal warmed by her ministrations. She dropped her gaze from him, hoping to draw him closer or entice him into a private dance. She could go out and offer herself, but she knew this would curb the thrill a bit, and she didn't want that.

She pushed herself down on her belly with her knees still splayed. She threw her head back and dragged her hair forward across her masterfully arched back, rocking forward onto her hands and knees and looking up at a vacant seat. She smiled a little to herself, but maintained her mask of slightly aloof unattainability. She didn't rush into looking for him, but let the beat of the bad music drive her languid movements as she inched back up the pole, dragging it between the perfectly rounded cheeks of her voluptuous ass. The dogs howled and clamored for scraps of her attention, and she continued to deny them.

There. He hadn't moved forward, but back toward the private entertainment rooms. She crowed inwardly with triumph, knowing he'd ask for her. Her song was almost at an end and she was impatient to go back and spruce up for him. She had a special surprise for her favourite regular, and she couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he opened it.

Unable to contain her impatience, she boldly strode off the stage a full fifteen seconds before her song ended. She left the dogs' paltry tributes littered across the stage, completely uninterested in their pitiful offerings. How dare they think they could buy her affection for singles?! Surely even with their less-than-towering standards, they could see that she was worth so much more. . . and if they couldn't, ah, well. Not one flick of tongue across her plump lips would they receive.

She was repairing the minor smudges in her makeup when she was summoned. She nodded her acknowledgement and put the finishing touches on her wardrobe. She topped it off with a semi-sheer red drape that set her black waves off like a dark, starless night sky. She adjusted her bustier, making sure it revealed nothing before she was ready, and made her way to the room.

She stood outside the small window, looking at him through the two-way glass. He was slouching casually on the wide, over-sized round ottoman she preferred to perform on. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cowboy hat sat slightly forward on his head, casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the glass. She smiled at him, knowing he felt the intensity of her gaze. His manner was easy, relaxed, but she could smell his impatience. He hated to wait. She glanced up at the bouncer who would stand outside and keep watch over her, then at the guest who'd paid a high price to watch the show. The bouncer nodded at her, and she entered the room.

"You're late," he said, feigning sternness.

She only smiled in return and stalked slowly over to him. She reached for his hat with one hand, lifted it, and tossed it carelessly into the corner. With the other, she ran her gloved fingers through his hair. She tightened her hand into a fist and gripped a handful of sandy brown hair, flinging him back onto his elbows. His eyes registered mild surprise, but she could see he was enjoying this little change in their routine. After all, routine was what wives bored their men with, and he was paying good money not to grow bored.

She climbed up onto the ottoman and lowered her pelvis onto his. She rocked her hips slightly, teasingly, her head hanging forward to obscure her face behind a cascade of black waves. She leaned forward, stretching her body along his, grinding her mound hard against him, and she felt his rock hard excitement straining against her thigh. She brought her lips within a hair's breadth of his and exhaled sweet clove cigarette breath on him. He inhaled sharply, sucking her into himself greedily. His hands twitched, but he left his elbows firmly planted into the ottoman.

She pushed her face past his and crawled up his body until her shrouded breasts were even with his gluttonous eyes. She leaned down slowly, surreptitiously drawing her hands inside the shroud, and put her lips up against his ear.

"Happy Anniversary, baby," she breathed, drawing a small bit of paper out of her corset and slipping it into his hand. He accepted the paper, paying it little attention as she doffed the intervening material, exposing her perfect twin mounds peeking over the bustier. She sat back on her heels, contemplating his face. She smiled wickedly and reached down for the laces, drawing them slowly out of their knots and freeing the captives from their confines. She allowed him to gorge his eyes on them one last time. Her pulse quickened. The moment she'd been preparing for over the last eleven months, three hundred sixty four days had finally arrived.

"You've been served," she crooned in the same sultry voice. Puzzlement crossed his face before he remembered the slip of paper she'd only just handed him. He looked down at it and she slid off of his lap like a silk robe off a chair back. She had already strode halfway across the room when she heard him exclaim behind her. She placed her hand on the door handle and imagined his face as he read the divorce court summons she'd just gifted him, but denied herself a last look.

"It's done," she said as she stepped out of the room. She spared a small glance for the woman who was her favourite regular's wife. She was smiling with triumphant malice at her husband, who'd not moved from the ottoman, savouring his miserable discovery through the two-way glass she herself had been studying him through only moments ago. She didn't wait for a response before she sauntered off toward the dressing room. She was going to miss her favourite regular.

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 9: Sweet Revenge.