His eyes upon your face.

I twine myself around the pole and, with the same sinuous movements a snake makes, slip and slide down the pole until I sink to my knees with the pole against my back.

His lips caress your skin.

I stand and, holding onto the pole seductively, with pointed toe, high step around it. Just when he thinks I am going to push my ass up into the air and sway seductively, I flip my body over and touch the floor before grasping the metal tightly with both hands and lifting my legs clean off the ground. My body is now in a spread-eagled position perpendicular to the pole. Held purely by the strength of my hands I start spinning slowly around the pole, my legs held as far apart as the hands.

It’s more than I can stand.

As the music builds and picks up speed I increase my speed, the air rushing into my face, my legs scissoring the air, the knees bending, the legs moving upwards, all the while spinning faster and faster and suddenly I am upside down and still spinning like a top.

Why does my heart cry?

A whole orchestra of violins and cellos goes crazy in the most dramatic and sweeping ballad of the entire piece. I execute a turn with a bent knee and maneuvering myself upright on the pole begin the journey up the pole, the same deliberate dip and rise.

Just don’t deceive me.

At the top I prepare for the finale. I split my legs wide. Hold that spread position, with only the tiny strip of wet red net fabric to cover my opening, and wait for the perfect movement. When it comes I loosen my grip and begin my free fall head first. It is like the death drop. Even over the music I hear him gasp.

And please believe me when I say I love.

Two feet from the floor I squeeze my thighs on the pole and halt my drop. I am face down and perpendicular to the floor, held by my strong thigh muscles and the strength of one hand, the other outstretched over my head. At the sudden clash of cymbals I release my hold on the pole and fall flat on my face to the ground. Silence. Then. Guitar. Violin.

Slowly, I begin to roll towards him, pausing every time I am on my side. Like Cleopatra rolling out of a carpet towards Mark Anthony. The music grows and grows. Every movement I make is deliberately submissive, designed to captivate, like the animal that offers its throat to its mate. I reach the foot of the bed.

The timing is perfect. Many voices mingle to form the crescendo.

Roxannnne, Roxaannnne…

I am panting. Not just with exertion, but with need and desire. He appears at the edge of the bed and wrapping his large artist’s hands around my ribcage pulls me up, very much as one would do a mermaid from the ocean, onto the bed.

‘I need to get my mouth on that wet, unbelievably delicious pu**y of yours.’

‘How do you know I’m wet?’ I pant, on my back.

‘Because, my little puss in boots,’ he says very softly, sliding my knickers down my legs and dangling the little red thing, ‘I saw this…’ And clearly I see the wet patch in the gusset. A small shiver goes through me. ‘And became very hungry for pu**y butter.’ He goes to put his mouth between my thighs, but I palm his throat, as he had done to me on our first night.

‘No, this one’s on me,’ I say, and lifting myself up change positions. I straddle him; sit on his chest, on his good shirt. It is not sex, it is attention, it is flattery—that is what no living man can get enough of.

I shift down and unbutton his trousers. He is wearing white briefs.

‘White underpants? You know I can’t resist you in white underpants,’ I breathe.

A lone pulse beats in his temple. God, how could I have been so stupid? All the while my real feelings for him were staring at me. All the while I was falling deeper and deeper and my own stubborn stupidity kept me focused on Jack.

I bend forward and take him into the hot wet cave of my mouth, and suck the shaft in so deep there is nowhere else for him to go. What could he do but buckle and explode deep in my throat? Slowly I begin to unbutton his shirt. Expose the warm skin.

‘You blew my mind…’ he says, and expertly unclasps my bra. Sweat has glued it to my skin. He peels it off and my br**sts pop out. He rolls the ni**les between his fingers. ‘But I still need to get my mouth on those voluptuous pu**y lips.’

I rise to my knees, straddle his chest, and push my crotch towards him. My pu**y is so tantalizingly close to his chin he can surely smell my arousal. I look down at him. ‘What? These old, swollen things?’

He eyes my crotch greedily. Inside my boots, my toes curl with anticipation.

‘They do look a little…erm…used.’

‘Used and bitten and ravished. Three times a week.’

‘Come and sit on my face.’

I walk on my knees up to his mouth and suspend my sex over his mouth, the inner folds exposed, throbbing, and silently screaming for release. I am buzzing inside. Secretions of lust leak from me as if I am a faulty tap.

‘Don’t be gentle with her,’ I command.

He flicks his tongue out and I raise my hips out of reach. He grabs my hips and pulls me down onto his mouth.

‘Ohhh...’ My head falls back. The silky warmth of that dexterous mouth. The suction. The suction. It is killing me. I begin to sizzle inside. My fingers grip the headboard as if my life depends on it.

‘Oh God. Oh Vann…’ And I can no longer hold on. I grind into his teeth as the orgasm overwhelms me, my skin tingling, my mind a white flare.

‘Too soon,’ he growls and tumbles me over. He sits up. ‘Onto all fours.’ I right myself and obey instantly, my inner slut mewling. I hear the sound of the foil.


He pauses.

‘I’m on the pill.’

For a second I feel his naked head against my soaked opening and moan and then my cunt becomes a sheath for his cock, as he grabs my hips with both hands and ruts and rides us both home.

Fucked, my cunt in a spasm, I fall forward and hear his ragged breath as he falls on top of me. Our bodies are slippery. I grip my muscles hard to keep his seed inside me but it trickles out helplessly.

‘God you’re beautiful.’

‘I don’t need to be wooed.’ My voice is hoarse, a stranger’s, my breathing viciously quick. ‘I need to be taken. Again and again.’

And that is what he does. Again and again. Until the night sky becomes pale and we are both so exhausted we curl up against each other and sleep.


First gather your facts, then distort them at your leisure.

—Mark Twain

I watch him sleeping.

The lines that held his face so tightly last night are all relaxed. He looks so beautiful I want to weep. He opens his eyes. They are soft and slumberous and not yet attuned to the world. He whispers my name.

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