A Night At woman's Paradise

It's louder than I expected.

Not the kind of loud that hurts, but the kind that wraps around you--bass like a second heartbeat, low and sensual, thrumming through the floor and into your spine. I hesitate for a moment just inside the entrance, clutching my purse a little too tightly, trying to play it cool while my stomach does nervous flips.

This is not my usual Friday night.

I'm not even sure why I came. Maybe it was the prosecco. Maybe it was the way Chloe's eyes lit up when she said, "You have to see this place at least once." Or maybe it was that quiet voice in me--curious, restless, hungry for something I can't name.

I follow the hostess through the haze of perfume and pink light. The air smells like coconut oil, champagne, and something darker--like anticipation bottled and sprayed across the room. She leads us past velvet-lined booths and low, glowing tables, where women lean in close over glasses of gold-flecked liquor. There are no men in sight. Just women. Watching. Laughing. Drinking. Wanting.

I take a breath. Try to relax my shoulders.

It's... beautiful here. Sensual without being sleazy. The stage curves like a smile in the center of the room, sunk slightly lower than the rest, surrounded by deep velvet benches and glowing drinks. Everything gleams. Everything pulses. And yet, it doesn't feel tacky. It feels--controlled. Intentional.

Like a secret that only the right women are allowed to know.

Chloe grabs my hand as we settle into a seat in the second row. She's glowing already, grinning like she know what's to come. She hands me a glass of prosecco, leans in, and whispers, "Wait till you see him."

I raise an eyebrow, teasing. "Who?"

"The one. You'll know."

I laugh, shake my head, and sip. The bubbles tickle the roof of my mouth.

I'm not drunk. Not even tipsy.

But there's a warmth spreading in me. Not from the drink. From the room. From the energy of it. The way everyone leans forward just a little, the way every woman here is tuned to the same frequency. It's like foreplay in the form of lighting and sound.

The DJ fades the background music out.

The lights dim.

"Ladies, the moment you've all waited for, please put your hand together for Brian." Echoes through the speakers.

Chloe grabs my knee, excitement pulsing through her fingers.

And then-- Then he steps into the light. The entire room exhales

He's tall. Not bodybuilder-big, but strong--built like someone who knows exactly what his body can do. Bare chest gleaming, black blazer loose around his shoulders, tie hanging like an invitation. His trousers ride low, belt undone just enough to tease. His skin glows under the lights, all muscle and sweat and impossible confidence.

It's like I'm under his spell. It's not just his body. It's the way he moves.

Like he owns the room. Like he's not performing. Like he's offering himself. To all of us.

Our eyes don't meet--yet. But I feel the pull already. My breath catches as he stands still In the center of the stage, just letting us look. Letting us want him.

And God, do I want him.

I feel strange. This feeling. The raw, electric charge building in my veins. The sense that something is about to happen--and I won't be the same afterward.

Chloe leans over again, her voice low and breathless.

"Told you."

And all I can do is nod.

Because she's right.

He's the one.

I can't look away. My eyes are fixated on his body.

He hasn't even moved yet--not really--but the air around him has shifted. There's tension now, the kind that stretches the silence, pulls the room tighter around him. He stands at the center of the stage like a secret we're all desperate to know. One foot forward. Hands loose at his sides. Tie swaying slightly as he breathes.

And then--

He rolls his shoulders.

It's a slow, deliberate motion, but it feels like a declaration. My lips part without meaning to. I catch myself before I exhale too loudly. Around me, I hear the rustle of silk, the sound of glasses pausing mid-air. One woman near the front moans softly, but still to loud.

He hasn't even taken anything off.

My thighs press together instinctively. It's warm in here. Too warm. Or maybe that's just me. My top clings a little tighter across my chest. I can feel my own heartbeat in the tips of my fingers.

He moves again.

This time his hips sway in a lazy, looping rhythm that draws my gaze down, down, until I'm staring at the narrow line of bare skin beneath the undone waistband. My mind fills in what's just out of sight. My breath hitches. Cloe told me the man go all the way, I can barely wait. I want to see him naked.

He crouches to remove his shoes.

I shouldn't find that hot. It's just shoes. But the way he bends, the tension in his arms, the way his muscles flex--it's deliberate. Every gesture is slow, smooth, choreographed but somehow... real. Like he's unwrapping himself for us, piece by careful piece.

When he stands again, barefoot now, he looks taller. More grounded. And somehow more dangerous.

Then the blazer.

He peels it off with the kind of grace that should belong to a dancer or a lover. One hand sliding along the opposite arm, then down his back, then--gone. The crowd shifts. I feel it like a wave, passing through bodies like a shared breath. There's a whistle behind me. A gasp. A low murmur of "fuck."

My stomach clenches.

The belt is next.

He undoes it with one hand.

The buckle clicks.

My nails dig into my thighs.

He pops the button, then the zipper--slowly--and that motion alone sends a flicker of heat through me so sharp it feels like lightning. His hips move again, just slightly, as he pushes the trousers down, revealing long, strong legs and--

God.

The slip.

It's black. Tight. Shiny. Barely covering it. Every inch of him is visible through the fabric, every line, every curve, every promise. The room reacts in sound--shouts, applause, laughter--but I stay quiet. Still.

I don't need to scream. I'm too focused. Too caught.

He is... breathtaking.

He doesn't just perform.

He hunts and I would give up anything to become his prey.

After that slow, deliberate strip that left the entire room panting, he leaves the stage. He steps down--off the platform and straight into the crowd--like a panther slinking into the jungle.

And the jungle?

It wants him. Every single one of us...

Hands reach out instantly. Fingers skim his arms, his waist, his thighs. I press my legs together, trying not to squirm in my seat. The bass rolls through the floor, and I feel it in places that make me blush.

He makes his way to the first woman.

She's sitting close to the stage, dressed like she owns the building. Black strapless dress, dark lipstick, high bun. Her body language screams take me seriously, then take me apart. She doesn't wait for an invitation. The second he's in range, she grabs him--both hands full of his ass, fingers digging in like she paid extra for it.

He laughs. Loud and raw.

Even I laugh a little, despite the heat curling in my stomach.

He says something against her, but I can't understand what.

The crowd loses it. Applause. Cheers. It's hot, chaotic and electric--and he feeds off it. He leans into her body for a slow, teasing grind, just once, just enough to make her bite her lip. I watch her eyes flutter.

And then he's gone.

He steps toward a woman in emerald green. She's standing now, bold and ready, one heel cocked out like she's about to give a TED talk on seduction. Her lips are moving, but the crowd is too loud--I can't make out what she says.

But I see his response.

He grins--wide and wicked--and then he reaches down... and pulls the waistband of his slip forward.

My breath catches.

Did he just--?

My eyes widen. My mouth opens, useless.

Did he just show her his cock?

I blink, trying to catch the angle, but I see nothing. The fabric snaps back before I can even lean forward. Whatever she saw--it was fast. Secret. Just for her.

She gasps. Laughs. Her eyes shine like she just got away with something forbidden.

God, I wish I had been closer.

Wish I'd seen what she saw.

He says something against her.

She doesn't hesitate. With a wicked smile, she grabs her dress at the top and yanks it down to her waist. No bra. Just perfect, perky breasts, bare in the glow of the stage light. They bounce slightly as she throws her shoulders back like she's proud to offer them.

He circles her like a predator who's just been given permission.

His hand trails along her waist as he walks behind her. The crowd is loving it. The woman practically radiates confidence.

And still--my eyes drift back to that one moment.

To his hand.

That one second he opened his slip.

I feel my cheeks burn. My mouth's gone dry.

I want to be in her place. I want to closer to him.

Then he moves to another woman.

She's different.

Younger. Short, curly red hair. Glasses fogging slightly from the heat. Her boots peek out from under a burgundy dress with a thigh-high slit, and her hands fidget in her lap like she's not sure she belongs here.

He kneels beside her. Says something I can't hear--but I see her nod. Slowly. Nervously.

He takes her hand and brings it to his hip.

Then higher.

Until she's touching him--there.

She gasps, her whole body flinching with surprise, but she doesn't pull away. Her palm stays flat, exploring. His hips roll just once into her touch. Controlled. Powerful.

Then, gently, he lifts the slit of her dress.

Lace panties. A garter. The room erupts again. She covers her mouth, but she's smiling--glowing. Her friends scream. Someone spills a drink nearby. None of it touches her. In that moment, she's a star.

And I'm still in my seat.

Watching.

Burning.

God, I wished I could be her.

I try to tell myself I'm happy to observe. That I'm not one of those girls who he'd pick.

But when he turns... when his eyes scan the crowd again... they land on me--

Everything inside me stops.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't smile. Just holds my gaze.

Then he points.

I blink.

Me?

Chloe squeals next to me. "OMG, he wants you!"

I'm frozen. Shaking my head. Laughing. This can't be happening.

But it is. He reaches down, palm open.

And something in me lets go.

I rise. Take his hand.

And as he leads me up the steps toward the stage, toward the heat...

All I can think is: Please don't let this end too fast.

The stage lights swallow me whole.

It's warmer than I imagined. Not just from the bulbs overhead, but from the weight of all those eyes. The crowd roars behind me--cheers, whistles, clinking glasses--and yet somehow, none of it matters. Because his hand is still in mine. Firm. Assured. Grounding.

Brian leads me to the chair in the center of the stage.

I feel like I'm floating, like my legs aren't quite touching the floor. My body moves, but my mind is splintering in every direction: What am I doing? What are they seeing? What's about to happen?

And still, I sit.

The chair is smooth beneath my thighs. Cool, hard, real. I try to cross my legs--habit--but he places a single fingertip on my knee. Just enough pressure to part them again. His touch is so light, but it travels through me like a current.

Then he kneels.

In front of me.

And I forget how to breathe.

He reaches for a large champagne bottle like it's some sacred object. The glass glistens, beads of moisture dripping down its neck, catching the colored lights like they're diamonds. I can feel my heartbeat between my thighs.

He pops the cork.

It's a soft sound. Intimate. Like a secret whispered between lovers. I flinch just slightly, and he notices--his lips curling into the faintest smile.

He pours slowly.

The flute fills with bubbles like rising heat. I'm transfixed. Then--he holds it out to me, one hand extended, the other resting gently on my knee.

His voice is low but gentle. "Drink."

I do.

I lift the glass, careful not to spill, and take a small sip. The cold tingles against my tongue. One stray bubble clings to the corner of my mouth--and before I can wipe it away, his thumb is there. Slow. Deliberate. Warm.

He touches my lip like it's a privilege.

I shiver.

And then he takes my hand.

He doesn't ask. He guides.

Lower.

Down his stomach.

Past his waistband.

Until my palm rests directly over his cock.

The heat stuns me. What I feel stuns me....

He's hard. So hard. And the only thing between us is that thin, damp fabric of his slip. I freeze for half a second, wide-eyed, my fingers instinctively tensing against him.

But he doesn't move. He lets me feel. He let my hand go, but I don't want to pull it away. So I keep my hand there. Curious. Exploring. Terrified. And Thrilled at the same time. My fingers shift slightly. The texture. The weight. The power of it. All for me.

My breath trembles out of me.

He exhales too--low, hot, right against my cheek. Then his hand moves.

He touches me like I'm breakable.

Fingertips brushing my jawline. Down my neck. Over my collarbones. I close my eyes and melt into it. His touch is neither rushed nor hesitant--it's intentional. Like he's memorizing the map of me.

Then he reaches my breasts.

His fingers trail along the fabric of my camisole, featherlight, until he finds the curve of one nipple. He presses just enough to make me feel it. And I do. It tightens instantly. My breath stutters. My thighs shift.

I'm losing control.

And it feels amazing.

But he's not done.

His hands move lower--over my ribs, my waist, my thighs--and finally, he stops at my ankles. He studies me. Really looks. I want to hide. I want to be devoured.

Then he murmurs, "You have tiny feet."

I laugh. A nervous, breathy thing. Is he serious? No one's ever said that to me in a tone like that. Like it's... sensual. Like it's something worthy of desire.

He reaches down.

My left foot is lifted gently, like it's precious. He unbuckles my shoe--slowly, achingly--and slides it off. The air hits my damp skin, and I feel exposed in the strangest, most delicious way. His finger runs along the arch of my foot. I flinch. Not from discomfort--from need.

His eyes flicker up.

I'm watching him. Of course I am.

He smiles, and it's the kind of smile that says, You're not even close to ready for what I'm about to do.

The second shoe follows. Even slower.

Then his fingers find the edge of my sock.

My throat tightens.

He peels it down, inch by inch. The fabric clings slightly to my skin. Heel. Arch. Toes. Each part of me revealed like an unveiling. When he drops the sock to the floor, my bare foot tingles.

The second sock is worse.

Worse because I know what's coming. And I want it. My foot twitches in his hand. I see him notice.

Then--

He lifts my foot.

Nestles it in his palm.

Reaches for the champagne.

I gasp, "Wait--" but it's too late.

The icy liquid pours.

First over my ankle. Then down the top of my foot. The stream glides between my toes, trails along the arch. It's freezing. It's euphoric. It's filthy.

I moan.

Soft. Embarrassed. But I don't stop him.

And then he leans in.

And licks.

From heel to toe, slow and purposeful. His tongue is hot against my cold, dripping skin. My hands the chair. My spine arches.

I've never in my life felt so owned by someone's mouth.

The crowd screams. I barely hear them.

Because all I can feel is this:

My foot in his hand.

His tongue on my skin.

And heat, everywhere, swelling between my legs.

And I know--

We've only just begun.

He lowers my foot to the stage floor like it's something fragile, something sacred.

And for a moment, I just... breathe.

I can't think. Can't speak. My foot still tingles where his tongue touched me, nerves vibrating like plucked strings. My whole body is caught in this quiet, shaking place between shock and craving.

He straightens.

And then his hands slide up my calves.

Slow. Steady. Confident.

Over my knees. Higher.

The denim clings to my skin, suddenly too tight, too hot. His thumbs press gently against the inside of my thighs. I feel the fabric stretch where my legs want to press together. I know what's coming, and still, I don't move.

I want this.

I want him to see.

His fingers find the button of my jeans.

I can barely swallow.

Click.

The sound is barely audible over the music, but it feels like thunder in my chest. He lowers the zipper--inch by inch--his knuckles grazing my lower belly as the teeth open, one after another. I exhale in little pulses. My core tightens.

He's watching me.

Not just what I'm wearing, not just how I look--but how I feel. Like he's reading my breath, the way my body shifts, the heat flushing my skin.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and starts to pull.

And I lift my hips.

Just slightly.

Just enough to say yes. I realize that if I don't stop him, he will take all my clothes, but do I want him to stop....?

The fabric slides down my hips.

His hands follow.

He's not rushing. It's not utilitarian. It's ritual. His fingers trace the curve of my thighs through the opening denim. I feel every stitch, every nerve ending, every vulnerable centimeter he exposes.

And when the top of my panties appears--simple, black, damp with heat--I see his gaze flicker.

Not just desire.

Approval.

He keeps going.

The jeans slide past my knees. My calves. My ankles. He eases them off my feet and lets them crumple to the floor in a quiet heap.

I am half-naked on a stage.

Under lights.

In front of fifty strangers. Forty-nine if I count Cloe.

And yet, I've never felt more... wanted.

He steps back, just a little.

Looking.

And I let him.

My legs are parted, toes curling slightly on the cool stage. My panties cling to me like they were painted on. I know what he sees: soft, flushed thighs, my stomach rising and falling, the slight tremble in my knees.

But I don't close them.

I don't hide.

He kneels again.

And this time, he lifts my leg onto his knee--claiming it like it's his.

The bottle appears once more.

I brace myself.

The champagne spills in a thin stream against my inner thigh.

Fuck.

It's colder than before. And higher. It rolls down my skin like an ice kiss, sliding toward the edge of my panties. I jerk. My fingers dig into the chair. My breath comes in shallow waves.

Then his fingers follow the trail.

Not wiping. Tracing.

He doesn't press. He glides. Over goosebumps and shivers. Over skin that's now burning from within.

I bite my lip.

He looks up. Our eyes lock.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

And I'm starting to wonder how I'll manage the rest of this act.

He's standing in front of me again. His chest gleaming under the stage lights, droplets of sweat sliding in thin rivulets over his abs. He's already seen so much off me. He touched me. He licked me.

And yet--I want more.

He places both hands gently on my hips, fingers just barely slipping under the hem of my camisole. I stop breathing.

Not out of fear.

Out of awareness.

His thumbs brush the warm skin just above my belly. It's the softest touch, but it sets every nerve in my body alight. I feel completely present--every inch of me tuned to his rhythm.

I lift my arms.

It's a quiet surrender. No performance. No crowd. Just me saying: go ahead. Take it off.

He draws the top upward. First over my belly, my ribs--then higher. As he lifts, I feel the air lick at my skin, already damp from heat and nerves and champagne. The sensation sends shivers straight to my spine.

My black lace bra comes into view.

He doesn't rush.

As he pulls the fabric higher, his knuckles graze the side of my breasts--accidentally or not, I don't know. My nipples are already hard beneath the lace, reacting to the cold, to the friction, to the anticipation.

Then the top is over my head.

Gone.

I'm sitting there in just my bra and panties, legs parted, breath shallow, skin flushed.

He looks at me. Really looks.

And the world goes quiet.

There's no arrogance in his stare. No gloating. Just heat. Intensity. A kind of reverence that makes me feel like I'm the only woman that has ever mattered on this stage.

His mouth parts slightly.

And in that moment--I feel powerful. Exposed. Gorgeous. Alive.

And then he sits down onto me. Facing the audience.

Carefully. One knee to either side of my hips. His body doesn't crash down, doesn't press too hard--he's controlled, balanced, a smooth curve of muscle and skin settling into my lap like he belongs there.

My breath catches.

Because now, he's on me.

And I can feel everything.

His ass cradle mine legs, his warmth folding around me. His bare back hovers over my bra, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin but not quite touching. The anticipation of contact is maddening.

Then he leans back.

His spine arches with grace, and his torso stretches across mine like he's sculpting himself to my shape. His head nestles beside my neck, cheek brushing my cheek, breath ghosting against my ear. Every part of him smells like skin and sweat and champagne and something darker--something male and utterly addictive.

I feel the weight of him settle in, his slip brushing the tops of my thighs, the edge of it pressing against my stomach.

My toes curl instinctively.

Then he shifts slightly, reaching for something besides us.

Another bottle of Champagne.

I see it tilt out of the corner of my eye.

And before I can even prepare--

He pours.

A gasp tears from my lips as cold champagne splashes down his chest and over mine. It hits like a storm. A shock. The liquid rushes between our bodies, carving a path from his collarbones to mine, over my bra, my ribs, my belly, seeping into every curve between us.

The lace of my bra soaks instantly, turning sheer against my skin. My nipples harden sharply beneath the fabric, the cold making them ache. His chest rubs against mine now, slick and smooth and warm beneath the icy trails.

I can't breathe.

I don't want to breathe.

His body glides along mine with perfect tension--nothing rushed, everything felt. His weight, his heat, the contrast of cold champagne slipping between our joined skin--it overwhelms every part of me.

Then I realize:

My hands are moving.

On their own.

I press my palms to his chest, feeling the slickness. The texture of him. I glide my fingers through the champagne on his skin, tracing the hard lines of muscle, circling his nipples, dragging downward across the ridges of his abs.

He exhales--shaky, warm--his breath trembling against my neck.

And then we both go still.

My hands on his chest.

His body cradling mine.

Champagne still dripping from the edge of my bra, pooling in my navel.

The heat between us grows--not from friction, but from restraint.

Because we both know...

This is only the beginning.

We don't speak.

We don't need to.

I can feel his heartbeat where our skin touches. His cheek brushes against mine, breath feathering past my ear. My fingers are still on his chest, slipping through wetness, feeling him breathe.

Then he lifts his head.

His eyes meet mine.

And I lean in.

The kiss is electric.

Soft at first, like testing something fragile.

Then deeper--warmer--more real.

His lips part against mine, and suddenly I'm tasting him. He kisses me like he's waited for this. Like he's been burning for this. And I match him--mouth open, breath trembling, hands clutching his chest as if the world might slip away if I let go.

The crowd erupts around us. Cheering. Screaming. But they're just noise now.

Because all I can feel is him.

When we finally pull apart, we're panting.

He rests his forehead against mine. Just for a second.

Then he takes my hands in his.

And gently, deliberately, he guides them downward.

Over his chest.

His abs.

His hips.

Until my fingers brush the waistband of his slip.

I look up at him--unsure.

But he doesn't speak.

He just nods.

A silent invitation.

So I breathe in.

And slide my fingers inside the band.

The fabric is slick with sweat and champagne. It clings just slightly to his skin. But I tug--slowly, carefully--and feel the elastic give.

And then I pull it down.

Inch by inch.

His body is warm beneath my palms. The waistband slips lower, revealing taut muscles, the deep curve of his hips, the first hint of hair.

My breath stutters.

And then--he springs free.

His cock. Hard. Thick. Beautiful.

I can't take my eyes off it. It stands so tall, glistening under the lights.

The crowd reacts before I do.

A collective gasp. Then thunder. Applause. Screams.

But I'm frozen. Staring.

He's fully, gloriously naked. Every inch of him revealed. Not flinching. Not covering. Just offering.

My hands are still at his hips. My mouth slightly open.

And the only thing I can think is:

Ho could have chosen anyone, but he wanted me to reveal it. He let me do it.

Let me be the one to reveal him to the world.

And somehow, that feels more intimate than the kiss we shared.

He steps out of the slip entirely, letting it fall behind him. Then he looks down at me--his cock full, proud, heavy--and I feel heat bloom between my legs like a fire that's been waiting to ignite.

He smiles.

Not cocky.

But knowing.

And now?

It's my turn to touch.

He stands above me.

Naked.

Unapologetic.

I'm staring, not at him, but at his cock.

Hard. Proud. Beautiful.

The kind of shape sculptors must dream of but never get quite right.

Thick at the base. Long. The shaft rising with a slow, heavy curve that leads to a head that glows under the lights like a promise.

And he's letting me look.

No rush. No ego.

Just the quiet confidence of a man who knows what effect he has on a woman--and lets her feel it all.

My breath trembles.

I can feel the weight of the moment in my hands, I want to touch it.... I need to touch it.

So I move.

Slowly, I lift one hand.

Let my fingertips trace along the base.

His skin is hot. Smooth. Tight over muscle and blood and want.

I wrap my fingers gently around him.

And gasp.

He's heavier than I expected.

Full. Alive. Pulsing in my grip.

His body reacts instantly. A soft twitch. A slight inhale. His thighs tighten. His stomach flutters.

I explore.

One hand gliding up the length, thumb brushing softly beneath the ridge of his head. His hips tilt forward--just a little--encouraging. My other hand joins, cupping him at the base, cradling his balls in my palm.

The crowd is losing it.

Screams. Cheers. One woman yells something I can't understand--but I don't care. They're background noise. Spectators to something intimate. Because this? This is just ours.

I slide my hand upward again, this time with more pressure.

He groans.

Not loud. Not performative.

Just that raw, involuntary sound a man makes when he forgets the world exists.

I stroke him again, slower.

Then again.

His cock thickens even more in my hand. I feel a bead of moisture form at the tip, glistening like liquid heat. I swipe my thumb across it--gentle, teasing--and feel his whole body tense in response.

I'm mesmerized.

Not just by the size of him. But by the power I suddenly hold in my palms. The way this confident, breathtaking man--this performer who commands a room with a glance--is now trembling beneath my touch.

I lean forward, lips just near his skin, but I don't kiss.

Not yet.

Instead, I whisper--so soft he might not even hear it over the crowd:

"You're perfect."

And he exhales like I just gave him permission to fall apart

I don't plan it.

There's no grand decision, no inner voice weighing options. Just instinct. Hunger. The raw ache between my thighs matching the throb I feel in my palm.

He's in my hands.

Hot. Hard. Trembling.

And so close.

I look up at him one more time.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, jaw tight, lips parted like he's trying not to say my name. His abs tense with every slow stroke of my fingers. And still--he doesn't move. He waits. Like he knows what I'm about to do but needs me to choose it.

So I do.

I shift forward in the chair, knees spreading slightly as I slide lower. One hand stays curled gently around the base of him. The other steadies me on his thigh.

And then I lower my head.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

My lips part. My breath warms the tip of his cock. I see it twitch in anticipation--already glistening from the moisture I smeared across him seconds ago. I hover there, just an inch away, and let my tongue flick out once, tasting him.

He shudders.

That one taste--salt and heat and him--sends a spark straight through me.

So I press a soft kiss against the tip.

Then another.

Then I take him in.

Just the head. Just enough to feel the weight of him on my tongue. The soft skin stretched over the thick ridge. He groans, low and broken, hips tilting forward before he catches himself.

I smile around him.

Then I go deeper.

My lips slide over him, stretching, surrounding. The weight of him fills my mouth, presses into me, and I feel it all: the veins, the heat, the tension building like a string being pulled tight.

I close my eyes.

Sink farther.

My jaw relaxes, throat opening as I take him deeper still. He curses softly above me--his voice like gravel soaked in lust. His hand finds my hair, fingers curling in, not pulling, just holding. Grounding.

The crowd is screaming.

But it doesn't reach me.

Because right now, there's only this--

His cock in my mouth.

His scent in my nose.

His taste on my tongue.

His moan vibrating through my spine.

I draw back slowly.

Then take him again.

My tongue flattens, then curves, then flicks as I move. Each stroke is its own kind of kiss. Each swallow a silent promise. I hollow my cheeks slightly, just to feel his breath catch. I look up again--

And his eyes meet mine.

They're wild. Desperate. Worshipping.

And in that moment, I know--

He's no longer performing.

He's mine.

"Switch with me," he whispers.

I nod, but I can't speak. My breath's caught somewhere between my chest and throat, trembling like it's not sure if it should escape or stay buried forever.

He helps me up--gently, like I'm something fragile he's not ready to let go of--and then takes my place in the chair I've warmed with my body. He spreads his legs, bare and confident, the heat still radiating from his skin like he's made of fire and rhythm.

I turn to face him.

My cheeks are burning. My body's soaked. My hair is clinging to my temples in soft, tangled strands. I feel... unmade. Already undone. And yet--he looks at me like I'm still the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen.

Then I straddle him.

Carefully.

My knees rest at his hips. My hands find his shoulders for balance, fingers curling into his skin. His cock presses hot and ready against the damp heat between my legs--separated only by the soaked lace of my panties--but neither of us flinches.

We just breathe.

The world narrows to this small circle of space between our mouths. Champagne mist floats around us. Bass thrums under the floorboards, deep and slow and seductive.

"Kiss me," he says.

So I do.

Our lips collide with certainty. No hesitation. His mouth is warm, hungry. Mine opens instinctively, like I've always known this kiss, even if I'd never had it before. His tongue finds mine, slick and slow, curling against it with a rhythm that's both patient and full of promise.

His hands slide up my back.

Fingertips trailing over the damp fabric of my top, tracing my spine with a pressure that feels like worship. My breasts press into his chest as I lean into the kiss, seeking more, aching for friction, for relief.

And then--

I feel his hand move.

Still kissing me, he reaches to the side.

I hear it before I feel it: the sharp, sudden hiss of pressure released.

Then--

Champagne.

Cold. Brutal. Ecstatic.

It pours over my head first, a shocking sheet of bubbles cascading down my neck, over my shoulders, seeping into every seam of my top. I gasp into his mouth, clutching at him, but I don't pull away. The chill bites into me, turning every inch of skin into a nerve ending. My nipples harden instantly. My breath stutters. I've never felt anything like this.

By the time we break the kiss, I'm soaked.

Drenched.

My bra clings to me like it's painted on. The lace of my bra is visible through the fabric--flattened, stretched, transparent. I glance down.

And I can't believe what I'm seeing.

My breasts. Outlined. Displayed. Framed by dripping fabric, nipples sharp and swollen against the cold. My entire upper body is exposed--not naked, but somehow even more intimate than if it were.

The crowd cheers. I hear it vaguely.

But all I can focus on is him.

He reaches up.

Eyes locked on mine.

I freeze.

His fingers find the clasp at the center of my bra.

He doesn't unfasten it immediately. He waits. As if he's asking me with nothing but breath and touch.

And I say yes--just by staying still.

He slides the straps from my shoulders, slowly, and I feel them fall. The lace slips away from my chest, heavy with champagne, and I watch it drop like a curtain to the floor.

And suddenly--

I'm topless.

On stage.

On his lap.

In front of all these people.

My breath catches. My first instinct is to cover myself. To cross my arms. To hide.

But I don't.

Because he doesn't look shocked.

He looks... awed.

His hands stay low on my hips. His mouth is open just slightly, as if he forgot how to breathe. His eyes drink me in like I'm the only real thing in this world of lights and noise and heat.

Then--

He leans forward.

No words.

Just reverence.

His lips press to my chest.

And I fall apart.

He kisses me slowly. Wet, warm lips moving over cold skin, across the curve of one breast, then the other. I shudder as his tongue flicks along a droplet of champagne trailing down my cleavage. My hands tangle in his hair. My body arches toward him like a wave finding shore.

A soft moan escapes my throat--instinctive, raw. I don't even know if it's mine.

The crowd is cheering again. Screaming.

But I don't hear them.

Because right now?

There's only him.

His mouth.

My skin.

I don't know how long he's been kissing my chest.

Minutes. Hours.

A lifetime.

His mouth moves with the patience of someone who wants to memorize me--not just the shape, but the temperature, the taste, the shiver that runs through me every time his tongue circles a nipple. His hands are firm on my hips, holding me in place while I melt against him.

And I can't stop touching him.

My hands are in his hair, on his shoulders, tracing the ridges of his back. My hips grind gently, rhythmically, against the firmness beneath me--his cock pressed full and hot between my thighs, the lace of my panties the only thing separating us.

And then he stops.

Just for a second.

He lifts his head.

Looks at me.

And I know.

This isn't just about teasing anymore.

His hands slide around my waist, thumbs dragging along the slick curve of my skin. Then lower. Until he reaches the waistband of my soaked panties.

He doesn't ask.

He just pauses.

Our eyes meet--one breathless heartbeat suspended in time.

And I nod.

That's all it takes.

He hooks both thumbs under the fabric.

My panties sticks to my skin, soaked with champagne and need. It clings like it doesn't want to let go--but he pulls. Hard.

Rip.

The sound is so sudden, so sharp, it startles me.

The elastic gives with a snap. The lace splits at the seam and peels away from my skin. One clean, violent motion.

And just like that--

I'm completely naked.

Fully, completely, shamelessly exposed.

A gasp catches in my throat. The air kisses parts of me no one's ever seen in light like this. I feel the crowd stir--feel their presence. But all I can do is feel.

His hands are on me again.

Not possessive.

Just present.

They slide along my thighs, up to the heat between them. He groans softly when his fingers brush the wetness there. Not from the champagne. From me.

I can't believe this is happening.

I'm straddling a naked man.

On stage.

My breasts uncovered.

My pussy exposed.

Nothing left to hide.

And yet--there's no shame.

Only breath.

Only need.

Only the sensation of his fingers hovering just above where I want him most.

And the quiet, devastating thought that pulses through my body:

Please, touch me. Touch all of me.

We move like waves.

My hips roll slowly against his lap, tracing gentle arcs over his thighs. His hands rest on my waist, firm and warm, guiding the rhythm like he's playing an instrument he knows by heart. Our skin is slick, champagne still clinging to us like liquid gold. Every movement makes a new trail glisten under the lights.

The crowd is wild.

They're screaming, whistling, chanting--but their noise feels like it's happening underwater. Distant. Muffled. Meaningless.

Because for them, this is the show.

And I've heard about these shows.

The fake climax.

The illusion of sex.

The slow, careful grind that brings the house down without crossing the line.

So I move.

Just the way they expect.

Back and forth.

Down and up.

My bare breasts press against his chest with every forward shift, nipples brushing skin with an intimacy that still makes me dizzy. His cock lies hot and heavy beneath me, trapped between our bodies.

But we both know we're still pretending.

There's always a sliver of space.

A line that shouldn't be crossed.

Then--

He shifts me.

Just slightly.

His hands curl under my thighs, adjusting my weight, tilting my hips.

And I slide... just a little deeper.

That sliver vanishes.

I feel it immediately--him, pressing at my entrance, the head of his cock brushing against where I'm soaked, open, aching. I gasp, eyes flying wide.

And then--

He's inside me.

Not fully.

Not deep.

Just... enough.

Enough to make me feel it.

The sudden, raw stretch. The heat. The pressure. The shock of it.

My breath stutters out of me.

His eyes snap open.

Panic flickers in them.

"Shit--" he whispers. "I didn't mean--"

But I place a finger gently to his lips.

Calm. Steady.

And then I kiss him.

Not for the crowd.

Not for performance.

Just for us.

His lips open beneath mine like surrender. I pour everything into it--my yes, my want, my full-body ache for him. And he gives it back in kind, his hands trembling slightly where they hold my hips, his cock twitching inside me like it's waiting to be let in all the way.

When we finally part, we don't speak.

Because we both know.

The moment is over.

But nothing's the same.

We stand--still shaking, still pulsing.

No more slow.

No more rhythm.

Just movement now--urgent, breathless. I bend to grab my bra, still damp and dangling off the back of the chair. He finds my panties, torn and useless, and tosses them into my top. His slip is bunched in his hand. His belt dangles over his wrist. We're both naked, stumbling, laughing under our breath like we just got away with something sacred.

The crowd is still howling.

But we're already gone.

The curtain swallows us into the backstage.

He takes my hand.

And we don't stop.

Not when we hit the hallway.

Not when the club fades behind us.

Not until the door of his dressing room closes with a heavy click.

And we're finally alone.

He start kissing my breasts again. I press him down on a chair, and place myself above him.

Just slightly.

A slow roll of my hips.

Enough to feel his cock glide between my folds, already slick from everything we've done and everything we haven't.

He gasps softly against my skin. His tongue still flicks my nipple, but his hands slide lower--down to my waist, then to my thighs, gripping gently, anchoring us.

I look down at him.

His hair is a mess.

His lips are wet.

His eyes are molten.

And I want him.

All of him.

I lift myself slightly on trembling thighs. Reach between us. Take him in my hand again. He throbs in my palm. I guide the head of him to where I'm already open, already aching.

Then--

I lower myself.

Slow.

Controlled.

We both groan the moment he enters me.

It's not like on stage.

Not an accident.

Not a brush.

This is full.

Intentional.

His cock stretches me with delicious pressure, until I'm seated in his lap again--completely filled. Our hips flush. No air left between us.

He buries his face in my neck.

"Jesus," he breathes.

I'm too full to speak. Too full to think.

I just stay there. Still. Letting the sensation flood me. His cock deep inside. The beat of his heart against my chest. The tight pull deep in my belly like something sacred and feral all at once.

I roll my hips once--slow and fluid.

He moans.

His hands grip my hips harder now, guiding the next movement. Up, down. A little more this time. We find a rhythm. Nothing fast. Nothing frantic.

Just... perfect.

The room is warm. Quiet. Except for our breath, the soft slap of skin, the wet glide of bodies meant to fit.

His lips find mine again.

But this kiss is different.

Slower. Deeper. Our tongues move like our hips--gliding, dancing, pressing into every soft place. I feel his hands roam my back, up my spine, cradling my neck like he's holding something breakable.

And I do the same.

I hold his face.

Because this man--

This moment--

Deserves more than heat.

It deserves meaning.

Every time I lower myself onto him, I feel it more.

Not just the physical pleasure--though that's there in waves, sharp and sweet and thick between my thighs--but something else.

Something tender.

Like we're no longer two people.

Just one body.

Over and over.

Until I'm whimpering into his mouth and he's breathing into mine and my thighs begin to tremble with the effort of holding everything in.

He senses it.

I know he does.

Because he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent:

"I want you to come."

And I almost do.

I'm close.

So close it hurts. My thighs are trembling, my breath won't come steady anymore, and every time I sink down on him, the pressure inside me winds tighter--hot, wet, full, desperate.

He feels it too.

His grip on my hips tightens. His cock is rock hard inside me, pulsing deep, dragging along every nerve inside my core with each thrust. My body clenches around him, fluttering involuntarily. My fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on as my hips stutter.

"Oh my God..." I whisper, almost a sob.

My head falls back.

And I break.

The orgasm hits me in a sudden, devastating wave. My whole body locks, and then releases in a trembling explosion of pleasure that starts between my legs and spreads outward--through my stomach, my chest, my fingertips. My cry escapes raw and uncontrollable. My pussy clamps down around him in rhythmic contractions, pulsing around his cock again and again.

"Fuck,--" he gasps.

He stops moving, just holds me as I ride it out--my body jerking, hips grinding involuntarily, every shiver drawing him closer to the edge.

When I finally collapse against him, chest heaving, heart racing, I feel him shift beneath me.

"Get up," he growls into my ear, voice rough, strained, barely hanging on.

I look at him--confused, breathless.

"Now," he says again. "Before I--"

But I already understand.

I lift my hips. His cock slides out of me, wet and swollen, glistening with me. I sit down om my knees in front of him.

He grabs the base with one hand, tight. His head falls back, his mouth open in a silent groan as he pumps himself once, twice.

And then--

He explodes.

A thick, hot stream lands across my chest, right between my breasts.

I gasp.

Another pulse. The second jet hits higher, across my collarbone. The next drips from my sternum down over the curve of one breast, running between them, warm and heavy.

He moans--deep, guttural, shaking--as his release covers me.

I look down.

His cum is sliding slowly over my skin, thick and glistening. My nipples are hard and flushed beneath it, glimmering with champagne and him. The sight is obscene. Erotic. Perfect.

He opens his eyes. Looks at me--drenched in him.

And he exhales like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

I lean back just slightly, looking down at myself.

His cum glistens across my chest. It shines over the curve of one breast, a warm, creamy trail that runs between them, thick and unmistakably his. I bring one finger to it--just above my nipple--and drag it slowly upward.

His eyes follow the motion, transfixed.

I pause.

Then, with a wicked little smile, I bring that finger to my lips.

And taste him.

His breath catches.

I swirl my tongue slowly across the pad of my fingertip, savoring the salty-sweetness of him, and let my gaze settle on his. "Mmm," I murmur, voice low and teasing. "I really hope I can shower in here..."

He barks a laugh--deep, surprised, joyful.

And I can't help but laugh with him. It bubbles up from my chest like something bright and real.

"Thank you," he says, voice still husky, but softer now.

I lean forward.

Kiss him again.

Not hard. Not rushed. Just... grateful. Present.

"You thank me?" I whisper against his lips. "Please."

I glance around the room--dim lights, scattered clothes, stillness. Then I spot his phone on the makeup counter.

I reach for it.

He watches me, curious but unbothered, as I unlock the screen with his face.

I tap the contacts app.

Enter my name.

Type in my number.

Add a cherry emoji.

Save.

Then I turn the phone toward him with a smile that feels half challenge, half invitation.

"Maybe," I say, "you'd like to perform again sometime..."

I pause.

"... but this time, at my place."

He blinks. Then grins. Wide. Warm. Completely wrecked and still glowing.

He nods.

"By the way. I'm Kate..."