Six years, I’ve been away from this place, yet it feels the same as it always has.
My mind unwillingly drifts to her again. Autumn fucking Jenkins.
Who names their kid after a fucking season? I wish I could erase the fucking name from my brain. The memories of the woman who took my heart, put it in a blender, poured herself a nice full glass, and drank that shit down won’t stop haunting me—the vengeful spirit of a woman who isn’t even dead.
She’s dead to you.
A light rain dusts the road in a sheen of mist. I pick up my pace before it becomes a full-on torrent.
The club lights illuminate the sign like a beacon for the depraved.
TEASE! TEASE! TEASE! EXOTIC DANCERS!
“Come inside and let us take care of you.”
Entering the club is like coming home. I spend more time at this fucking place than my own. It’s not something I share with anyone. My need to watch allows me to feel highs I don’t get from anything else. It’s a compulsion more than anything. I’m an addict. I don’t medicate with drugs. This is my remedy for feeling anything other than angry. Dark. Alone.
Before moving back a little over six months ago, I dabbled in a club near my old bar, Ritz Russo’s. I was becoming a regular there, watching the girls dance, but never wanting one enough to invite them for drinks after their shift. I took mild interest in some, but never followed through with any. It’s better when I watch anyway. I’m not ready to fucking feel again. I thought I’d come here and things would change—that I’d change—but the urges were too strong. The need beckoning me to fulfill the ache won out and here I am…again.
Paying the cover fee, I nod to the bar manager, who scowls at me. For some reason, he’s not very taken with me, which is laughable considering the money I spend in his establishment. He can fuck off. I’m not here to see him.
Working part-time as an apprentice at a tattoo parlor while finishing up my art degree just about pays the bills. Luckily for the girl I like to come here to watch—and me—I got a nice paycheck when I sold my old man’s place so I can continue to fulfill this need.
Making my way to the bar, I drop two hundred dollars down on the smooth surface and slide it toward the bartender, James. “Room twelve available?”
He looks over at the owner, who glares for a few seconds before shaking his head no. What the fuck?
I place another hundred down and quirk a brow. She’s worth it. Watching her makes all the other shit in my life fade to nothing. All I see is her in those moments. All I feel is her, even though I can’t touch her. The extra hundred is definitely worth it.
Offering me a cocky smile, James takes the key from the hook behind the bar and hands it over to me. Money talks. “Thirty minutes. Enjoy.”
Oh, I plan to.
I make my way through the club toward the private viewing rooms in the back. The atmosphere is alive, the sexual tension potent in the air you breathe. Everything is designed to bring your desires to the surface and get the blood flowing—the music a deep, seductive hum; the lighting low and well placed, giving you a sense of obscurity.
At this place, you’re free to be you. The girls look at you like you’re the only man in the room. Their movements are meant to entice, provoke—and they do. Money, lots of it, leaves the wallets of every guy in here, disappearing into their G-strings.
A few of the private rooms have the red light above, signaling them occupied, but twelve is green. That light just turned on. Her shift starts at the same time every night, and I’m always the first person here to see her—to watch her.
The key clicks the door open, and the green light flashes before turning red.
She’s mine for half an hour.
The room is decorated in black—black walls, black floor, black couch attached to the back wall so you can bring more than one person in if you wanted to, but not me. This is my time. My elixir.
The glass wall separating me from her becomes transparent as the light behind it turns on, revealing the square box she performs within.
Right in the center, is her—Room Twelve.
Black heels make her legs look impossibly long. My eyes drag up the toned, tanned length, my cock growing in my jeans. Her ass is confined inside a pair of silk panties. Not a G-string like the pole dancers. No, she’s no typical stripper.
There’s a tease of a tattoo creeping down the panty line of her left ass cheek. A flower possibly? Black leather in the form of a corset encases her torso, making her tits bulge from the top. A lace collar wrapped around her neck has pre-cum dampening the tip of my cock. The dark locks of her hair are bundled up in a loose updo with fallen strands framing her face hidden behind a full black mask.