“Mrs. Anderson,” he says, enunciating every syllable of my last name as he pulls me close. “Your days of dancing in front of strangers are long over. You’re never stepping foot in Club Swan again.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” I look over at the abandoned poles. “If you get a chair, I can give you my first and only private show. I might even let you be the first man to touch me during a performance…”
Smirking, he slowly lets me go. “Say less.”
He moves past me and opens a panel under the stage. Within seconds, a row of red leather seats slowly emerges onto the floor and music begins to play.
“Is this loud enough for you?” he asks.
“It could be a little louder,” I admit. “The song could be a little slower, too.”
He taps a few buttons on the remote, keeping his eyes on mine as he shuffles through the club’s playlist, waiting for me to approve a song.
“Stop.” I nod when one of my favorite sensual songs begins to play.
As he takes a seat, I toss my hoodie to the floor, and move to the pole that’s directly in front of him.
I continue to undress, taking off everything except my panties and my bra.
Michael leans back in his chair and lights a cigar, just like he did in all my fantasies. Back when I wished that he really was in the front row at Club Swan.
Hooking my left leg around the cold metal, I keep my eyes on him as I hoist myself up, going as high as I can go. When the first line of the song’s chorus plays, I lean backward—letting my hair fall free as I twirl around a few times. I use all of my arm strength to pull myself up, and then I hold a split in mid-air.
Michael’s gaze starts becoming more heated and primal as the song continues, and I can tell that he’s mentally fucking me with every move I make. I make. That he’s trying hard to keep his composure as I spin my way back down.
When I make it to the edge of the stage and spread my legs for the floor part of my routine, he gets up from his chair and walks toward me. He slips his hands under my thighs and pulls me to the edge.
“My dance isn’t over yet,” I say. “I’ve got four more minutes.”
“I’m too aroused for you to finish,” he says. “I need to fuck you right now. Lean back.”
I oblige, and the second my back hits the cold floor, he places my legs over his shoulders.
He unzips his pants in one smooth motion, pulling out his cock, and he slides every inch of it into me at once—relentlessly fucking me to an orgasm. Just when I think he’s done—that he wants to catch his breath, he pulls me up by my hair and looks deep into my eyes.
“Get on your knees,” he says, briefly cupping my face in his hands, before using my hoodie to wipe off his cock.
Obliging, I move onto the floor.
He runs his fingers through my hair a few times, watching me rub his cock between my hands.
I take him deep into my mouth—down my throat, again and again, swallowing every inch of him. The way he looks at me as I pleasure him makes me use my free hand to rub my clit.
“Fuck…” His legs stiffen, and he whispers that he’s about to come, but I don’t move. I wait for it and swallow every last drop.
Grabbing my hands, he pulls me up and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry that I ever left you for more than five fucking seconds.”
“I’m sorry for not following your directions while I was there.”
“Don’t be.” He shakes his head. “As long as you follow them while we’re working on your dad and your aunt, you’ll be fine.”
“Do you honestly think I’ll be capable of doing it alone, after only a few weeks of training?”
“Yes,” he says. “But you won’t be alone at all. I’ll be there with you every second of the way.”
Meredith
Now
A couple of weeks later
“Just like that…” Michael stands behind me, his hands gripping my waist. “Curl your finger around the trigger and make sure your grip is right.”
I oblige and stare ahead at my ‘target’, a potato sack that sitting several feet away. I take my time positioning the gun, and as usual, it takes me double the time that it should.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten a small taste of the gritty ecosystem of New York under Michael’s guidance, and I feel as I’m drowning in a world I never noticed before.
The Paper Café, where I used to get my morning coffee, is a large-scale money laundering business, owned by the mafia. Two of the men who often waved at me during my emotional runs through Central Park are two of the biggest drug dealers in the city. And every miscellaneous fee that I’ve ever paid to my bank has gone directly to the shared account of the “A brothers.”