Chapter 118: Lily 003

Looking at Mason, my mind playing out imagined scenes of him using up his sexual partner, I wanted him to hurt me. That is, I wanted him to hurt me while he made me cum until I ached and begged him to stop.

"Room 5. It's ready for you now. Curtain at 11," he told me. I believed he knew what I was thinking. I was afraid he could read my mind.

Part of me wanted to fall back on that awful green thrift store love seat in the darkest corner of his office and finger myself for him. Not say a word, just part my fleshy white thighs, toss my skirt up above my waist, look him dead in the eye and watch him watch my pussy eagerly accept two little fingers inside it's wet, warm environment. Standing in my masquerade mask and black hair, in character, "Amy" asleep somewhere deep inside my psyche, I very much wanted to see how I could affect Mason. Would I see his heart thumping underneath his skin tight V-Neck? Would I see his cock growing when I began to whimper as my hungry orgasm woke within me? Would he be forced to drop his pants and masturbate when I licked my own juices from my fingers, then used one to trace the stiff bud of my asshole while fingering myself with the other two (One of many masturbatory "party tricks" in my arsenal, only seen by my own eyes thru a mirror)? Would he stumble forward as his orgasm peaked and discard his cum on my low-cut dress? Spilling himself on my pale white cleavage? Would he ejaculate his warm, salty seed on my face? My lips? My cheek? Perhaps I would involuntarily open my mouth for him...

No. Not tonight. There were rules. I always need rules in situations such as these. Once the hunger for "newness" and "danger" is fed, the desire calls the shots.

Unfortunately the intrusive erotic thought of Mason watching me finger myself was very much alive and needed some attention. This was a test. How do I feed the little beast without going too far? Remaining silent, I chose a black, lace slip from the oak closet.

Before Mason could turn his back to give me privacy, I was quick to nonchalantly drop the shoulder straps of my cocktail dress from my frame, allowing the dress to spill to the ground around my heels.

I stood still, allowing Mason to look at my naked body. I desperately wanted to fondle my little breasts for him. To allow him to watch me delicately run my fingers of my left hand around the nipple of my left tit. I wanted to ask him about his cock while I squeezed my breast with right hand and only slightly fingered myself with my left.

"God, how badly do you want to fuck me right now, Mason?" I wanted to breathe to him. I wanted to laugh and taunt him. To languidly inquire: "You want to know what my pussy tastes like? Once and for all? Do you think you've ever tasted a pussy like mine before?" I wanted him to consider the question. "What does a girl with my thoughts -- my eyes, my feelings, my hopes, and my dreams... what does her pussy taste like?"

"You'd remember the faint, sweet taste of my pussy forever." I wanted to threaten as I looked into his eyes. "You'd crave a second taste, but I'd never give you one."

After only a few seconds of silence, I turned around, stepped into the lace slip and pulled it snug over my skin.

I had the urge to touch my hot, moist pussy inside the lingerie. I wanted to comfort myself, and at any time of high excitement, it always grounded me to touch my pussy, even over my jeans if I was in public. But right now, I wanted to stroke my soft, bare lips.

I masochistically enjoyed denying myself this pleasure.

I walked out of his little, bleak office overlooking the club. I heard the hard stem of my heel hit each of the seven wooden steps on the way back down the cheap staircase, echoing loudly in my brain off of the dingy tiled hallway. I felt as though I was in a dream as I continued to the door leading onto the floor of the strip club.

The main floor of "Lily" was an entirely different vibe. Lit entirely by candlelight and a few large fireplaces, it was like stepping into another world: Elegant yet peeling brown wallpaper clung to the walls. Dark red velvet booths were scattered throughout, each grouping of them in front of one of five display rooms. "Lily" was a throw back to classy "peep shows" of the past. It was also a rum and cigar bar, a very expensive one, and it was easy to feel like you stepped into the movie Casablanca. I loved the mood and tone of the place.

I always cut through the crowd and headed straight to performance space. I didn't drink or chat with anyone. I felt the eyes looking at me, my attire giving me away as one of the night's performers. I loved the attention, but keeping up the mystery was very important to me.

"Room 5" was my favorite room -- a freestanding, ten foot by ten foot glass box, sound proofed, surrounded on all sides with tables and chairs for the audience. Inside the room was a small couch for the dancer to lounge on in between performances. Mason provided magazines and a laptop inside the box for us to use to kill time before the show. There were only a few candles lit in the room, and the exterior lighting around the floor of the space was very dim. All of this made the experience more erotic rather than the typical strip club.

A lot of people enjoyed this voyeur element more than the typical strip-show itself. They liked seeing a pretty girl in a mask and lingerie hanging out in a display case surfing the web or flipping through magazines. As if the dancer were a pet they kept for light masturbatory entertainment. I never made eye contact with the guests. I enjoyed keeping "the fourth wall" intact. I liked giving them the ease to relax, as if I didn't know they were watching me.

Showtime was 11pm, and the cold chills of my nerves were in over drive. I muttered a customary "oh fuck" to myself when I heard the cue:

Ladies and Gentlemen: Sara will now begin in Room 5.

Yet, just as the lights went down I saw something that truly terrified me. For whatever reason, I broke my own rule and quickly glanced out over the crowd. Standing near the front and to the left was my husband's brother, Eric, and his father, John.

Typically, in these few moments of darkness, I'd stand from the couch, so when the lights softly came back up, I'd be ready to sway with the music and discard my clothes. But now, I was fucking panicked. I was visibly trembling.

"Oh fuck," Could they know? Could they know it was me behind the black wig and mask? What were they doing here?

It had to be a coincidence. My husband's brother, Eric, was not religious. He was the black sheep of the family, using family money to produce low-budget "indie" movies. Some made money, most didn't. Eric's relationship with his and my husband's father had been strained. I knew they were trying to bond again, but I'd never think Eric would bring his Dad to a place like this. Still, from the look I remember on both of their faces before the lights went down, clearly both were excited for what they thought was to come. They just had no idea it was going to come from me, John's son's wife.

I steeled myself, insisting they had no idea it was me. Then, I allowed myself to enjoy the secret sickness of it all. I would be the only one who knew about this. I would excite both my father-in-law, and brother-in-law, likely give them both erections as they looked over my naked body. At future family gatherings, they will treat me just as "Amy", the reserved wife of their conservative son / brother. Yet I will know about this night. Would they masturbate to thoughts of me? I was suddenly very excited.

My dances were usually no more than a few minutes, just the length of a song. I know that sounds like not enough time, but when you're in there, removing only a few little pieces of lingerie for strangers, it feels much longer. The thought of John and Eric watching me made me very wet.