By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2002 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

J. T. raced the short block and a half from the subway to ‘Club DanceFire’. His heart pumped its serious objection to fifty years of indulgence and the resultant pounds of flab. It was almost midnight and the club closed at one! He zig-zagged clumsily through the Friday night crowd like a man possessed, ignoring the pelting rain that blurred his vision and stung the generous bald spot that crowned his hatless head.

“What in God’s name am I doing here?” he asked silently.

He quickened his pace and despite feeling out of place, out of youth and out of control, soon found himself at the club’s entrance.

He felt disoriented. He observed himself as he would a furtive stranger, slinking through the door and hustling toward a table on the aisle. The aisle that led to the place where lap dancers danced and seduced, offering much more than they intended to give. Where men paid for promises.

J.T slouched deep in his seat, as if his posture and the moody darkness would conspire to cloak him in invisibility. He settled into his watch, scanning the joint like a pimp looking for his girls. He blinked. The scene was a moving blur, as if his eyes were binoculars calibrated to focus on one object only, no matter the distance. And tonight that particular image was nowhere to be found.
“Maybe she changed her mind about working tonight,” he reasoned miserably.

She was Desiree, an exotic dancer. He was Judge William Thompson. And since his first visit here a week ago, his life hadn’t been his own. This vixen had invaded his psyche, erased and reprogrammed the database of his very soul. Gone was the conservative, ambitious political judge, respected by some; feared by others.

In his place was this pathetic…

“Back again,” marveled an all-too-cheery waitress. “That’s six days in a row!”

“Seven,” said J.T. shortly, “and what business is it of yours?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it,” the waitress apologized. “Good to see you. The usual?”
“Fine,” said J.T. sheepishly.

“Desiree’s in back with a regular,” she informed him generously, before scurrying off toward the bar.

J.T. was appreciating a moment’s respite from the music that had been thumping continuously since he arrived, when the D.J’s voice announced over the speaker:

“Grab yourselves a drink and get ready for … ”

A break … J.T’s stomach leapt into his throat. “Please, come out now,” he prayed.
“Your drink, sir.”

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for his drink with one hand and fumbling for his wallet with the other.
“Thanks …” his voice trailed off.

Desiree was gliding toward him, a flushed and smiling businessman in tow. He jumped up and in one second flat was standing in her path: Red high-heeled leather boots covered her shapely legs to mid thigh. Black fishnet stockings teased to the edge of a red-leather, long sleeved number that hugged her tiny waist and exaggerated her already grossly bulging breasts. A sturdy brass zipper emerged from between her legs to reach all the way to her neck. Her shoulders swayed intentionally as she walked, back and forth, creating swelling waves of tits that kidnapped his eyes, stirred erotic currents in his groin and sent shock waves through his cock that immediately jerked with desire. He shifted his weight to make way for the engorged balls, the lewdly enlarged cock and the pressure that was threatening to burst through his pants.

She invaded his space, stopping so close to him that he could feel her breath. Her gargantuan breasts brushed his chest with their nipples’ fire. It took all he had not to grab her. It took the knowledge that he’d be thrown out on his ear, his reputation and career in ruins to keep his hands from grabbing his needy crotch or her teasing tits.

“Can I have the next dance?” he gushed.

“I’m on a break til the last set, baby.”

“Save the last dance for me?” he begged.

“Mmmm … the last dance? Well that depends who takes the first two of the set. A bird in the hand and all that.”

“I mean…I meant the last set,” J.T. said, his voice rising.

“First come first served,” Desiree said, moving around him. “You got it,” she flung over her shoulder casually.

J.T. sipped his Chivas. He felt almost nauseous with longing and anticipation and noted that, before this week, it had been a very long time since he’d felt so alive. Life had numbed him. He’d lived through three failed marriages, the first two inevitable. Both of those wives wanted more time and attention than he’d been willing to give. But his third failure was another story.

He’d married Elizabeth who was twenty years his junior, after only six months of romancing her off her feet. He assumed they were happy until three months later when he’d come home to a note:
“Last night when you insisted I change for Larry’s party I realized that I’m not what you want. I’m not about to change and there’s no reason for either of us to suffer so I’m out of here. I want nothing from you. Be happy, Elizabeth.”

He’d read the note twice, poured himself a brandy and then another and another, until her words, his feelings and the truth were beyond him.

That was almost a year ago and it wasn’t until this week, waiting alone in the shadows of ‘Club DanceFire’, that he’d allowed himself to face facts. That he’d feared her beauty and sensuality and that his jealousy and insecurity, his need to control her, had ruined their marriage. He knew now that he’d give anything, all his worldly goods and his seat on the bench, to turn back the clock and do it right this time.

The D.J.’ boomed over the speaker:

“Last set. Get yourself … ”

“Ready, tiger?” Desiree whispered huskily, leaning over him, her tits squeezed and bulging against the rail.
J.T. stumbled out of his seat and lurched after her. His eyes gobbled her legs, the sway of her tight ass. His skin was flushed and his balls contracted impatiently as her pendulous breasts peeped into view, left…right, following the sexy rhythm of her footsteps.

Desiree led him to the end of a row of high-walled private booths.

“Sit,” she said, facing him, legs spread.

J.T. sat in the oversized chair in front of her.

Slowly, Desiree took hold of the brass ring of her zipper and pulled, exposing an increasingly long line of cleavage that disappeared into the plunging neckline of an also red-leather, strapless bustier. She reached in and pulled out a flat envelope of a moneybag and tossed it onto J.T’s lap.

“What would you like? A dressed ten or revealing twenty?” she asked flirtatiously.

J.T. pulled a stack of bills from his wallet, counting off ten $20’s. “How about two dances, whatever you want and the third in the Private Quarter?” He began shoving the bills into her bag.

“Haven’t I told you that I don’t do the PQ, naughty boy?”

“Always a first time,” J.T. whispered, stashing the purse in the chair pocket as he’d been taught to do.

Desiree chuckled as a female vocalist began, “A good man is hard to find …” and turned away from J.T. She stretched as if waking from sleep and then cradled her breasts in her arms. She twisted slowly toward him, rocking her babies, bending over him so he could have a good look. She placed her booted foot beside him, her hands on the arms of his chair and boogied her tits lower and lower until they slapped his face.
“Yes, baby,” J.T. groaned, reaching for her. Remembering the rules and withdrawing his hands, as his hips thrust frantically into the air between them.

She smothered his face in the depths of her cleavage, in the embrace of her huge warm mounds. He massaged his throbbing cock through his pants, as he breathed leather and flesh. Clear sticky goo oozed into his pants, as her tingling fingers teased circles about his baldness.

J.T. didn’t know when the first song ended or the next began. All he knew was that Desiree was bending over, her ass beckoning him, her heavy tits threatening to burst out of their bodice as she squeezed them, swung them, offered them to him from between her legs. Desiree was facing him, massaging her breast and then tweaking her nipple with one hand, while the other caressed her pussy. He thought he saw, smelled her wetness but he couldn’t be sure because his cock was screaming, insisting and he couldn’t be sure of anything. Was he pulling out his cock?

“Yes,” he groaned, as he stroked the flesh of his cock, his legs stretched forward and his wet dick feeling bigger and better than it ever had before.

“Come,” Desiree hissed, grabbing her purse and his arm and dragging him through the door of ‘The Private Quarter.’

She shut the door quickly.

“Bad, bad boy!”

The Private Quarter sported a luxurious couch and soft music seemed to seep from the walls, ceiling and floor. Desiree pushed J.T. onto the couch and began dancing. She was a sex goddess moving for her own pleasure; fingers through her hair, hands cupping, weighing, teasing her own tits. She returned to the zipper-ring and pulled until her exposed tits ballooned out of a skimpy leather bra, until she reached under her cunt to … snap …the bustier fell to the floor, revealing her juice stained, tiny leather thong.

“Hurry,” said J.T, his strokes becoming longer, shorter, quicker, slower? He was no longer in control.
“Please hurry,” he repeated, as she stepped out of the thong.

“Oh God,” she groaned, rubbing her clit and then plunging her finger inside, as her legs buckled as she trembled toward the couch.

She straddled J.T, her pussy inches from his cock. She gazed into his eyes and then lowered herself to kiss his cock with the sweet lips and then the mouth of her dripping pussy.

“Oh no,” J.T.cried, as she raised herself off him.

“Oh yes,” he cried, as she plunged back onto him.

He reached, touched and grabbed at her breasts and then collapsed as she rode him. He gasped at the sight of her tits heaving, bouncing, careening in every direction, as she fucked him.

“Now,” she said, head thrown back, her pussy wet finger nudging her … him … them over the edge.

“Elizabeth,” he screamed, exploding months of waiting, endless powerful jets of hot thick cum into her.

“Desiree to you,” she said impishly, collapsing onto his chest.

“We have to get out of here. This is my place of business,” she said after a few minutes. “Or, it was my place of business. I always said I’d quit before I let any customer get me into the Private Quarter.”

“My darling Elizabeth, if I promise never to forget Desiree, will you come home?” J.T. asked softly.
Desiree balanced on her elbow to look down at him.

“Are those tears?” she asked, touching his cheek with a tender finger. “Let’s go home,” she said, not waiting for an answer.