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The Weekender |
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By Margo Perry
It’s Monday morning. I dress for my meeting and call my wife for the first time since I left on Friday.
I’m all ready for my meeting.
“Did you find a good motel?”
I’m too exhausted and full of the truth to lie. I found a place above a Strip Club and ...
“At least that’ll save you from drinking and driving.”
I don’t drink and drive, you know that. Never have, never …
“I didn’t say you did.”
She keeps cutting me off, but I don’t care. This call is perfunctory and I just want it to end. It’ll take a few days to finish up here and then I’ll be home.
“Take your time.”
Her voice is without guile. She just doesn’t care. I decide to go for broke. Let’s have dinner and talk when I get back. Neither of us is getting what we need out of this marriage.
“You got that right.”
I hear the relief in her voice and exhale. She now knows what I know. Marriage as we knew it on Friday is over.
* * *
The highway breathed heat in trails. I squinted into the sun and massaged the dull headache that was creeping up the back of my neck. I’d been driving for sixteen hours and my concentration was slipping. No adjustment of visor or mirrors was helping, so I decided to stop for the night. I’d earned the right to some down time, down and dirty, if I had my way. I was lonely and horny. I got off the highway, found the first motel that looked decent, and checked in. The weekend was all mine.
I showered and changed. I wasn’t hungry, so I grabbed the Yellow Pages and let my fingers do the walking: Strip Clubs.
They were rarely far from my mind. I'd been to strip clubs before. All right, let's be honest, I'd been to a lot of strip clubs before; some good, some bad, but in the end, all having something to offer.
I’d been to classy ones, where beautiful women in expensive lingerie floated through rooms, leaving designer fragrances in their wake. I’d watch, each one more enticing and alluring than the last, and fantasize that they were high end call girls, costing me a small fortune for a night of erotic pleasure that would be worth every cent.
On the other hand, dives were filled with cheeky women, their eyelids heavy with shadow and mascara, bare-limbed, except for tattoos, every movement a come-on. They were my streetwalkers come in from the cold. The thick, cloying smell of their cheap perfume oozed desperation and they were more than willing to do anything I might demand, plus things I'd yet to imagine.
My anticipation was building by the second. My meeting wasn’t until Monday morning, but I’d wanted to get away from home. I wasn’t unhappy in my marriage. I just wasn’t happy. After about five years, we’d slipped into the no-talking zone and we’d been living there since. Strip joints had become my go-to place for relaxation and entertainment, a job my wife was happy to assign the girls, as long as she was spared the details. I suspected that I still loved her, but purple passion had turned to an uninspired pink. Her body had grown small and hard with exercise and lack of sexual interest and her cheek had become the default position for my planted kisses.
There was only one club listed, The Weekender, so I checked for directions on my iPhone, got back in my car, and headed out. I found myself humming. Whether it was my broad range of tastes, or that I was just easy to please, I'd never met a strip club I didn't like.
The town was pretty enough, quiet and orderly. Children walked home from school, speeding bicycles delivered packages and old folks walked tiny dogs along tree lines streets. The expectation of The Weekender’s offering a smorgasbord of female seduction was losing credibility. I began to doubt the efficacy or even sanity of this outing but, forever hopeful, I never considered turning back.
My friends often accused me of being addicted and they’re probably right. According to Chris Rock, if you're at a strip club, and the sun is out, you got a problem. So mine was present and acute. However, I’d never considered it one. While I frequented strip clubs more or less regularly, I didn’t get carried away. I’d have a couple of beers, watch the girls dance and if I saw one I particularly liked, I might have a lap dance or two. I'm not like some guys who drop a whole week's pay check in an afternoon, drinking themselves into such a stupor that they’d never remember how many times they said yes to just one more dance. Depending on whether or not there was a cover charge and the price of the beer, I've been known to get in and out for under twenty bucks. If I do go for a couple of dances, I might hit sixty, but I've never gone into triple digits. My secret was that while I may be addicted to strip clubs, I've never become addicted to the girls. Don't get me wrong. I really love what they do for me, but I say thanks and walk away. Some of them try to coax me to spend a little more, wiggling that ass, swaying those tits, just as one song ends and the next is about to begin, but I've always been able to resist. I've always been able to say no before seriously denting my wallet, jeopardizing my job, my marriage or my life as I knew it. That is, until that hot night in March when I walked into The Weekender for the first time. And strippers had nothing to do with it.
The Weekender was a nondescript place in a strip mall, toward the outskirts of town. No flashing lights, no pictures of half naked women, just a brass sign over the door that somehow corporatized what might have been inferred by its listing in the Pages. The windows were stained glass impressions of bodies and parts that were more art than strip club and gave conflicting signals as to whether a church, sports bar filled with pool tables, or a sophisticated Gentleman`s Club would be found lurking behind its massive mahogany doors.
I reached the entrance just as a black stretch limo cruised to a halt and a uniformed driver jumped out to open the door. The creature that stepped out of the car was at least six feet in her high heeled pumps and her legs, encased in tight jeans, seemed to go on forever. Her breasts led the way, so huge, so firm, so lifted that they stretched the cotton of her black turtleneck to the max. I literally ran to grab the door to the club and waited breathlessly for her approach. Her full lips seemed perpetually pouted in a half smile, begging to be kissed. Slap me, but I immediately imagined her on her knees, my hands lost in the cascade of her black shining curls, as she took my already hard cock in her mouth. As she strode toward me, I felt a teenager’s relief, when there was no man in tow.
My legs felt weak. I was sweating and my heart was pounding. She moved like a gorgeous jungle animal and I wanted to be her prey.
Get a grip!
That was fine for my big head to suggest, but my little head hadn’t been this excited since puberty. She and her massive breasts were close now and I was so in lust that I couldn’t separate it from love, even at first sight. I didn’t know who this woman was, but fate had brought me here to meet her. That’s all I knew.
“Thank you.” Her voice was deep and husky and, I wanted the pleasure of holding her, pressing her huge tits into my chest. She would have fit just under my chin and I was 6’ 4”. I could smell her perfume, a floral scent so subtle that it seemed to have hardly touched her skin. I wanted her tits to own me, make me do anything. She laughed as I gawked. I seemed unable to move or talk or anything but blush hot red as my cock grew, my balls tingled and the hair stood up at the back of my neck. “Aren’t you coming in?”
I suddenly realized that she was inside, waiting for me to unfreeze, waiting for my eyeballs to release her tits from their obsessive gaze. Her expression was curious, as though she were a scientist confronted by an interesting species. She looked me up and down and nodded, before heading into the lobby. I followed, like the puppy I’d become. It seemed particularly dark after the brilliant sunshine, so it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. A big burly doorman magically appeared.
“Hi Georgie,” the woman said. “I’ve come for food and I need a distraction.”
“I know what day this is. It’s been five years now and it’s time for you to join the living. Anything you need, just let me know,” the doorman answered.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’ve been my lifeline.”
I felt a rush of jealousy as she threw her arms around Georgie’s neck and kissed his cheek. Her enormous breasts were pressed into George’s muscled arm. He grinned and blushed, as she headed for an elevator and he finally turned his attention to me. There was moment of recognition as he caught me, mouth open, eyes focussed on the woman’s retreating back.
"Good afternoon, sir and put your eyes back in your head. That one’s not on the menu. Don’t even think about it. There’s a $10 cover and plenty of available pretty girls beyond that door."
I was too embarrassed to look him in the eye. I was afraid he’d see that available girls no longer held interest.
This hadn’t seemed like the kind of place that would charge a cover and certainly not at this time of day. But that was before I’d laid eyes on her or them. I dug into my wallet and pulled out a $10 bill, knowing that I’d gleefully pull out several others just for the chance to see her again.
"Thank you," George said, taking my money and stepping back and allowing me entry.
I walked past and his enormous stature once again filled the doorway. I continued along a pathway, past the elevator that had gobbled up my goddess, toward another entrance that was guarded by a pretty china doll of a blonde, blue eyed waif with huge eyes, worthy of Keane’s canvas. The woman was too delicate to be my type, but she was simply and hauntingly beautiful.
The stage with its poles and dancing girls was situated in the center of a round. Steps up, on all sides, comfortable chairs and dimmed lights provided a quieter more private atmosphere. A staircase led up to a restaurant section that seemed quite busy. The music was pulsing, but controlled, and the club was quite busy for 4 PM, even on a Friday. Dancers, waitresses, hostesses were all card carrying members of the strip club elite. I’d found gold!
I chuckled. It had cost me $10 to get in. I wondered how much it would cost me to get out. It was a funny thought, but I had no idea that the joke was on me.
“Good evening,” the hostess said. “Where would you like to sit?”
Hi Georgie. I just need some food and a distraction. Food and a distraction
That overheard conversation was my only clue as to where I might fine her and she was all I wanted.
“How’s the food here?”
“Folks rave about the food and menu. It’s quite broad and everything’s cooked fresh.”
My appetite for strip clubs was now concentrated on the woman of my dreams. While I wasn’t yet hungry, I realized that I’d be willing to sit in that restaurant until doomsday, just to catch a glimpse of her and I was willing to be both edible and entertaining.
I chose a quiet booth in the back, the kind of place I imagined my goddess would choose. I wondered how long I’d have to wait and whether I’d end up going back to the motel to masturbate. I’d already faced the fact that for tonight, at least, no other woman would do and I’d be satisfied just to gaze at her. I was love sick, rendered irrational, desperate with lust. I ordered, not my usual beer, but a dirty apple vodka martini because I imagined she’d order such a thing. I didn’t consider the price which should have been the first warning that I was already in over my head.
Incontrovertible proof was on its way and I didn’t have long to wait. Her scent preceded her smooth sexy voice that had already imprinted itself on my brain.
“I don’t want to eat alone. May I join you?” I jumped to my feet, nodding vigorously and she laughed at me again. “You’re a live one,” she said.
A waiter appeared. “The gentleman has ordered a cocktail. What can I bring you?”
“I’ll have a cold one.”
I felt like I’d been stuffed into a small place without adequate light or oxygen. I seemed to be struggling for breath and my neck was twitching, as it was wont to do when I was nervous beyond containment.
“You’re not from around here. Visiting?”
“Passing through. I have a business meeting on Monday.”
“You’ve given yourself a whole weekend to get yourself in trouble and you might have come to the right place.”
She laughed again and this time, I dared look into her eyes. They were grey with golden flecks, catlike, full of intelligence, lacking in fear. They bored into me, and I realized that she knew my sexual secrets. She was amused that her breasts hypnotized me, made me helpless and satisfied some need of mine. I could see that embarrassing me, having me at her proverbial feet, met some need in her.
“Tell me about yourself.” The drinks arrived. She took the martini and shoved the beer toward me. “Isn’t this your preference? Take a sip of the martini and make sure.”
She slid her drink toward me. I took a sip and the complicated flavour, the peppery heat of the alcohol was too much for my palate. That ice cold beer was all I wanted.
How had she known?
“Talk,” she said.
Her wish was literally my command. I watched her lift that glass to her lips. Put it down and lean forward, elbows on the table. Cotton could do nothing to hide the length of her cleavage, the moving breast flesh that inspired me to talk and talk and talk. I told her about the sports reality show I’d been sent to sell to a local affiliate. I told her about my childhood. I told her about my wife, my marriage with its disappointments. I stared from face to breasts and back again, babbling endlessly.
She ordered two more drinks, the chef’s specialty, steak frits and Caesar salad, and offered me the menu.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I said, annoyed by the intrusion.
She smiled and waved the waiter away. I’d done all the talking. I knew nothing about her and realized that all the power was in her hands.
“Now let me tell you about you,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
My hand was cold and clammy with excitement. I didn’t want her to know, but I wasn’t prepared to disobey even her most casual request. I offered my hand.
She traced the lines with a lacquered nail.
“Are you a palm reader?”
“No,” she said. “I read touches and reactions to touches. You’re trembling, which means we’re attached and you can’t resist me, or them.” She allowed one hand to casually travel across her breast flesh. “That’s what’s important in these relationships.”
“Relationships?”
“Indeed,” she said. “Any meeting forms a relationship. How long it lasts? How deep it goes? These questions answer themselves in time. There’s no need to hurry.”
Our food arrived and I was glad for her interaction with the waiter. They knew her and they were definitely kissing her ass.
“I don’t even know your name?” I said, as we began to eat.
“Scarlet,” she said. “My mother had a real thing for Gone With The Wind, but lost a’t’ in translation.”
I laughed too long and too loudly. I was happy.
I ate as she told me about being a dancer here, meeting the owner and quitting, when they married. Her husband was twenty-five years her senior and had died instantly, five years ago, from a massive heart attack. As she talked, her face told me that she’d loved him and that after years of mourning, she was finally ready for something. I hoped that something was me, but felt totally unable to make it so. She owned this place. She had George for protection. I was an average Joe with aspirations way beyond my means and station. All I could do was pray and wait for her next move.
She ate with relish. I was too caught up in her to give the food any of the attention it deserved, but the wine she’d ordered was the best I’d ever tasted. It played with the senses, lifting them, making everything seem more possible, more enjoyable.
We’d come to the end of our meal and I was terrified that she’d get up and walk out.
The waiter arrived with the check and I hated him for it. Without thinking, I grabbed it.
“Would you like dessert or coffee?” I asked. Anything to make this dinner last longer.
I noticed the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth and the twinkle that lit up her eyes.
“No thanks. I think that’s enough. Why don’t you give us a minute,” she told the waiter.
I pulled out my wallet.
“Is there anywhere around here we could go to hear some live music?”
She stared at me, her expression amused, as I looked at the bill.
The wine we’d enjoyed had a very long name and cost $3053.
“I have much to teach you,” she said. “The first is that you never grab a check without knowing what’s been charged. What are you going to do now? Your company will never okay such an expense and your wife would never let you get away with such a luxury. I think you need my help!”
“What do you mean?”
I’d hoped she’d just take it from me, pay it, and suggest some cozy jazz spot where we’d spend some more time together. No such luck.
“Can you afford this meal?”
“Hardly!”
I just stared at her and then the bill.
“I think we should escape. Go into hiding until we can find a way to pay your debt.”
She jumped up and grabbed my hand. We rushed out of the dining room, through the bustling kitchen and into a private elevator.
I was scared to death and she was having the time of her life.
Inside the elevator, I noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her breasts were heaving with excitement.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” she said. “I’ve had a lovely dinner and now I’m in the mood for some entertainment. You are over three thou in debt and I’ll expect you to provide any service I require, until it’s paid off.”
Anything … as long as I can be with you.
I hardly noticed her sumptuous offices and living quarters. While she changed, I was instructed to make apple martinis. I needed a bar book for instructions and used too much apple schnapps. It took three tries to please her.
She’d emerged in a strapless corset that sent pre-cum oozing into my jockeys. She came over to the bar, passing too close to me, and I lost my mind. I grabbed her and kissed her with the skill and enthusiasm of a fifteen year old. She smiled and held me at arms length, before moving into me, on her terms. I felt the soft firmness of her breasts first and then a knee, pushing between my legs, moving up my thigh, and rubbing against my hard-on.
I had to say it. “I love you!”
“Don’t you dare come,” she said, kissing me with her lips and tongue, fucking my mouth. She was forcing me up orgasm’s mountain, without a parachute.
“You own me!” I said, breaking away from the kiss. “I’ll come, if we don’t stop.”
“Poor baby,” she cooed. “I’m going to relax on the bed. I want you to undress for me. Slowly. It’s been five years since I touched a man.”
She lay on her bed and I stood, awkward and self conscious, in the middle of her bedroom. There was no music except for our breathing.
She directed me: Shoes first, then shirt, then pants, then undershirt. Jockeys.
“Now, play with that gorgeous leaking cock of yours and look at me.”
Her legs were splayed open. Her hand masturbated her pussy with practiced grace. She groaned as her breast flesh quivered and shook with pleasure.
“Slow down,” she cautioned as the speed of my strokes increased.
I managed, until she reached both hands inside her corset, lifted out one gigantic tit, and began suckling it, her face distorted in lust.
My cock was in charge. I fell to my knees as come gushed onto my thighs and stained her carpet.
I was forced to wear only an apron as I cleaned the spot, on my hands and knees. Within that first hour, I was completely dominated by her. I was a committed and happy slave.
She hasn’t allowed me to come since and my balls ache with the need.
We have fucked each other, she on top, her tits bouncing and slapping. We’ve fucked, she on the bottom, forcing me to fuck harder, daring me to come.
She placed me across her lap and spanked my bottom until something started to tingle and then zing just behind my balls. She made me watch as she strapped on her cock. Watch as she lubed it, generously, sensually, as if it had flesh and feeling. I closed my eyes as she began to nudge my ass hole, fingering my cock, until I began to want her, want it. Need to be fucked. She did and I experienced pleasure beyond anything I’d thought possible. I begged her to let me come, but she didn’t allow it.
She showed me a spot behind her knees that drove her insane when licked with the right lightness.
She sucked my cock, warning against anybody else touching it, kissing it or fucking it. She claimed ownership of it along with the rest of me and I knew heaven on earth.
We lost count of the times she came.
On Saturday, George drove my car to the motel, packed me up, and checked me out. He doesn’t like me much. I think he had dreams of being owned by her, just like me.
On Sunday she took me to brunch and we listened to jazz. I gazed at her like her adoring, loving puppy. The waitress noticed and snickered. I didn’t care.
* * *
Scarlet was in the mood for fresh croissants and rushed out. I’m ready for my meeting, I’ve called my wife and I’m dying to lay eyes on Scarlet again.
It’s been twenty minutes.
I hear her keys in the door.
“Come quickly,” she says, as she drops the bakery box and plops into her desk chair.
She unzips me quickly. My cock is awash in warmth and wetness. She sucks cock with an emphasis on variations on touch, pressure, texture. She sucks cock with love.
“Just a taste,” she says, carefully replacing my cock in my pants. “Now, go sell that show.”
I know I will because she’s told me to.
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