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The way she danced, it was like she was in slow motion. She had so much control over her body. Paul’s breathing quickened as he watched her. She was beautiful. Probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Soft. Curvy. Smiling.
He had never been to a strip club before. His usual place smelled of urine and stale tobacco, not wine and roses. But now that he was here he didn’t ever want to leave. He could have watched her for the rest of his life and been satisfied. He didn’t even notice his friends any more, he only saw her.
That was her name. Suzy. He wanted to remember that name. To remember the way it felt across his tongue. S-u-z-y.
All she wore was a G-string and a bra. Both red and smooth as shark skin. The light diffused over them the way that it diffused over her dark skin. Her face was covered by a mask. Like those Venetian masks that they wear to masquerade balls, black and silver and emphasising her wide, blue eyes. Her black hair, bound into a tight ponytail, was so long that the tip brushed her ass as she danced, the music softly beating in waves against her undulating body.
Paul looked around. Middle aged men with paunches ogled her like they’d never seen a girl before. He wanted to tell them they were disgusting. How many of them had wives? How many had kids? They grinned and cat called, tucking money into her tiny thong. The way she looked at them was vaguely familiar. He shook his head. Just wishful thinking.
She took off her bra first, unfastening it with one hand while she covered her breasts with her other arm, like she was shy. Everyone loved it. Paul could feel his cock struggling to break free, but didn’t care. Who wouldn’t have an erection looking at her? When she dropped her arm, revealing round breasts that defied gravity, there was an audible silence of appreciation. Her nipples were perky enough to cut glass.
When the G-string came off he thought he might burst.
She had a little landing strip of soft black hair, and a pussy that reminded him of two halves of a walnut shell. A fat guy at the other end of the stage called her over and placed a fifty at her feet, just to get a closer look. Paul wished he could afford to do the same.
It was then that she took off her mask. And suddenly he wanted to run away and hide. He was right. He did recognise her.
She may have been calling herself “Suzy” tonight, but her real name was Selena. Selena Silverman. Paul knew this because she was his boss. The new manager that everyone made fun of behind her back, on account of her initials: SS. Like the fascist organisation. And like a fascist she was cold and harsh. She wore dark suits, cut sharp around the corners like they’d used a set square.
They had been set against each other from day one.
Paul had refused to do anything that wasn’t in his job description, and made a show of it. Then when he was five minutes late showing up for work she interrogated him like it was a murder investigation.
Suzy/Selena finished dancing, turned, and leaned down to collect her G-string, bra and mask. She looked Paul right in the eyes, winked, then sauntered off the stage as if nothing had happened.
His heart stopped for longer than was healthy.
The next day, Paul arrived early for work.
Twenty minutes early.
He sat in his car and stared at the clock on the dashboard for fifteen minutes. Other cars rumbled into spaces either side of him, doors clicked open, voices mumbled. With five minutes to go before his shift started, he got out of the car and walked to the front door.
Ms Silverman pulled into her reserved space near the entrance. Paul held the door for her. She didn’t thank him.
“Selena – Ms Silverman – wait!”
She stopped, turned around, met his eyes. “What?”
“I…” Paul licked his lips. He wished his mouth would stop trembling. “I’d like to apologise… for the way I’ve acted recently…”
He hesitated, then stuttered, “S… sorry.”
“If you’re sorry, then act like it. Have a better attitude from now on.”
She turned and walked away. Paul watched her ass as she went, trying to work out if she was wearing a G-string.
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