action, you slut,’ I say, and flick my lacy black thong at her.
‘That’s enough,’ Jackie says, smoothing her long brown hair. She may be ten years my senior, but she’s got a rock-hard ass and tits that would make any 16-year-old bloke stand to attention. ‘We’re almost there.’
She hands me my wig. I exchange my short black spiky locks for shoulder-length auburn curls and transform from Geraldine Carson, investment banker, into Ginger, high-class lap dancer.
I can only imagine what you’re thinking, but please don’t judge me. I’m just a modern woman trying to make her way in a man’s world.
You think you’re different; it’s different.
Really?
Don’t kid yourself; it’s still a man’s world. Men still make more money for the same work. Hold more management positions and own more property than women. But it doesn’t mean they hold the power. Spend one night with me at the Pearl and I’ll show you who’s in control. You stand up in front of a few hundred sweaty men, whose cocks are so tense you can practically see their flies bursting, and tell me you don’t feel powerful. That sexual tension is intoxicating.
And, to be honest, investment banking isn’t all that different from lap dancing. It’s all about knowing your client and developing the right package. Revealing and withholding. It’s the same dance with a different audience. Sometimes everyone walks away satisfied. Sometimes you get fucked and other times you do the fucking.
The ambassador’s private secretary meets our limo at the back of the embassy. He opens the door and lowers his gaze. In my stilettos, I’m a full head taller than he is. He offers his hand and helps me across the gravel. He has an oily olive complexion and smells of garlic. He is used to being invisible. He ushers us in the back door through the kitchen and into the embassy’s study. The staff has been dismissed early and the embassy is eerily quiet. He shows us into an oak-panelled study. I imagine two dignitaries exchanging state secrets over a civilised snifter of brandy – not two fit women lap dancing.
When the ambassador enters with his entourage, he sits in the leather wing-back chair Jackie has positioned in front of the Victorian desk. Everyone but his private secretary and his bodyguard exits. The bodyguard closes the velvet blue-fringed drapes and dims the lights. He positions himself by the only door, a solid wooden number built to withstand a military invasion. Jackie has a whispered conversation with the secretary. Are his rimless spectacles fogging up? She is reviewing the rules and, if I know Jackie, giving the arrogant prick a tantalising taste of what’s to come. She’s here to make sure her girls are treated properly – and to dance if the ambassador fancies a more experienced pussy.
While Suzy flips out her compact and puts the final touches on her Marilyn Monroe look – matte red lipstick, a beauty mark on her left cheek and a little eyeliner to create her trademark cat eyes – Jackie pulls me aside. ‘Slight problem,’ she says, giving me her sweetest smile and batting her eyes at the ambassador. I’m sure that’s gotten her what she wants over the years. ‘The ambassador doesn’t like redheads.’
‘So you dance,’ I say, relaxing a little.
‘He likes the look of you.’ She pulls me closer; she’s squeezing my arm.
‘But I’m a redhead,’ I say through clenched teeth and jerk my arm free. She knows I don’t dance without the wig. I don’t dance as Geri.
‘God, Geri, do it for me, just this once. Don’t be such a bloody ice princess and help a sister out.’
Now we’re sisters? She thinks of herself as the designated fairy godmother for the dancers at the Pearl, but she’s more like the prison matron.
‘It’s only for three foreigners – two of whom I’m not even sure speak English,’ she pleads.
‘For an extra two hundred,’ I say, and loop a finger through one of my curls.
‘You drive a hard bargain.’ She smacks me on the ass.
Damn. She agreed too quickly which means I should have asked for more.
‘You remind me of me,’ she adds.
I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended. I slip the wig off and hand it to her. I ruffle my short hair. Jackie plucks at a few strands on top and I smooth the sides. Suddenly I feel naked.
Suzy dances first. She’s the better warm-up act and will most likely be stumbling drunk by the end of the evening. Jackie turns a blind eye because Suzy has danced at the Pearl for years. She’s everyone’s big sister and drunken aunt all mixed into one. But she knows how to keep her legs open and her mouth shut.
I lurk at the back of the room. I like to build an air of mystery. I finger the dusty volumes on the bookshelf. The ambassador watches Suzy’s routine but he glances at me every so often. I look away and play the shy coquette. My show starts before I even take centre stage. Jackie has taught me well.
Suzy slinks off and drapes herself around the secretary who is responsible for keeping the champagne flowing. He shrugs her off, afraid, I’m sure, of her sweat staining his best suit. I nod at Jackie and Tina Turner blares from the Bose portable sound system – Jackie’s most recent investment after her old boom box died at a high roller’s boardroom party.
I start off slow and keep it simple. I stretch my legs and show him what he’s paid for. I let him unzip me; that’s about the closest he’ll get to touching me for the rest of the night. Jackie cranks up the music and shifts to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ ‘I Hate Myself for Loving You’. After years of practice, Jackie knows how to read the mood of a room. She’s taught me how to synchronise the music and my movement to ratchet up a client’s sexual tension. Tease them. Draw them in and then push them away. Let their libido rise and fall. Make their pulses pound with the beat and their cocks beg for more.
One look at the ambassador’s rosy cheeks and his sweaty brow and I know it’s already working. I waste no time. I slink out of the gown and let it pool at my feet. I step one spiked fire-engine-red stiletto free and then the other. It’s easy to let little moves like this wreck the illusion. Every movement must be fluid. Tripping over discarded clothes or a sticky zipper can lose the momentum you’ve painstakingly built.
I melt to the floor and crawl towards him. I claw the oriental carpet as I pull myself closer and closer. I can feel his body tense. He is already gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles are white. I pull myself upright and give him a good, long look at my hairless pussy. I slide one finger between my pussy lips and dip it inside me. The ambassador’s not the only hot and horny one.
He uncrosses his legs and pins them together. There’s the tell-tale sign – the cock rub, a quick adjustment when the strain gets too much. His eyelids are half closed as his whole world shrinks to the head of his penis. I straddle him, feeling my thigh muscles strain to hold my gyrating form inches from his dick.
He’s gritting his teeth. His back involuntarily arches. I hover lower and brush his cock ever so slightly. He’ll be wondering if he imagined it. He wants to grab my hips and ram his cock inside of me. He’d hand over the keys to the kingdom if I’d ask. He’d whisper state secrets and sell his youngest son right about now, if only I’d unzip his trousers and lower myself on to him.
Sometimes I try to make clients cum in their pants. I like watching how their faces contort with orgasm and then slowly morph into pink-cheeked embarrassment. But no party tricks tonight.
I turn it back a notch. I strut away. I cross my legs as if I’m about to spin around. I flick a quick look over my shoulder. I’ve still got him where I want him. He’s squirming in his chair. I bend over slowly, running my hands down my sweaty legs, pausing at my ankles – the naughty schoolgirl begging to be spanked. He’s leaning forward, willing my legs to part. He wants to see my soft glistening pussy.
Not yet. Be patient. I slide back to standing and strike a strong pose – legs wide, inviting. I twist around and wink then bend over again, this time exposing myself to him. He actually