Today we have not one, but two excerpts from Lisabet Sarai’s novel Exposure. Lisabet is a New England lass who’s published a host of books in all sorts of genre’s. And judging from the gallery on her website she a cat person. Exposure is published by Phaze and is available now in e-book and paperback.
Stella is just minding her own business and having a bit of fun, working as an exotic dancer at the Peacock Lounge. Through no fault of her own, she witnesses a double murder and gets pulled into a shady dance of deceit with political bigwigs, mob bosses, dirty cops and scheming widows. Now she’s everyone’s target; her only chance is to sift through the lies and expose the truth.
I strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses. Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.
Sometimes I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer. Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all want me; I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then send them home unsatisfied.
That’s my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all, though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of sleaze pits down near the railroad.
I love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me. There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out onto the stage and meet their eyes.
That’s my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh, he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt. Tough luck, feller. Dream on.
I don’t know whether what I see is real or just my imagination, but it has a real effect. They feel my eyes; they think I know them. They get all flustered and embarrassed, wave to me, stick their tens and twenties into my G-string. Watching me, anxious-like, all the time.
Meanwhile, it turns me on. I dance a lot better when I’m horny. Sometimes I play with myself a bit before my set, to get myself into the mood. Then I hold my fingers under their noses, and watch their reactions.
I feed off their desire. The more they want me, the hotter I get, the better I dance. The more outrageous I become. So, it’s particularly annoying tonight that this one guy in the front row doesn’t react at all.
Ginger’s routine is hot and raunchy. She wears an animal print jumpsuit, gold and black. She shakes her tawny hair around her face like a mane. The costume is all zippers. Little by little she sheds pieces of the skin-tight garment to reveal the real skin underneath, creamy dark brown, glistening with sweat. She’s a jungle cat, sinuous, dangerous. I imagine I can smell the musk from way back here. My nipples tighten to aching nubs under my silk blouse. I squeeze my thighs together, creating ripples of sensation in my cunt that grow more intense the longer I watch Ginger’s performance.
By the time she’s finished, I’m actually panting. I’m amazed at my reactions. After all, I’m a professional. I know it’s all show business.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the after-effects from last night, the explosive sex cut short by terror. I don’t care. I’m having a wonderful time. I’m glad I came.
Who’s next? I wonder. Then the music starts, and it’s like someone plunged a knife into my heart. Chris Isaak. “Wicked Game”. My song.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m walking between the tables, making my way to the stage. It’s like I’m in a trance. I climb the stairs to the platform, swaying already in time with the haunting tune.
The audience realizes that something odd is going on. The men fall silent, their eyes following me as I move dreamily around the stage. “Strange what desire will make foolish people do”, the singer’s hoarse voice croons as I slowly unbutton my jacket.
I shrug and it slips from my shoulders, making a green puddle on the stage. My blouse is beige silk, high-necked, buttoned up the back. My nipples poke lewdly through the fabric of the demure garment. I cup my breasts, slowly stroking my thumbs across the protruding flesh. Pleasure shimmers through me, sparkling in the shadowy chasm between my legs.
I scan the audience, but I’m not really seeing anyone. I’m not using the stare. I don’t sense any particular person’s lust. I’m just floating in the sea of their collective desire.
I turn my back on the audience, working the buttons of my top. My hair is coming loose from my business-woman’s twist. Tendrils keep getting caught in my fingers as I struggle to release myself from the confining embrace of the silk.
Finally I get the last button undone. In triumph, I pull it over my head, turning to face the audience as I do. The clips holding my hair in place surrender completely. Black curls tumble over my shoulders, hiding my breasts.
I flick my hair back and smooth my hands over the satin of my bra, caressing the fullness it hides and constrains. The song rises to a climax. My sex spasms every time I stroke my fingers across the smooth, taut fabric. My tits ache for freedom, for nakedness. I reach for the front clasp of my bra, eager to release them.
“Stella!” I hear somebody call. There’s a flash of light, then another. The spell is broken. “Stella!” Another voice takes up the call, and then there’s applause, and raucous cheers. “Stella! We love you, Stella!”
I blink, confused, suddenly dizzy. Somebody grabs my arm.