Craved (Twisted Book 2) (6 page)

He touches the switch and the shelf slides open revealing another room. My eyebrows shoot up.

‘Awesome. Those books are fake?’

Nikita giggles and we walk in.

The room is small and decorated with hints: paintings of naked parts of women’s bodies on the pink and grey, stripy, papered walls, a large, low, red, heart-shaped sofa, a dark glass coffee table, a few dimmed floor lamps, a shower in the corner, and a piercing smell of some cloying air freshener.

Before we close the door, the waiter brings a bucket with a bottle of champagne and leaves.

‘I guess we can start.’

Steve takes a little plastic bag from his pocket and drops it onto the table, takes off all of his clothes, drops onto the sofa and starts making lines. My stomach clenches.

‘Let’s party!’ Nikita loosens her dress and starts opening the bottle.

The fear and doubt swallow my mind. It’s too much to handle but there is five grand, four of which is mine.

It’s not like I have to use.

Steve rolls a note, sniffs with snorts and smacks of his lips and falls back with both hands behind his head. Nikita sniffs too and leans over to kiss Steve. His eyes stay open, he takes Nikita by her neck, pulls her away and then pushes her down.

‘Suck it, baby,’ he orders, and turns his stare at me. ‘Why are you just standing there?’ He rubs his nose. ‘Have some too then start with my balls.’

I step towards the table. Shivers are running up my legs and through my body.

Okay. I could suck his balls then pay my levy and have a break from my financial worries. But cocaine? Can I handle it? I could try to see how it goes, but what if…?

I stop at the table, looking at the white lines. Turn around. Head to the door.

‘Sorry, but I can’t.’

Nikita stops the sucking.

‘What the hell? What's your problem?’ Steve screws up his face.

I tap the red button that opens the door a few times. ‘I’m so sorry, but I can’t be around drugs,’ I mumble and walk out.

‘Hey, doll, what are you waiting for? Keep sucking. Yeah... just like that,’ I hear as the shelf slides closed behind me.

10

My show music begins. I make my squeaky-clean entrance on the stage. I walk around playing innocent Little Red Riding Hood, while waving my basket and my frothy red skirt to show my lacy panties. The Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs song loses its naivety as the smoky voice fills the stage with carnal essence. At the end of the song I put the basket on the floor, bend down and theatrically check what’s inside. The second song, Benny Benassi’s ‘Satisfaction’, begins. Instead of pies and apples, I pull a big black dildo out of my basket. While the stage lights echo the penetrating electro house beats, I perform the role of a curious, naughty girl who tries to find out what to do with the bloody thing.

I hear one of the clients exclaim and turn towards my grateful spectator. The man is in his late fifties. With amused and can-do eyes, he follows my every move. I smile and wink at him.

Okay, grandpa, you’re next.

I finish the show and go to the dressing room. In one minute, I rub my armpits and pussy with wet wipes, put on a fresh G-string and a skin-tight white dress with a rich fringe on the chest, straighten my hair and walk out.

The grandpa is alone. I head straight to him.

‘Wow, what a number you did there!’ His face crumples as the low-pitched chuckle breaks through his lungs. ‘You are a naughty Little Red Riding Hood. I want to be your wolf.’ He laughs again. I join him, faking mine.

I’ve heard that, like, a million times already, but you all think you are so original.

His body seems tighter than his wrinkled face. He’s definitely into sports, but regardless of his efforts, the time, booze and cigarettes are doing their job. His jeans and shirt are present-day; only the wide, padded shoulders of his jacket give away the man’s ancientness.

‘If you liked it that much, why don’t you take me for a lap dance?’ I drop onto the chair next to him.

I should probably sit on his lap, but I still feel hot after my dance and don’t want to sweat all over him.

He picks up his whisky glass, looks at the ice cubes, sips and puts it down.

‘My name is Peter. Would you like to have a drink?’

‘Nice to meet you. Julia. And yes, please.’ We shake hands and he calls a waitress. She approaches and I order a bottle of still water.

Peter raises his brows. ‘No double tequila, or vodka Red Bull? I thought strippers couldn’t function without heavy liquor.’

‘I don’t drink. Let’s get back to my question.’ I lean forward with a flirtatious smile, put my hand on his leg, run it up his thigh and massage it slightly, right next to his crotch, while looking into his eyes.

He looks down. Contented.

‘I would love to, but I don’t do dances. I like the real thing and hate to be teased.’

Really? That’s why you came to a strip club? I so hate you assholes!

‘Well… I can’t guarantee, but my clients often… give away right in their pants.’ I force my voice to sound exciting.

Oh gosh, it sounds so pathetic.

‘I’ll pass on that. Why don’t you join me tonight after work? I’ll pay you R3 000.’

I take my hand away from his thigh and sit back.

‘Come on, doll. I am no freak. Straight business. And you don’t have to stay and sleep with me, you can go back after we are done, if you’d like.’

‘I am not a prostitute…’ I shake my head, get up and leave.

Although the night is quiet, I manage a few lap dances and one on the table. While I am lying with my legs spread under the stunned eyes of three young first-timers, I notice Peter watching me. There is this smirk on his phiz. He even winks at me, as if to say that his offer is still up for discussion. I look away.

Why am I mad? He offered, I said no – end of story. But no, a dull fury is playing in my head: the I-could-have-made-three-thousand-bucks tune…

I finish a dance and walk back to Peter’s table. ‘Condoms, no anal.’

The smile vanishes from his face.

‘No problem with the condoms, but why no anal? Hemorrhoid?’

I try to read his face for signs of mockery, but can’t see any – nothing except for genuine concern.

Seriously? Hemorrhoid? Is that the only reason why a woman may not want to be fucked in the ass?

‘I don’t like it.’ I shrug my shoulders and look away.

‘Okay, doll. No worries. Anal is out.’

‘And money up front,’ I add, and leave the table.

All the girls dress to go home. The loud laughter and discussions about the brightest moments of the night buzz over the changing room. The place is like an anthill.

Except that most of these ants are drunk and annoyingly noisy.

I quickly pull on my dress, while the girl next to me knocks into me. She is smashed. For some time she’s been trying to figure out how to push herself into her sweater, while her hanging tits wave in my face. I frown, grab my bag and turn to Natalia and Lena. They are still busy dressing.

‘I am not going home. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a few hours.’

They both freeze for a moment and look at me. Brows knitted.

‘Where are you going?’ Lena recovers first.

‘Out with a client. He stays somewhere nearby.’ I look at Natalia, waiting to see disapproval. But her face is blank.

‘Be careful, Jul, and SMS me his address when you get there.’

I kiss them both on the cheeks and leave.

I walk out. The street is parked up with cars and taxis, waiting to take the last clients and the girls home. I see Peter further down the street. He waves to me, making sure I notice him, and then gets into the black BMW… just like… My heart sinks as painful memories start crawling back. I really hoped I’d managed to erase that horror from my head.

Crap…

The walk to the car feels like eternity. I get in, fighting the desire to cancel the ‘outing’ and ignoring the heartbeat that hammers in my chest and echoes in my ears.

We drive away. Peter gives me the money. I check the amount and put the notes into my bag. On the way he makes small talk, asking some neutral questions: if I like the place where we girls stay, my impression of South African people. I answer. I think I sound casual too.

Relax… it’s going to be fine… He is alone and it looks like the waitress knew him well, so he is a regular. It’s not the reality that is dangerous. If it weren’t for my past I wouldn’t be freaking out like this. Breathe… and focus on the R3 000 that’s already in your bag.

We get to his place. It’s a small but well-furnished apartment with a gorgeous view. It’s cozy. Peter welcomes me and offers me a drink.

‘A cup of tea please.’ I walk to the window to take in the view. The curve of the shoreline sparkles with millions of lights. Boldly, it resists the endless darkness of the ocean.

Peter switches on the kettle and pours himself another whisky on the rocks.

‘Shower? I bet, after all those slobbery clients, you're dying to take one.’ He sinks into the wide, low chair and lights a cigarette. ‘You go girl, I’ll bring you your tea when it’s ready.’

I thank him and walk into his bedroom and then the bathroom.

I step into the shower but even the hot water doesn’t help me to stop the shivers. I haven’t had one lay since that night in Istanbul! For the last six months I’ve avoided anything connected to the male species or sex. Besides, that was the story in rehab. They suggested no dating or any kind of relationships for at least a year. It’s supposed to help you stay sober. That definitely worked for me – all I wanted was to forget. And I thought I had forgotten… Turns out I was only okay because I avoided anything that reminded me of that night. But the memories are still there… as vivid and overwhelming as they were six months ago.

Stop thinking about it. It’s going to be fine – a quick fuck and back home.

I walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and followed by thick steam. Peter stands in the middle of the bedroom with my cup of tea. He slowly puts the cup on the side table and walks towards me. I try to be cool, but my body tightens, like I’m ready to run for my life.

Peter gently takes my shoulders, leans forward and kisses me. The towel drops to the floor. He unbuttons his shirt. His tanned chest, covered with long, grey hair, chafes my skin. He holds my neck with one hand, making sure my mouth doesn’t escape his slimy, shapeless tongue that fills it up to my throat. His other hand is down on my pussy, tugging my clitoris and prodding my dry vagina.

The repulsion quiets my shivers. I switch to autopilot, disconnecting my brain from what’s happening and performing all the moves and noises, making sure I deliver what I’m being paid for.

He pushes me onto the bed and crawls on top of me. While unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down, he passes me the condom. I rip it open with my teeth and roll it onto his swollen dick. While he wets my ear, I spit on my hand, wet my vagina and push him inside of me. He digs into me until he’s short of breath. He turns me onto all fours and, with a second wind, fucks me from behind. His groans get louder and louder, until he utters some gibberish. Breathless, he sags on top of me. I close my eyes. His hot rapid breath rasps my ear, reeking of alcohol and smoking. I notice his warm, smudgy sweat on my skin. I understand that this part – this fatherly sensation of alleviation, this enveloping insight of ‘it’s over’ – is the part of this job I actually missed.

How sick is that?!

11

I walk through the main floor of the club. The crowd is bouncing with the DJ’s usual Saturday night club music. I notice a man at the bar. He is tall, good looking and well dressed. He looks over the crowd. The moment his eyes find me, one of the light show rays illuminates his beautiful face. He locks his stare on mine. He smiles.

Like a freaking movie.

I push through towards him, noticing the exciting tremble in my chest.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

I show the bottle of water in my hand. ‘Would you like to have a dance?’

‘Why not, Julia?’

I lift my brows, wondering how he knows my name, but say nothing, and lead him to the private room.

The new song begins. I throw my dress onto the floor and start my routine. He is watching every move. He takes my hand in his and pulls me to sit on him. He kisses me, holding me tight with both hands. I answer, grabbing his neck, running my fingers through his hair. He drops me onto the couch, leans on top of me, pressing his hardening crotch between my legs, and kisses my neck, tickling it with his hot breath. I groan.

He gets up on his knee, and without taking his eyes off me, slowly undoes the fly on his suit pants. Next second, his strong member is out. I open my mouth to object. He shakes his head, smiling, and points at the badge on his chest. It says ‘Alan. General Manager’. I know he’s not Alan. I hesitate and look up at the camera. ‘Don’t worry baby. It’s okay.’ He takes his jacket off, lies on top of me while throwing my legs apart, and forces his way inside me.

Oh God!

I open my eyes. I’m in the middle of the club. The crowd is still heavy. I touch my chest, feeling like my lungs have shrunk. It’s difficult to breathe. I push through towards the exit. But I can’t find it. I’m suffocating. I need air.

I finally find the exit. I push the door and freeze. The light of a dozen monitors, in the middle of the central wall of the dark room, hurts my eyes. I adjust to the light. There is a tall office chair in front of the monitors. It is turned with its back to me. I see only the legs of the person who is sitting in it. The black leather shoes with grey socks. It’s Eric, the security man. He doesn’t notice my presence. I look up at the monitors again. My eyes stop on one of them. It’s a private room. The door opens and a dancer walks in with a client. They both sit down on the couch. Then he gets up and takes off his belt. The girl relaxes and lies down.