Exposure by Lisabet Sarai

Exposure by Lisabet Sarai

Exposure

by Lisabet Sarai

Excessica

Ebook ISBN: 9781609828905

[ Suspense Erotica, FF & MF ]

Stella is just 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.

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Chapter One


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 the 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.

It’s early, and it’s Monday, slow. He’s the only one sitting close enough for me to use my stare, and it isn’t working. He’s good-looking in a clean-cut, straight-laced sort of way. Blond crew cut, blue-eyed, muscles that show even under his expensive suit. At least it looks expensive to me.

He has not taken his eyes off me since I strutted onto the stage, but his face is without expression. It’s like he has walls behind his eyes. I can’t see into him at all. Now it’s me that’s getting frustrated and hot under the collar. I’ve already stripped down to my pasties, boots, and thong. I peel one of the tassels off my nipple and dangle it in front of him. He looks only at my eyes. He’s measuring me, sizing me up for something.

I prance around on my stiletto heel boots. I shake my hips, do a slow, sensuous shimmy, cup my tits in my palms and offer them to him. No reaction. I take off the other tassel and attach it behind, where my butt cheeks meet, a lewd little tail. There’s a whistle from a table in the back, but Mr. Clean just continues to study me.

Damn him. I’m sweaty from the effort. My cunt is throbbing in time with the music. I can feel that the shred of nylon running between my legs is sopping. Fixing him with my best stare, I sink onto my knees in front of him, thighs spread wide. Then I slide both my forefingers inside the G-string and start to touch myself. We’re not supposed to do really explicit stuff like that. If Joey, the owner of the club, saw me, he’d give me hell. But this is a desperate case. I will not allow this guy to get the better of me.

I’m actually quite close to coming, when finally I see him give a little smile. So maybe he is enjoying himself after all. My music is ending. Time for the grand finale. Standing up, I unsnap the sides of the thong and pull it back and forth through my crotch a couple of times. Just to make sure it’s totally saturated. Then I drop it in the guy’s lap and strut off the stage, naked except for my boots.

I can hear applause and yells from the table near the back. I’m shaking, pissed off, and horny at the same time. Who does that character think he is?

When I calm down a bit, I put on my kimono and go check out the crowd. A few more tables are occupied now, and there’s a rowdy group at the bar. Meanwhile, Mr. Clean hasn’t budged. When he sees me, he beckons me to come over.

“Good evening,” he says, very polite. “I enjoyed your performance.”

Oh, yeah? I think to myself. “Glad to hear it,” I say out loud.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink.”

“What’s your name?”

“Stella.”

“Stella what?”

“Stella Xanathakeos,” I say, smiling despite myself at his reaction. Not your typical stage name. But why should I pretend to be somebody else?

“Well, Miss Xana—Xanathakeos, I have a business proposition for you.”

“Look, I’m no hooker.”

“That’s obvious, Miss Xanathakeos. You have a presence on stage, a special flair that marks you as a true artist.”

Bullshit, I think, but his politeness is softening me up anyway.

“I have an associate who has a particular fondness for voluptuous women of Mediterranean complexion, like yourself. I’d like to engage you to give him a private performance.”

“I don’t know…” I begin.

“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars,” says Mr. Clean. “Two hundred fifty in advance and the rest after you dance for him.”

Well, that stops me for a minute. Like I said, I don’t do this for the money. But five hundred dollars would bring me a lot closer to that trip to Greece I’ve been saving for. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to see the Parthenon, the island of Rhodes, the ancient ruins at Salonika. My dad used to talk about Greece all the time, how the sky was blue as crystal and the air smelled like wine. “All I have to do is dance?”

“That’s right. Your usual routine, or something more creative, if you like.”

“Where and when?”

“Tomorrow night, around eight o’clock, at the Hyatt downtown. I’ll give you the room number.”

“How long will it take?”

“An hour at most. You can be back here at the Peacock by nine thirty.”

I consider the question. Can I trust this guy, with his closed-up face? He’s already holding out two C-notes and a fifty, confident that I’ll accept. What the hell, I decide finally. I’ve got my Mace, and I can deliver a mean kick in the balls. I can take care of myself.

* * * *

The next night I show up at the designated room number, at eight on the dot. I like to be professional. I’ve tried to dress as elegant as I can, in a nice peach linen suit that hugs my curves and makes me look dark and exotic. I’m nervous, though, as nervous as I was that first night I stepped onto the Peacock stage. Taking a deep breath, I rap three times on the door like Mr. Clean told me to do.

I recognize the man at the door immediately. I may be a stripper, but I read the papers. It’s Anthony Pinelli, leading businessman, local power-broker, candidate for mayor. Hey, I was planning on voting for him, in spite of the stories about his mob connections. Nobody’s lily-white these days. From what I’ve read, he seems to have the kind of strength that you need to run this tough town.

I’ve seen his picture lots of times, but in person he’s even more impressive. Big but not fat, with a shock of shiny black hair and bushy eyebrows to match. He has a nice straight nose, lips that look decisive, and dark eyes that seem to go right through me.

But more than his good looks, I’m impressed by the sense of power that he projects. Charisma, I think the word is. He looks me over, those firm lips curve into a warm smile, and I suddenly feel like I’d do anything he asks.

“Please come in, Ms. Xanathakeos,” he says, standing aside so that I can enter the suite. His voice has a round, mellow sound to it. It slides over me.

“Call me, Stella, please.” I look around the fancy suite curiously, noting the modern paintings on the walls, the horseshoe-shaped sofa, the bar set up in the corner. The closed door next to the desk must lead to the bedroom. My heels sink into the thick, plum-colored carpet. I’m afraid that I’ll damage it. Maybe I’ll have to dance barefoot.

“Well, then, Stella, you must call me Tony.” He takes my hand in a kind of old-fashioned way. His touch sends shivers through my body. My nervousness is gone, replaced by a feeling of breathlessness. I won’t have any trouble at all getting turned on enough to dance, that’s for sure.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Tony asks, gesturing toward the bar.

“Just water, if you have some.”

He hands me a long-stemmed glass full of carbonated water. I watch the bubbles dancing. It feels as if there are bubbles inside my chest, too.

He pours himself a tall scotch. We sit together for a few minutes on the sofa, not talking, sipping our drinks. I feel flushed and sweaty, as if I’ve already danced for him. His body gives off waves of heat. It’s like I’m lying under a sun lamp. I don’t know what to do next.

Finally, he puts down his drink. “Shall we get started? Let me get a bit more comfortable.” He shrugs off his suit jacket and places it over the desk chair. I gasp as I see that he is wearing a revolver in a shoulder holster. He smiles, just a little, as he removes this and hangs it over the chair on top of the jacket. “I’m a dangerous man, Stella, and I have many enemies. I have to take care of myself.” I nod vaguely. I’m not exactly reassured.

He seats himself back on the sofa. “The stereo is over there,” he says, pointing to a complicated pile of audio equipment next to the bar. Somehow, I figure out how where insert my thumb drive and how to start it playing. I turn to face my audience.

The first bars of the music free me from any anxiety. I fix my eyes on him and begin to move. Graceful. Sensual. I’m extremely turned on, but I want this performance to be classy, not raunchy the way I sometimes am.

The shoes go first. Now I unfasten my jacket, lingering over each button. Building the suspense. I’m wearing regular lingerie, flimsy and feminine, instead of one of my costumes. My breasts are like melons, encased in black lace. No padding or wires on this bra; my nipples are clearly visible, pushing the fabric into sweet little peaks.

I do the classic strip, turning my back and inching the skirt zipper down. Shimmying the garment over my hips to my ankles. I feel his eyes on my rump. When I turn back to face him, I try out the stare on him. The results are mixed.

He’s not closed off like his friend. I can see deep into his soul. I see passion, hunger, clean and healthy. Not twisted and painful like some of the guys at the lounge.

At the same time, though, I feel like he sees into me. It’s like he’s touching me inside, probing, trying to discover what I want. It’s strange and very intimate. His eyes make my clit harden and my juices flow.

But my eyes are doing the same to him. I can see the bulge in his tailored trousers. His breath is coming a bit more quickly, too.

I unfasten the bra in front. Instead of tossing it at him, which is my first idea, I let it drift to the floor. I caress my breasts, as much for my own pleasure as for his. I love their heaviness in my hands. I love the way the skin shades to rich darkness at their tips. And the nipples themselves, round and firm like the best Kalamata olives. I roll them between my fingers, my breath starting to become ragged.

Finally, there are just my bikini panties between me and nakedness. I hold off as long as I can, letting the music build to its climax. At the crescendo, I undo the ribbons at each hip, so the thing just falls away from my body. For a moment I stand there proudly, my curly black pubic hair glistening with my own moisture. Tony’s eyes devour me. Then the music dies away. I sink to the carpet in a curtsy, strangely exhausted.

I came here to dance. Just a job. But now I want more. And so does Tony.

He lifts me up. He embraces me. Neither of us speaks. We communicate only through the kiss. His mouth feels gentler than it looks. He tastes like his expensive scotch. I let myself relax, feel the stiffness of his starched shirt against my bare skin. There’s more stiffness below. He rubs his erection against my damp bush, making me damper still, while his tongue plays with mine. His fingers lock on to my nipples, pinching them until I squirm with pleasure.

This is certainly a nice bonus. He strips off his shirt, pants, and briefs. He leaves his socks on, and for once, I don’t mind. I usually think naked guys in socks look ridiculous, but nothing so simple could spoil Tony Pinelli. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a condom. Of course he’s prepared.

We’re both so hot from my dance, we don’t bother with much foreplay. He sits back down on the sofa and I straddle him. His latex-sheathed cock juts up, lovely and stiff, between my thighs. With one smooth motion, I sink down onto his hardness. I grip him with my thighs and we begin to ride.

We climb quickly. In this position, every thrust diddles my clit. He grabs me by the hips and works me up and down on his rod. Then I take control for a while, setting a fierce pace, building up to a grand finale.

His eyes are closed now. But I think I still feel the touch of his mind, a gentle contrast to our ferocious fucking. I close my eyes, too, concentrating on the delicious sensations in my cunt, in my whole body.

My thoughts are hazy with lust, but something catches my attention. Some faint sound, some sense that the air has moved. Then all hell breaks loose.

Tony pulls me off him and throws me across the room. I crumple in a corner, trying to catch my breath. There’s another person in the room, over near the desk. It takes me a fraction of a second to realize that the figure in Polo shirt and jeans is Mr. Clean.

He has Tony’s gun, and is pointing it at the near-naked man. I scream, I can’t help it, and Mr. Clean fires. At the same time, I see that Tony also has a weapon, a tiny revolver that was strapped around his calf, hidden by his hose. There’s a high-pitched report, and Mr. Clean sinks to the floor in a heap. He doesn’t move again, but neither does Tony.

It’s long time before my shakes go away.

Eventually, I get up and limp over to Tony. My ankle got twisted when he tossed me away, but I have a feeling that he saved my life. There’s blood matted in the hair on his chest. He isn’t breathing. In death, his aura has fled. There’s no sense of power or attraction about this motionless flesh.

Mr. Clean is dead, too, with a hole through his forehead. There’s a lot of blood here as well, but it doesn’t show that much on the plum carpet.

I dress myself carefully. I need to look respectable, not messed up. Then I take a look around.

In the bedroom, I find an elaborate camera, set up to take pictures through a peephole. Blackmail? But who would care if Tony Pinelli got it on with some stripper? Then it hits me. Mr. Clean wanted Tony’s gun, not to shoot Tony, but to shoot me, later. And then to frame the mayoral candidate, with evidence that he was the last one to see me alive. I was supposed to meet Mr. Clean in the lobby to claim the rest of my fee. I suspect that I would not have survived that meeting.

Of course he was crazy to think that he could sneak in and snatch the gun while we were screwing. A man like Tony has to keep one eye open, even when he’s in the throes.

I whisper a little thank you to Tony and to whatever gods watch over me. Open the camera to expose the film. Note that the camera is empty. Close the camera, wipe it with a Kleenex, go back to the sitting room. Put the two glasses in the bar sink and run water over them, inside and out. Grab my memory stick from the stereo and drop it into my purse.

Finally, I go over to the blond man’s body again. I don’t really want to touch him, but I make myself do it.

His wallet’s in his hip pocket. There’s about three grand inside, but I take only the two-fifty I’m owed. Then I wipe off the wallet and stuff it back into his pants.

Like I said, I’m not in it for the money. I do it for fun.

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6 comments

  1. Thanks, Zenobia, for featuring me!

    I’m giving away a copy of Exposure to someone who leaves a comment on this post. Be sure to include your email. I’ll draw a winner on 10 November.

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