Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
‘So Dan gave me tickets for tonight,’ Kit says, leaning closer as music begins. ‘It’s a burlesque night. Tasteful but pretty tame. I’ve seen a couple of the acts already. I think you’ll enjoy them.’
‘Strippers?’ asks Will, who I didn’t realise was listening up until that point.
‘Burlesque is an art form,’ he replies. ‘There’s no nakedness.’ His eyes slide to mine as he raises one eloquent brow. ‘Usually.’
‘Don’t mind our resident pervert there. He’s mostly harmless.’
As Kit chuckles, Keir adds, ‘Unless you’re a member of the fairer sex.’
‘Aye, because then I’ll destroy ya’.’ Will’s reply is a touch ribald.
‘Someone stop his drink.’ But as the music hits its opening crescendo, all mouths close and four pairs of eyes turn to the stage with the announcement of the first act.
‘Please put your hands together for the darling Miss Vivienne Von Vixen.’
A girl stands on stage. Hair like midnight, the sides rolled like one of the nineteen forties pinup girls painted on the sides of fighter planes. A diamond clip fastens a mesh veil to her head, which obscures much of her face but for her bright red-painted lips. Dressed in black, when she turns, her hair falls down her back like dark silk. Her figure is timeless. Voluptuous; a tiny waist and lush hips and breasts accentuated by a tight corset.
And an ankle-length skirt.
I’m no expert, but that’s not exactly stripper wear. I’ve seen lassies wear less out in pubs and clubs. But she does wear stripper heels. Vertiginous and siren red to match her lips, they accentuate the length of her leg saucily flashed from the slide split of her skirt as she moves. You can’t really call it dancing. It’s more a sway of hips. A shimmy that jiggles all the good bits. But, Christ, she’s excellent at it.
Her music is sultry, the words of a femme fatale and her discarded men, the recording I’ve heard somewhere before. The voice I recognise from old TV programs and possibly my granny’s vinyl collection. Eartha Kitt, I think? These are all thoughts fleeting and swift as I watch the woman move, sort of hypnotised. But not without a degree of discomfort. For the first time in my life, I feel like I shouldn’t watch—for the sake of Ella and our relationship. Which is ridiculous. I’ve seen stuff much raunchier than this. Strippers in gentleman’s clubs. Stag and bachelor parties with women hired to perform with, for want of a better word, equipment.
‘D you reckon she’ll take everything off?’ Will’s whisper pulls at my attention, my eyes sliding to the stage fully again. Her long gloves are off, and she’s currently skimming her skirt down her legs. ‘That’s what an arse should to do,’ he says decisively. ‘Jiggle like that.’
‘How can you make that word sound so perverted?’
‘It’s a gift,’ he says, his avid eyes on the stage.
But he’s not the only pervert as, under the table, I’m semi hard, though I blame it on the picture of Ella’s arse I have in my head rather than what’s on the stage.
And how it reacts under the threat of my hand.
How gorgeous it looks bright red.
Whoops and catcalls fill the air as the dark-haired siren loosens the ties of her corset, rolling her hips sensuously to the music and the words of foolish men. As the item falls to the floor, cheers break out then fall away as the men in the audience realise she has a lacy black bra on underneath, their shouts breaking out again as she turns, bending forward and making her arse shake.
‘Fuck me.’ This from Keir, who’s usually pretty restrained.
But still, those are pretty large knickers. I’ve seen girls wearing shorts smaller than— Scratch that thought. They’re coming off. Being wiggled down her hips to reveal a tiny thong underneath. In a pretty swift move, she’s facing the crowd again, and with a thrust of her hips, she slaps her pussy.
‘I think I’d like to—’
‘Aye, we know what you’d like to do, Will,’ Keir complains.
My gaze flicks to Kit, who strangely appears to be reading something on his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, looking up. ‘I’ve got to see a little Bea about getting laid.’
Neither Keir nor Will look up as he leaves, though murmur their farewells. I shake my head, too much whisky impeding my processing, maybe? He wants to shag a bee? My gaze automatically returns to the girl again. It’s with equal measure of shame and delight that I realise she’s down to the flimsy bra and the tiny thong.
‘By Christ, she’s givin’ it laldy,’ Will exhales, watching her sensuous movements as she struts across the stage.
The song ends and the place falls silent, though I swear I can hear her breathing, matching the rapid rise and fall of her fuckable chest. The silence doesn’t last long as whoops and hollers break out through the place.