Willingly

Walking down the busy street, I hug my body in my coat as the snow grips my boots. My focus is solely on making it to the bookstore in time for early morning customers. The bookstore, Fine Print, had been a blessing to have been able to get, but working at the store with Victoria gave me more than money. The ability to read and learn all that I was not able to when I was younger was a gift Victoria didn't know she had opened for me.

I may have simply thought of them as my parents, but to the world, we lived in, they were immigrants before my parents. Our financials only allowed food, the roof over our heads, and clothes, so after preschool, it became a strain to further my schooling.

I knew my Mama was broken by it, raising me no different than she was, but Papa would silence her broken aspirations with words not cruel but no less ignorant. "A woman doesn't need knowledge. She needs a husband." 

Once he would leave the room she would respectfully dismiss his words, then braid my hair so my curls didn't tangle. Her fingers ran oils through my hair as she told me the tales of the women and warriors. Love she could afford, she gifted it to me in abundance. Then she sang a song of a woman who would bring life back into the earth as its skies turned red and settle the reckless tides with the kiss of life from her lips. When the song was over, she would kiss the top of my head and tell me I held the breath of life on my lips.

Then she would leave her knowledge in the covers she tucked me in and performed to her husband's wishes because she had no more life on her lips, just obedience. Sacrificial obedience that is. There might have been love, but how sad that love was at that cost of knowledge.

The memories are a healed scar as I walk into the store just after Victoria seeing that the store still seemed asleep.  I am greeted by a warm smile from her as her thick long locks fell from her yellow headwrap that brought out her dark-toned skin.

Her natural beauty clearly went unnoticed by her only for those who knew her knew it stemmed and shone from within.

 She keeps busy with her routine while she greets me, "Morning Evita, I left your cup of tea on the counter. When you are done can you unpack the new Si-Fi selection we just got?"

Always one to speak on what she needs to say in one sentence or go, "Good morning Tori. Thanks for the tea and I will be right on it." I responded as she spoke in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Shaking her head and rolling her eyes she goes back to uncovering the shelves and getting the daily routine done.

My thoughts are reckless, having been left in a state of indescribable haziness at the man who said nothing and left me speechless. Well, that is not too true some questions ran through my mind as I stripped my silent secrets before him. 

Why did felt all too willing to share the story of my mind through my body with a man I knew nothing about? I could deem it the obscene loneliness he soothed in his open presence or because his eyes told me he was not there to visually fuck me. That he was there to watch a story erotic and vulnerable before his eyes, and I told him mine. Of the lady who kissed a burning sky calm and he knew it. He knew that I was not simply dancing but instead, I had been telling him about myself and the secrets I whispered because no one listened. No one but him. 

The serenity of his skin brushing against mine in an act only described as indescribable and the reassurance that it was not a figment of lust. In his eyes I was deadly, the red sky instead of its calm and how he stood in my chaos was as chosen as my vulnerability. 

 He needs to stay away from me. I need to stay away from him. A part of me worries that I repeat this obscene affirmation so that I could assure myself that a week ago there truly was a man before me. He was real and he took my attention as he had my breath.

The day goes gracefully, with the only disturbance of my day staying in the circumference of my mind and the bed of my thoughts. My goodbye to Victoria is tired as the new book stock took up the day. I reach my apartment eager to shower and take a small nap before my shift tonight. Another shift in which I closed my eyes to the memory of a nameless man.

------- 

The man sat before me, watched with dirty desire as he shamelessly rubbed his erect cock through his pant. Undressing the lace bodysuit, garter belt, and stocking I wore, I could feel him wanting more, but I don't work like that.

I had control over what I got to wear, and today I would stay the woman you wish your wife could be every time you fucked her. Wishing you would tear the lace of my body, snap the belt and find all that you desired laid out for your pleasure. The image of broad shoulders and tousled hair running through my mind makes my body slide down the pole before sliding back up with my ass in view of the client when the music timer fades.

Groaning as he takes his last few moments to look at my body, "Fucking magic, too bad you don't fuck." He says in a thick Italian accent before he leaves me cash on the table hoarding the image of my body one more time before leaving the room. 

Taking the money, I count the bills between my fingers, a pull at my lip when I think of extra shifts I would need to take to meet this month's demands. Rich clients never fail to leave cocky amounts in hopes that future encounters are sweetened but I worked hard to escape that. I make a quick trip to the dressing room, the scent of hairsprays and burnt straighteners suffocating me. I fix my black banged wing looking at the time with a tired sigh. The night has been pleasant enough, not many intimate dances and so I shake the exhaustion and move back to the room for my last client.

Would he dare? Don't tempt the devil.

With a heavy breath released, I walk back to my room when the guard outside my room nods that my next is here. Smiling at him in thanks I close my eyes to calm myself and open them as I step through the doors. My once confident strides stop when I see the visual of a redundant picture in front of me. Jacket draped around the frame of the chair. A right hand over the chair with a drink in it and his sleeves rolled up. Black ink hair tossed as though fingers have run through it.

He dared to.

Closing my eyes, I breathe and open them before taking my steps towards the stage, not one look at the devil in a borrowed throne. Letting the music drown my thoughts I hold the pole with a grounding grip. I slide down, bending my knees away from each other. I face away from him in reluctance to let him see the one thing I knew he would want to see, my eyes. My other hand sliding up my leg as I rise, I dare my fate and slip my heels off my feet letting them fall a few feet away from the side of the stage.

My feet glide around the stage as I spin in strength with a single arm as my head tilted back so that my risen attention hides my gaze from him. Once settled by the tip of my toes, facing him I close my eyes and lean my head forward feeling the clip of the right-gather belt click open, sliding my hands once again to click the other garter belt open. My fingers teasing the top frame of the stocking I bend slowly, allowing the stocking to slide down my legs before I find them sliding off my feet. Tossing them to the side my heels are in.

Slowly my hands glide up to my hips, seductively going between my thighs I raise them before holding my hands around my throat. Throwing my head back against the pole I look forward and with my hands still around my throat I finally look at him. His chest rose high and low in heavy breaths.

I continue my dark dance of torture and contradiction but now I'm locked in his vision. My body moved like I was unravelling before the daunting stature solely focused on me. Like a moth to a flame, I bring myself closer in deadly desire. He makes no sign of moving as I stand a few feet from him. The only expression I am given is a subtle rise of his framed eyebrow and a nod to motion me to do what I came forward for. He is letting me have the choice of my next move. It's mine to make and mine to have, and he is giving me that space and his audience. 

Locked to his gaze I sink to my knees because that was my desire. To give me, not to be taken. Looking up at him he lets me give, not a muscle moved to touch or taste, just beholding me as I do him. He lets me give not a demand in sight.

My body between his legs he is but an arm's reach away from me now. He could simply reach over and touch me, all that no one is permitted to do in my room, yet I crave for him to screw the rules, and make his own. He sits there drinking in my given position, so vulnerable between him before placing his drink on the table that sits next to him.

Who is this man, and why do I feel insanity and solace in the aura he brings when he walks into the room? 

No words spoken he leans forward towards me "You chose to kneel. Why mi Sirena?" (My siren.) His voice was dark and sombre in power and demand. Looking into his eyes I let my words leave no time to think "Because I chose it. I give it because I want to see you."

Regardless of the red lights, I see a rush of absolute need rush through his body and expression. He brings his hands over to brush the frame of my cheek ever so gently easily I remember this warmth, this hold and all that it had done to remind me that he was real. Once again his thumb runs over my glossy red lip when he ushers me to bring my body up while still on my knees.

On my knees risen, I lose the ability to breathe as he brings himself closer to me, his lips grazing my neck with the stubble across his face. His lips stop at my ear, his teeth slightly nipping at my ear before he whispers, "You kneel before a bad man, mi Sirena, but you knew that before your knees hit the ground." Letting me go, he brings me back down to my knees and stands before me, slips his jacket on. Softly he brushes my hair, then leaves. Me, well I'm left in the red-hued room, on my knees.

Willingly.