The addiction hit hard after that first solo session. I’d tell myself it was the last time, but every evening after work, my feet led me back to Velvet Shadohis ws. The club became impressive, silent, a world away from the fluorescent lights and endless emails at the door. Mr Harlan was as imposing as ever during the day–barking orders in meetings, his voice like thunder that made my knees weak. But at night, in that private world a masked dancer became my obsession. His body, those muscles flexing under the dim glow, and oh god, his voice. Low, rough, promising things that made my core clench. One evening, I arrived early, nerves buzzing. I’d started dressing up more—stockings under my skirt, lacy bra peeking from my top. The bouncer nodded me through like a regular. In room 7, I waited, sipping water to calm down. The door clicked open, and there he was. Mask in place, shirt already half-unbuttoned, pants tight over his thighs. “Back again, kitten?”
Dernière mise à jour : 2026-04-29
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