the trigger, and sometimes it was inside me, the icy length of the Sieg Sauer filling me to capacity and leaving me at the edge of a climax that was both terrible and immense in its pleasure.
Trying to keep the thoughts of Chey out of my head and the subsequent pain out of my heart was like trying to dam a river with clay. Certain to fail. I still missed him, although I tried to pretend that I didn’t. Missed his mind, missed his company, missed his hard body and his cock and all of the wonderful things that he did to me on the rare nights that he was home.
It was painful to know we lived in the same city and that, at any moment, our paths could cross. On the street, in a bar, anywhere. I kept away from both the Meatpacking District and Chey’s apartment, as well as the Upper East Side where the clubs he knew I had worked in were situated. I knew that if I came across him, I might not be strong enough to resist his attraction and I would listen to any old hoary story that he might conjure up to justify his periodic absences when we had been together, and the presence of the gun in the drawer.
Part of me begged for the opportunity of a fortuitous encounter, however unlikely the chances were in such a vastplace as Manhattan, while the more sensible side of me feared such a thing happening and the way I might react.
Chey was under my skin.
He knew I liked to spend much of my leisure time browsing in bookshops, and in particular Shakespeare & Co on Broadway where the staff didn’t mind my hanging around and casually flitting from book to book reading a page here and a page there before normally settling an hour or more later for a cheap paperback. So I had to avoid the store and moved my allegiances to the Strand where I could lose myself in the heavy crowds. Moving between the aisles and floors or leafing through volumes there, I would sometime feel the gaze of someone looking enquiringly at my back, and every single time I thought it would be Chey, and, heart buzzing, I would turn round only to find it was just another man attracted by my looks and unaccustomed to seeing a foreign-looking blonde in a bookstore who didn’t fit the identikit pattern of female readers.
A couple of months went by and Blanca informed me that there had been no sign of Chey at either of the clubs attempting to track me down and that maybe I should return to work. Possibly, with a few weeks at places down on Long Island or out in New Jersey first, to get my dancing mojo back into gear and allay my nervousness at performing again in the city.
I agreed and began to peruse realtor’s lists and windows with the thought of finding myself a small place to live, a rental, maybe in the West Village. Alone. I wanted my own space, the opportunity to think, lounge, slob at will, and the past weeks staying at Blanca’s with her and the revolving door of other dancers with whom I had little in common was beginning to prove tiresome. The conversation waslimited and I was growing weary of being asked to share some of my clothes and, invariably, make-up with them at the slightest opportunity. I needed breathing space.
I declined the out-of-town option.
‘No, I want to work the Grand again,’ I told Blanca. ‘If they’ll have me. I like the place and no man is going to stop me doing what I want. Anyway, they have sturdy bouncers . . .’
‘Oh, that they have, my dear,’ Blanca said.
My resolve had returned, and together with Blanca, we plotted my grand return to the dance floor. I perfected a new routine. Fine-tuned the music. Acquired the perfect outfit and discreet accessories for the occasion.
‘Luba’s Grand Return to the Grand.’
We giddily devised a small leaflet advertising my initial appearance and it was decided that following my one-off set on the Saturday night, I would only grant a single lap dance. To the highest bidder.
I was defiant, confident Chey would not dare come along and get involved.
And if he did, I would flaunt
Trying to keep the thoughts of Chey out of my head and the subsequent pain out of my heart was like trying to dam a river with clay. Certain to fail. I still missed him, although I tried to pretend that I didn’t. Missed his mind, missed his company, missed his hard body and his cock and all of the wonderful things that he did to me on the rare nights that he was home.
It was painful to know we lived in the same city and that, at any moment, our paths could cross. On the street, in a bar, anywhere. I kept away from both the Meatpacking District and Chey’s apartment, as well as the Upper East Side where the clubs he knew I had worked in were situated. I knew that if I came across him, I might not be strong enough to resist his attraction and I would listen to any old hoary story that he might conjure up to justify his periodic absences when we had been together, and the presence of the gun in the drawer.
Part of me begged for the opportunity of a fortuitous encounter, however unlikely the chances were in such a vastplace as Manhattan, while the more sensible side of me feared such a thing happening and the way I might react.
Chey was under my skin.
He knew I liked to spend much of my leisure time browsing in bookshops, and in particular Shakespeare & Co on Broadway where the staff didn’t mind my hanging around and casually flitting from book to book reading a page here and a page there before normally settling an hour or more later for a cheap paperback. So I had to avoid the store and moved my allegiances to the Strand where I could lose myself in the heavy crowds. Moving between the aisles and floors or leafing through volumes there, I would sometime feel the gaze of someone looking enquiringly at my back, and every single time I thought it would be Chey, and, heart buzzing, I would turn round only to find it was just another man attracted by my looks and unaccustomed to seeing a foreign-looking blonde in a bookstore who didn’t fit the identikit pattern of female readers.
A couple of months went by and Blanca informed me that there had been no sign of Chey at either of the clubs attempting to track me down and that maybe I should return to work. Possibly, with a few weeks at places down on Long Island or out in New Jersey first, to get my dancing mojo back into gear and allay my nervousness at performing again in the city.
I agreed and began to peruse realtor’s lists and windows with the thought of finding myself a small place to live, a rental, maybe in the West Village. Alone. I wanted my own space, the opportunity to think, lounge, slob at will, and the past weeks staying at Blanca’s with her and the revolving door of other dancers with whom I had little in common was beginning to prove tiresome. The conversation waslimited and I was growing weary of being asked to share some of my clothes and, invariably, make-up with them at the slightest opportunity. I needed breathing space.
I declined the out-of-town option.
‘No, I want to work the Grand again,’ I told Blanca. ‘If they’ll have me. I like the place and no man is going to stop me doing what I want. Anyway, they have sturdy bouncers . . .’
‘Oh, that they have, my dear,’ Blanca said.
My resolve had returned, and together with Blanca, we plotted my grand return to the dance floor. I perfected a new routine. Fine-tuned the music. Acquired the perfect outfit and discreet accessories for the occasion.
‘Luba’s Grand Return to the Grand.’
We giddily devised a small leaflet advertising my initial appearance and it was decided that following my one-off set on the Saturday night, I would only grant a single lap dance. To the highest bidder.
I was defiant, confident Chey would not dare come along and get involved.
And if he did, I would flaunt
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