Chapter 3: Sarah's first night
The velvet rope fell behind Sarah with a sound like a final verdict as she came in the employee entrance of FiFi’s , leaving the damp chill of the London night outside. Inside, the air was warm, perfumed with jasmine and musk, and thrummed with a bassline she felt in her teeth. A sleek woman in a black suit directed her to a dressing room that was more like a film star’s trailer with mutiple dressers surrounded by lights. She was the only one there yet. Sarah put on the semi sheer, tight leopard skin dress she had brought over a tiny black sheer g-string, black stocking and 6 inch heels Pleaser shoes and did her make upo a sultry as she could, with bright red lips (that she remembered Terry liking) to match her bright red nails.
A knock on the door ad she was instructed to go to the The VIP Champagne Room to see Fiona.
The Champagne Room’s silence was only broken only by the faint clink of ice in Fiona’s glass as Sarah entered. Soft core erotic art surrounded the walls. Fiona was perched on the arm of a deep sofa, a silhouette against the low glow of the bar, her eyes assessing Sarah with a cold, thorough precision that felt more invasive than any touch. Terry lounged in a shadowed corner, a faint smile on his lips, his presence a quiet pressure in the room.
“Walk to the center,” Fiona said, her voice devoid of its earlier professional warmth. Sarah moved, the click of her heels echoing on the polished floor, feeling the sheer leopard print cling to her thighs. “Turn. Slowly.” Fiona took a slow sip of her drink, her gaze tracing the lines of Sarah’s body, lingering at her waist, her hips, the pronounced swell of her breasts against the fragile fabric. “The dress is acceptable for tonight, but for future evenings, wear something more revealing. Tightness is fine more sheer or more short or more low cu round your tits .”
Sarah forced a breath, her skin prickling under the dual scrutiny. Fiona rose and circled her, a shark in a black cocktail dress, her fingers suddenly snagging the hem at Sarah’s thigh. “This is too long. It needs to sit higher.” She tugged, the material hiking up, exposing more of Sarah’s stocking-top.
“She looks nervous,” Terry observed from the darkness, his voice a lazy rumble.
“She’ll get over it,” Fiona replied, her hand now pressing flat against Sarah’s stomach, making her jump. “Tighter here. You’ve had a big lunch. Remember you’re on display.” Her touch was clinical, proprietorial. It dipped lower, a sharp tap against the sheer g-string. “This stays. Shoes are good.”
Fiona stepped back, folding her arms. “Dance for me. Use the pole. Let’s see what you think you’re here for.” Sarah’s mouth went dry. The central brass pole gleamed under a single spotlight. She moved toward it, the first touch of the metal cold. She began, a simple, hesitant sway, trying to remember moves from a class she’d taken a lifetime ago. “For Christ’s sake, you’re not at a wedding,” Fiona snapped. “Arch your back. Point your fucking toes, stick your tits and your arse out."
Sarah flinched at the command, her muscles locking. The cold brass of the pole bit into her palm. She forced a breath out, the air tasting of old smoke and Fiona’s sharp perfume, and pushed her shoulders back, letting her spine curve into an unnatural, aching arc.
Her hips began a slow, circular motion, the leopard print straining across her thighs. She pointed a toe, extending her leg in a shaky line, feeling the sheer nylon of her stockings whisper against themselves. A memory of Terry’s weight on her in the dark office, his command not to clean herself, flashed hot and shameful behind her eyes.
“Better,” Fiona muttered, though it sounded like condemnation. Terry shifted in his chair, the leather creaking. Sarah rotated, pressing her back against the pole, letting her head fall back. The room tilted; the gold-leaf ceiling swirled above her. "Take your dress of while you dance."
Her fingers, fumbled at the side zip. The metallic whirr was deafening in the quiet room. She shimmied the tight leopard print down over her hips, letting it fall to a puddle at her feet, stepping out of it with one stiletto-clad foot. The air, previously warm, now felt like a cold lick against her skin, which was left in only the sheer black g-string, the stockings held up by lace tops, and the towering heels.
Fiona’s eyes were on her like physical weights. “Keep moving. Don’t just stand there looking like a slapped mare.” Sarah grasped the pole again, the cold shock centering her. She moved into a slow spin, her naked back and the black straps of her lingerie the only things separating her skin from the metal. She was painfully aware of the dampness from earlier, a secret she carried into this exposed state.
“Look at him while you do it,” Fiona instructed, nodding toward Terry’s shadowed form. Sarah turned her head, meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark, fixed on the strip of sheer fabric between her legs. “Right, you'll do to start. Hopefully you'll get better, or you won't be here that long.”
“Good girl,” Terry said, the words a soft, approving growl that did more to her than Fiona’s commands. He stood up, finally leaving the shadows, and walked out of the room.
Sarah bent to pick up here dress as Fiona came up to her and she stood almost naked felling vulnerable once again. "One couple more things Sarah. You call me Miss Fiona, or Ma'am."
"Yes, Ma'am.'
"And secondly, never fuck my husband again unless I am there or I have given you permission."
Sarah looked shocked, as Fiona left the room, then rushed back to the dressing room.
A little while later Sarah was nervously sitting at the bar as clients start to arrive, the girls mingled among them and the first couple of girls go up on stage to do a little dance and strip. She perched on a velvet stool, her knees locked together, clutching a club soda with lime that she didn’t drink. The air thickened with cigar smoke and murmured deals, a low masculine rumble punctuated by the occasional sharp laugh. A blonde in a crystal bikini slid onto the stool next to her, giving Sarah a once-over. “First night? Just smile and ask if they want company. It’s not brain surgery.”
On the small, lit stage, a redhead began swaying to a bluesy track, her fingers teasing the straps of her chemise. Sarah watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the garment slithered down, exposing pale breasts to the applause of a few men in shadowed booths. Another girl joined her “Sarah?” Her voice cut through her trance. “These guys I'm sitting with want you to join us want you to join us. Come on.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but led Sarah to where two guys sat, An athletic black guy in his 20s with long dreads in a bun and a bull neck white guy. "This is Eugene, he plays for Arsenal!" the girl said excitedly, "and his agent, Frank."
Sarah’s smile felt brittle as she slid into the booth, the leather sighing beneath her. Eugene, the footballer, gave her a nod, his eyes already glazed with vodka tonic and the room’s offerings. Frank, the agent, was a different animal—all sharp eyes and a calculating grin that dissected her from behind his glass. “This is Sarah,” the blonde girl, Chloe, chirped.
“Sarah,” Frank repeated, letting the name sit in the smoky air between them. “You’re new. Fresh meat.” He laughed at his own joke, a short, barking sound. Eugene just watched the stage, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm against the table. “So, Sarah,” Frank continued, pouring more champagne into three flutes without asking. “Entertain us. Tell us a story.”
Her mind blanked. The bass from the speakers vibrated up through the seat, into her bones. “I… I used to be an executive assistant,” she offered, the words sounding pathetic even to her.
“Used to be,” Frank echoed, smirking. “Now you’re here. Better money, I bet. For easier work.” He leaned forward, his cologne a musky assault. “Unless it’s not easy. You look tense.” His hand, large and ringed, landed on her stockinged knee. Sarah froze. The warmth of his palm seeped through the nylon, a brand. “Relax. We’re just having a laugh. Eugene here needs to unwind after a shit match, don’t you, mate?”
Eugene grunted, his eyes still distant, but Frank’s hand remained, a heavy, possessive weight on her leg. As Chloe prattled on about a celebrity she’d met, Frank’s fingers began a slow, deliberate migration inward. The chatter, the music, the clink of glasses—it all receded into a muffled roar as Sarah felt his thick fingertips press against the sheer nylon covering her inner thigh.
His touch was impersonal, a bored exploration conducted entirely under the black linen of the tablecloth. She sat rigid, a smile plastered on her face, while his hand pushed higher, the rough pad of his thumb finding the damp seam of her g-string. He rubbed slowly, back and forth, through the fabric, his conversation with Chloe never faltering. “Another bottle of the Cristal, love, yeah?” he said, his voice even. Sarah’ drained her glass nervously.
“Right, then,” Chloe announced, sliding out. “Eugene, darling, you look miserable. Come with me for a dance, yeah? Shake it off.” Eugene unfolded himself from the booth and followed her toward the curtained alcoves without a backward glance. Frank’s hand retreated, leaving a phantom pressure on her thigh. He watched them go, then turned his full attention to Sarah. “Now we can talk proper,” he said, signaling for a cigar.
They sat in a silence that felt heavier than the music. He lit his cigar, puffing aromatic clouds that curled around her head. He asked her meaningless questions about the club, about Fiona, his gaze never leaving the neckline of her dress. When Chloe returned, alone, her lipstick was smudged. “Your turn, Frank. I'm all yours.”
Eugene relaxed opened up while they were away, became chatty, flirty. fifteen minutes later, they returned. Frank looked relaxed, his tie loosened. Eugene’s earlier torpor was replaced by a sharp, focus. He leaned forward in the booth, his athletic frame suddenly dominating the space. He looked directly at Sarah, his eyes tracing the lines of her body from throat to waist and back up. The silence stretched, taut and expectant. He finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “Chloe danced for Frank. Chloe danced for me.” He picked up his fresh drink, took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers. “So, Sarah. When are you going to offer me one?”
The question hung in the smoky air, a direct challenge. All pretense of conversation was stripped away. Frank watched, a silent overseer, puffing his cigar. Sarah’s mouth was dry. The instruction from Fiona—call me Ma’am—echoed absurdly in her head. This was the real test, the one the leopard print dress and the pole had only foreshadowed.
“Now,” she heard herself say, the word scraping out of her throat. “I can offer you one now, if you’d like.”
Eugene stood, extending a hand. She took it, his grip swallowing hers, and he led her to the curtained alcoves It opened into a small, with curtained off rooms around it.
The alcove was a pocket of shadowed heat, the curtain falling behind them with a soft, final swish, muffling the music to a dull throb. Eugene released her hand and sat on the low velvet divan, his eyes already stripping her. “Well? Let’s see it then,” he said, his voice flat. “Dance.”
Sarah’s took a deep breat. She moved to the small clear space, the air thick with the smell of spilled liquor and old velvet. Her hips began a slow, mechanical sway, her hands sliding up her own torso as she’d seen the other girls do. “Faster,” he grunted, taking a swig from a bottle he’d brought in. “And get that dress off. I didn’t pay for a fashion show.”
She fumbled with the zip, the leopard print slinking down her body to pool on the floor. Now she stood in only the black g-string and stockings, her skin prickling under the low light. She turned, arching her back against the pole, one hand trailing down her stomach. “Those are some serious tits for your age,” he commented, his tone analytical, cold. “Good nipples. I like the piercings” She nodded, the motion stiff. “Yeah, thought so. Swing ’em a bit then. Let ’em bounce.”
Humiliation burned through her veins as she obeyed, jutting her chest out and shifting her weight to make her breasts sway. She could feel his stare like a physical touch, demeaning and specific. “Turn around, bend over. Let’s see the rest of the package.” She turned, presenting her back to him, and leaned forward, placing her hands on her knees. The position stretched the sheer g-string taut against her flesh. “Still got it Sarah. Nice firm arse,” he mused, and she heard the clink of his belt buckle. “Keep moving. Jiggle it.”
The dance ended with Eugene’s indifferent shrug, and he jerked his head toward the curtain, sending Sarah back to the main booth. Frank stood up, his smile gone, and pulled her into the same alcove, his thick hands immediately grabbing her bare tits, his fingers pinching her pierced nipples as she danced. Sarah pulled away and finished the dance.
When she got out from the private room Frank handed her £300, she saw Eugene sitting with some other girls and she took that and the money as sign to move on. Her confidence was up though.
Her confidence was up though. The thick wad of notes tucked into her stocking top gave her a thrill and she put it into her allocated tin behind the bar before chatting to some more clients and doing a few more dances.
The end of the evening and Sarah was relaxing back by the bar, happy with her haul for the evening, nearly a thousand pounds, when Eugene came up to her.
"Hi babe."
His smile was different now, less distant, edged with a specific kind of hunger. “That was a good warm-up,” he said, his eyes dropping to her chest. “But I want a proper dance, a last one. Fully naked this time. Everything off.”
She met his gaze, the hum of the emptying club fading to a distant buzz. “Alright then,” she said, her voice low, and she turned to lead him back toward the curtained alcove.
The alcove curtain fell behind them, and Eugene pointed to the center of the floor. “Dance, then. And get all of it off this time.” Sarah moved, her hands peeling away the last scraps of black lace, letting them fall to the velvet before she began a slow, deliberate rotation under the low light. He watched, sipping his drink, until she stood completely naked except for her stockings and heels. “Now get over here,” he said, nodding to the plush chair opposite his. “Show me your bald pussy properly. Lie back and open your legs wide.”
Sarah hesitated. Eugene’s expression hardened, his patience evaporating. “Now,” he said, the word leaving no room for debate.
Sarah’s lowered herself onto the plush velvet, the cool air hitting her exposed skin as she slowly spread her thighs. She lay back and put her hands behind her knees and pulled them back and wide apart to display herself the way she did for her husband when he was feeling dominant and told her to. She thought of her husband, of him seeing her like this. She could feel the excitement between her legs and wondered if it was obvious.
“Your cunt’s dripping,” he said, his voice a low, rough observation as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the glistening evidence. “You that horny? Then get your fingers in there and show me.”
Her fingers, trembling slightly, slid through her slick folds, the intimate wetness a stark contrast to the cool air on her skin. She pushed two fingers inside herself, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she worked them in and out, showing him the glistening proof.
“That’s it, now keep working that cunt while you watch this,” Eugene muttered, unfastening his trousers. He pulled out his thick, black cock, already half-hard, and began stroking it with a slow, firm grip. Sarah’s fingers slowed inside her, her breath catching as she stared, utterly transfixed by the dark, veined shaft sliding through his fist.
“Come here,” he growled, his voice thick. “Sit next to me and take over.”
Sarah slid from the chair onto the plush carpet beside his knees, the rough texture grazing her skin as she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his hardening length. He leaned back as she started to stroke him, watching her his arm round her back, reaching down and taking hold of her arse cheek. “Faster, harder” he grunted. She watch and felt his cock rigid, dark and big in her hand, her light fingers furiously pumping it. His other hand was now on her breast, roughly squeezing it and pinching her pierced nipple, also looking her in the eye as his breath quickened and he began to pant. She looked down at his big black cock stiff in her hand and saw her wedding ring glistening under the disco light and imagined doing the same to rory as she told him about this.
His hips started to buck. "Point my cock at your tits!" He ordered.
She obediently pointed his cock toward her breast, the big swollen head glistening and resting against her nipple. Suddenly thick, warm ropes of cum splashed across her breasts and pierced nipples, some dripping onto the gold of her wedding ring as he grunted, his body shuddering through the release. Sarah was sjhocked at the amount and as she kept stroking it kept cumming. Eventually it stopped and she released his cock, looking down at the mess across her chest.
Eugene grunted, zipping himself up without another word then pushed through the curtain and was gone.
Sarah wiped at the cooling streaks on her chest with the back of her hand, the scent of him thick and salty in the air. She gathered her dress from the floor, not bothering to put it on, and moved through the now-quieter club toward the dressing room. A figure detached itself from the shadowed bar; Frank materialized in her path, “Here,” he said, his voice a low rasp as he pressed a folded wedge of notes into her palm. “Five hundred. You handled him right.”
Sarah walked on to the dressing room where Eddie was standing. His eyes dropped to the sticky mess on her skin, then back to her face, "looks like a happy customer on your first night." he chuckled. "Good girl. Happy customers come back."
Sarah wiped off the mess on her chest with a wet cloth and put it n the bin then began the process of reassembly: the sheer g-string, the stockings with their delicate lace tops, the snug leopard print dress zipped up over it all. her makeup was still perfect and she expacted Rory to have waited up, he wanted him to see the full effect. She ran a brush through her blonde hair
She slipped into her trainers and a long coat, burying the dress beneath black wool.
A booked cab’s was waiting and she gave her address in a voice that sounded tired, just a woman going home from a long shift. Her body thrummed with a residual adrenaline, fizzy in her stomach. The sensation between her legs was a dull, persistent ache. She crossed her legs tightly, the nylon of her stockings whispering, and closed her eyes.
As the taxi pulled up she put her stripped shoes back on The hallway was warm, lit by a soft lamp left on. The familiar smell of their home, a stark contrast to the musk and cigars of FiFi’s.
“Sarah?” His voice came from the living room, followed by the creak of a chair.
"Hi babe," she said throwing her coat off as he came into the hall she stood, hip cocked hip cocked in club hostess outfit. "What do you think of your hostess wife?" She purred.