Page 10 of Marrying the Pakhan

Every time she slides down the pole, the lights catch the shine between her thighs, clearly showing the outline of her pussy and the small strip of fabric pulled tight against her clit.

Men sit around the stage, some leaning forward with drinks in their hands, others throwing bills onto the platform. A few have their eyes glued to her body, while others talk loudly over the music.

I walk past them and sit in the back booth reserved for me. From here I can still see the stage clearly. I motion for one of the waitresses to send over Sasha, one of the best performers.

She comes over a minute later, smiling, wearing almost nothing. “Boss. You want a private dance tonight?”

I nod. “Private room. Now.”

We make our way to one of the VIP rooms. I sit on the couch while Sasha starts moving in front of me, slow and professional, grinding her hips, running her hands over her body. I watch her. I try to let it work. She’s beautiful. Skilled. Normally that would be enough.

But it’s suddenly not.

Every time she touches me or leans in close, something feels wrong. Her perfume is too sweet. Her movements feel practiced and empty. I imagine Harper’s steady voice instead of the heavy bass. I imagine Harper’s nervous but determined eyes instead of Sasha’s smoky makeup. My cock stays hard, but the feeling is hollow.

Sasha drops to her knees between my legs and reaches for my belt. “Want me to take care of you, boss?”

I grab her wrist before she can open it. “No.”

She looks surprised. I never turn this down. I pull out my wallet, hand her a thick stack of bills, and tell her, “We’re done. Keep it.”

I leave the VIP room without looking back. The walk upstairs to my office feels longer than it should. I lock the door behind me the second I am inside.

This is ridiculous. You’re better than this.

But the ache in my cock still doesn’t listen.

I sit down in my chair, lean back, and spread my legs. I open the folder again and keep the coffee shop photo right in front of me under the lamp.

My hand moves to my belt. I open it slowly, pull down the zipper, and push my pants and boxers low enough. I wrap my fingers around my cock.

I’m still hard, thick, and aching from nothing more than her picture and a handful of memories.

What the hell are you doing? I think. You had Sasha downstairs on her knees, ready to suck you off, and you turned her away. For this? For a woman you barely know?

The shame burns for a second, but it does nothing to soften my cock. If anything, the guilt makes me harder. I curse quietly and tighten my grip.

I start with slow strokes while I stare at her mouth in the photo. That curved smile. I remember the calm strength in her voice when she proposed to a stranger.

My grip tightens. The strokes grow longer, firmer. In my mind, I see her stepping closer in that hallway, close enough that I could smell her skin. I imagine her dropping to her knees right here between my spread legs, looking up at me with those same determined eyes.

My breathing stays controlled but deeper.

I stroke faster now, my fist moving smoothly over the full length of my cock.

I picture her lips parting, warm and soft, taking me into her mouth. The wet heat. The way her tongue would press against the underside while she works me deeper.

I imagine one hand in her hair, guiding her, while she looks up at me with that steady gaze.

Heat builds low in my stomach. My thighs tense. I lean forward slightly, elbow on the desk, eyes locked on the photo of her laughing face. In my head, she hollows her cheeks and sucks harder, taking almost all of me.

The fantasy feels so real that my hand speeds up, rougher now, chasing the growing pressure.

My whole body tightens. The muscles in my arm and shoulder burn. I keep staring at her picture as the pleasure spikes sharp and sudden. Thick ropes of cum spill over my fist and onto the tissues I grabbed at the last second. The release hits hard, but I stay completely silent, jaw clenched, breath held until the last wave passes.

I sit there afterward with my eyes closed, chest rising and falling. My hand is still wrapped around myself, sticky and warm. The bass from the club continues to thump faintly through the walls, unchanged.

Afterward, the office is quiet except for the muffled thump of the bass through the wall, same as always, like the last twenty minutes happened in some separate room from the rest of my life.