Ebony only has her best interests at heart

Susan accepted the shot – vodka, from the smell – and knocked it back in one swallow. The **** burned pleasantly, adding to the warmth already spreading through her body.

"Perfect timing," came Sajima's voice from the doorway. "You look magnificent, Suzanne."

Susan turned to face him, feeling the latex shift and tighten across her body with the movement. His appreciative gaze sent another thrill through her.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Your stage is prepared."

"I need a minute," Susan said, suddenly feeling the reality of what she was about to do crash down on her. "And maybe one more drink."

Sajima nodded understandingly. "I'll have a vodka tonic waiting at the bar. Come out when you're ready."

After he left, Ebony gave Susan's latex-covered shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You're going to kill it out there. Just remember – you're in control. Not them. You."

The words steadied her. Control. Yes. Despite all appearances, despite the seeming surrender of performing for strangers, she was the one with the power here.

She found Sajima at the bar as promised, a drink waiting for her. She took it gratefully, swallowing half in one go.

"Your stage is number three," Sajima explained, pointing to the furthest of the side platforms. "The music will be what we discussed over the phone. Four songs, about twenty minutes total."

Susan nodded, her heart pounding so hard she was sure it must be visible through the latex.

"And remember," Sajima added, "you don't have to strip. Just dance as you normally would. Though..." he hesitated, then continued, "if you feel comfortable removing the hood at some point, the men do tip better when they can see a beautiful face."

Susan wasn't sure she was going to consider something like that, but it felt nice to be appreciated.

She finished her drink, the combined **** from the shot and now this cocktail creating a pleasant buzz that dulled the edge of her anxiety.

"I'm ready," she said.

The side stage was small but well-lit, with its own dedicated pole and a scattering of chairs arranged around it. A handful of men were already seated there, drawn by the novelty of the latex-clad figure who would soon perform.

As Susan stepped onto the platform, the first notes of her selected music began to play – a throbbing, bass-heavy electronic track with a hypnotic rhythm. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the beat sync with her pulse, then began to move.

What happened next was transcendent.

The combination of the ****, the latex encasing her body, the hungry eyes of the watching men, and the pulsing music lifted Susan into a state of heightened awareness unlike anything she'd experienced before. Every movement felt electric, charged with erotic power. She worked the pole with more confidence than she'd ever had at Club Ecstasy, executing spins and dips that showcased her flexibility and strength.

The small crowd grew as her performance continued, men drifting over from other areas of the club, drawn by the unusual sight. Susan felt their collective gaze like a physical touch, feeding something primal inside her that craved this kind of attention.

Then it happened. As she executed a particularly sensual floor routine, arching her back and running her hands over the curves of her latex-covered breasts, a man stepped forward and held out a dollar bill.

Time seemed to slow. Susan had seen this happen with the other dancers all night – men tucking money into g-strings, bra straps, garters. But she wasn't stripping. There was nowhere for him to put it.

Acting on pure instinct, she rose to her knees, and swaying, crawled over to him, before tilting her hips to the side, putting one of the cutouts in the latex in range of his touch. The man hesitated, then tuck the bill under the edge of the latex, his fingers lingering against her skin for a moment. The transaction – the first time in her life someone had paid her for the use of her body, even in this limited way – sent a shockwave of arousal through her so intense she nearly gasped aloud.

It broke the dam. Suddenly more men were stepping forward, dollars extended. Susan found herself moving from one to the next, accepting their offerings with a grace that belied her inner turmoil. Most tried to tuck the bills into the cutouts of her catsuit, creating electric moment of touch. She allowed it, trembling at each point of contact.

By the time her final song ended, Susan was drenched in sweat beneath her latex, her body thrumming with unfulfilled desire, and her body festooned with slips of green. She had no idea how much she'd earned, and it didn't matter. The act itself – of being paid for her performance – had awakened something new and dangerous inside her.

She stepped off the stage to enthusiastic applause, her legs shaky from both exertion and arousal. Sajima materialized at her side, beaming.

"Spectacular!" he said, guiding her toward the bar. "Absolutely spectacular. You're a natural."

Susan could only nod, still caught in the afterglow of her performance.

"Here," Sajima pressed another vodka tonic into her hand. "You've earned this. Drink, catch your breath. The men are already asking when you'll dance again."

She gulped at the drink gratefully, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. The **** hit her system quickly, enhancing the euphoric state she was already in.

"So?" Sajima asked expectantly. "Will you come back next week? Same arrangement?"