Yes, she's coming back

"Yes," Susan answered without hesitation. "Absolutely."

The next three Fridays followed the same pattern. Susan would arrive early, prepare with Ebony's help (a ritual that grew increasingly charged with unacknowledged tension each week), down a shot for courage, have a drink at the bar, then perform her set to growing crowds.

Each week, she pushed her boundaries slightly further. She didn't strip, not yet. It always felt too raw, too risky. But night by night, she how to interact with the customers more directly, accepting their money with teasing brushes of contact that left them hungry for more.

Most significantly, she began to develop relationships with the other dancers. Destiny took her under her wing, showing her tricks for dealing with handsy customers. Jade taught her pole techniques that Susan incorporated into her routine. Alexis remained aloof, but even she began to thaw slightly, offering occasional tips on music selection.

And then there was Ebony. Their pre-show ritual had evolved into something Susan both craved and feared. The dancer's hands seemed to linger longer each week, her compliments growing more specific, more intimate. Susan found herself thinking about those hands at inappropriate moments – during Fantastic Four meetings, lying beside Reed in bed, in the shower as she brought herself to release after each performance.

Susan's fourth performance at Sakura-Mai was her most daring yet. She'd selected a blood-red latex catsuit for tonight, the material so glossy it caught every beam of light. The outfit was slit from neck to navel, creating a wealth of tantalizing cleavage. The hood was less restrictive than her previous ones, allowing more of her eyes to show through, giving her a predatory look that had men shifting uncomfortably in their seats before she'd even begun to dance.

As she stepped onto the stage, Susan felt the now-familiar rush of adrenaline, coupled with the exquisite sensation of latex sliding against her sensitized skin. The material hugged every curve, compressing and caressing simultaneously. Each movement created friction in places that made her breath catch – between her thighs, across her nipples, along the curve of her ass.

The music began – a throbbing industrial beat she'd selected specifically because its pulsing rhythm matched the cadence of her own desire. Susan closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the combination of sound and sensation to wash over her. The latex encasing her body seemed to amplify every feeling, conducting heat and pressure with exquisite precision. She was already wet, already aching, and she hadn't even begun to dance.

Opening her eyes, she surveyed the crowd. Her regular audience had grown substantially over the past weeks. Men who had seen her previous performances now brought friends, promising them something unique. Tonight, her stage was surrounded, every seat taken, with additional spectators standing behind them.

The sight sent a fresh wave of arousal through her. All these men, wanting her, willing to pay for the privilege of watching her move. It was a heady power, one that grew more intoxicating with each performance.

Susan began to dance, working the pole with newfound confidence. She'd been practicing at home when Reed was in his lab, watching videos online and perfecting moves that showcased her strength and flexibility. She executed a perfect inversion, holding herself upside down with her thighs gripping the pole, then slowly scissoring her legs open to reveal the glossy red latex stretched tight across her most intimate areas.

The crowd reacted with appreciative murmurs and scattered applause. One man in the front row held up a twenty-dollar bill between two fingers, his intent clear. Susan had learned to incorporate these transactions into her routine, making them part of the performance rather than interruptions.

She slid down the pole in a controlled descent, then crawled toward him with feline grace. The man's eyes widened as she approached, clearly not expecting such direct attention. When she reached him, she rose up on her knees, bringing her latex-covered breasts to his eye level.

"Where would you like to put that?" she asked, her voice husky through the mouth slit of her hood.

The man swallowed visibly, then reached forward tentatively, and tucked it into the slit between her tits. The contact, brief as it was, sent electricity racing through her, a sensation she couldn't seem to get enough of.

He was paying for the right to touch her. To have access, however limited, to her body. There was something darkly thrilling about it – something taboo and slightly degrading that appealed to a part of herself she rarely acknowledged. Each dollar she earned was both a validation of her desirability and a tangible symbol of how far she'd strayed from the respectable Susan Storm-Richards.

Susan moved from one to customer to the next. This time, almost all the cash went into her cleavage, and though she never let them linger too long or venture too far, each fleeting contact added to the growing tension within her, her nipples hard and visible through the elastic top

By the end of her set, Susan was drenched in sweat beneath the latex, her body thrumming with unfulfilled desire. The material clung to her like a second skin, so tight it seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Between her thighs, she was slick with arousal, the latex there sliding against her sensitized lips with every movement.

As she collected her final tips and stepped off the stage, Susan was in a state of heightened awareness that bordered on delirium. Every sensation was amplified – the brush of air against the exposed skin of her cutouts, the squeeze of latex around her waist and thighs, the lingering ghost-touches of strangers' fingers.