You wanted this

I reach out and brush the hair back from your forehead. My voice comes out quieter when I speak, just for you.

"You wanted this, Joe. You asked me to do this." I pause, my fingers lingering on your skin. "I hope you remember that in the morning."

I stand up slowly, the pasties shifting against my skin, and I turn to face the remaining guys. The muscular one is watching me with an expectant look. The quiet guy is still nursing his beer.

The music hits me as I grip the pole, the cool brass a familiar anchor against my overheated skin. I swing my leg up, hooking it around the metal, and pull myself into a slow climb. The pasties catch the lamplight with every shift, the fringe tickling my sensitive nipples with each movement.

I twist mid-air, spinning down until I'm upside down, my hair brushing the floor. The guys have gone quiet again — that specific silence that means they're holding their breath. I hold the invert, letting my thighs grip the pole, my body on full display in nothing but the boots and the tiny black pasties.

The room is thick with heat and the low pulse of music. The pasties cling to my skin, the tiny fringe swaying with each breath as I stand in front of the quiet one. His beer is forgotten on the armrest, his hands resting on his thighs, knuckles white. I can feel the other two watching from behind me, their eyes dragging across my bare back, the curve of my ass, the way the boots make my legs go on forever.

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