I don’t know his name or his face. I only know what he likes. Because of that, everything had to be planned with meticulous attention to detail.
It begins with the ad I place online – naughty schoolgirl to dance ur cares away. Took me hours of switching between ‘ur’ and ‘your’ before settling on that title. I now know that was the right decision.
Then the clothes. Red and black plaid skirt, 8.4 inches from waist to hem. Slim fit white button-down Oxford shirt from Brooks Brothers, tied in a loose knot just above my navel. Red ankle wrap platform heels, size 5. Matching black bra and panties – Victoria’s Secret spring catalog.
Even the rip in my fishnets. All planned. All intentional.
I’ve been dancing for six months, mostly for fraternities and bachelor parties. Occasionally for traveling businessman afraid to be caught at a strip club so they order in at the hotel. Once for a couple in their home, just looking to spice things up.
They pay. I dance. I leave. Forty-five minutes. Two hours if they pay for the deluxe package. Those are the rules.
I never dance with another girl, always by myself. I drive myself to and from each appointment. You might think it’s careless to arrive at an unknown destination where you’re going to be outnumbered and alone, but it’s only dangerous if you’re not aware of that fact.
I am aware of it, therefore it’s not dangerous. It’s all planned. All intentional.
Sometimes the host will ask about the “off the menu” items, things I’d be willing to do for extra cash. Some ask straightaway when I arrive. Others ask after I’ve started my show. The answer is always the same. No. You don’t touch me. I don’t touch you. Those are the rules.
If they push the issue, I resist. Most like it when I resist. It’s part of the game, they say. That’s what he said, too. I don’t know his name. Or his face. I only know what he likes. Part of the game. His game. All planned. All intentional.
I go along, giving ground grudgingly. I agree to private dances in private rooms, one on one. Those are my rules. He agrees to them because they are also his rules. He just made me think that they were mine.
Who knows what can happen when he’s got me alone. To him, he’s wearing me down, making me submissive, but I’m resisting enough to keep him on his toes. That’s what he likes. It’s part of his game.
He calls me pet names. Calls me his good girl. Calls me his doll. He asks me to sit on his lap. He wants me to obey, but he also wants me to resist.
I want to resist. But even if I do, I’m still playing the game. His game. His rules.
The music continues, but the dance has shifted.
I feel his hand on the small of my back as I sit down, knees together and to the side. It’s not how he wanted, but it’s what he asked me to do. Still submissive, but still resisting. He grins. That’s how he knows I’m playing the game.
He turns me to face him. I straddle his lap. His hands move to my hips as I roll mine into his. Even though it’s dark, I can tell he is pleased. I can tell he is smiling. I want him to smile. I want to play the game.
I dance to the music as I slide my hands up the sides of my body. Up my waist. Up the sides of my breasts. Up to my neck. Moving against him. Feeling him respond to my body. Playing his game. Abiding his rules.
My hands move to my hair, letting it cascade down my back as I let loose my chignon hair bun, wrapped around my six-inch silver hairpin, sharpened to a fine point. Also planned. Also intentional.
I roll my head to the side, letting my hair whip across his face. He calls me his good girl one last time.
The point is buried deep into his ribcage before he realizes it’s no longer his game. It’s my game. It’s always been my game.
Blood fills his lungs. He tries to scream, but he’s unable. Even if he could, no one would hear. The music continues, but the dance has shifted.
I remove the point and plunge it into the base of his skull, just behind his left ear. I give the hilt a hard push sideways for good measure. Whatever was connected in there isn’t anymore. He slumps to the side.
I leave him like that as I make my exit before the music ends. They pay. I dance. I leave. Forty-five minutes. Two hours if they pay for the deluxe package. Those are the rules.
Was that him? I can’t say for sure.
I don’t know his name or his face. I only know what he likes.