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The writer's world had become dominated by her obsession with the women of New Orleans' red light district, but, in particular, the women of Club Baisez-Moi. She spent her days counting the minutes until she was free from her work as a respectable magazine writer. All she could think of was getting into the dark, hidden space of the club and watching the naked bodies of the anonymous women floating before her in their erotic dance.
She was an addict now. Nothing else in her world mattered. Like a junky, from the time she awoke each morning, she awaited her encounter with the drug. She ached for the music, the alcohol, the rush when she saw naked flesh on display at Baisez-Moi. To her, that feeling was like smooth opium inhaled deeply and tantalizing her with a feeling akin to honey in the veins. Soft, tickling, deep, and profound--teasing and satisfying her senses. She took her money out of the bank every evening and went to get her fix. The women of the club knew her well after weeks of her consistent arrival there at exactly 8 p.m. every night. She always arrived alone, ordered a vodka martini, and waited. It never took long for one of them to come to her and ask if she wanted a dance. But, she did not say "yes" to just anyone.
Over time, she became selective about which woman she would allow to dance for her. She was not satisfied with skinny little girl-children who had no sense of eroticism. She only wanted women who were extremely voluptuous--crackling with sexual heat in the crevices of their bodies. She wanted women who were experienced, seductive, and, most of all, capable of communicating through dance what other women could not communicate with words or straightforward sexual deeds. She wanted the ones who could heal her sadness and fill her aching need with dance, shadow, movement. She wanted something uniquely created in the invisible space between night and day in the dark alcoves of Baisez-Moi.
Her favorite dancer was a tall, exquisite brunette named "Fantasy." She had seen her one night across the crowded room. She stood out from all the other dancers because she did not flirt with anyone or try to "sell" herself. On the contrary, she was quite alone and very cold. But, her face, her body, her soulful brown eyes . ..were anything but cold. She radiated heat, sex, sin, provocation. She was the definition of a siren. Her allure was like a song, and the writer heard it clearly while the men in the club seemed not to hear it at all. Fantasy's beauty was an advertisement in itself. It needed no publicizing.
The writer gave one of the waitresses a $20 and asked her to get Fantasy for her. As the waitress went over to her, she saw the statuesque brunette look at her and nod. She began walking toward the writer, and it was as though everything went into slow motion. The writer watched her walk, her long dark hair falling around her face, her large breasts showing through the pale pink of her low-cut shirt, and bobbing up and down. Her perfect, full ass swinging with each step. Her face, so profoundly beautiful. She was elegant, sophisticated, symmetrical. Her lips were perfectly full, and she licked them in a casual way that was somehow intoxicating. This was the answer to the writer's prayers. Not an answer that came later, in the afterlife, but here and now in living color. She was fire, flood, and famine, alpha, omega. She would be her ruin.
"Hi, My name is Fantasy. And you are?"
The writer heard her words and was startled back into the moment. "I'm Monica," the writer said.
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"Well, Monica, are you ready to go to heaven?," Fantasy asked with a cunning smile.
The writer said, "Yes, I think I am."
With that, Fantasy took the writer by the hand and led her up a hidden stairway at the back of the club. At the top of the stairs were four rooms with curtains over the entrances. Fantasy pushed the curtain of Room 1 aside and led the writer in. They ordered some champagne and strawberries and stared at each other for a few moments, which, to the writer, felt like hours.
The strawberries and champagne arrived, and Fantasy closed the curtain. She looked at the writer, now seated on the sofa, with heady sensuality in her eyes and stood before the writer as the music played in the background--an intoxicating bass rhythm permeating the air. She began moving her body to the sound and watching the writer, taking her in.
Slowly, Fantasy touched her own breasts and her nipples became hard and erect, showing through the silk material of her top. Her beautiful hands with nails like white pearls went to the bottom of her top and pulled it over her head. She casually threw the top aside on the floor and stood before the writer naked from the waist up. All that remained was her black mini-skirt and her platform pumps. The writer gasped audibly as she saw Fantasy stand before her, staring back at her, stroking her breasts, and then casting her head back and closing her voluminous brown eyes, and swaying her body before her. This was more erotic, more intimate than sex, the writer thought to herself. Everything was all liquid and slow and hot and real and sublime. She couldn't think clearly. She was on fire.
Then, Fantasy moved toward her. She bowed down in front of her on her knees, facing her. The writer felt the dancer's gesture in her very blood. She knew then that Fantasy wanted her. The dancer said, "I have never done 'this' in the club before. But, I want to with you." She asked the writer if it was all right. The writer, barely able to speak, said that it was. Then, Fantasy took her beautiful hands and opened the writer's legs and inched her way in between them. No words were exchanged as Fantasy took the writer's face in her hands, pulling her close to her lips, and when their mouths touched, it was like the first taste of wine after an eternity in the desert. The lips were softer than the skin of a child, and their tongues danced together as Fantasy's body began pressing against hers. There was such passion, such heat, such fierce animal need rising up in the writer. Something inside her broke loose at that moment and she became like a woman possessed by another entity. Fantasy sensed her urgency and stood up, kicking off her shoes. The writer, still fully dressed, and drenched with sweat, stood up, cupping Fantasy's ass in her hands, pulling her to her. Their breasts were pressed hotly against each others' and they kissed wildly. The writer ran her hands hungrily over Fantasy's body and her kisses became hotter, more urgent, more demanding. She ripped Fantasy's skirt off and ran her fingers along the perfect pink line of her cunt, so wet, dripping with sex, full of yearning, full of everything she wanted. She took her fingers and put them in her mouth, tasting them fully. Her cum tasted as sweet as maple syrup. It was profoundly delicious. They stood there with their bodies moving together. The writer said, "I have to have you now."
Fantasy stopped for a moment, looked into the writer's eyes, and pushed the writer back down on the sofa. She sat on the writer's lap with her legs apart facing her. She took the writer's fingers and thrust them back into her throbbing cunt. She gasped, rotated on her fingers, rode her hand up and down. The writer became overwhelmed with desire. She pushed her fingers in and out of Fantasy's hot pussy. The cum was running down her fingers. Fantasy's beautiful mane of chocolate brown hair was everywhere. They kissed deeply, fiercely, as Fantasy rode her. Then, suddenly, the dancer shook all over. Her cunt contracted hard and fast, and she came in a flood with a deep, animal moan. Limp as a beautiful rag-doll, she collapsed. They stayed like that for awhile. The writer listened to the soft heavy breathing of her woman-doll. They kissed softly now and the writer helped the dancer put her clothes back on.
The champagne sat on the table unopened and the strawberries were untouched. Yet, the writer was full, completely full, utterly satisfied (at least for now). She knew that she was experiencing something in the present tense, not in a dream, but now, something more real than she had ever imagined. She had gone into a realm where others feared to tread. She was lost. She was found.
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