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I reached into my pocket, peeled off a hundred and tucked it into the gold chain at her waist.
“Good tipper,” she breathed. “Good boy.”
She let me keep my hands on her. She guided one up to her breast and I cupped it, warm and heavy, her nipple stiff against my palm. She gasped and rolled her hips harder.
She wasn’t dancing anymore. She was riding me. Her knees dug into the couch, her hands gripped my shoulders, and she ground her pussy along my cock in long, deep strokes, the sequins rasping against my jeans. Her face was flushed. Her mouth was open.
“Fuck,” she said, surprised. “Fuck, that’s the spot.”
I squeezed her tit and she moaned, a real, ragged sound. She went faster, chasing it, her clit rubbing right over the head of my trapped cock on every pass. I felt her thighs start to tremble.
“Don’t you dare stop me,” she whispered.
She came. Right there, shaking in my lap, her forehead pressed to mine, biting her lip to stay quiet. The feel of her twitching against me pushed me over and I came too, helpless, in my jeans, gripping her waist.
We sat there panting.
“That doesn’t happen,” she said finally. “I want you to know that. That doesn’t happen to me in here.”
The buzzer went. She climbed off on shaky legs, pulled her top back on and blew out a breath.
“Same time next Friday,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Then she went back to work, and I sat at the bar trying to stop grinning.
→ I come back next Friday, as ordered
→ I find her at the bar later and ask her out on a proper date