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I counted out two hundred quid in twenties and tried not to think about the payslip.
The bald man in the suit pulled the curtain aside. Behind it was a corridor of small booths, each with a deep velvet couch, a dim red bulb and a door that didn’t quite close.
Scarlett sat me down in the middle of the couch and stood between my knees.
“Rules,” she said, the smile gone serious for a second. “You don’t touch me. Hands stay on the couch. I can touch you, you can’t touch me. There’s a camera in the corner and Dez on the door, and Dez has no sense of humour.” Then the smile came back. “Other than that, enjoy yourself.”
The song changed. Something slow, all bass.
She turned around and lowered herself into my lap, grinding back against me in a slow figure eight. Her arse pressed right onto my cock through my jeans, and she rolled her hips like she could feel every inch and was taking notes.
Then she stood, reached behind her back, and unhooked her bra. It slid down her arms. She turned around.
Her tits were small and high and perfect, freckled, nipples pink and stiff. She leaned over me, hands on the back of the couch, and let them sway an inch from my face.
“Hands,” she reminded me softly.
My fingers were digging into the velvet. Every part of me wanted to reach up. She was right there, warm, smelling of vanilla and sweat.