(continued from I’ve put a spell on you 1)
This is a dance routine, after all, she thought to herself. She raised her arm langorously. The beads of a dozen long necklaces wrapped there clicked together as she moved, and she snapped her fingers. Dance is a perfectly legitimate thing to do in front of strangers, she thought. The fact that she was about to take her clothes off during this routine–actually, the strands and strands of jewelry she was draped in–a mere technicality, right? A piano began to play the restless opening chords of a song, and she snapped her fingers in the air to the beat. The beads slung along her arm clicked and tickled. From the seats it looked like glitter was falling from her hand. A woman’s voice, low and dark, sang from the theater’s huge speakers, I’ve put a spell on you.
The jewelry circled her waist, her hips, and passed between her thighs. She could feel them tightening on her mound as she rocked her pelvis to the music and slid her sex over them. She turned to peer over the chair back at the audience and pointed at them while the woman crooned Because you’re mine. Her arm was dripping pearls off the end of her hand. She could feel her breasts come into view, bathed in blue spotlights, hidden by hundreds of those shivering beads. Well, not quite hidden. With a sultry look, she smiled knowingly at the tables of people watching her. She tossed her shoulders and shook her breasts side to side with a little smirk on her lips. These are not at all hidden, now are they, she seemed to say. The jewelry parted around the swell of her breasts and exposed them. She threw her head back, luxuriating in the feeling of being on display.
With the ease of 25 years of undressing for a man, she took off some of the loops of beads. Nakedness is easy in front of your lover. In front of a cheating lover, well…it would be easier to strip for a crowded room full of strangers than seduce your own wandering husband. You know I can’t stand it, your runnin’ around. The beads fell to the wood floor and clicked.
With every line of the song, it got easier to look right at the audience and take another strand off. She cupped her breasts in her hands, circled her nipples with her thumbs, and felt the tender weight fill her hands. Touch me, she remembered saying once, tell me I’m beautiful. She pressed and squeezed them like she needed it, and she did. Low and under her breath, she spoke the words that gave her courage and turned her on but that he would never say: “So fucking beautiful.”
“Sexy af,” he muttered without thinking. The second he saw the woman start to move in that chair on the stage, his cock twitched. Her lucious ass swiveled slowly on the seat, and her long back arched, and he could almost feel her sex grinding into the chair. His thigh clenched with the thought of her grinding on him instead. Her pleasure was on display as much as her body, and his dick responded painfully fast to both. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders hiding and then showing her long neck and delicate profile, and he suddenly ached to wrap his hands in the deep auburn mane and pull her neck to his mouth. The “whoa”s and “yeah”s of men around him, the noisy appreciation of this audience at a strip show, had not grated on him until now. But now he started sending dark looks to each man who dared interrupt his focus on this woman who had just hijacked his senses, a siren tied with jewelry and bound in blue light.