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Baring Souls

By: slyc_willie



(This story is an official entry into the 2008 Valentine's Day story contest. It is a long tale of lust and love and the consequences that arise. I hope you enjoy.)

***

I loved my new apartment. Seventh floor, with a small enclosed balcony, a view of downtown tourists would envy, concierge service, even a hair salon and massage parlor on the ground floor. Sure, it cost me twelve hundred a month, and for only eight hundred square feet, but it was a luxury I could afford. I had negotiated rather shrewdly with the CFO of the company I now worked for, and had received the salary I desired.

Life, as they say, was good. I had moved in a few days into the new year, and the desire to start over hovered around me, palpable as a cloud. I knew I wanted a different direction to my life. I just was not sure what.

It took me a while to get everything situated at home, mainly because I was spending so much time hob-nobbing at the office and getting up to date on the new contracts the company had won. The business I was in was demanding of my time, and the new company promised to keep me busy. Eventually, however, I managed to take a weekend to devote to unpacking my boxes and organizing my apartment.

By the time I was done arranging furniture and taking the empty boxes down the hall to the trash chute, I had built up a good sweat and needed a shower. The hot water soothed my muscles, making me feel refreshed . . . and more than a little randy. It had been several months since Monica and I had divorced, and I hadn't so much as gotten a playful pass from a woman since then. Of course, I did work a lot.

Not that I wasn't attractive. Maybe I wasn't the next cover model for GQ, but neither was I ugly. Throughout college and grad school, I was widely considered a good catch. I kept in shape, still had my hair, and at the age of thirty-five, had a pretty good build and a trim waist. I dressed well, spoke with confidence . . . I got my share of interested looks, but after ending a long-term relationship, I was often sullen and even shy around women.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror with a sigh. I was too young to be alone, too old to go pick up some eager bimbo at a club. I hadn't asked a woman out since Clinton was president. I had, as the kids say, 'no game.' I figured my best chances for romance lay amongst the women I worked with. But many were professional, cold, and focused on their careers. With my luck, I would meet some man-eater who would fuck me raw then turn me out the door. And then I would be even more depressed.

I considered, peripherally, the idea of calling up an escort service; hell, I had the money. Two-fifty for an in-call, another two-fifty 'tip,' and I could get my rocks off. But finding satisfaction in meaningless casual sex had lost its appeal with my thirtieth birthday. Sure, I wanted to get laid, but I wanted more than just a cute face and an eager body. But after my heartbreak with Monica, was I ready for another relationship? What if I wasted another decade? 

Snap out of it, Will, I berated myself, and tossed the towel on the sink. Do what other single men your age do. Get on the computer, download some porn, and beat off while watching an eager young thing take the money shot on her chin.

"Ouch!"

I looked down to see what I had stumbled upon, and found a loose tile on the bathroom floor, a couple feet from the toilet. Great. Something broken already. I sat on the toilet, squeezed out a little blood from my big toe, wiped it with some tissue. I glared at the loose tile as if it had deliberately attacked me.

The little cut on my toe stopped bleeding quickly enough, so I got down on the floor and picked up the tile. I arched an eyebrow in interest when I saw the neat little hole that lay beneath.

Well, hello . . . .

Curiosity is a powerful thing, especially when coupled with wishful thinking. I leaned over, bringing my face close to the floor, and looked down through the hole. It was only about a quarter of an inch across, about the same size as your typical door peephole. But . . . .

Obviously, whoever had occupied my apartment before had been a voyeur. Not only was there a tiny hole in the floor, but it had been fitted with a concave lens so that I got a broad, if somewhat distorted, view of almost the entire bathroom below. The apartment under mine was obviously laid out in the same pattern, or at least as far as the bathroom went.

I felt a strange thrill as I looked down through the hole. The bathroom below obviously belonged to a woman. The sink counter was cluttered with all manner of toiletries, bottles and jars and little odds and ends that only women – or gay men – would keep on hand. There was a flower-print shower curtain, and the flower motif was repeated in the wall decorations, floor mat, toilet seat cover, and even the towels.

I sat up, feeling like a teenaged pervert for spying on someone else's private life. I had no right to do so, of course. I replaced the tile, and told myself I would get some caulking and whatever else I would need to plug the hole and put the tile back in place. Then I got up, slipped on some pajama bottoms, and headed to the corner of my living room that I had designated the 'office.' I still had some work to do before Monday.

***

My heavy workload made me forget about the voyeur hole in my bathroom, and my half-hearted promise to secure the hole was pushed from my mind. That is, until about a week later, as I was getting ready in the morning. I was shaving in the sink, and splashed water on my face as I always did when finished. But my elbow hit the canister of shaving cream, knocking it off the counter and to the floor.

And where else would it land except right on the loose tile, jarring it.

I squatted down to pick up the can of shaving cream, and reached for the tile as well. I hesitated as I started to put it back.

Oh, what the hell. What could it hurt?

I got on my knees, leaned down, looked through the hole. Oh . . . wow . . . talk about timing . . . .

The tenant below me was a slender woman, blonde, small-breasted, with a light tan and no tan lines. This was all pretty obvious to me because she had evidently just taken a shower and was now leaning over the sink, in the nude, as she brushed her teeth. She had a pretty nice ass, with little dimples just above her cheeks and a 'tramp stamp' tattoo of some tribal design at the base of her spine. I could very faintly hear some music – something alternative, I figured – and she was moving along with it.

I watched the woman shake her hips a little to the music, and at one point, she stood up straight after spitting in the sink. In the reflection of her mirror, I saw an attractive, angular face. And I could not help but notice how erect her nipples were. Maybe they were always like that. I remember dating one girl in college who had little breasts like this woman's, whose nipples were always stiff.

The little show when on for about a minute or so, before she wiped her face and pushed away from the sink. She stepped out of view, through the bathroom door.

I sat up. I was very conscious of the fact that I had an erection.

***

I thought about the skinny blonde all day. I suddenly understood the attraction of voyeurism. To be able to watch even the most mundane aspects of someone's life without their knowledge . . . it was a strange sense of power, but also of helpless resignation. I could do nothing to influence whatever she might do, and just had to wait until she did something that I really wanted to watch.

Eh, hold on there, Will, my rational mind said to me as I lingered in libidinous thought over a grilled chicken sandwich at lunch. You're not seriously considering spying on this girl, are you?

Um, well . . . of course not. I'm not a pervert . . . .

Well, that's settled, then. Buy some caulking on your way home.

Um . . . okay . . . .

***

I did no such thing, of course, otherwise this would be a very short story. I did stop at the local supermarket that evening and grab some groceries, and I headed down the aisle where caulking was stacked on the shelves, but . . . I just couldn't do it. Something had begun to infiltrate my mind, something dark and perverted and impossible to ignore. So I left the aisle empty-handed and headed home with my stir-fry and six-pack of Warsteiner.

I tried to occupy my mind with some business reports, then a little prime-time TV. But the little hole in the floor beckoned, as if it had a mind of its own, and a telepathic mind at that. I managed to resist for a while, until I heard the faint groaning of pipes through the floor.

I got up, headed to the bathroom, under the pretense of telling myself I needed to relieve my bladder. The sound of water rushing through the pipes was faint but noticeable. I used the toilet, flushed, then turned around. I frowned.

The tile was loose. Had I kicked it subconsciously?

I got down, pulled the tile away, and before I knew it, I was looking down, spying on Miss Skinny Blonde.

I seemed to have chosen just the right time. The blonde had on a yellow blouse and tight jeans, and the blouse was coming off. Hmm, no bra . . . not that she really needed one. Damn, her nipples were like little pieces of pink bubble gum.

She dropped the blouse on the floor, then unsnapped, unzipped her jeans. She wiggled her hips a little to get them off, then bent over as she stepped out of them. Whoa. No panties, either. A chick that goes commando. I was definitely hard by that point.

Casually, the blonde stroked her hands up and down her body, over her small breasts and stiff nipples, down between her legs – my cock twitched as she rubbed her crotch for a moment – then over her firm round cheeks. Then she settled her hands atop her hips, and arched her back, tilting her head back . . . .

The concave lens through which I stared magnified anything directly beneath, and as it happened, the woman was right under me. Her eyes were closed, but I could see every detail, every feature of her face as if she were no more than a few feet from me. She had a sharp, narrow nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and just the slightest of crow's feet and smoker's wrinkles. I made the instant conclusion that the blonde in the apartment below mine was older than I thought, maybe even around my age.

Yet with the body of a teenager. My cock twitched again.

She leaned toward the shower, testing the water, then stepped under the spray. I watched for several minutes as the woman soaped up, rinsed off, running her hands all over her body. She kept her eyes closed most of the time, and it seemed to me that the expression on her face was one of quiet, suppressed sensuality. She seemed to spend more time washing her breasts and between her thighs than I would have thought normal.

And then . . . .

The blonde turned off the spray, and I thought my show over. But my heart pounded as she leaned out from the shower, her body wet and dripping (the glistening line of her muscular back was incredibly sexy), her shoulder-length hair dark from the water and slicked back. She grabbed a long-handled brush sitting on the edge of her counter . . . .

Oh, man, is she . . . is she really gonna . . . oh, shit . . . yeah, she is . . . .

Beneath my amazed and aroused eyes, the blonde woman leaned back in the shower, bracing her feet on the floor as she spread her slender legs. She massaged her pussy with her fingers – she had just a tiny dark tuft of blonde hair right above her slit, I noticed – then began rubbing the handle of the brush between them, lengthwise. Slowly, steadily, as her face contorted with self-gratification, she began pushing the handle inside her pussy. At first, it was just a little, but after several slow, sweet thrusts, she was burying the thing inside her.

My cock was raging as I watched the woman masturbate. I had not zipped up, and quite by reflex, I started stroking myself as I watched. I was transfixed, intensely aroused, mesmerized by the sight of this slender beauty pleasuring herself.

"Hmmm . . . mmmm . . . ."

I could barely hear her soft moans as she brought herself to orgasm. I almost came as well, watching the expressions on her face, the way her tight, narrow body tensed, the way she bent her knees and pushed up and down, sliding her back along the wall as if riding the fantasy lover in her mind. Her parted lips trembled when she climaxed. The sight of her beautiful, orgasmic face was almost enough to make me cum.

But if that wasn't enough, what she did next definitely triggered my rush. Slipping the brush handle from her satisfied pussy, she brought it to her face, and without any hesitation – hell, she looked almost desperate – wrapped her slender little mouth around it and sucked off her own juices. The expression on her face was one of pure and absolute bliss. She sucked the brush handle like giving head, sliding it in and out of her mouth.

Oh, fuck! I trembled, and moaned almost too loud as I came, ejaculating all over the floor. I worried for a moment that the woman might have heard me, for she pulled the brush from her mouth and looked around with a little confused look on her face – the kind of look one gets when they think they heard something, but are not sure – but then she licked her lips, stepped out of the shower, and washed off the brush in the sink. I noticed the self-satisfied smile and rosy glow of her cheeks.

I was pretty sure I had a smile to match.

***

Like an addict, I found myself hovering over the illicit peep hole every night and every morning for the following several days. I caught the blonde in and out of the shower, and admired her sexy, skinny body. I noticed she had another tattoo, one I had not detected before, that of a scorpion on her left ankle. I wondered if that was her astrological sign.

I came to realize that my sexy downstairs neighbor lived alone, and either did not have a boyfriend, or her lover – or lovers – did not stay long enough to need to use the toilet or shower.

I started wondering about her, and more than once tried to come up with some scenario in which I could 'just happen' to meet her. But then what? Seduce her? What if she wasn't interested? What if she was a lesbian? What if she was an Eileen Warnos-type serial killer? And if she was interested, what did she want? What did I want?

I watched her masturbate in the shower again, about five days later, just before she headed out. This time, she had thought ahead, and after turning off the shower, took a bright pink dildo from a drawer beneath the sink and sat on the edge of the tub . . . thankfully facing me. I watched for many long, sweet moments as the blonde eased the vibrator in and out of her slick pussy, rubbing her clit in a swift circular motion until she climaxed with faint, breathless gasps and cries. I timed my own orgasm to match hers and ejaculated onto the tile as she thrashed in self-induced pleasure.

I learned a few things about her as I watched her morning routines. Aside from her love of flowers, I figured that she apparently slept in the nude, because whenever she came into the bathroom in the morning, she was always naked. And whatever her job was, it evidently demanded a pretty relaxed wardrobe. She usually wore tight jeans and a simple top, sometimes stretch pants, sometimes a cotton skirt.

She wore little makeup, from what I could tell. A little base to even out her complexion, a little mascara or eye shadow, but very rarely lipstick. She seemed to like pale beer, as evidenced one night when she took a long bath and sipped on a couple of Coronas while listening to some haunting, melodic music that featured a woman's voice. I did not recognize the artist.

The more I watched her, the more I wondered about her life. I knew what had brought a man of my age to be single and alone, but how was it that so pretty and sexy a woman had no one in her life? Not a night went by in which I did not see her, except for an occasional Friday or Saturday. Never did I catch a man in her shower, or for that matter, another woman. She seemed to be alone in life. But why?

***

I was doing some vacuuming one night in my apartment, picking up the dirt around the place. Funny that, for a guy who had little or no prospects for bringing a woman home, I still kept a clean house. But my years with Monica had made cleaning a habit. Strange how some things remain even when the reason is gone.

My entire apartment had hard wood floors, which was one of the reasons I wanted the place (well, that and the wood-burning fireplace), but I had placed several Persian carpets here and there, to keep the place insulated and to absorb noise.

I was in the living room, and had pushed back the couch to get underneath. Jesus Christ, how did I get so much dirt and crumbs under there in just over a month? I grumbled, passing the vacuum back and forth.

Then it caught on something. Chunk!

Oh, what now?

I switched off the vacuum, knelt on the floor. A small piece of floorboard was loose. It was a section about six inches long and four inches wide. I stared for a moment, feeling an intuition come over me. Carefully, I pulled the board loose, and leaned over . . . .

Yep. Another peep hole, also lens-equipped. Positioned right over a black vinyl sofa with black and white zebra-striped pillows upon it. A glass-topped coffee table lay before the couch, and there was a rather impressive television set in a large entertainment center. A chair to match the couch faced it over the coffee table. There were candles on the table, a box of tissues, a couple of books, two empty beer bottles . . . .

Two?

A thought occurred to me. I left the vacuum in the living room, padded quietly toward my bedroom. Carefully, stealthily, I searched the floor, picking up the two throw rugs I had placed on either side of my bed. Then I found it.

Another hole in the floor, toward one of the corners, furthest from the bathroom door. And it looked right down onto a queen-sized bed with peach-colored sheets and a thick white comforter currently pushed to the foot of the bed.

The blonde wasn't alone.

They were kissing, sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore tight black stretch pants and a very skimpy red tube-top that barely covered even her tiny breasts. The man she was kissing, the man who had one hand on her upper thigh and another groping her breasts, had long, shaggy black hair. He wore a denim shirt and jeans and seemed rather stocky.

My heart caught in my throat as their kissing became more passionate. The blonde leaned back on the bed as the dark-haired man kissed his way down her chest. He zeroed in on her breasts right away, peeling her top down. I watched the back of his head as he sucked on one of her nipples. The expression on her face was of mixed passion and consternation. She somewhat awkwardly petted his head, watching his face. She didn't seem to be enjoying his attention as much as she would have liked.

Still, the blonde did not protest as he got on his knees and tugged on her stretch pants. She sort of smiled, looking a little more aroused, and willingly lifted her hips. Her lover pulled them down, forgetting about her ankle boots. She rolled her eyes, then laughed as he struggled to get the boots, then her tight pants, off her feet.

She lay back, closing her eyes, smiling, spreading her lean legs as the man brought his face closer between her thighs. She obviously anticipated the sensation of his tongue upon her sex.

He hovered over her thighs, his hands moving up, touching her, spreading her open. Even with my limited view, I could just see how pink she was, thanks to the magnifying nature of the lens through which I watched. My cock throbbed in my sweat pants.


Baring Souls



The blonde's hands reached down, running through her lover's thick hair. She pulled his head down toward her sex even as she lifted her own, opening her eyes to watch as his mouth descended on her pussy. Oh, how I would have loved to be that man at that moment!

She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips parted around clenched teeth as she breathed in. He was licking her, that much was obvious. And she was thoroughly enjoying it. The blonde lifted and spread her legs wider, her little bare feet touching his broad shoulders. He shook his head back and forth between her legs, and the blonde grinned. She bit her lip, rolled her hips outward toward him.

But then he raised his head, and it seemed he was saying something. My neighbor's face drained of passion, and she opened her eyes. She looked down to him, and I saw her lips move as she spoke. She looked questioning. She frowned, then nodded. Her lover lifted up, getting on his knees on the bed. He began unzipping his jeans even before the blonde curled her body forward and started pulling off his shirt.

Soon, the man's shirt was on the floor and his jeans were pushed down. His body was all but covered in tattoos. He had a stiff penis, rather average in length, but quite thick. The blonde looked up to his face, which gave me a clear view of her expression. She spoke again, and it seemed to me she was striking some sort of bargain. Her hands moved to his cock, stroking it slowly, fondling and massaging his testicles.

The man nodded vehemently, but the expression on the blonde's face was one of skepticism. I could deduce the tenor of their conversation: "Do me, and I'll do you." She wasn't convinced. Still, she ducked down, her naked legs spread wide around his thick thighs, and took him in her mouth.

I watched for the several minutes the blow job lasted. The man, thankfully, tilted his head back, his face contorted with pleasure, giving me an unobstructed view of the blonde's bobbing head. She obviously had no trouble taking him all the way down. Her lover held onto her head, pulling her face deeper into his groin, and I could faintly hear his moans and some rather rude comments – "Oh, yeah, suck it, bitch!" – as she serviced him.

After several minutes, he gripped her head in both hands and began thrusting toward her face. She accepted his movements, keeping his cock locked between her lips. Finally, he grunted, then cried out – "Fuck yeah! Eat it, baby!" – and his entire body trembled. The blonde slapped her hands to his hips, tried to push back, but he held her in place as his spasms ran their course.

Finally, his hold loosened, and the blonde slipped her mouth off his cock. It was wilted and shiny as it fell from her mouth, and a little bit of grey-white fluid dribbled from between her lips and down her chin. The man looked down at her and I heard him laugh. She glared up at him, sucked her bottom lip, wiped her chin.

With an expression of disgust, she swung her right leg over his head, and jumped up, darting for the bathroom while cupping her hands over her mouth. Her lover turned around and fell back on the bed, his broad, round face grinning with satisfaction. He looked so smug; he had gotten what he wanted. I suddenly hated him, even as I envied him for the pleasure he had enjoyed.

I scampered to the bathroom, pulling up the tile there and looking down as the blonde was splashing water on her face, staring at her reflection. In the mirror, I could just see her lips moving as she spoke to herself. She was obviously unhappy, and seemed to be arguing with her reflection. Finally wiping her mouth, she headed back out to the bedroom. I followed.

She started yelling at him. I could make out some of the words, enough to understand that she was upset that he had already lost his load. He became irate, sitting up, and pulled up his jeans. He looked for his shirt as they argued. I heard him use the words 'bitch' and 'slut' and 'whore' over and over. She glared at him, snapped back a few times, and finally indicated the door.

He headed out of the bedroom, jerking his shirt on, and she followed. Their angry voices retreated. I heard a door slam shut. She came back a minute later, and sagged down on the bed, still naked. She buried her head in her hands and began crying.

Despite how hot the sight had been of my downstairs neighbor giving a blow job, I could feel no arousal. My cock, which had been hard the entire time, now became soft as I vicariously shared her torment.

***

Obviously, it was not difficult to find out which apartment my little blonde neighbor lived in. I was in 7F, so she would be in 6F. But knowing where she lived did little for me. What was I supposed to do? Knock on her door?

"Hi. I'm Will, I live right above you, and I think you're a real sexy woman. Care for a beer?"

"Oh, sure. I was just getting ready for bed. Mind if I change into something more . . . comfortable?"

Cue cheap porno music.

Yeah, right . . . .

I felt conflicted in my feelings about what I had witnessed. On the one hand, there was the pure, unadulterated eroticism of watching my sexy downstairs neighbor sucking a man to orgasm. But then, there was the sympathy and pity I felt for her. The act of what she had done was not what had angered her; it was the sense of being used. She had picked up some guy, brought him home with the intention of sharing something intimate and passionate and raw and carnal . . . instead, she was treated as little better than a prostitute.

My sexy little neighbor had issues, that much was obvious. I could see a pattern, or, at least, extrapolate one. She was pretty, sexy, and probably flirted a lot. She always seemed to attract the 'wrong' kind of guy, and in a self-destructive way, always went for them. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was just something she couldn't understand and couldn't help but to do.

And maybe . . . just maybe . . . she was waiting for her 'Mr. Right.' 

***

It was a few days later. In that time, I had spied on the blonde, feeling both guilty and aroused as I did so, through various peep holes through the floor. There was one in every room, much to my conflicted delight. I just had to find them. I watched my neighbor as she went about some of the more mundane aspects of her life – watching TV, chatting on the phone, eating, playing Sudoku on her computer – and as she masturbated. 

Now that I had the opportunity to watch her in any room of her apartment, I realized that the slender little blonde had quite the heightened libido. In her bed, in the shower, on her couch, and once in the kitchen, as she waited for her microwave dinner to heat up, she pleasured herself practically day. She always, without fail, awoke with her fingers pressed between her thighs, and true to my earlier assessment, slept in the nude. And she always licked and sucked her fingers or whatever toy or implement she used afterward.

Sometimes, I just watched, but more often than not, I masturbated along with her, usually holding back my orgasm until I could erupt with her. In a strange way, I felt like I was getting close to her. After all, aside from actually conversing with her, I knew all about her life. I knew what clothes she liked, what TV shows she watched, her favorite foods . . . and I knew exactly how she liked to be pleasured.

Still, I was invading her privacy. What I was doing was inherently wrong. But I just could not help myself.

Anyway, as I said, it was a few days later – after that fateful blow job with whomever her lover was – and I was in the laundry room in the basement. I was down to my last pair of socks and my last good shirt, so it was time to give the facilities a workout. Not sure of whether I could trust all of my fellow tenants, I remained in the laundry room, perched atop one of the humming washers as I worked on the USA Today crossword. I was fairly engrossed in the puzzle, and did not notice at first that someone else had come in.

I looked up, cracking my neck, rolling my shoulders, and saw her standing by one of the machines about ten feet away from me. For a moment, I just stared, and felt a moment of anxiety. Here she was, in the flesh so to speak, not seen through a lens, but with only my own two eyes. And damn if she wasn't more beautiful.

Not that she had done anything to make herself presentable. No makeup, and she had slight bags under her eyes – she had come home late the night before, I knew – and she wore baggy green shorts and a tight, faded yellow tank top. But still, the natural beauty was there, undeniable and simple. She could not have been ugly if she tried.

"Um . . . do I know you?" she asked.

I blinked, looked down at my crossword puzzle, then back to her. I felt my face getting hot. "Uh, no," I said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

She sort of nodded to herself, closed the lid on her washer. "It's okay," she said. "I get that a lot."

I felt ashamed. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," I said.

She let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Trust me," she said. "Where I work . . . you're definitely not making me uncomfortable."

I could not refuse such an obvious segue. "Where do you work?"

She hesitated a moment, looking at me. I noticed she had bright, amber-colored eyes, almost golden. They had always seemed more hazel through the voyeur holes, but the reality was striking. The effect of her eyes was both unnerving and arousing. What had that shaggy-haired man thought as he stared down into those eyes while she serviced him?

"Blue Velvet Lounge," she responded at last.

I frowned. "Is that a café or something?"

She laughed again, more genuinely this time, and gave me a wondering look. "You're not from around here, huh?" she asked.

I found myself smiling sheepishly. "No. I moved here on the first."

She held her gaze on mine, with an unnatural intensity that told me she was used to having her questions answered. "From?"

I slipped down, standing beside my washer. "Ohio."

She chuckled softly. "'Ohio,'" she repeated, as if she had never met anyone from that state before. "Well, Mr. Ohio, the Blue Velvet Lounge is a gentleman's club. A strip joint. I'm a topless dancer."

I couldn't think of any other way to respond other than, "Oh."

She tittered. "They got strip joints in Ohio?"

"Um . . . a few," I said.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over. "But you don't spend time in those kinds'a places, huh? No, I bet you wear a suit and tie to work. Only time you go to a strip club is for some guy's birthday or bachelor party."

I managed a smile. "Guess you got me all figured out."

She gave me a sly smile. "You oughtta come in and see me some time," she said. "I'm there all the time."

My mouth was dry. I cleared my throat. "I just might."

She smiled flirtatiously. "First lap dance is on me," she said, then headed out through the door. The little wiggle of her hips was enticing.

***

For whatever reason, I stayed away from all the little peep holes in the floor for the rest of the week. I covered them up with rugs and furniture and tried to pretend that my attraction to voyeurism had been abated now that I had met the real woman who lived beneath me. I focused on my work, which naturally commanded much of my attention, and tried to put the sexy, skinny blonde from my mind.

But at night . . . at night, when there were no distractions such as the TV or work, when I lay wide awake in bed and staring at the ceiling, when I really wanted to be staring down through the floor . . . I would conjure up images, fantasies. 

In my mind, my sexy blonde neighbor had not left me alone in the laundry room that day. Instead, she had stripped down to nothing and gotten atop one of the washers, masturbating to orgasm as I watched.

"Yeah, baby, you like that? You like watching me finger my wet little pussy? Mmmm, bet you wanna lick me, huh? Bet you wanna eat my cookie . . . ."

"Oh, God, yes, I wanna taste you . . . ."

Then she would give me the most incredible blow job in the world, and not be perturbed about it in the slightest. Or I would fuck her over one of the washers, neither of us caring if anyone might walk in on us.

I would lay in bed every morning with my hand on my flaccid cock and semen splattered on my belly. I hated the idea that I had become infatuated with the blonde woman below, but I had. I thought about her all the time, even at work during those rare moments which I truly had to myself. My emotions were conflicted about the nameless beauty who lived beneath me. How could I get to know her better?

And then, serendipity stepped in.

***

We had scheduled a conference call with our South American partners, but it had fallen through. Technical difficulties or something. After over an hour of trying, we eventually conveyed through email that the conference would happen the following Monday. I decided to take a half-day, and left the office at eleven-thirty.

My fellow officemate, a slight-bodied Hispanic guy named Ramon, suggested we grab a bite to eat. He and I had become fairly good friends, even though we were essentially rivals. I was sure that the time would come, at some point in the future, in which Ramon and I would be forced to stab each other in the back to get ahead. Such was the business world. Until then, however, he and I were 'best buds.'

"Hey, I know a great little place that has a steak and fries special for $5.99," he said as I drove through downtown traffic.

I looked to him dubiously. "Really."

He laughed. "I'm serious, man. Come on, wedo, take a chance."

I chuckled. "Yeah, okay, vato," I retorted. I knew only enough Spanish to respond to his jibe. "Tell me where to turn."

Ramon kept laughing as he gave me directions. He told me to park in a garage along one of the busier avenues of downtown. It was not far from where I lived, I realized, just about three blocks south and one east.

We took the elevator from the garage down to the ground floor, and I followed Ramon just up the street to a set of broad double doors, one of them open, that sat beneath a neon sign which, even in the middle of the day, glowed garishly. I stared at the legend above me, encased in deep blue light.

"The Blue Velvet Lounge."

"Hottest chicks on any coast, I swear to God," said Ramon. He clapped my shoulder. "Come on, man, I'm hungry."

I followed Ramon through the doors – the burly bouncer gave us a once-over but didn't ask for our IDs – and into smoky, blacklit darkness. There was a main stage and two smaller ones, one made out into the shape of a baby grand with a brass pole thrust through it, and about twenty tables and booths scatted about the floor.

The place was, perhaps, about half full. I saw several men in various uniforms. Couriers, hourly workers, obvious blue collar stock. I understood what the blonde had meant by me not being the type to spend time in a strip club. This was her world, and her world consisted of stocky, dark-haired guys who earned an hourly wage and treated her like a prostitute.

Ramon lead me through the gloominess to a table about twenty feet from the main stage and sat down in a broad-backed chair that faced an identical one across a glass-topped table. There was a simple burner in a candle holder and an ashtray on the table. Ramon immediately produced a pack of cigarettes and lit up.

"Smoke?" he asked in a loud voice that I barely heard over the pounding music. On the elevated stage, a busty and fairly attractive brunette was groping her breasts while a man stood before her, watching.

I shook my head and looked around the place. I was conscious of the fact that I was searching for her. But she did not seem to be around, despite her proclamation that she worked six days a week. I had assumed that Friday was one of them.  

Ramon and I watched a few girls hit the stage. He was a real outgoing sort, clapping, whooping, calling out to the dancers, going up to tip each and every one of them, even the average ones. He pushed a few creased dollar bills my way, but I remained where I was, eating my overcooked steak and warmed-over french fries. Still, for six bucks, I guess I could not complain.

I was startled as a slender, lithe, feminine form appeared from behind me and slid into my lap. I almost choked on my last bite of steak, surprised as I was. The woman who curled herself atop me wore a tiny red thong and a matching see-through top which revealed small, firm breasts adorned with stiff pink nipples. Her hair was slicked back with gel and her face glowed with glitter and glistening pink lipstick. She had thin, arching eyebrows, wore dangling diamond earrings and sported stiletto pumps on her little feet.

"Hi. I was wondering when you'd show up."

It took me a moment to recognize her, and when I did, I felt stupid for not having realized who it was. I finally smiled. "Well . . . it's been busy at the office," I said stupidly.

She smiled, her amber eyes reflecting the flashing strobe lights. "Isn't it always?"

I laughed at her comment. Such a simple statement, yet it seemed to me she meant far more than typical small talk. I nodded. "Yes, it is."

She grinned, her crow's feet wrinkling endearingly. If not for those minimal wrinkles, I would have sworn that I had an eager teenager in my lap. "Got a smoke?" she asked.

I quickly reached for Ramon's pack of cigarettes and his lighter, took one out for her. She kept her gaze on mine, even as she tucked the cigarette between her lips in a way that was more than a little seductive. I could not help but remember the sight of her mouth gliding back and forth on the stocky, long-haired man's cock as she worked him to orgasm. My dick twitched against her thigh.

"Oo!" she exclaimed, then giggled. "I haven't even given you a table dance yet!"

I blushed. "Sorry."

She laughed again, smoke trailing from her lips. "Hey, don't be sorry," she said. "That just tells me I'm doing a good job."

I looked at her pretty little face. I've seen you do a good 'job,' I thought. "You certainly are."

Her eyes glowed a moment before they darted down. She took my left hand, ran her fingers over mine. "Hmm . . . no ring," she said. "What're you doing wrong?"

I chuckled. "As far as I know, nothing," I said.

She smiled back. "Just haven't met the right girl, yet, huh? What are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?"

I met her gaze boldly. "Try again."

Her eyes narrowed. Damn, she looked sexy when she did that! "Thirty . . . two?"

"Keep going," I said with a smirk.

Her eyebrows danced briefly. "Thirty-three? Four? Five?"

"Bingo."

"No way," she said, leaning back. She pulled on her cigarette, looking me over. "You're looking pretty damn good for thirty-five."

I smirked. "I bet you say that to all the guys," I said.

She smoldered a little, giving me a look that made my cock throb again. I knew she could feel it pulsing against the underside of her thigh. "Only to sexy older guys who live in my building," she said.

I breathed in, unsure of what to make of her innuendo. Was she just flirting with me because it was part of her job, or did she mean it? "So how much older are we talking about?" I asked.

She took a drag off her cigarette, blew smoke, seductively licked her lips. "A gentleman doesn't ask a woman her age."

I smiled. "You're right."

"Well, well, hey!" came Ramon's voice as he returned to the table. "Where'd this chica come from? Yo, baby, what's your name?"

She tilted her head in Ramon's direction, gave him a little smile and a look. Then she looked back to me. "Candace," she said.

I suddenly felt stupid for not having asked for her name earlier. Candace seemed to sense that, smiling cattily. "Not my real name, of course," she said softly. Her eyes bore into mine.




Baring Souls



I was caught between arousal and intimidation. Candace could easily be a man-eater with her attitude, or a sultry vixen. I got the feeling that being alone with her would be an experience borderline between heaven and hell. Still, I could not resist the lure she had thrown to me.

"And that is . . .?"

Her lips curled at the corners, giving her a sexy, catlike look. "Earned," she said simply.

I managed a smile. "Fair enough."

Candace toyed casually with her transparent blouse, shifting a little on my lap . . . which, conveniently, allowed my cock to become tucked between her firm cheeks. She smiled slyly, then, in an erotic display of agility, swung her left leg around until she was straddling me, her legs hanging over the arm rests of the chair. My eyes naturally wandered down, noting how tight her thong was over the puffy lips of her sex.

I barely heard Ramon's voice as he chuckled. "Guess, uh, I'll leave you two alone," he said.

I did not respond. I couldn't. Candace captured my attention completely. Her limber, lithe form wiggled a little in my lap as she got comfortable, the muscles of her abdomen standing out as she held herself up. She hooked her left hand around the back of my neck, idly stroking the short hair there, as she smoked her cigarette.

"So . . . you wanna do it here, or in private?" she asked.

I blinked. Damn, she can't be that bold, that easy, can she? "Wh-what?"

Candace laughed softly, leaned in close. For some reason, the aroma of nicotine wafting from her lips, mingled with her perfume, was suddenly and irrevocably arousing. My dick throbbed again, pushing through my slacks and her tiny thong, against her warm sex.

Her eyes drilled into mine. "Lap dance," she said.

I could feel myself blushing in embarrassment. Of course that's what she meant. "Oh . . . right."

Candace chuckled softly, leaned back – damn, every little shift in movement worked wonders on me – and crushed out her cigarette. The small, firm mounds of her breasts thrust straight up to the ceiling, those eternally-stiff nipples showcased by the shimmering, translucent fabric encasing them. She blew out a last plume of smoke, settled back on my lap, locking her hands behind my neck. "Come on," she said, and cocked her head, indicating a dark hallway not far past the main stage.

I glanced to the shadowed archway – the doorway to Heaven . . . or Hell? – then back to Candace. "What's in there?"

She bit her lip in a way that was way too sexy. "Wanna find out?"

I took a breath. "Sure."

***

Candace held my hand in both of hers as she walked before me, swaying those sexy little hips of hers. I watched the flashing lights play across her glossy hair, the muscles beneath her tanned skin. Especially those that rippled above the firm cheeks of her perfect, round butt. I could not have cared less if she was leading me into Hell; I was captivated by this sultry woman, this seductress.

"Have a seat," she said as we stepped into a small booth, about five feet square, with a single, broad, low-backed chair. There was a large mirror along one wall that seemed to catch the light from the end of the hall. Candace gave me an expectant look.

I settled into the chair as Candace stood before me, looking me over. I noticed her fingers twitching slightly. Was she nervous, as well?

"You never told me your name," she said.

"Will."

She smiled again. "Hmm, Will," she said, considering my name. With another of those I-can-melt-you-with-a-look expressions, Candace reached behind her neck. "Normally, I'd wait for the next song to start, but I figure, what's another minute or two?"

I couldn't speak as Candace let her sheer top flutter to the ground. Practically naked, she stood before me, smoothing her hands up from her hips and along her sides. She kept her eyes on mine as she cupped her firm, upturned breasts. Her rosy nipples seemed to be pointed at me, especially when she pulled on them with her fingers, making them distend and darken.

"I'm flattered," I finally managed to squeak out.

Sexily, Candace slid onto my lap, straddling me once more. In private, and with Candace practically nude, the situation was exponentially more erotic than it had been on the main floor. She arched her back, bringing those firm, perfectly round breasts in line with my face, looping her arms around my neck.

"You should be," she whispered, and then she slid down and began moving, rolling her hips, grinding herself into my groin. My cock had not lost any firmness, and the stimulation of her barely-covered sex against me was maddening. I couldn't help but sigh, and even moaned when she leaned in, raking her stiff nipples up my chest to my neck. I smelled the sharp, spicy perfume on her neck, her flesh so close I could have easily licked it. But I wasn't sure how far I could go.

"So, tell me, Will," she breathed into my ear, her left hand gracing my cheek. "Is it just me, or do you always get hard when you see a girl in a thong?"

I swallowed, enjoying the feel of her undulating body. My hands automatically settled onto her hips for wont of any other place to go. Candace made no move to push them away; indeed, she seemed encouraged, really bearing into me. Her breath was warm and moist on my ear and neck. Had it not been for the presence of our clothing, I would have sworn we were fucking.

"Just you," I whispered back.

"Hmmm," she mumbled contemplatively.

Just then, the music changed, to something dark and industrial, something I remembered from days spent in night clubs long before. Nine Inch Nails at its' finest.

Candace reared back, her cheeks glowing, eyes flashing brilliantly. "I always loved this song," she declared, then slid off my lap. She turned about, settling that perfect ass back over my groin, supporting herself with her hands on my knees as she ground into me once more.

"Bow down before the one you serve/You're going to get what you deserve . . . ."

The words echoed around us, permeating the air, seeping into our skin. Candace seemed to be getting into it as much as I was. Inspired, turned on, and bold from the two beers I'd had, I let my hands roam over Candace's back, her hips, her firm, round cheeks. I stared at the snaking tribal pattern tattooed above her delectable ass. There was a tiny red heart in the center, surrounded by flames. I passed my thumb over it. Candace cast a look over her shoulder at me, eyes heavy and lips spread by a broad grin. She wanted me to do what I was doing.

Abruptly, she leaned back against my chest, sliding up and down my body. One of her hands slid up behind my head, pulling my face toward her neck. I took that as an invitation, and kissed and sucked lightly at her neck. A gentle, aroused sigh escaped her lips. Then she surprised me.

Candace took my left hand, lacing her fingers in mine, and cupped it over her left breast. I breathed in sharply, feeling her stiff nipple push into my palm. Then she really did it.

"Bite me," she whispered, her tongue snaking out to tickle my ear. "Bite my neck. Do it, baby."

I groaned in arousal. I was caught up in the moment. I didn't care for the reasons regarding Candace's request; at the time, they seemed the hottest words a woman could utter. My cock throbbed, punching up between her cheeks. Her heat was searing and insistent, and I felt – either truly or imagined – her wetness.

I kissed, sucked harder at her neck. I loved the taste of her skin. "You want me to bite you, Candace?"

She squirmed against me, panting hot breath in my ear. "Please," she pleaded.

I felt a sense of control in that moment. At the time, I did not truly understand it other than through a simple transfer of roles. But, for that moment, Candace was giving herself to me. I cupped her other breast with my right hand, squeezed them both, pinching her nipples hard. Candace emitted a high-pitched, girlish sound and ground harder into my crotch. Her hand behind my neck gripped a fistful of hair.

"Tell me your name," I whispered, then gave her neck a little nip with my teeth.

She gasped. "Mmm," she moaned, and slid her hand beneath her, lifting up just enough to grope my cock through my slacks. "Bite me, please."

I groaned, squeezed her tits roughly. "Tell me, first," I said.

"Will you do it if I tell you?"

"Yes."

She whimpered heatedly, sliding her hand back and forth along my stiff cock. "Michelle," she sighed. "M-my name's . . . Michelle."

I dragged the tip of my tongue along the side of her neck, feeling the muscles move beneath, the pumping of her blood through her jugular. I felt like a vampire taking his next victim. "Nice to meet you," I whispered, then sucked her flesh into my mouth, trapping it between my cuspids. Viciously, I bit down, penetrating her skin.

"Ah!" she gasped, catching her breath. She writhed against me, gasping and shuddering, and I realized, even as I tasted something warm and metallic trickling into my mouth, that Michelle was cumming.

She squirmed and shook, rolling her hips hard into my cock, almost insistently enough to make me cum. But then, suddenly, as the song reached its apex, Michelle jerked away and stood, whirling around to face me.

I was instantly shocked back to reality. I stared at Michelle as she stood, naked save for her tiny thong and stiletto heels, a dark trail of blood dripping from her neck and down over her left breast. Wide amber eyes stared at me inscrutably.

The flavor of her blood lingered in my mouth. I felt it on my lips, thick and rich, as I touched them. "I'm sorry," was all I could say.

She lifted her hand, never taking her accusing eyes from mine, and touched her neck. For a moment, as she pulled her hand away and held it up, she looked to the blood on her fingers, then gave me an emotional look.

"No you're not," she said bitingly, and abruptly fled from the cubicle.

***

I was in a daze as I headed back to the table. Ramon was chatting it up with an attractive Hispanic girl who sat topless in his lap, making her breasts jiggle through muscle control. He was pretty much captivated, barely noticing I had returned until I sank down in my chair.

He grinned at me. "That was quick," he said with a chuckle. "Seriously, man, you guys were gone, like, fifteen minutes. What'd you do in there, anyway?"

The girl in his lap giggled, giving me a curious look.

I felt suddenly disgusted, and sat up. I took up Ramon's pack of cigarettes, lit one. I hadn't had a cigarette in over eight years. Monica had asked me to quit, and being the devoted man I was, I had.

Ramon frowned, then laughed. "Thought you didn't smoke," he said.

I lit up, inhaled, feeling my throat constrict slightly. But my body remembered the sensation, and welcomed it. I sighed, blowing out smoke. "I don't," I said.

Ramon laughed. "So where's your girl?"

I met his eyes a moment, then looked around. I couldn't see Michelle anywhere. The feeling of disgust remained and only grew stronger. In an instant, I decided I couldn't stand where I was, the environment I was in. I pushed up quickly, startling Ramon and the girl in his lap.

"I gotta go," I said.

***

Ramon was not ready to leave, so I left him twenty bucks to cover his cab fare and took off. He tried to call after me, but the girl wiggling her butt in his crotch kept him where he was. I was glad for that, in all actuality; that just made my escape easier.

I made my way back to the car in a daze, feeling conflicted in my emotions. Michelle had wanted what we had done, so why did she act that way? Why did she act as if I had practically raped her?

And why the fuck do you care, Will? She's pyscho, man, can't you see that?

I tried to get Michelle out of my head as I drove home, but it was useless. I wanted to know what possessed a woman to act the way Michelle did, to encourage me to bite her, only to become repulsed and disgusted afterward. And what made me want to do it in the first place? Why I had I acquiesced so easily?

These were questions deeper than what I wanted to think about. I decided to head home and have a couple of beers, maybe work on my next account to take my mind off what had happened.

On the way to my apartment, I stopped off at a corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes.

***

Seven o'clock, and I'm buzzed, I thought. I chuckled darkly as I watched some banal program on TV and sipped from my fifth beer of the day. Peripherally, I eyed the glowing light from my bathroom. Again, that eerie, telepathic call came to my mind.

Fuck it.

I got up, headed to the bathroom, crouched on the floor. I eyed the loose tile a moment, Feeling for a moment that I was balanced on the blade of a razor. If I didn't choose a side, I'd be split in half. So I made a decision, lifted the tile away and peered down.

Michelle was there, leaning over the sink as she stared at her neck in the mirror, her chin cocked to one side. She wore only a pair of loose grey sweatpants. Her expression seemed blank to me as she touched the welt on her neck.

The welt I had given her.

I saw her shoulders roll as she took a deep breath. She washed her hands, wetted a towel and rubbed a bar of soap into it. She dabbed at the wound, washed it off, then straightened. Her lips moved as she said something to her reflection, a hard and angry look on her face. Then she stepped from view.

I followed her into the bedroom, watching from above as she slipped out of her sweatpants and slipped on a pair of simple cotton panties and a loose T-shirt. Her next stop was the kitchen, where she took a Corona from the fridge. She found her purse on the counter. Michelle talked on her cell-phone for several minutes, grimacing and sighing often, blowing strands of damp blonde hair from her face. Then she hung up and fell into the chair across from her TV.

I watched for several minutes, and Michelle did not move. I was suddenly struck with a sense of self-loathing. Bad enough you hurt her, now you have to invade her privacy?

I slipped the board back in place over the spyhole in the living room and climbed onto my couch.

Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock . . . .

***

I was surprised to find that over two hours had passed since I had left my voyeuristic perch. Two more beers had rekindled both my libido and curiosity. I scrambled to the floor and pulled back the board, looking down . . . .

She wasn't in the living room. The TV flickered, casting ghostly light across the reflective surface of the glass coffee table. It seemed to accentuate the loneliness of the room. I moved to the kitchen, the bathroom. Nothing. Then I pulled up the little square section in my bedroom, and gazed down upon Michelle's bed.

She lay upon her back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open as her features twisted slightly. Her hands massaged her naked breasts. Her legs were spread wide open. And between them was the dark-maned head of another woman, her mouth obviously and fervently pressed to Michelle's shaved sex.

The woman was more buxom, more curvaceous than Michelle, her only similarity to my slender blonde neighbor being her complete nudity. Her head moved only slightly, long black hair spread out across a muscular back. Hands stroked slowly up and down Michelle's lean thighs. A full, round ass flexed now and then as her well-toned legs kicked slowly in the air.

After only a few moments of watching, Michelle reached down and grabbed her lover's head, her face flushed, her mouth slack. She pushed her hips up repeatedly, and I heard her faint gasps and moans as she came. Michelle's body tensed, and she squeezed her eyes, looking almost in pain. Then she fell back, sagging into her bed, her raven-haired lover remaining between her legs.

I could not help but think how beautiful Michelle looked at that moment, how satisfied. She panted as she recovered her breath, then smiled and giggled, stroking the other girl's hair. As she languished in bliss, her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I felt that she was looking directly at me . . . teasing me, perhaps, or . . . punishing me for having seen her at such an intimate moment.

I covered up the spyhole, got into bed, and spent the next few hours trying to sleep while listening to faint, muffled moans and giggles through the floor.

***

"Hey, Will, you okay?"

I looked up from my desk at Ramon's question. He and I had been busy with our own accounts for the previous few days, ever since that afternoon at the Blue Velvet Lounge. I tried not to think that I was purposely avoiding him, as if I blamed him in some way for what had happened between myself and Michelle.

I forced a smile, shuffled some papers. "Fine."

He gave me a funny look, stepped closer in my small office. "You been acting kind'a funny ever since we went to that strip club."

I tried to pass off my feelings with a shrug. "I just really don't like those places," I said. "I'm not into exploiting women." My response had been rehearsed; I rattled it off a little too quickly, I thought.

He scoffed. "What, you got a problem with chicks who like showing off their tits?" he asked.

I stared at him a moment, wanting to retort with something belligerent and politically correct. But I didn't. "Just some of them."

Ramon laughed. "Oh, don't tell me you're hung up on that bitch from the club. What happened? She give you a little somethin'-somethin' during the table dance? She—"

I glared. "You know what bothers me?" I asked curtly, cutting him off.

He frowned, his mirth vanishing. "What?"

"Guys who look at women like that and only see a pair of tits and a cute little ass. You don't know anything about them, you just assume they like what they're doing."

Ramon gave me a denigrating look. "Man, you've been working too hard," he said. "Chicks like that, that's all they know. Cocktease the guys, get their money, then they go home to whatever sugar-daddy or dyke bitch is waiting for them. That's what those chicks are all about. Who cares if they like what they're doing? They wanna show it off, I'm gonna look. And once in a while, when I get lucky, I do more than look."

He turned away from my desk, paused at the door. "You know, you oughtta try it some time, Will. Ain't never met someone who needed to get laid as bad as you do."

I frowned, my ire rising faster than I could control it. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

Ramon fixed his dark eyes on mine. "Tell you what," he said. "You go back there, find that skinny little blonde you like. Then ask her how much it takes to buy her out. Guarantee she'll give you a price."

I ground my teeth. "A price for what?" I asked.

He laughed. "I know you ain't that stupid. Just ask her, Will. Then you'll know."

***

I hadn't watched Michelle in days, ever since that sapphic night with her dark-haired friend. I had mustered my willpower and decided I wouldn't violate her privacy any longer. That, and . . . maybe a part of me did not want to see someone else making her happy, or at least satisfied.

But Ramon's words rang in my ears for days. I tried to occupy myself with work, but all I could think about was Michelle. I could smell her, taste her, feel her against me, hear those sexy whimpers and girl-like squeals. I had gone back to smoking, and every time I lit up, I couldn't help but think of how sexy Michelle looked when she sucked on a filter.

I was obsessed, not necessarily with Michelle, but with what had happened that day. I needed some answers. I needed to know why she was the way she was . . . or at least a reason as to why that day had happened the way it had.

So on an overcast Sunday afternoon, finally giving myself a break from work, I went back to the Blue Velvet Lounge and took a little booth to myself. There wasn't much business in the place, and it seemed only a few girls were working. Cocktail waitresses in tight, sleeveless tuxedo shirts and tiny black shorts lounged around the bar, looking bored.




Baring Souls



I was dressed casually that day, and had not even bothered to shave. I ordered a Guinness on tap from my waitress and lit up a cigarette as I watched the girls on the stages. In a basic, male way, I could acknowledge that most were pretty, and some were even porn-model quality. But they didn't interest me.

"Okay, gents, how 'bout a round of applause for Fallon!" urged the deejay in his hidden booth. Scattered clapping greeted his words as the dyed blonde on the stage climbed down, clutching a pitiable amount of ones in her fist.

"Now let's hear it for our very own golden girl, but you ain't gonna see her in a nursing home any time soon . . . he-e-ere's Candace!"

There was some applause at the deejay's introduction, but I did not join in. Instead, I fixed my attention on the main stage as the shimmering curtain shifted and fluttered. Amid the squeal of guitars from a classic glam-rock song from the eighties, the curtain was flung open wide.

Strutting like she was the Queen of the Nile, 'Candace' took the stage, moving perfectly in time with a venerable Poison song. She wore a purple teddy and matching thong, the muscles of her legs tensing and rippling as she balanced herself on glass platform shoes. Michelle moved energetically according to the cadence of the song, barely looking out at her audience; she danced more for her benefit than for those who ogled her with lustful eyes.

I smiled. At least for the moment, Michelle looked like she was enjoying herself. Doing something she loved. Not teasing, not being the sex kitten, just . . . dancing, and loving it. The men watching her could have been cardboard cutouts for all she cared.

I watched, rooted to my chair, as Michelle commanded the stage. She was sensuous and playful, sexy and energetic, matching every movement, from the flip of a wrist to the toss of her head, to the beat of the song. A few men approached to tip her, and she gave them professional, almost predatory, smiles. She would touch their face or chest, lay on her back and spread her legs to provide a 'look but don't touch' view of her minimally-covered crotch. Then she would let them slip a dollar bill or two into her tiny G-string before whirling away.

I did not notice at first, but at one point, as the light hit her just so while she moved, I saw a tiny bandage on her neck, nearly matching the tone of her skin. And in that same moment, her eyes found me.

It really was one of 'those moments,' the kind you hear about and see in Hollywood movies, but never really think would happen to you. But it did, to me, right then. Michelle looked at me, her eyes widening a bit, revealing a brief flash of gorgeous amber illuminated in the strobe lights. I stared back. Everything else seemed drowned out, as if the rest of the world momentarily ceased to exist.

I felt drawn, compelled. Leaving my table, I stepped to the stage, feeling like I was gliding across the floor. I stood at the head of the broad, glossy runway, looking up at her. Michelle hesitated briefly, her hand reflexively touching her neck. I felt a quick surge of guilt that, strangely enough, vanished as soon as I felt it. Michelle's eyes dipped for a moment. Was it reticence, I wondered, or regret?

Then she was there, before me, squatting down, touching my chin with her fingers. "Hi."

I took in a breath. Jesus, she's beautiful. "Hi."

Her eyes studied mine a moment, her expression unreadable. "I'll be down in a minute," she finally said, and with that simple statement, she swiveled a slender hip toward me, pulling out her G-string. I slipped a couple of bills beneath the elastic, watched her dance away. I turned robotically and headed back to my table.

I drummed my fingers, smoked another cigarette, sipped on my second beer as I waited for Michelle. I felt foolish, stupid, intrusive. I was aware that . . . something had happened between us, but I had no real idea as to what that was, nor what it meant.

"Want some company?"

I lifted my eyes, momentarily startled that Michelle had so suddenly appeared before me, standing across the little round table. I got the immediate feeling she wanted to keep her distance, at least for the moment.

I pushed up to my feet quickly, indicated the chair across from me. "Please."

Michelle gave me a funny smile and slid into the seat, setting a little black purse on the table. She already had her pack of cigarettes out, and lit up quickly. "Buy a girl a drink?"

"Of course," I said, settling back down across from her.

Michelle looked amused by my mannerisms, but said nothing as the waitress approached and asked what 'Candace' wanted. I didn't take my eyes of Michelle. "Anything the lady wants," I said.

"Grey Goose and tonic," Michelle ordered, keeping her eyes trained on my face.

"Be right back," the waitress quipped, and headed off.

Michelle blew a plume of smoke. "What do you want, Will?" she asked.

I frowned. "Did I . . . do something wrong?" I asked hesitantly in return.

Michelle looked like she was about to berate me a moment, then blushed and looked down. "No, I guess not."

"You guess?"

Her head snapped back up. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked belligerently, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I mean, why are you even in this place?"

I felt defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Michelle sighed. "Look around, dude," she said. "Guys that come in here . . . they're fucking mechanics and dock workers and waiters and bartenders . . . blue-collar guys. And then there's you."

I bristled slightly at her tone. And then there's you . . . she'd said it like I was an unwelcome foreigner. "What about me?"

"Yeah, that's what I wanna know," she said, leaning aggressively on the table, her eyes glaring. "Guys like you and your friend . . . you come in here every once in a while, like you're slumming or some shit. What, make you feel fucking superior or something to come in here, see how the lower half lives?"

Defensive anger spiked through me. "Hey, unless I'm wrong, you invited me to come see you, with that 'first dance is on me' line," I snapped.

Michelle held my gaze a moment, then dropped her eyes abruptly. She tapped some ash off her cigarette, pulled on it, tapped again. "Yeah, I guess I did," she said in a small voice that I barely heard over the music.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Look, what happened last time? What was that about?"

Michelle was quiet a long moment. She took her drink when the waitress arrived with it, sucked down half of it right away and sighed heavily. She didn't look at me, just smoked her cigarette, holding it with mildly shaking fingers. I waited for her to speak.

"You know, most of the time, I think I've got it so good," she said, speaking as if talking to herself. "Got a nice place, some nice shit . . . I make a fuckload of money. I don't need nobody."

Her amber eyes finally drifted up, glowing with an inner light. "The guys I meet here, they're all like me. Simple. Half these dudes . . . they dropped out'a high school, just like I did. Maybe got a GED, like me. The other half . . . maybe they went all the way, went to tech school and shit. But they're still just like me."

She ground out her cigarette, immediately lit another one. "Then there's guys like you. High-rollers. Guys with money and a real life. And you come in here, slumming with the trailer-trash girls, looking to get your rocks off—"

"What makes you think I'm like that?"

Michelle faltered, blinked, gave me a confused look. "Because you are."

I suddenly laughed. "Do you really have that low an opinion of me?"

Michelle's eyes flickered as she tried to read me. I wasn't sure what my eyes or expression were telling her. "Then, why did you come in? I mean . . . you came to see me, right?"

I couldn't suppress my amused smile. "No, I didn't," I said. "Ramon – the guy I was with – it was his idea to come here."

She almost looked insulted. "So you didn't want to—"

"I did," I said hurriedly, and automatically reached out to settle my hand on her wrist. "I just . . . I didn't want it to happen that way."

Michelle didn't pull her arm back, although I felt a momentary tensing of her muscles beneath my hand. "How did you want it to happen?" she asked.

I stared, trying to form my thoughts. "If I had my way, it wouldn't have been . . . like that," I said, thinking about the events in that little booth.

Her gaze was unwavering. "So how would it have been? Roses? Dinner? Limo?" Her questions rolled out on an air of skepticism and insult.

"Yes," I said simply.

Her jaw quivered slightly. "What do you want from me?" she asked in a quivering voice.

"What do you want from me?" I asked back.

She swallowed nervously. "I don't know."

"I don't, either."

She barked out a laugh. "But you still wanna fuck me."

I read her face, and the tiredness there, the pain. "No," I said after a moment, and pushed back, trailing my fingers away from her arm. "I don't want to fuck you."

I stood, taking up my cigarettes. Michelle gave me a confused, startled look as she watched me rise. I took a last gulp of my beer, then left the table. A sour taste formed in my mouth and only intensified as I headed to the door. By the time I was halfway down the street to the apartment building, I felt like I was going to throw up.

***

I took a long bath, soaking in the hot water and letting the beer seep out through my pores. I stepped out onto the balcony in my bathrobe, thankful for the relatively warm February air in my new southwestern home. The same time of year in Ohio was cause for parkas and long-johns. But here, it was almost tropical in comparison.

I listened to the traffic and distant police sirens, the wordless jumble of faintly-shouted conversations seven stories below. There were a few stores on the street below, most of them loudly decorated in red and pink, broad windows gaudily advertising the imminent Valentine's Day. I soured; I had all but forgotten about the romantic holiday. The sky overhead glowed orange as streetlights reflected off cloud cover. The moon was a vague, glowing disc through the atmospheric mist.

Knock, knock.

My ears perked, and I looked back through the balcony door, into the shadows of my apartment. I didn't have a single light on. I sometimes felt comfort in the darkness, but not because of any sense of morbidity. The world just seemed smaller when it was swallowed up in shadow. Less hectic. Simple.

Knock, knock.

I pushed away from the railing, heading inside. A single lamp on the end table beside my couch bathed the room in a soft golden glow. I flipped the latch on the door, withdrew the chain, turned the knob.

"Hi."

I started, a little surprised to see Michelle on my doorstep. It had been a few hours, I figured, since she had come home from work. She had obviously showered; the clean aroma of soap and jasmine bath oil surrounded her like an invisible mist. She wore clothes I had never seen upon her before: a denim skirt that came to mid-thigh, and a tan-colored peasant blouse that tied up the front. Gone was the sparkle and glitter from her face, and her wheat-colored hair looked loose, relaxed, soft and clean.

"Hi," I said back.

Michelle looked sheepish, almost timid. "I'm in pretty good with Mrs. Dobbs," she said, invoking the name of our landlady.

I nodded shortly, still half-hiding behind the door. "She told you where I am, huh?"

Michelle nodded, smiled embarrassingly. "All this time, and you're right on top of me," she said.

I wasn't sure if her statement was double-entendre, innuendo, or what. "Yeah. Imagine that."

Michelle fidgeted, picking at her nails, biting her lip. She didn't look at me, not directly. "Um . . . I wanna apologize."

That surprised me. "For what?"

She laughed sharply. "For being a bitch," she said bluntly.

I smiled. "You're not a bitch," I said.

She inhaled deeply, let it out with a huff. "No, I'm just a white-trash topless dancer," she said.

"I don't see you that way."

Michelle raised her eyes slowly. They were a little red, a little swollen. "So, how do you see me?" she asked, pushing her words out. "Or how do you wanna see me?"

I suddenly heard Ramon's voice in my head: You go back there, find that skinny little blonde you like. Then ask her how much it takes to buy her out. Guarantee she'll give you a price. "I hope this isn't what I'm afraid it is," I said.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

I shifted on my feet. "I mean, you show up out of nowhere, and . . . after what happened . . . ."

Michelle frowned. She was silent as she searched my face, then finally sputtered out a rude laugh. "Holy fuck," she said under her breath. She looked back to me with an angry expression. "You think that's what I am? You think I'm a fucking whore?"

I sighed, realizing I had said the wrong words. "No, I—"

"Yeah, I bet," she snapped. She straightened, gave me a haughty, angry look. "Look, asshole. I dance topless, I shove my tits and twat in a guy's face to make my money. Maybe I get freaky sometimes. But if you think I'm gonna strip it off and spread it for you just 'cause you got money—"

"Look, I didn't—"

She scoffed harshly. "Oh, yeah? Then why'd say that?"

I stared at her, trying to respond, trying to find a delicate way of explaining myself . . . but I couldn't find the words.

Michelle shook her head in disgust. "Just like every other fucking guy in the world," she said derisively. "Fuck you. And that's not a God damned invite."

I looked after her hopelessly as she strode back along the hallway. This time, the sexy wiggle in her hips was painful to watch.

***

It took me half an hour and a beer to get up the courage to head down to her apartment. I paused before her door, fingers curled in my raised hand, ready to knock. Over a dozen different speeches had been prepared in my head, ranging from the humble to the confrontational. Every one of them floated away like ashes on a stiff breeze as I stared at Michelle's apartment door.

I almost knocked, then hesitated. My knuckles brushed the surface of her door, barely hard enough to evoke a noise. I lowered my hand. You're an idiot, Will, I told myself. She'll just get mad at you again. She's already made up her mind about you, and there's not a damn thing you can do to change it.

I took a step away, then stopped and turned back. My hand lifted again, paused. A frustrated huff left my lips. Either you do it, and get slapped, or you don't and spend the night staring at the ceiling. You know how you are. For better or for worse, you gotta know.

I sighed. God damn it . . . .

Knock knock knock.

I almost ran back to my apartment after rapping on the door. It was a childish impulse, but a powerful one nonetheless. Michelle represented what I both did and didn't want from life. She was a woman who could give me more trouble than I wanted . . . at the same time, she might possibly be the sort of woman to give me what I needed. My thoughts were admittedly selfish, but with the dichotomy Michelle had shown me thus far concerning her own personality, I did not know what to think of her . . . or what I might be able to do to please and satisfy her.

As it was, I waited for nearly a minute, glancing to the tiny aperture of the spyhole in the door now and then. I thought I heard some shuffling behind the door, perhaps the whisper of slender fingers on the other side. I chalked that up to imagination and wishful thinking, and was just turning away when I heard the locks disengage.

The door jerked open, just a few inches. I only saw half of Michelle's glowering face. "What."

I sighed, then took a breath. "I want to apologize," I said.

The one eye I could see flickered. "It's no big deal," she said with some disdain. "Guess I come off that way, huh? Strippers and whores, no big difference, right?"

I frowned. "Don't you ever get tired of feeling sorry for yourself?"

Michelle jerked open the door wide, revealing that she wore only a long white T-shirt. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you," I shot back. "And that's not an invite, either."

She sputtered a moment, gesturing chaotically with her hands. "What the fuck do you want, Will?" she asked me. "Look, I get enough psycho guys at work, I don't need another one, especially where I live."

I made an effort to remain calm. "I'm not psycho," I said. "And I don't think you're a . . . ."

"I'm a what?" she asked, still being confrontational.

I took a moment, considering my words, then met her eyes. "I don't think you're anything but a woman who just wants to be appreciated for who she is."

Michelle stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes with a rueful shake of her head. "I ain't got time for lines," she said, and started to close her door.

"It's not a line," I said quickly. My hand slapped to the door before I knew what I was doing. Michelle stared at me, looking both frightened and angry. "I just want to know who you are," I finished.

She set her jaw. "No you don't," she said. "You just wanna fuck me. Just like every guy in the whole fucking world I ever met—"

"God damn it!" I shouted, making her flinch. I forced myself to be calm once more. "Look, you want the truth? Yeah, I want you. I think that's pretty obvious. But not . . . like that."

Michelle blinked, looking away. "I don't wanna go through this shit again," she said.

"Go through what?" I asked.

Michelle stared at me for a long moment, her shoulders falling. "There was a guy," she said heavily. "He used to live in the building. In your apartment, as a matter of fact."

Dread flowed through me. My intuition was filling in some of the gaps already. "Was he your—"

Michelle laughed sharply. "No. But that's what he wanted. And he . . . he knew so much about me, it fucking freaked me out! It's like he was watching me somehow!"

I nodded, looking away as shame welled up within me like the pressure behind a boiler. "I don't want you to think I'm like that, Michelle," I said. I let my eyes trail back toward her face. "I really don't know much about you." I felt that my words were at least partly true; I knew some things about her life, from her simple affectations to what kind of beer she preferred. But beyond that, I knew little, I realized.

Her lips quivered a moment. She looked like she was torn between telling me off and inviting me in. "Then why'd you think I was a fucking whore?"

"I didn't." I sighed, then laughed sharply to myself. You fucking asshole, Ramon. "You were right about me, Michelle. I don't hang out in strip clubs. I don't know girls like you. The only women I ever dated were the nice, normal, go-to-church-on-Sundays girls. My ex was everything you're not: refined, educated, wore dresses all the time and blushed at every swear word. The way I grew up, that was the kind of woman I was supposed to be with."

Michelle gave me a spiteful look, crossing her arms defensively. "Then why don't you go back to her?"

I met her gaze boldly. "Because there was one thing she didn't do," I said.

Michelle scoffed. "What? Suck your dick?" she asked rudely.

I stared. "She didn't turn me on," I said.

She regarded me dubiously. "And . . . I do?"

"Yes."

Michelle looked away, massaging her arms as if she was cold. "That still doesn't tell me why . . . why you thought I was—"

I sighed. "You know that guy I was with, the first time I went in?"

Michelle frowned. "Yeah. I've seen him," she said, then laughed softly. "I hear he can't keep his hands to himself."

I nodded. "I made the mistake of believing him when he said that dancers can be . . . bought out." I watched her face carefully.




Baring Souls



She frowned, lips twitching. "Right."

"But, you know what's funny? I never thought that about you. I didn't want to think that about you. It was a stupid thing I said when you came up to see me. I really am sorry, Michelle." I backed away from the door, started down the hall to the stairwell. I almost felt like smiling. At least some weight, I realized, had been lifted from my shoulders.

"Will."

I paused at the frosted glass door marked 'Stairs' in gold stencil. I considered just jerking open the door and leaving Michelle behind. But I didn't.

"Will!"

I turned back. Michelle's face was apologetic, though I was fairly certain she would not admit her feelings with words. I stepped away from the stairwell and faced her. "What."

She stood in her doorway, illuminated from behind by soft light. "You, uh . . . want a beer?"

I hesitated a moment, regarding the stairs, torn between returning to my safe and comfortable home, turning the locks and not letting the outside world in, or . . . or . . . .

I glanced back to her, briefly, found myself smiling. "You have any dark beer?"

Michelle laughed softly. "Just Corona."

I knew that, I thought. I gripped the handle to the stairwell door. "I'm gonna get my own," I said. "I'll be right back."

***

Michelle's apartment looked different in a first-hand view, as opposed to the voyeuristic one I had been privy to. She styled her living room with all the furniture facing the glass-topped coffee table in the middle, as opposed to my couch and chair facing the entertainment center. There were a few books beneath her table, mainly dog-eared paperbacks with the names of Cornwell and Grisham on the covers.

There were pictures on the walls, not the usual and mundane decorations one might find at Ross or TJ Maxx. These were personal photographs, ones I had never noticed before. A man and woman, blurred by color, with a little blonde girl between them. And others, mainly featuring just the man and woman. Michelle's parents, I deduced.

I found myself looking to the ceiling, when Michelle's attention wasn't on me. I had always wondered how the spyholes went unnoticed, and now I knew: her ceiling was heavily stuccoed, the light of the room casting shadows across the jagged surface that did well to hide the little holes through which I had watched my neighbor.

"I started dancing when I was sixteen," Michelle was saying, staring at the TV as she cradled a bottle of Corona against her chest. "I could've been working for five bucks an hour at Burger King or some shit, but . . . ."

"But, what?" I prodded.

Michelle sighed, sipped from her beer. "I did work at Burger King," she said, in a way that made me think it was a low point in her life. "Me, Lindsey, Maria . . . we all got hired, and then this guy came in. Took one look at me and told me I was 'hot.' Turns out he owned a few bars."

I watched her pull from her bottle again, watching the flickering images on the TV.

"I started dancing," she continued. "It was a shit-hole, really. Used to be a gas station on the southside. Tiny stage, nothing but greasers and tool-monkeys . . . God. But it was a hell of a lot more money than doing fast food. The only part I didn't like was the private shows. They called it 'table-dancing,' but it was really in this little booth, where nobody could see what was going on." She shot me a look, conveying more meaning than any words ever could.

Michelle took a breath and kept going. "I made enough money, and after a while, took a bus to the north side of town. Worked my way through a bunch of clubs, made enough money to get a fucking car and a place to live. Not like this place, though. Shacked up with another girl for a while." She gave me a little smile and a wink.

"Then, I made it here," she said at last, stretching her arms above her head. Her long shirt rode up along slender thighs, briefly exposing her sexy hips and the swell of a panty-covered pubic mound. Michelle jerked her shirt down and looked at me. "Been a long ride."

"So why tell me all that?" I asked.

Michelle sat up, holding her beer between her legs. She studied me with her eyes for a long moment. "You know what Thursday is?" she asked.

I frowned, shaking my head at her unexpected question. "What?"

Michelle smiled. "Valentine's Day," she said. She gave me wistful look. "I've never really had a real Valentine's Day."

I met her amber-colored eyes, then looked down, lighting a cigarette. I blew smoke in the air, peripherally watching as it was carried out through the balcony door. "In tenth grade, I sent flowers to Mandy Reed," I said with a self-admonishing smile. "She didn't even know who I was."

Michelle laughed under her breath. "Shit. That would've at least rated a blowjob where I went to school," she said.

I chuckled. "I sent flowers the next year," I continued. "She had a boyfriend."

Michelle gave me a funny look. "Same chick? Dude—"

"I know; I've always been an incurable romantic. But I was sixteen, what do you expect? I thought I was in love."

A soft smile crossed her face. "I can see that about you."

I shrugged. "I ran into her about three years later, in college," I continued. "I was still the same old romantic. Happened to be around Valentine's Day, too, so I sent her flowers again."

Michelle shook her head with a smile. "You're hopeless, you know that?"

I smirked. "She called me that night," I said. "Found my name and number in the student directory. I met her half an hour later at a pizza place, and we ended up having sex in her car."

Michelle looked surprised. "No way."

I laughed. "Serious. We saw each other every day for about two weeks. Then she went back to her jock boyfriend."

Michelle's face soured. "Sounds like some girls I know," she remarked.

I shrugged. "Yeah. Should'a seen it coming. But it was my first time and all. I really thought I was in love. Then she dumps me, just like that. Talk about devastated."

A curious frown distorted Michelle's lips. "Wait a sec. 'First time?' How old were you?"

"Twenty," I said. I sipped my beer. "I was a late bloomer."

"No shit," Michelle muttered. "Jeez, by the time I was twenty, I already . . . ." She looked down at her bottle, a pained look crossing her face. "Never mind."

"You already what?"

She sighed. "I had a baby," she said. "When I was eighteen. But she, uh, died about four months after she was born. They called it 'crib death.'"

My heart sank. I could literally feel it dropping in my chest. "Oh, God, Michelle, I'm sorry."

She put on a brave smile. "'Sokay. I've had thirteen years to get used to it."

"That's a hell of a thing to get used to. I really am sorry."

Michelle took a heavy breath, then slipped her legs off the couch and faced me, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "You have any kids?"

I shook my head, also leaning forward, as I had been since we sat down. "We tried, for a while. Turned out Monica was barren."

"'Monica?'" asked Michelle. "That was your girlfriend, or what?"

I smiled sheepishly, flashing my unadorned ring finger. "My wife."

Michelle looked a little surprised, her lips parted. "Oh. How long were you married?"

"Eight years," I said. "We were together for ten, all told."

"Wow. That's a long time. I mean, these days, it is."

I swallowed thickly. "I used to think I wanted it to last forever. But when her attorney gave me the divorce papers, I really wasn't that surprised."

Michelle's eyes flashed brilliantly, just for a moment. "Did you cheat on her?"

I shook my head. "Not once," I said. "But I'll admit I thought about it. A lot. Especially during the last few years. Once a month isn't enough for this boy."

Michelle laughed vicariously. "Or this girl," she said, her mouth curling impishly.

For a moment, images of Michelle masturbating in the shower, her bed, on the furniture in her living room – including the very chair upon which I sat – filled my mind. I could feel myself getting hard, as well as the teasing rush of anticipation. For a long moment, Michelle and I just stared at one another, both of us simmering in silence.

I finally spoke. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why, um . . . why did you want me to bite you?"

Michelle nibbled her lip, eyes dipping for a moment. A little color tinted her cheeks. "Freaked you out a little, didn't it?"

I smiled nervously. "A little, but . . . ."

"But what?"

I stared into her glittering amber orbs. "It turned me on, too."

More color rose to her face, and Michelle breathed in. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Don't know why, but it did."

Michelle fidgeted with her hands, rolling the bottle of beer between them. "I've always wanted to try that," she said. "I just . . . I mean, I didn't think it would happen like that, with a guy I didn't really know. I guess that's why I freaked."

"I thought I did something wrong."

Her eyes were unflinching. "No."

It was another one of those moments, then, as I fell into her eyes. A moment in which I could have said and done what I really wanted at that moment, and I knew Michelle would let me.

But then, of course, her phone rang.

Michelle sighed, muttering "Fuck" under her breath as some hip-hop song filled the air. She apologized with her eyes, then leaned toward the end of the couch, where her phone lay. I was treated to a flash of the tiny red thong that barely covered her sex before Michelle straightened, ending the song by flipping her phone open.

"Hey, Dar," she said, looking perturbed. ". . . just having a beer. What's up?"

I watched as Michelle listened to her friend. I could just make out what sounded like an excited female voice, but could not discern any words. Michelle rolled her eyes, then frowned.

"What? Oh, come on, bitch, you know I don't do that shit anymore!" She huffed angrily, gritting her teeth as she stared at the TV. She reached for her cigarettes and lit one as 'Dar' prattled on in her ear. Michelle finally spoke again. "Look, I'll go with you, all right? But I'm not partying, period . . . Fine. Half an hour, but you're dropping me off back at my place, got it? Okay." She snapped the phone closed, drew on her cigarette, and sighed. Her eyes drifted to me.

"It's okay," I said, pushing to my feet. "You've got things to do."

Michelle looked reticent, eyes blinking up at me gently. "Darla's such a selfish bitch," she said. "She's gotta have her fucking fix, but she's afraid to go to her dealer alone."

Darla? I thought. Wonder if she's got long, curly black hair . . . . "But you don't do that stuff, right?"

"I used to," she admitted. "I used to be really fucked up. I've been trying to get Dar cleaned up, but . . . guess that fucking monkey's got a real serious hold on her."

I smiled. "Well, I'm glad it doesn't have a hold on you anymore."

Michelle smiled back. "Nah. I kicked my monkey in the balls and threw him out the door."

I laughed. "Guess I'll see you later, huh?"

Michelle bit her lip. "Guess so." She remained seated as I turned to the door. But just as I was about to leave, I turned back. "You know what you were saying about never having had a real Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah."

I smiled, my heart hammering with nervousness. I had never been anxious at the prospect of asking a woman out before. But neither had I ever asked out a woman like Michelle. "I was just thinking . . . how about dinner?"

Michelle stared at me, her expression blank. For a moment, I wondered if I had said the wrong thing, or misconstrued her words and body language.

"Dinner?" she asked, starting to smile. "You mean, like, a real date?"

"Yeah," I said with a small laugh. "A date. I'll make reservations."

"'Reservations,'" she repeated. She laughed suddenly. "Are we going some place fancy?"

I shrugged. "Maybe," I said. "Would it bother you?"

Michelle blushed, looking so much at that moment like the teenager I had originally mistaken her for. She finally shook her head. "Guess not."

"Yeah?"

She laughed. "Yeah. I'd love to go out on a date with you, Will," she said.

I matched her laugh. "I'll pick you up at seven?"

Michelle nodded. She was smiling in a way I had never seen before, her eyes sparkling beautifully. "Okay."

A warm feeling flowed through me like the waters of the River Jordan. "Okay." I felt like a teenager myself, nervous, anxious, elated and awkward. I indicated the door behind me. "Um, I, uh . . . well, you got stuff to do."

Michelle giggled. "Good night, Will."

"Good night."

Heading away from Michelle's apartment, I felt like I could fly. The grin on my face couldn't have been dispelled if a school bus crashed on the street below. I've got a date! I thought. I've got a real freakin' date!

Looks like life is looking up, Will . . . .

***

I made a firm and final decision, and headed down to the supermarket. Caulking, spackle, putty knives and scrapers, I got everything I figured I would need to not only cover all the voyeur holes in my apartment, but to seal them up for good. I felt good about myself as I started with the hole in the living room, and each one I covered up cemented my decision, reinforcing the fact that Michelle was now a real presence in my life, and not just a tantalizing peep show.

I took a break, lighting up a cigarette and letting the windows open to allow the air to circulate. The sharp, acrid aroma of caulk filled my apartment. I never knew how much that stuff smelled. Nor had I been prepared for the effort involved; I was sweating, and had stripped down to just my jeans. Little pieces of white spackle decorated my hands and forearms. I had even managed, somehow, to get a little of the stuff on my stomach and jeans.

Knock, knock . . . .

I looked to the door. Huh? I checked the time on my watch: nine-thirty. Who the hell . . . oh, man, it sure as hell better not be Ramon, bothering me with the Arredondo account. I told him three times what he had to do before Monday . . . .

"Hi."

I was a little startled to see Michelle standing before me, clad in tight little boy shorts and a loose white top. She smelled clean and sweet, a little spicy. Whatever her perfume was, I instantly vowed to write the manufacturer a thank-you note.

"Uh . . . hi," I said back, feeling self-conscious in my partial nudity. Not to mention the aroma of sweat that I was sure wafted off me like the odor off a pig.

She chuckled softly, eyes wandering over my chest. One of her thin, nearly invisible eyebrows arched with interest. Evidently, Michelle wasn't put off by my appearance in the slightest. "Um . . . you busy?"

"No," I said quickly. "I was just, uh, you know. Fixing stuff," I said awkwardly. Well, it's not as if I can tell her I was covering up the spyholes that allowed me to watch her for the past month and a half . . . good thing I've been covering up as I went along.

Michelle's eyes smoldered sexily. "Wanna take a break?" she asked, in a way that, to me, seemed to promise something. She held up a six-pack of Warsteiner.

I smiled. "Sure."

***

Michelle complimented me on my apartment and furnishings, poking around a little, but in a way that wasn't intrusive. She was really interested in the collection of masks that I'd hung on one of my walls. They ranged from African tribal masks to Italian masquerade-style works. She listened as I explained the significance of some of them. Only rarely was she not smiling.

Well, not until she kissed me.

We were standing out on the balcony. The air was crisp, more than a little cool from the receding winter, a glow coming up from the street below. We peripherally heard the traffic below as we talked about ourselves. Michelle had been orphaned when she was seven, and from her account, her parents had been fairly affluent. She had been promised a trust fund once she turned eighteen, but over the following eleven years, her aunt and uncle, with whom she went to live, had squandered it away. I got the impression, as well, that her uncle had taken advantage of more than just his niece's money.

"I didn't exactly have the best life growing up," Michelle said. "Guess that's why I turned into such a bitch."

I leaned against the railing, having donned a T-shirt in an effort to retain my modesty. "I don't think you're a bitch," I said.

Michelle curled her mouth, glancing to me from the corner of her eye. "You didn't know me when I was sixteen," she said meaningfully. "A real Hellraiser, that was me. I got into all sorts of shit. Smoking pot, drinking, hanging out with older guys just 'cause they had cool cars and would buy me what I wanted. And what they didn't buy, I stole. I got to be pretty good at shoplifting. Well, until I was caught."

"Worst thing I ever did was take money out of my mom's purse because I wanted to buy a game," I said.

Michelle laughed, shaking her head. "Man, I wish I'd had your life," she said wishfully, taking a drag off her cigarette. Our beers remained barely touched.

"Sometimes I wish I'd had yours," I said.

Michelle frowned skeptically. "Bullshit."

I laughed. "I'm serious," I said. "Hell, I don't think I grew up until I was almost thirty. I could have used a few good kicks in the ass."

Her smile faded, eyes remaining on mine. "Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted my life."

I looked down, chastised, and suitably so. "You're right," I said. "And I'm sorry you had to live it. I wish there was something I could do."

Michelle smiled thinly, looking down at the world below us. She flicked her cigarette, watching it fall. "There is."

I slid a little closer. "You want me to guess?"

Michelle smiled more genuinely, then turned to face me. "Kiss me."

They were just two simple words, ones I had heard before, but never in such a context, and never from a woman who so utterly exuded sexiness the way Michelle did. Beyond merely encouraging and compelling me, those two little words aroused me more than any impassioned utterance of "fuck me, baby," ever had.

More words would only have ruined the moment, so I said nothing. I just moved a little closer, watching Michelle lick her lips in anticipation. I leaned in, inhaling the sweet spiciness of her perfume along with the strangely carnal aroma of nicotine . . . .

"Mmm . . . ."

Michelle's gentle moan fueled me, urged me on. I loved the taste of her lips, the slick softness of them, the way the tip of her tongue snaked out, just a little, to touch mine. The kiss was soft, passionate, neither desperate nor yearning. The kiss of imminent lovers who knew not to rush the moment.

Our arms lifted to encase each other at the same time. Michelle yielded with more moans and grateful sighs, pressing herself against me. Her right leg slid up along the outside of my thigh, and I felt the slow but steady grind of her sex against mine. My arousal was obvious to her; she had to feel it, I was certain.

"I want you," she whispered with a heated breath, drawing back a little. Her eyes slowly opened, so beautifully golden and wet.

I shuddered. "I want you, too," I said.

Michelle stepped back, her lips parted and moist, eyes mischievous with passion. Carefully, she took my hand. "Come on." Her voice was barely audible, but I didn't have to hear her words. I followed her into my living room. We set our beers upon the small bistro table I had placed beside the balcony door, and Michelle held both of my hands behind her, as she had done when leading me to the private booth in the strip club. But this was not the same situation; this seduction was more palpable.

She pushed me down onto the couch, leaning over me. The hungry glow in her eyes was unmistakable, the look of a tigress before pouncing upon her kill. To say that I was not intimidated would be a lie; yet, my arousal never abated. In fact, it intensified.