Private Dancer Chapter 1

[taoschild]

From the start of my new novel, Private Dancer You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login (page 2 onward), which is available at all online book retailers. I hope you enjoy - starts with a little slow burn.
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The neon sign buzzed overhead like a warning as our group spilled out of our cars and into the sticky night air. The Pink Fox. The name alone made my stomach tighten.

I ran a high school team camp every summer for a reason: it brought in crucial money for my program, paid for my assistants, and gave me a chance to scout some promising D3 players who might actually want to come play for our small liberal arts college. That practical reality was the only reason I was still standing here instead of calling an Uber back to campus.

"We're not really doing this, are we? Aren't we too old for this?" I asked.

"Never too old for raw sex presented to you on a stage," George Weavers from the perennial local powerhouse high school replied with a grin. Apparently, winning games put you in a leadership position with the other coaches.

I was respected for my basketball knowledge on the court, but when it came to partying the night before the last day of camp, I was firmly relegated to riding the bench and going-with-the-flow role.

"You can take an Uber back if you don't want to celebrate for Jerry," Coach Atkins from Erie, Pennsylvania added. Coach Atkins always brought his team the farthest distance, so somehow that earned him extra sway too.

"No, I'll come in, I guess," I muttered, sounding more like one of my frustrated undergrads than a published professor. Other than calling an Uber, the only other option was hanging in the car looking like a creep, while I occupied myself on a cellphone.

That reality didn't prevent a wave of mortification hitting me the second we stepped inside. Everywhere I looked, women moved with raw, hypnotic sexuality.

On the main stage, a statuesque blonde with surgically enhanced breasts. They were full, round, and yet impossibly perky. She arched her back as she spun around the pole. Her nipples were pierced and glinting under the lights, peeking through strategic cuts in a sheer black leather harness that barely contained her. The outfit was little more than straps and buckles doing a terrible job of hiding the skin beneath. It was designed to frame and display.

It did its job... and then some. Lower, a tiny leather thong disappeared between firm cheeks as she dropped into a slow, grinding squat.

In a nearby cage, a lithe brunette swayed back and forth in a creative fantasy getup. It was a red vinyl corset with heart-shaped cutouts that left her dark, erect nipples completely exposed as they pressed her body against the bars. She moved like liquid, rolling her hips in time with the music, her enhanced breasts bouncing heavily with every thrust. A brunette dancer on a different side platform wore only delicate silver chains draped over her curves, the metal catching the light and drawing the eye straight to her stiff, rosy nipples. Every woman here seemed engineered for maximum temptation: glistening skin, exaggerated hourglass figures, and outfits engineered to tease and reveal.

I immediately wanted to be anywhere else. They were hot, don't get me wrong, but the lurid scene was not my normal world. I didn't think things could get worse.

Then I saw them.

Across the room there were a cluster of high school boys from our team camp huddled near one of the side stages. They were laughing too loudly and trying, but failing, to look older than they were. My stomach dropped. These were the same kids we'd been coaching all week, and they'd been running liners and drills on campus just hours earlier. Now, here they were, presumably with fake ideas, about to spot their coaches and the camp director at a porn club.

The other coaches froze. A couple exchanged panicked glances. No one seemed to know what to do.

I didn't hesitate.

"Boys!" I barked, channeling every ounce of sideline authority I used when a player made a careless turnover. I strode forward, voice sharp enough to cut through the pounding music. "What the hell do you think you're doing? We followed you here after you snuck off campus. Out. Now."

The kids' faces went pale. One tried to protest, "But we paid."

I shut it down instantly.

"I don't care what you did. Don't make me call your parents to come take you home a few hours early," he said, the words cutting through the heavy bass of the club music. "Now, move."

The effect was immediate and almost comical. They scattered like they'd just been yanked after a stupid foul, the bravado draining from their faces in an instant. Within thirty seconds they had fled, ushered toward the exit by a couple of the more responsible coaches who finally snapped into action, looking grateful for the excuse to corral the naughty teens.

I stood there, heart hammering, pretending this had been the plan all along.

The remaining coaches looked at me with a mix of relief and amusement. One clapped me on the back. "Nice play, Professor. Saved our asses."

I gave a tight nod and followed them to a large booth near the main stage. We navigated through a maze of tables passing waitresses in skimpy outfits balancing trays over their heads. The closer we got to the front, the darker the rest of the room became. It felt like a spotlight was descending upon me, as the strobing stage lights highlighted our every move.

My cardigan suddenly felt suffocatingly warm. I sat there completely out of my element, surrounded by middle-aged coaches mouths agog, while the dancers continued their mesmerizing performance. The Pink Fox was thick, a humid soup of cheap cologne, stale beer, and the cloying sweetness of vanilla body spray. The blonde on the main stage locked eyes with the crowd as she slid down the pole, thighs spread, breasts heaving with each breath. The bass thumped through my body, and despite every instinct telling me to look away, I couldn't entirely manage it.

I was sweating in a polyester shirt that clung to my back like a remorseful ex, surrounded by a sea of coaches whooping like they'd just won the lottery instead of paying for a lap dance. I, at least, was able to refrain from that.

Still, two hours in, I was contemplating faking a family emergency when the DJ's voice boomed: "Gentlemen... give it up for the woman who ruined every other woman for you—Dynamo!"

The name hit the room like a fast break. The lights dimmed to a deep blue, and the bassline dropped into something low and anticipatory. I shifted on the sticky vinyl booth, my cardigan suddenly feeling like a wool straitjacket. Around me, most of the other coaches with dad bods and receding hairlines let out the kind of whoops usually reserved for game-winning threes. I tried to disappear into my lukewarm beer. Then Dynamo stepped onto the stage.

My first barely coherent thought was: Oh no. She's hot in the way that should be illegal in seventeen states.

She had glossy black hair pulled into a severe bun, fake glasses perched on her nose, and a baby face that said, "I get carded at Target"—paired with a body that said, "I also bench press the entire checkout lane." The blazer was fighting for its life across her chest. I was pretty sure the top button had already filed a restraining order.

She had glossy black hair in a severe bun and a baby face that said she got carded at Target—paired with a body that said she could bench the entire checkout lane. Thick corded muscle moved under sun-bronzed skin. Shoulders broader than most of the men in the room. Quads like tree trunks flexed with every deliberate step in those impossible heels. When the lights caught her face, they showed high, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that scanned the crowd like a quarterback looks at the defense. I felt the old competitive heat I hadn't felt since my own playing days. And another kind of heat too.

She moved like she owned the geometry of the stage the way I understood the layout of the court. Every roll of her hips, every controlled flex of her back and arms, told a story of discipline and dominance. This wasn't just a performance. This was athleticism weaponized into seduction.

She smirked, rolling her shoulders like she was loosening up before a workout. "Alright, boys," she purred, voice smooth as whiskey. "Let's see what you've got."

I nearly choked on my beer. What I've got? Lady, I've suddenly got a raging hard-on and a wallet full of regret.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

Around me, the other coaches were muttering, their voices barely registering through the roar in my ears.

"Goddamn, look at the muscle on her," one of them grumbled. "Too much, man. She looks like she could kick my ass."

"Yeah, but those tits though," another added with a low whistle. "Fuckin' perfect. Worth the muscle, I guess."

"Built like a dude, except for perfect tits and ass. Jesus..." someone else muttered, half-disapproving, half-impressed. I barely heard them. Their words floated past like static.

She locked eyes with me during her first pass and, God help me, sucked on her finger like it was the sweetest lollipop known to womankind. A single strand of spit caught the spotlight like a glittery middle finger to my entire academic career.
I, the man who once wrote a 400-page dissertation on Jane Austen's use of irony, had the sudden, humiliating realization that my pants were now two sizes too small.

She started slow, hips swaying in a rhythm that made my pulse spike. By the time she ripped the blazer open, buttons pinging off like tiny champagne corks, I was gone. Not literally, but figuratively I'd gone over the hill and disappeared somewhere two counties away. Because underneath? Not just breasts. Architecture. Two perfect, gravity-defying, "I pay my own tuition and also your mortgage" works of art. And below them? Abs. Actual, carved-in-marble, I-could-grate-cheese-on-these-abs.

Her biceps flexed as she ran her hands over her own body, squeezing, teasing, making every coach in the place lose their damn minds.

She moved like she was both predator and prey, all tiny waist and ridiculous curves and muscles that flexed and popped with every breath. I had never been so simultaneously turned on and academically concerned in my life.

I should have looked away. I was tenured, for God's sake. I had summer office hours on Monday. I was supposed to be the guy quoting Updike and dissecting The Great Gatsby while wearing elbow patches. Instead, my eyes followed the way her lats flared when she gripped the pole, the controlled power in her core as she climbed it with the ease of someone who could probably deadlift my entire starting lineup.

One of the coaches next to me—Bobby, I think, from some Catholic school out in Vermont—nudged me with an elbow. "Jesus, Ron. You look like you just saw the Virgin Mary do a windmill dunk."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was dry and my attention zeroed on her and her alone.

She turned, bending over to grip the pole, her ass straining against the tight fabric of her skirt. The room erupted. My cock throbbed, pressing painfully against my zipper. I shifted, trying to ease the pressure, but it was no use. She was a goddess of muscle and sin, and I was a horny professor with dwindling self-control.

She worked the room, but her gaze kept sliding back toward our section. Toward me. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then she dropped into a split that made half the room groan, locked eyes with me, and smirked. It was as if she could read every conflicted, buttoned-up thought in my head and found them amusing.

Those striking, impossible blue eyes against her half-Asian features hit me harder than any dunk. They were the kind of vivid sapphire that didn't belong to a woman built like a warrior, framed by sharp cheekbones and smooth, tanned skin that told of mixed heritage. The overall effect was electric.

As the beat intensified, she crunched and released her abs in a growing frenzy. Her six-pack sharpened into a rock-hard eight-pack, veins faintly visible beneath her skin, and the deep cuts of her Adonis belt emerged like arrows pointing straight to her heavenly core. The tiny strip of fabric covering her pussy was soaked with sweat and clearly outlined every contour. I was so completely enraptured by her swelling, powerful physique that I barely registered her hand sliding down to rub slow, teasing circles over her panties, fingers pressing the damp material against her.

She sauntered toward me, hips rolling like a slow, deliberate threat. Not walked. Not strutted. She sauntered, like a storm system made flesh. The movement was liquid, hypnotic, and I couldn't have looked away if the building caught fire. Each step was a promise, each sway a dare. My fingers dug into my thighs under the table. I was squirming, actually squirming, a thirty-two-year-old tenured professor reduced to helpless fidgeting by the sheer gravitational pull of a young woman.

Her thighs looked like they could crush a man's skull and he'd thank her for it. I wasn't sure I wouldn't volunteer. A dusting of glitter caught the light across her collarbones, her abdomen, and the powerful sweep of her quads. All I could do was squirm in my seat, helpless before her.

When she was right in front of me she dropped into a slow squat, her thighs spreading, and her impossible muscles flexing. I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice the slick shine of her pussy through the thin strip of fabric that barely qualified as clothing. She held it, balancing on those powerful legs, watching me watch her.

Then she winked.