Called By the Dark

three

Sazahn

Ipush backstage, breathless, confused, my mind swimming and body on fire with what just happened…whatever that was.

The dancers all have small semi-private cubicles where we can change, do our makeup and hair, and take a breather. I stumble toward mine and collapse into my chair, then rest my elbows on the vanity and lean forward, cupping my head in my hands.

I was on that stage alone, like I always am. But tonight I felt another presence with me. Almost like an invisible person who started touching me…everywhere. I could have stopped the show, left the stage, but I didn’t.

Because I liked it.

I draw a deep breath and press my thighs together. My clit still throbs slightly from the shattering orgasm I had on stage, and as I shift slightly in my chair, I can feel my own wetness coating my pussy lips, sliding together. I’ve heard of some women having orgasms while they sleep, but never out of nowhere while awake. In front of an audience.

Then there was that whisper I heard distinctly in my mind: Come for me, Sazahn. Come for me. I’ll be back soon, my sweet.

I’m not drunk or high. I didn’t imagine what happened. That was real.

And it was amazing.

It’s been a while since I’ve had sex. Generally, I’m too focused on work and making art to care. I haven’t particularly been thinking of it lately. So it’s not as if my repressed sexual frustrations are manifesting themselves physically or whatever.

So what the fuck was that?

“What the fuck was that?”

I jerk my head up as the door to the dressing room bursts open, then groan inwardly. The club’s manager Marcel is far from my favorite person on a good day. Among the dancers and staff, he’s known as “Marcel the Incel.” A sneering, weasely man with pocked skin, greasy balding hair, and a permascowl, it’s no wonder that the paid sex workers he employs won’t even touch him. It’s

“What was what?” I ask. Playing dumb is usually a good way to get out of trouble with Marcel.

“Running off the stage like that.” He gestures to me in a sweeping up-and-down hand motion. “Still fully dressed.”

I’m not sure there’s any other place on Earth where a sheer bra that does nothing to conceal my nipples and a matching, equally sheer thong equates to “fully dressed,” but here we are.

“You didn’t finish the song,” he snipes. “Care to explain yourself?”

Sure, Incel. What happened was some unseen force made me come my brains out right on stage.

“My stomach hurts,” I tell him, then press a hand to my lower abdomen and feign a pained expression. “Cramps. That time of the month, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” He regards me with suspicion, but his hands are tied. He can’t exactly ask me to verify that.

Well, I guess he could. Then he’d wind up with a fist to his nose, and I’d be out of a job.

“Well, pull yourself together and get back out there,” he says, biting off his words. “Unless you want to go home tipless.”

“I didn’t get any tips for that dance?” I ask, frowning.

Every table is fitted with a reader for the biochips we all have in the back of our hands and a holographic menu. Customers can order drinks, request specific dancers, buy lap dances or other services, and tip the girls. The money goes to the lounge, then Marcel transfers it to each of us.

“You got more tips for that dance than you’ve ever gotten,” he says flatly. “But since you walked off before the end of the song, you forfeit.”

I leap to my feet. “What? That’s robbery! That’s wrong!”

He takes a step toward me until we’re almost nose-to-nose, and I can smell the liquor on his breath. “That’s how I conduct my business, sweetie.” His gaze drops downward, and he raises a hand to my breast, running his thumb over my pierced nipple visible through the sheer fabric of my bra. “Unless you want to earn that money back.”

I knock his hand away, seething. “In your fucking dreams, Incel.”

Oops. I didn’t mean to say his nickname out loud.