I led Mr Robertson out through the black door to the back of the club. Our footsteps were muffled as we walked along the greying, threadbare carpet, so ingrained with dirt that you could never be certain of its true colour. I'd heard the private rooms had been decked well, nice and fancy looking if you were to believe the stories; but considering the state of the rest of the place I felt it would be one of those need to actually see it to believe it moments. It was this thought that kept me confidently walking down the corridor to the row of highly polished doors, stopped the shudder of nerves from faltering my footsteps or tempting my shoulders to shake. I supposed it was time I saw the truth for myself.

I had the key for room number three clutched almost painfully hard in my hand. The sharp prongs of the brass coloured key digging into my palm did little to help me wake up, switch Sarah back on; seems I wasn't actually dreaming after all. The key was nothing special, one of those that opened your standard mortise lock. A red, slightly worn, cardboard tab was tied to the loop at the end on a length of white thread, a curly number three scrawled onto the card. But as normal and uninteresting as it looked, that key would do far more than simply open a door into another room. For me, it would open a door into a whole new domain of uncharted territory and situations I never could have pictured myself being thrown into. Yet another new chapter was opening up in my life, but I wasn't feeling particularly eager to start it.

I slotted the key, with some difficulty as my fingers had begun to tremble, into the small hole in the door, and had to breathe a heavy sigh before I found the strength of will to click it open. I removed the key and pushed back the door with a gesture to the man who had been following me diligently, but also silently, from the moment we had left the bar.

 "After you Mr Robertson." I said, stretching my lips into the sweetest smile I could muster.

Nerves had started to play merry hell with me, so much so that the small flickering of excitement, that prevented me from protesting, had all but fizzled out. Nothing left but nerves and anxiety; yeah that'd make for a great show.

"Please Sarah, call me Leon. In these circumstances I don't think we really need all the formalities." He said softly - smiling, a warm curving of lips as he passed me and entered the room.

 His voice came as a surprise; I hadn't expected it to sound quite so rich and warm from his seemingly dark and stoic appearance. It reminded me somewhat of honey, the good stuff that wasn't too sickly sweet but was comforting all the same, and I felt the nerves and tension ease slightly. Perhaps it was the silence that had me a little freaked, I'm not sure, but the friendliness in his tone certainly helped to take the edge off a little.

"Ah, okay then, Leon. Funny you didn't strike me as a Leon." I said as I entered the room and pushed the door closed behind me.

 It seemed my mouth was able to run and perform small talk all of its own accord which was yet another relief. I could feel myself slipping further back into that relaxed and casual state I felt when I performed, this thought was slightly worrying, I did not think it was such a good idea to switch back on the autopilot - not that my body was listening to my minds fretting; it rarely seemed to matter any more.

He laughed. That rich honey voice ran over me again and seemed to soothe just like a hot honey drink could soothe a sore throat.

 "No I suppose it would not have been my first choice of a name but there will be no questioning my mothers taste." He mused, humour tinting his words with colour.

"It's not bad, just wouldn't have been anywhere near the top of my guess list." I replied.

"Well I never would have pegged you for a Sarah, something far more exotic would have been my first choice."

"Exotic? Me?” I scoffed with a roll of my eyes, “Okay now I know you're just trying to butter me up. You're already paying a load of money for this, phoney compliments aren't necessary. Trust me." I replied with some sass and a smirk.

 Autopilot was, most certainly, fully engaged once again and this time it was even controlling my vocal chords; or perhaps I had just come to use that as an excuse to negate responsibility for my actions. Either way, I should have know I was asking for trouble. Leon seemed like a nice enough bloke, but appearances can often be deceptive.

"Well okay, perhaps it was a slightly cheesy line. Forgive me?" Leon asked. Arching one eyebrow in that trick of facial muscles I could never master and coyly dropping his gaze in a show of faked innocence. The man was in a strip club and had just paid for a one-on-one 'show' with one of the dancers, just how innocent did he think he could appear?

"Just as long as you don't do it again. Your money is good enough, I can do without the fake flattery." I replied, in a sultry tone I never knew my voice could take on, as I sashayed across the floor, hips in full 'work' mode.

I took that moment to finally take in my new surroundings. They hadn't been lying when the girls said the private rooms were fancy. Plush red carpet, the same the lined the corridor, wall to wall, those of which were painted a deep burgundy. A few items of furniture were all that bedecked the floor, an armchair and loveseat in matching shades of wine – red very much the theme it seemed – a mahogany end table, it's top ringed with sticky drink marks sat to one side of the chair, it may have been a fancy room, but seemed the cleaning was still not quite up to scratch. And for some reason, a lone, straight backed wooden chair sat in the very centre of the room. The word prop immediately sprang to mind, and I felt my nerves begin to trickle back as I surveyed it all. Though I didn't have much time to think on what I was supposed to do with all of this as his voice cut through my thoughts.

"Well there you go again, reminding me of the real reason I'm in here with you. Can't we just pretend that you're actually here for me, because you want to be?" He asked, slipping past me and falling gracefully into the armchair.

His words stumped me a little, was that a usual request? Did a lot of the guys often ask for a little play acting so that they could live the delusion that they hadn't in fact paid this girl to be there dancing naked all over him, that she, in fact was, doing it all of her own accord because she wanted him?

 Actually, as I thought on it, it seemed quite probable, though it raised in me further questions. Why had Leon requested that delusion? He, to me, actually seemed handsome enough, charming, friendly and all those other nice things that a girl looked for in a guy. So, he might be between girlfriends, or dates, or whatever, looking for a bit of fun for a night; but why the play acting? Was he feeling something akin to shame at what he was doing, he wasn't a regular and Vincent had specifically stated it was his first visit to the club. Was this the first time he'd done anything of this sort, and was he feeling somewhat embarrassed about the whole thing. And why had he picked me?

The questions danced around in my head, begging for answers but I didn't ask; it didn't seem polite to keep them to myself; perhaps it really was just the norm in these situations. Instead, I shrugged and said, "Sure I guess so. It's your money I guess we can do whatever you want." And then added, after allowing my brain a little space to use some common sense, "Within reason of course."

He grinned at me. "Of course. You have every right to refuse any request I might make, sordid or otherwise."

I chuckled along with him. His tone may have been light hearted and friendly, but I knew he was also deadly serious and I allowed myself to feel somewhat comforted that he would respect the boundaries I'd put in place. But, then came the awkward silence I had been anticipating from the moment I stepped into the room. There had to come a time when the friendly banter ended and the case of me having to do what he had actually paid for would arise, but I didn't know where to start.

 After all the nice talking I felt far too self-conscious to just start dancing and taking my clothes off. There was no music, no bright lights to blind me from my audience, no podium or pole to set me into that well practised rhythm, and I felt lost.

 "Sooo umm... what was it you were wanting from me precisely?" I found myself having to ask. "You heard Vincent say this was the first time someone had picked me to do this so, um, I don't really have like a set programme or anything."

"You're nervous." It was a statement, not a question, but I felt the need to answer it anyway.

"Well yes, I suppose I am."

"You danced out there with nothing but pure confidence." He said, quizzically.

"Yes, and I was nervous as hell the first time I had to do that too!"

He nodded, "I am surprised no one has snagged you for this before. It feels rather empowering to be the first."

I frowned, "Why did you choose me?"

"I watched you out there and you called to me." Was his simple reply.

 I didn't understand and ventured to question him further, but he seemed to choose that moment to notice that time was moving on, and that he might actually want his money's worth out of me that night.

 "And I want you to dance for me again." He said simply, cutting off any question I might have hastened to ask and looking at me with that dark, serious expression he'd worn as I climbed down from my podium

He had risen from the chair and stepped closer to me, I barely even registered his movement. I could feel the heat radiating from him, barely inches away, more than close enough to reach out and touch; but I didn't. I didn't want to.

He traced fingers down my neck and over my collar bone, the barest feather light touch of flesh that made my mouth dry and stomach clench.

Leon toyed with the edge of baby pink chiffon at my shoulder and whispered in a darker, velvet tone. "The same show over again, but this time only for me." He sounded possessive, voice fringed with desire that both thrilled me and frightened me.

I swallowed hard against the sandpaper texture my throat had taken on. "But I have no music." I managed to croak.

"Doesn't matter, just picture it." Fingers found a thick blonde curl to twist and twirl between them, "Feel it, for me?" Coaxing, almost pleading were his words.

How could I refuse?