I began as a ballerina. Dull, perhaps, at least that’s what it felt like under the weight of my parents’ expectations. As a teenager I tried everything I could to shake it off — polka, hip-hop, even a brief spell with belly dancing. By the time university came around I wanted independence more than applause, so I slipped into waitressing like so many girls do. But I knew within weeks it wasn’t going to carry me far. Then fate, or curiosity, intervened: the university launched a pole-dancing course. I went along one afternoon, thinking nothing of it, and left with my whole body alive in a way I’d never felt before.
It wasn’t simply the pole that hooked me. It was the discovery of performance that was sensual rather than pretty. Within months I had auditioned for work as a dancer, inexperienced but determined. To my surprise, they hired me. That yes became a turning point, one that eventually carried me here — six months on, thriving as a striptease escort in Canary Wharf, drawing men not only with movement but with the mood I could create.
Tonight I was meeting Matt, one of my regulars and one of the few who made me look forward to the evening before it had even begun.
“There’s my beautiful flower,” he said when I arrived, arms wide.
“Hi, Matt.” I leaned in, kissed the smooth skin of his freshly shaven cheek, and smiled at the faint scratch of stubble just starting to grow back.
We moved into the penthouse living room — wide enough for what he really wanted. He lounged back with that familiar half-grin.
“So, what has my little private dancer planned for me today?”
“Something spicy,” I teased.
The salsa track I’d chosen filled the room. I began with fluid hip rolls, easing him in. His eyes never left me, hungry, reverent. The rhythm shifted, more urgent now, and I let the music coax me out of one layer, then another. My skin prickled under his gaze. What struck me most was his restraint — he never reached out, even as desire drew him taut.
By the end I was left in little more than a suggestion of fabric, my body hot, my breath quickened. I lingered just out of reach, letting the tension coil tighter between us. Sweat ran down my spine, yet instead of cooling me it only heightened the sense of theatre. He wanted to see how far I’d take it. I wanted to see how long he could hold himself still.
The performance wasn’t just mine; it belonged to both of us. Canary Wharf glittered through the window behind me, a reminder of the city outside, though in that moment it felt like the world had narrowed to two people locked in a private game of patience and temptation.
If you enjoy this encounter, you might also like wandering into other fantasies such as The Foxgirl in Mayfair or An Adventurous Night in Baker Street.