Free Eighty Days Amber by Vina Jackson

calculated hardness he inflicted on me as he thrust repeatedly inside me was a way of deepening our bonds at a primal level.
    I’d never known Chey to be as tender and as rough, and it was a combination that both delighted and scared me, as if I was encountering the real Chey, a new ‘him’, and he was all of a sudden both a Prince and the Devil in human form.
    Looking into his eyes as he relentlessly fucked me, his hands grasping my arse cheeks as I lay on my back and cushioned the savage need of his assault I could see that he was already imagining the way I looked naked for other men when I danced and this was his attempt to mark me as his once and for all and keep me from others’ clutches. A form of jealousy, but one that made him so much more imperious, a lover like no others could ever be.
    I spent even longer planning the first set that Chey would witness than I had planning my first ever dance at the Tender Heart. What would he enjoy, what would he approve of? True, I knew I didn’t owe him anything, and I could do whatever it was that I pleased. But I liked Chey, and from the two alternatives available to me, continuing the status quo but with his blessing was undoubtedly my preferred option.
    I felt, instinctively, that he would like my dance, just as he had on the beach. He would enjoy watching me. But I wanted to make absolutely sure that he would see that what I was doing was different. I wasn’t merely a showgirl, shaking my titties for the tip jar. There was more to it than that. An art. I wanted more than his approval. I wanted his respect.
    So I went out of my way to make sure that every detail ofmy routine would appeal to his taste, from the stage lighting – white, not red – down to my outfit – a plain, floor-length gown, white cotton, like the one that I had worn on our holiday, which I could simply slip off my shoulders, without any elaborate strip tease. I went on stage barefooted, and performed my full set to one side, with the centre pole in darkness. For my music, I chose one of his favourite songs, something that I had heard him play in his office on the few occasions that he’d been at home, working on his computer. ‘Devil in the Details’, a home-grown American song by the Walkabouts, a track with a slow start rising to a more athletic crescendo that gave me a chance to start gradually, with more delicate movements, working into the more brazen steps. It was also my sign to Chey that I didn’t forget him when I was dancing.
    He came to my next set at Sweet Lola’s. And when he told me afterwards that I was good, I flushed with pride.
    His next comment, though, was like a slap across the face.
    ‘But you could be better,’ he added, just as he tapped the key code into the gated entrance to his apartment building.
    I bristled immediately, but stopped myself from snapping back at him, remembering that my plan was to gain Chey’s approval and support for my new venture, and if there was one thing that I had learned about men, it was that they liked to feel as though they were in control, even if they weren’t.
    ‘Really?’ I responded with all the sweetness I could muster. ‘Do explain.’
    If Chey noticed the acidity in my tone, he didn’t mention it.
    ‘Classical steps should be set to classical music.’
    ‘I did consider that, but thought it might be a step too far for the club. The Grand allows me a little classical—’
    ‘Leave the clubs to me,’ he replied firmly.
    ‘Okay . . .’ If Chey could broker me even more sway with the Madams, then so much the better. I wasn’t too proud to accept his help, if it meant that I would have more creative freedom.
    ‘And there’s a wildness about your movements.’
    ‘You’re starting to sound like my Russian ballet teachers.’
    ‘Well, your Russian ballet teachers were right. You would benefit from more restraint.’
    Initially, his plans to influence my routines were entirely physical. He introduced me to his Dojo, a