Free I Was Waiting For You by Maxim Jakubowski

dancer there right then, so it must be for her. A lap dance request. Not her favourite game.
    She set her jeans back on the chair and grabbed her work outfit again.
    It was her hedge funder. Her current greatest fan. They came, they went. Never meant too much to Cornelia. He’d certainly made good time getting here after being advised of her presence, she reckoned.
    â€œHi,” he greeted her, with a large smile on his face.
    â€œHello,” Cornelia walked into the small private cubicle. He was already sitting on the settee, his legs apart, jacket off. He was wearing totally uncreased black corduroy trousers which had probably never been worn before and his customary starched white shirt. His idea, no doubt, of leisure attire in the rush to reach the gentleman’s club from his downtown condo.
    A fifty-dollar bill had been placed on the worn green settee’s corner. He knew the routine. He’d been visiting her over six months already; had probably spent most of a thousand bucks on lap dances with her in that space of time.
    â€œHow are you? Been on vacation? Anywhere nice?” he asked.
    â€œNowhere special,” Cornelia replied, stepping towards him and positioning herself above his knees, ready to straddle him.
    She unhooked her top. Leaned in towards the middle-aged guy, catching a whiff of his deodorant, or was it after shave, observing with detachment how his sandy hair was perfectly sculpted and trimmed.
    â€œMusic?”
    â€œNo need,” he said. Strains of the music playing onstage a few curtains away were leaking through all the way to the cubicle anyway.
    â€œA silent lap dance, eh?” Cornelia said.
    â€œThe best,” he remarked. His eyes alighting on her pink nipples now almost grazing the crisp material of his shirt as she leaned forward, barely making actual contact with him. He took a deep breath. Cornelia was now sitting on his knees and to an unheard rhythm began grinding her arse against his thighs, shifting her weight from one thigh to the other with metronomic regularity, balancing, slipping and sliding. In an instant he was visibly hard. Her head fell towards him, and her jungle curls fell across his forehead, caressing him, whipping him gently. The hedge funder threw his head back and his chest heaved, the white shirt momentarily wiping against her jutting nipples.
    Three minutes can sometimes feel like a wilderness of eternity.
    Cornelia never offered any extras. Just a basic lap dance. No frottage. No unzipping the punter’s trousers and helping him manually to climax. No lips or mouth on his cock, let alone his face or any other part of the man’s anatomy. She had explained the rules the first time he’d called for her after her show. Naturally, on the initial occasions, he had suggested more, offered more cash, but she was not prepared to change her rules. For him or anyone else. She had made that clear.
    The allotted time ran out. Cornelia began to rise.
    â€œNo. Stay,” he asked, his hand extending to the jacket draped across the other side of the settee and pulling out a further bank note.
    â€œIt’s your money,” Cornelia remarked and began to grind into him again.
    â€œNo need for that,” he said. “Just talk …”
    Again. He always wanted to talk. But Cornelia was not into conversation. This was a job, that was all. She felt no need for bonding or extraneous manifestations of friendship. Just keep it professional.
    â€œFine,” she agreed. Still sitting on his knees, his bones now pressing hard into her flesh. Tiredness rushed across her body. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come and work so quickly after the transatlantic flight.
    â€œYou never say much, do you?”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m here for, is it?” Cornelia replied.
    â€œI realise that, but … it would be nice to know something about you, wouldn’t it? After all, you seem intelligent … and with all due