J. T. dashed the short block and a half from the subway to Club DanceFire, his heart thumping its strenuous objection to too many professional dinners, too few rounds of golf and the resultant pounds of flab.

He zigzagged clumsily through the Friday night revelers like a man possessed, ignoring the pelting rain that blurred his vision and stung the generous bald spot that crowned his hatless head.

Over-exertion had begun to burn its way across his chest and down the length of his aching legs. It scared him, but not enough to make him slow down.

What in God's name am I doing here? What am I trying to prove? Mid-stride he checked his watch. It was almost midnight and closing time was one.

He quickened his pace and despite feeling out of control, out of place and out of breath, soon found himself in front of the club. He stepped through the doorway and nodded at the heavyweight bouncer who stood, arms folded across his chest, smirking down at him. "I was wondering when you'd show up," he boomed. How fucking embarrassing. I should go home.

Now! But he didn't. Instead, he watched himself with wary suspicion as he would a fifty year old furtive stranger, slinking toward that table on the aisle. He wasn't interested in the two girls onstage sharing the silver pole and each other; and he couldn't have cared less about the whispered seductions, hot breaths into lonely ears, purring all across the floor.

None of them had her face, so he concentrated on the flow of traffic moving back and forth along the aisle to The Lapdance Lounge, the place where dancers danced, offering much more than they intended to give; the place where men paid for promises. He slouched deeper in his seat, as if that posture and the moody darkness would conspire to cloak him in invisibility, and settled into his watch, scanning the joint like a pimp looking for his favorite mama.

The scene was a moving blur. He blinked calibrating his binocular eyes to focus on one object only, no matter the distance. He blinked again, scanning the room slowly with meticulous care, but tonight the target was nowhere to be found. "Maybe she changed her mind about working tonight," he reasoned miserably. She was Desiree, an exotic dancer, and he was Judge William Thompson. He couldn't believe that it was only a week ago that an associate's drunken stag had ended up here and he'd first seen her. It seemed like a lifetime ago because since that first visit, his life hadn't been his own.

This vixen had invaded his psyche, erased and reprogrammed the database of his very soul. Gone was the conservative, ambitious political judge and in his place was this needy, obsessed and vulnerable man who lived only to see and be seen by Desiree.

"Back again," chirped the all-too-cheery waitress. "That's six days in a row!" "Seven," J.T. snapped. "And what business is it of yours?" "Sorry, didn't mean anything by it," the waitress apologized.

"The usual?" "Fine," J.T. said sheepishly. "Desiree's in back with a regular," she blurted gratuitously, before scurrying off toward the bar. J.T. was appreciating a moment's silence from the music that had been bursting his eardrums ever since he arrived, when the D.J's voice announced over the speaker: Grab yourselves a drink and get ready for Angel Eyes . . . "Your drink, sir," said the waitress, setting his Chivas carefully in front of him.

"Desiree should be out soon." Her voice was kind, soothing. "Thanks," J.T. said, reaching for his drink with one hand and fumbling for his wallet with the other. He dropped a twenty on her tray.

"Thanks," he repeated. "Keep the chan...," his voice trailed off. Desiree was gliding toward him, a flushed and smiling businessman in tow. J.T. jumped up and in one second flat was standing in her path, gawking.

Red high-heeled leather boots covered her shapely legs to mid thigh and black fishnet stockings teased to the edge of a matching red-leather, long sleeved turtle necked number that tapered her waist and exaggerated the ripe fleshiness of her firmly contained breasts.

A sturdy brass zipper emerged brazenly from between her legs to reach all the way to her neck. Noticing him, she slowed her pace, teasing him with the sway of her shoulders, the deliberate outlining of her lips with her pink tongue. She kidnapped his eyes and sent erotic currents coursing along his nerve ends and his cock puffed and lurched with desire. She was close, so close.

She invaded his space. He could feel her breath, feel her body's heat and it took more than all the willpower he had not to grab her. It took the knowledge that she could have him thrown out on his ear, that he could lose her, his reputation and his career. It took that to keep his hands from grabbing his crotch and rubbing, stroking and massaging pleasure onto his dripping cock and heavy balls, until he came and came. "Can I have the next dance?" he gushed. "I'm on a break till the last set, baby."

"Save the last dance for me?" he begged. "Okay, unless of course somebody goes for the whole set." "I mean, I meant the last set, the whole set," J.T. said, his voice rising in desperation. "First come first served," Desiree said, moving around him. "You got it," she flung over her shoulder casually. J.T. sipped his Chivas.

He felt almost nauseous with longing and anticipation and noted that, before this week, it had been a very long time since he'd felt so alive. Life had numbed him. He'd lived through three failed marriages, the first two inevitable. Both of those wives demanded more time and attention than he had to give. But the third, that was his failure.

That was another story. Elizabeth was twenty years his junior and he'd married her after only six months of romancing her off her feet. He assumed they were happy until three months later when he'd come home to a note: Last night when you insisted I change for Larry's party I realized that I'm not what you want. I'll never change for you again and there's no reason for either of us to suffer so I'm out of here. I want nothing from you. Be happy, Elizabeth. He checked the house. Everything she owned was gone.

Everything he owned was left. It was like she'd never been there. He'd read the note twice, poured himself a brandy and then another and another, until her words, his feelings and the truth were thankfully one anesthetized blur. That was almost a year ago and it wasn't until this week in the shadowy anonymity of ‘Club DanceFire', that he allowed himself to face the fact that he'd feared her beauty and sensuality and that his jealousy and insecurity, his need to control her, had driven her away.

And he mourned because he knew now that he'd give anything, all his worldly goods and his seat on the bench, to turn back the clock and do it right this time. The D.J. boomed over the speaker: Last set. Get yourself a drink. Get yourself a girl . . .

"Ready, Tiger?" Desiree whispered huskily, leaning over him. He could smell Opium. He could smell her perfume. J.T. stumbled out of his seat and lurched after her. His eyes gobbled her legs, the sway of her round ass. His skin was flushed and his balls tightened impatiently as he glimpsed her breasts peeping into view, left...right, following the sexy rhythm of her footsteps.

Desiree led him to the end of a row of partitioned private booths. "Sit," she said, facing him. J.T. sat in the oversized chair in front of her. Slowly, Desiree took hold of the brass ring of her zipper and pulled, exposing an increasingly long line of cleavage that ran into her bra. She reached in and pulled out a flat envelope of a moneybag and tossed it onto J.T's lap. "What would you like?

A dressed twenty-five or topless thirty-five?" she asked. J.T. pulled a stack of bills from his wallet, counting off ten twenties. "How about two dances, whatever you want, and the third in The Private Quarter?" he asked, shoving the bills into her bag. "Haven't I told you that I don't do the PQ, naughty boy?" "Always a first time," J.T. whispered, stashing the purse in the chair pocket as he'd learned to do. He'd seen men being led off to the PQ, as they called it, and heard rumors about its possibilities.

Desiree merely chuckled. A female vocalist began, "A good man is hard to find ..." and she turned away from J.T. She stretched as if waking from sleep and then cradled her breasts in her arms. She twisted slowly toward him, rocking her babies, bending over him so he could have a good look; she knew his weakness.

She placed her booted foot beside him, her hands on the arms of his chair and swayed slowly, lower and lower until her breasts were slapping his face. "Yes, baby," J.T. groaned, reaching for her. "Tut tut, Baby," she said, standing and looking down at him. He remembered the rules, no touching, and let his hands fall to his sides.

He was so horny and he couldn't stop his hips that thrust frantically into the air between them. She bent over him again, smothering him in the embrace of her huge warm mounds and he cracked. He massaged his throbbing cock through his pants, as he breathed leather and flesh.

Clear sticky goo oozed into his pants, as her fingers teased circles about his baldness. J.T. didn't know when the first song ended or the next began. All he knew was that Desiree was facing away from him, bending over, her ass beckoning him, her heavy tits threatening to burst out of their bodice as she squeezed them, offered them to him from between her legs.

And then she turned toward him, massaging her breast and then tweaking her nipple with one hand, while the other caressed her pussy. He thought he saw, smelled her wetness but he couldn't be sure because his cock was screaming, insisting and he couldn't be sure of anything. Was he pulling out his cock? "Yes," he groaned, as he stroked the flesh of his cock, his legs stretched forward and his wet dick feeling bigger and better than it ever had before.

"Come," Desiree hissed, grabbing her purse and his arm and dragging him through the door of The Private Quarter. She shut the door quickly. "Bad, bad boy!" The Private Quarter sported a luxurious couch and soft music seemed to seep from the walls, ceiling and floor.

Desiree pushed J.T. onto the couch and began dancing. She was a sex goddess moving for her own pleasure; fingers through her hair, hands moving over her own body. She returned to the zipper-ring and pulled until her exposed tits ballooned out of her skimpy leather bra, until she reached under her cunt to ... snap ... The bustier fell to the floor, revealing her juice stained, tiny leather thong. "Hurry," said J.T, his strokes becoming longer, shorter, quicker and slower? He no longer knew; he was no longer in control.

"Please hurry," he repeated, as she stepped out of the thong. "Oh God," she groaned, rubbing her clit and then plunging her finger inside, as her legs buckled as she trembled toward the couch. She straddled J.T, her pussy inches from his cock. She gazed into his eyes and then lowered herself to kiss his cock with the sweet lips and then the mouth of her dripping pussy.

"Oh no," J.T.cried, as she raised herself off him. "Oh yes," he cried, as she plunged back onto him. He reached, touched and grabbed at her breasts and then collapsed as she rode him. He gasped at the sight of her tits heaving, bouncing, and careening in every direction. "Now," she said, head thrown back, her pussy wet finger nudging her ... him ... them over the edge. "Elizabeth," he screamed, exploding months of waiting, endless powerful jets of hot thick cum into her.

"Desiree to you," she said impishly, collapsing onto his chest. "We have to get out of here," she said after a few minutes. "This was my place of business. I always said I'd quit before I let any customer get me into The Private Quarter."

"My darling Elizabeth, if I promise never to forget Desiree, will you come home with me?" J.T. asked softly. Desiree balanced on her elbow to look down at him. "Are those tears?" she asked, touching his cheek with a tender finger. "Let's go home," she said, not waiting for an answer.