Foursome - Episode 8

She stands there clutching her sweater at the throat, knuckles white, while the guys circle with lazy smiles. One of them flicks the pole lights on. Brass gleams under red bulbs. “Just hold it,” he says, wrapping her fingers around cold metal. “Now move your hips like you’re rinsing soap off your back.” Her skirt rides up on the first swing. Fabric whispers against skin. They clap slow, one beat after another, and she finds the rhythm despite herself. Sweat dots her collarbone. The second shot of vodka goes down easier than the first. Glass clinks against teeth. By the third, her bra strap slips off one shoulder and nobody fixes it. They lead her toward the booth at the back. Leather sticks to bare thighs. Someone’s hand slides up her spine and she arches without thinking. The Commandments feel farther away each time her knees part on the seat. A zipper rasps open. Fingers tug lace aside. She whispers a half-formed protest that melts into a gasp when a tongue finds her. The pole spins empty in the other room, catching red light in lazy arcs, while her voice breaks against the low ceiling and someone laughs, low and satisfied, like they just won a bet.