Madame B - Seduction

When my mother advised me to get a bar job to tide me over during my year studying German at Hamburg University, I'm not sure this was what she had in mind. She doesn't know that I work at Bar Fetisch on the notorious Reeperbhan, right in the middle of the red-light district. But hey, I live above the club, I'm learning the language, and I pour a great glass of beer.

A glance at the clock tells me my shift begins in sixty seconds. I totter down the stairs on my vertiginous heels, through the door marked STAFF ONLY, down a dim, red corridor, and then through the beaded curtain and it's showtime! It's ten p.m., but the night has barely begun. Claudia, the manager, is doing the same shift I am and is already behind the bar. When we check out each other's "uniform," we burst into spontaneous laughter. She's dressed like a mirror image of me, but the colors are reversed. She's wearing allover crimson-rubber tube top, hot pants, and boots-and she's got this fabulous, bloodred bobbed wig I've never seen her wear before. I love it. She even has on black lipstick and inky-dark nail polish. Her generous tits are almost flattened by the latex that binds her chest and threatens to suffocate her skin.

"You look sensational!" I tell her.

"Danke," she replies. (Claudia has made it her project to finesse my German skills before term starts.) "We'll have to make sure we stick together tonight. Once the customers see the way we look next to each other, we'll be stuffing tips into our clothes."

"Oh, dear," I say, making a pretend sad face. "I don't think I can fit anything else between my skin and this latex."

"Where there's a will, there's a way!" says Claudia, before turning her dazzling smile on a guy who's just walked in.

When I first met Claudia, her confidence and sass just blew me away. For a while I even had a kind of crush on her, but it never became physical, and now I'm glad about that. I'm up for anything, but when it comes to sex, I'm all about dick.

I take a tray and walk around the bar, collecting empty glasses and wiping down the surfaces. You'd be astonished at the kind of things I've had to clean off the furniture in this job. It's not unheard of to see couples fucking on the side of the stage, where they think we can't see them, or frantic hands making desperate grabs under tables. Of course, I can't see what's happening under the tables, but faces give more away than bodies do. I can spot someone having an orgasm from twenty paces now just by the look on his or her face. I used to get turned on by it at first, but I'm kind of blase now.

On a rammed night like this, the hours fly by. There's the usual mix of customers, mostly a fetish crowd, many of whom I know and say hello to. There's a guy called Antoine who's actually French but loves the bondage scene so much he moved here. Not my type, though; he's very smooth-bodied and slender, and I like my men rough, hairy, unclean. I spend some time at the bar, passing time with Helena and Guy, a couple in their mid-thirties who steal away to the bar whenever they can get a babysitter and relive the fetish clubbing days of their early courtship. Helena can still fit into her original 1980s dress. Guy describes how it takes an hour to buckle and belt her into it, not because fastening the various catches is laborious but because the sight of her trussed up in rubber makes him so horny, he'll stop to fuck her twice, once in the pussy and once in the face. He doesn't hold back on any of the details, and my nipples get hard and hot under my rubber bandeau.

The usual collection of tourists dressed in street clothes is in tonight. They fall into two categories: the ones who look around them, immediately either blush or mumble an excuse, and then turn on their heels and run out and those who, with widened eyes, edge shyly forward, taking in the mix of people and letting the bass-heavy industrial music take over as they nervously order a beer. I always make a special point of talking to these customers to put them at their ease, and not just because I want their tips. You don't do this job unless you're curious about people and what makes them tick. My favorite kind of customer, the one who turns up in jeans and a T-shirt, is the one who, come four a.m., is doing tequila shots and frantically fucking some fetish-head in full-body latex. There's nothing like your first night in the world of kink.

At midnight, the place really gets going. Every table is packed, a sea of flesh wrapped in black and red gear. Tray balanced on my shoulder, I squeeze my way through the crowd, the bare flesh on my thighs and belly occasionally brushing against someone's fetish wear, waking up my skin, making me feel alive. We turn the music up so loud that we have to read each other's lips, and if you stand too near the speakers the bass is so strong you feel it in your pussy. A crowd starts to sway on the tiny dance floor, men and women working up a sweat that gathers in pools under their restrictive clothes. The place smells hot, sexy, of skin and rubber. I look around the packed room, checking for empty glasses or overfull ashtrays. Not many tourists in tonight, just the usual fetish crowd, old friends greeting each other, new friends being made, flirtations and little sexual intrigues developing all over the place. On nights like this, I have the best job in the world. I scan the room again, this time observing people's faces. Relaxation, excitement, trepidation, adventure-everyone's features tell a different, fascinating story.

Then I do a double take. There's one face in the crowd that isn't joining in, isn't watching anyone: a man in his early twenties, pale, almost aristocratic, English-looking face with steely blue eyes that don't smile. Thick, light-brown wavy hair brushes the collarbone of his black turtleneck sweater. He's also wearing black pin-cord trousers and stylish boots. I can tell that his clothes are made of cashmere, fine cotton, and the softest nubuck leather. I don't know what to make of him. He looks more like an escaped librarian than a clubber or a regular on the fetish scene. He looks cultured. Rich. Uptight, even. What the hell's he doing here? I decide to break the ice.

"Hi," I say to him in German, sidling over to his table. "How are you? What are you drinking? Can I get you another?" I ask, even though his beer is still virtually untouched. "Is this your first time here?" The closer I get to him, the more I talk, always a sign that I'm feeling nervous about something. Something about this fusty young man is compelling. I like the way he smells. I like his face. For the first time in years, I'm reminded of the random nature and irresistible pull of sexual chemistry. I'm so disarmed by a sudden rush of lust and adrenaline that I begin to sway and shudder, and nearly drop my tray. When he opens his soft lips to speak, a familiar fluttering in my pussy takes me by surprise.

"I'm Florian," he says, ignoring all my questions, "and you are very beautiful." He places a hand on my naked stomach. Usually behavior like this from a customer I don't know (or even from one I do know) would not be tolerated. He would get a slap in the face, and then Claudia and I would throw him out on the pavement. After all, I'm a waitress, not a private dancer.

But I don't shrink from his touch, because when his hand makes contact with my skin, it's as intense and surprising as being branded with a white-hot poker. His fingertips on my stomach send a searing shock of electricity through my whole body, little lightning rods of sexual desire. He watches as my nipples turn to hard little buds under my top. I gasp for breath as a hot, sticky, trickle of liquid slithers out of my pussy and pools in the gusset of my leather shorts. This is all happening so fast. Usually it takes a couple of dates, some fooling around, a little kissing to get me this horny.