Costume contest night at my club is the Super Bowl of my whole year, baby, and this year I did not come to play. I came as a vampire. Black corset laced tight enough to rearrange my priorities, a cape, red lips, little fangs I had practiced smiling around for a week, and a set on the pole that ended with me hanging upside down by one thigh while the whole room lost its mind. I won. Of course I won. The trophy was still warm in my hand when I looked down at the front row and saw the birthday boy.
His friends had brought him in with a sash and a plastic crown and the kind of drunk that makes men honest. His name was Chris, his friends were chanting it, and he had watched my entire set with his mouth open like the contest had been held inside his own head. When the DJ announced the winner's prize, a private dance for the luckiest man in the room, his friends spent forty seconds shoving his wallet at the bouncer to make sure the luckiest man was theirs. I crooked one red fingernail at him and crooked it slow.
"Backstage, birthday boy," I said. "The VIP room is for customers. Winners get the dressing room."
My dressing room is a mirror ringed with bulbs, a makeup counter, and a chair that has seen things HR will never know about. I sat him in that chair and gave him thirty seconds of the dance standing, cape swirling, corset doing its engineering, before I straddled his lap and ground down onto him slow, my fangs an inch from his neck while I whispered the menu of everything a vampire does to a man she is not returning. He was hard enough to bruise through his jeans. I could feel his heart going like a drum line. Then I sank to my knees on the dressing room floor, unzipped him between the costume racks, and took his cock into my mouth with the fangs tucked careful and my red lipstick marking every inch of him, one hand stroking, the other gripping his thigh while he held the arms of the chair and said my name and the word please in rotation.
"Your friends are right outside," I reminded him, coming up for air, his cock shining with my lipstick.
"I do not care," he gasped. "Casey, I do not care about anything."
That is the spirit Halloween gives men, and I reward it. I stood, turned around, backed into his lap, and sank down onto him reverse, facing the mirror, so he could watch a vampire ride him in the bulbs. I bounced on him with my hands on my knees and my cape spread over both of us, his hands gripping my corseted waist, his face buried between my shoulder blades while I watched us in the glass like the best movie ever made in a dressing room. When I felt him getting close I climbed off, spun, bent over the makeup counter with my ass in the air and my fangs in my smile over my shoulder, and he was behind me in one motion, pushing into me deep while the lipsticks rattled and the mirror gave us back every angle. He fucked me against that counter until I came grabbing the edge and biting my own cape to stay quiet, and he followed a minute later, filling me, collapsing against my back with his plastic crown on the floor where it belonged.
He went back to his friends with my lipstick in three places and the sash on backwards. They think he got a dance. He got a whole haunting.
Your club at home has no backstage, baby, but mine fits in your phone. This is what halloween phone sex sounds like with a real dancer: the contest, the cape, the chair, the mirror, all of it narrated by the vampire herself for a dollar a minute on PhoneBuckFuck. The rest of the girls are costumed up on the Halloween page, and if you have not met my Friday regular yet, the VIP room story is where he lives. Our dancers do not believe in distance, and neither does October. Book the dressing room, birthday boy.