The Dancer's Final Request Was for Me to Bring a Friend.

My name is Marcus Kane. Thirty-four. Six-foot-three, ex-college football player now building luxury hotels and condos across the Southwest. I close skyline-changing deals by day and change women by night.

Vegas is my second home. Every few weeks I’m there—deals, investors, release. Sapphire is my spot: old-school class, dim blue lights, velvet booths, dancers who move like they own the air. Same table near the stage, same chilled Dom Pérignon at exactly 48 degrees, same waitress who never forgets.

I watch. I tip big. I never grope, harass, or beg. When I want more, I ask once—politely. No means no, and I still tip.

Tonight was different.

At 2:17 a.m. she hit the stage. Lila. Twenty-six. Platinum hair sharp as broken glass, green eyes that threw stage lights back harder. Body carved for sin: long legs, tiny waist, full high breasts, round ass that stopped hearts. Silver bikini painted on, thigh-high boots, choker screaming trouble.

I’d seen her twice before. She always singled me out, held my gaze longer than necessary. Tonight her pole routine was pure sex—slow grind, hair flip, body arching like she was fucking the air. When her set ended she didn’t head backstage. She walked straight to my booth.

Security nodded. They knew me. They knew the rules.

She slid in beside me. Thigh pressed to mine. Perfume hit—vanilla, smoke, something darker.

“Mr. Kane. Late night?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Small, knowing smile. “You never can.”

I poured her champagne. She sipped, eyes locked on mine.

“Private dance?” I asked.

She leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Private everything.”

Pulse spiked. I signaled the waitress, dropped two grand cash on the table. Curtains closed—thick black velvet. Bass from the floor became a distant heartbeat.

Booth was tight: low leather couch, small table, dim purple light, mirror wall. Privacy, but not total. That was the thrill.

Lila stood. Started slow—hands on my shoulders, straddled my lap, ground in deliberate circles. My cock hardened instantly under my slacks.

She felt it. Wider smile. “Always hard for me.”

“Always.”

She kissed me—slow, testing, then deep. Tongue against mine, tasting champagne and sin. Hands on my belt, zipper down, pulled me out—thick, heavy, leaking.

Slow, firm strokes. Thumb circling the head.

“Fuck, Marcus…” Her voice cracked with hunger.

I grabbed her hips, lifted her. She peeled silver bottoms aside—just enough access.

She sank down—slow, inch by inch. Wet heat swallowed me. Tight. Perfect. Low moan when I bottomed out.

Then she rode.

Slow rolls at first, grinding deep. Breasts bounced in my face. I sucked one nipple hard, bit gently. She gasped.

Faster. Harder. Couch creaked. Thighs flexed. Nails dug into my shoulders.

I thrust up—deep, relentless. Skin slapped skin, filling the booth.

“Fuck me like you own me,” she gasped.

I did.

Flipped her onto her back. Legs over my shoulders. Folded her. Pounded—hard, fast, punishing. Tits bounced wildly. Eyes rolled. Mouth open in silent scream.

She came first—violent shudder, pussy clenching like a vice. Squirted hot and wet, soaking my cock and leather.

I kept going. Nails raked my arms. She bit my shoulder—hard enough to bruise.

“Cum in me… fill me up…”

I buried deep. Exploded—thick, pulsing ropes flooding her while she trembled beneath me.

Bodies locked, breathing ragged. Sweat dripped. Cock still twitching inside her.

Pulled out slow. Watched thick white cum leak out, dripping onto the couch.

She sat up. Soft kiss.

“Next time… bring a friend.”

I grinned, breathless. “Already booked.”

Low, wicked laugh. She fixed her bikini, wiped between her thighs with a napkin.

I zipped up. Dropped another thousand on the table.

She left first. I waited two minutes.

Back in the club, lights flashed, music thumped. No one looked twice.

Lila was on the pole again—fresh, composed, like nothing happened.

She caught my eye.

Winked.

I smiled.

Vegas never sleeps.

Neither do I.

Some nights you don’t just watch the show.

You become it.