New story, who dis?
.
Winter of '18
Elsa had promised herself that she would not spend another birthday alone.
She spent all morning thinking about this. As she showered, as she stared at the fresh coffee dripping into the pot; as she buttoned up her blouse, zipped up her fitted slacks, stepped into her Nine West heels. It was all she could think about as she drove through Sunset Boulevard, the radio blabbering on low about politics, economics and social unrest.
On mornings, Elsa tended to wonder: Would there be anything left to talk about if the world were at peace?
She merged onto the 101 freeway as the notion dwindled, like the flame of a candle reaching its end. What should she do for her birthday? she thought instead. "Absolutely nothing," she said out loud, her voice dripping with steely sarcasm. No expectations lead to no high hopes. No high hopes lead to no disappointments. It was so stupidly simple, Elsa didn't know why it was so damn hard.
She reached downtown faster than usual and considered it a good omen. She parked her car in the building lot without turning off the engine, opened the door, set her heeled foot on the pavement. The keys were given to a cordial valet and, as usual, she smiled curtly and bid him a good morning. There was always a beat that dangled after she said this: she did not know his name.
The sound of heels over polished marble echoed in the high-ceiling lobby as she waved at the security guard (Janet. I'm pretty sure that's her name) and took the elevator to the fiftieth floor. Inside, she observed as the numbers went up like the ticking of an electronic watch: 12...13...14... Soon, she felt like laughing. What did it really matter if she spent another birthday alone? She could work until late tonight and tire herself out, order food on her way back home, watch one or two episodes of some new series and lull herself to sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day and she would be thirty, and the earth would go on rotating around the sun just like it did with or without her existence.
Yes, she was apathetic for the most part; distant to the idea of large groups and planned parties. But there was no one in her life anymore who made these things bearable for her, and as such, there was no one in her life Elsa wished to spend yet another birthday with.
Well, she thought, no one except—
The elevator came to a dinging stop. It opened its doors before Elsa sighed through her nose and finally stepped out, leaving the traces of a life that no longer felt like her own, behind.
.
The day Elsa was admitted to the California Bar was one of the saddest of her life.
It was a dry summer day when she walked out of her small studio apartment after having looked up the results. She'd done this with the intention of celebrating, but as soon as she found herself standing outside she realized that she did not know how.
She walked to the diner around the corner—the one usually crowded with students and one or two faculty members who looked out of place—, went inside and sat down in a booth. She ordered a club sandwich and french fries from a freshman-looking guy. The club sandwich was her usual; the french fries, an indulgence. She was celebrating, she told herself. She could very well order a chocolate milkshake afterwards and call it the cherry on top of her one-person party.
Without a book to keep her company, Elsa found herself paying attention to her surroundings. There was a group of four sitting in the booth across from her. They looked her age, but somehow happier. Sitting at the bar nearby was a man, his potbelly poking out above his belt, his shoulders hunched as he devoured his cheeseburger. Elsa could see a dark stain (ketchup, maybe) on his khaki pants. Next to him, a girl was reading a book and sipping lemonade from a straw.
Elsa then looked out the window with a sigh, as if the action were a tiring one. There was a girl longboarding down the street. A guy carrying a backpack, grocery bags in his hands. A girl and a guy with their arms around each other. They all made life seem so simple that Elsa could not help but envy them. What's your secret? she wanted to ask. How do you ease yourself of your burdens?
The freshman waiter came back with her sandwich and her fries, and Elsa thanked him with diffidence. She got started on the french fries first, even as she realized that she had no real appetite. She didn't think she'd had any today; certainly not before logging in to know whether she'd been admitted to the Bar, and apparently not afterwards either. Yet, she forced herself to eat. Her mother's voice, vague and distant even in her mind, told her that she had to.
Elsa wondered what she looked like to everybody else: a lonely girl nibbling at a french fry. She felt like rolling her eyes, but rolled her shoulders back instead and feigned impetus as she reached for her sandwich. Maybe she should be thinking about the things she had to get done once she got back to the apartment. She needed to finish packing. She needed to call her internet provider and ask where she could drop off the modem. She needed to schedule the apartment's walk-through with Mr. Patel. She needed to at least finish half of this. The rest she would have for dinner.
In a week's time she would be moving to Los Angeles. She'd made the decision one night, when the walls of her crammed apartment felt as if they were closing in on her. After that, everything became part of a momentum. She searched for jobs, for apartments and for roommates, and they fell in reverse order. The job offer for a clerk position at a prestigious law firm had sat in her inbox for little less than an hour before she'd responded. Thank you for the opportunity... and the rest had simply followed. None of her decisions felt precipitated. She had nothing and no one holding her back.
But haunted by the decisions she'd once had to make, Elsa had begun to wonder if this was more akin to running away than to searching for a new start. Did the two ever overlap or was one simply a façade for the other?
Elsa sat back against the booth. Her lack of appetite only increasing with every bite she took.
She asked for a to-go box and for the bill without any more thoughts of a milkshake. She was desperate to leave, suddenly overwhelmed by that which she so often fought to ignore.
She exited the diner with a white plastic bag hanging from her wrist and quivering breaths born out of her chest. She did not want to celebrate anymore. She was going back home. Back to her packed boxes and her empty walls; to the mattress on her floor and the blankets in disarray. Back, as well, to the space that had sheltered her darkest nights and witnessed her loneliest moments. The space that had absorbed her guilt and her regret, her longing and her misplaced love.
When she arrived at her apartment, the disillusionment of being alone never felt greater. Because Elsa had no one holding her back and that, on its own, was the thing that hurt the most.
.
A knock on the door pulled at her attention.
"Come in," Elsa answered, still cradling her forehead in her hand as she tried to process at least one full sentence of the draft contract before her.
"Happy birthday, boss."
Unperturbed, she looked up. "I'm not your boss, Kristoff," was the first thing she said. She eyed the cupcake in his hand, a purple candle sticking out of its vanilla icing. It gave Elsa a mild sense of affability. "But thank you."
Kristoff waved her off, focused on not having the flame of the candle extinguish itself as he made his way over to her desk. He placed the cupcake dangerously close to the contract. Elsa nudged it farther to the side. He paid this no mind.
"Happy birthday," he said again. He, who was probably more friend than acquaintance at this point; who had been working side by side with Elsa for the past five years, but who was seemingly less likely to be promoted at any time—hence the term 'boss.' Because once she'd gotten started, it hadn't taken her long to step up her game and leave the clerk floor behind. Elsa had it in her and she knew it. The grit, the quick-thinking, the lack of personal life...
"Aren't you gonna blow out the candle?"
"Right. Yes." She picked up the cupcake and did just that.
"You didn't make a wish," Kristoff pointed out.
"I did." She didn't. But even if Elsa had done it, she knew whatever she ended up wishing for wouldn't come true. Making wishes before blowing out a candle was for kids and delusional adults. "Did you hear back from Cynatech about their acquisitions?"
Kristoff gave her a bewildered look.
"What?"
"Usually people like to take a pause in their day to acknowledge their birthday."
"I did that this morning." What more did he want from her?
"Sure, you did." He leaned back in the chair, mirroring Elsa's lax position. "Got any plans for today?"
"No," she said, mildly irritated by the fact that he's ignored her question, but more so by the fact that he didn't seem to want to drop the matter of her birthday.
"Good. Because I have a surprise for you."
"I'm sorry?"
"A surprise," he deadpanned. "For your birthday."
Elsa arched a skeptical eyebrow. "You know I don't do surprises."
"You'll do this one," Kristoff winked. "So I'll see you at six." He then stood up and pointed at the cupcake. "Eat that while you still remember it exists."
"Offices close at five."
Kristoff let out a chuckle as he went to grab the door handle. "When have you ever finished at five?"
He walked out of her office after this, leaving Elsa staring at the closed door with a stony expression on her face. She should be ashamed of herself, she found herself thinking. Wasn't she whining on her way over here about not wanting to spend another birthday alone? Shouldn't the idea of going out with a more or less friend be appealing?
Beggars can't be choosers.
Right. But Elsa wasn't a beggar. She was picky. And she was lonely by default; she always had been. That is why she spent most of law school with her nose buried in a book as if the stench of life bothered her. Why she rarely went on dates—and those she did, hardly sought to repeat—and why she rarely hooked up. Why she was known to be a mystery at work, which was a rather dumb exaggeration but also, undeniably, a great tool to keep people away.
It was the surprise factor that bothered her the most. This is what Elsa told herself before she finally moved the cupcake to the corner of her desk, took hold of the draft contract and sat back in her La-Z-Boy chair. She pursed her lips one last time. She hated surprises.
.
Elsa finished at exactly 5:56 PM, when the sun had already sunk far behind the indiscernible curve of the Pacific ocean. The frame of her large window captured the city's nighttime skyline, thousands of lights reaching farther than the eye could see. She took her time, as she always did, getting ready to leave. She donned her gray coat as she took in the overwhelming view. She turned off the lights in her office as she looked back one last time. She fiddled with her keys after closing the door behind her as she mused and longed, and thought, ironically, that maybe she should have made that wish after all.
In the elevator, she ran into a junior associate and found it odd that he should be here this late. However, all she managed was a polite smile, leaving the unspoken question to someone more interested in knowing than her.
As they reached the lobby he bid her a good night and she did the same. She was half hoping that Kristoff wouldn't be there, that he'd forgotten or that he'd had second thoughts himself. Never did the idea of take out food and an evening in bed sound more attractive than in that moment.
He was there, however, with an arm propped over the front desk, chatting animatedly with the security guard. What if Elsa just kept walking? What if she pretended she couldn't hear him when he called out to her? This dumb, rebellious notion made her giddy.
Kristoff looked up and his eyes fell on her. It was too late now. "Hey!"
Elsa drew closer. "Hi," she said to both parties.
"It's her birthday," he told Janet while Elsa blinked slowly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
"Happy birthday, Miss Anderson."
"Thank you," she replied politely. It wasn't Janet's fault that Kristoff wouldn't stop talking about it.
He pushed himself away from the desk. "All right, we should get going." They said their quick goodbyes to Janet and headed to the parking lot where they would be taking Elsa's car. Why? she'd asked. Because she was too attached to it and Kristoff knew there was no way she would leave it abandoned in the parking lot even for a few hours. She did not try to refute this. Her C5 Corvette was special. And besides, it allowed her the opportunity to leave from wherever they were going whenever she pleased.
"Must you flirt with everyone?" she asked as the valet was parking her car by the curb.
Kristoff scoffed. "I was just being friendly. You should try it some time."
She accepted the keys, gave the young man a ten even though the building covered valet services, and got in the car. "I'm friendly enough with Janet," she told Kristoff.
He stared at her from the passenger's seat. "Her name is Janice."
"Well..." She began driving towards the exit. "Some of us can't hold onto that kind of information."
From her peripheral vision she could see him shake his head. "You're unbelievable."
Elsa felt a tinge of annoyance at this. So what if she got Janice's name wrong? People got names wrong all the time. Her Constitutional Law professor called her Elise for an entire semester. It wasn't a big deal. And he was a dick in general anyway.
"Which way am I going?" she asked.
"Take the freeway all the way to Sunset. It's somewhere on there."
She made a right on Grand Avenue as she began to wonder what she'd gotten herself into. As she merged onto the busy freeway, it occurred to her that she never really agreed to this.
"Did you eat the cupcake?"
"I did." It was not a lie.
"Did you like it?"
"Yup." Not a lie either.
She fought the instinct to turn up the volume on the radio; fought even harder to suppress her aversion for small talk. Elsa had never been a fan of it, because she had never been good at it. She had never been the talker in what was once her family of four. She was the reader, the thinker; the one who was always meant to say, "Yes, father," and follow in his footsteps. Everything else felt irrelevant, until it somehow wasn't, and Elsa found herself constantly squirming in wells of unfamiliar silence every time she spent more than ten minutes around people.
"So where are we going?" she tried lamely.
"We are going..." Kristoff trailed off, as if he were pausing for dramatic purposes, "to a place I'm sure you've never been to before."
"What makes you think I haven't?"
"A pretty strong hunch, I suppose."
"Are you willing to bet your Christmas bonus on that?"
He laughed. "You wish, Anderson."
She smirked as she continued to drive her way up north. She could see Hollywood drawing close, its buildings surpassing the palm trees: Capitol Records, The Roosevelt Hotel, the W...
Elsa remembered having a date at the W once, back when she used to try to put in more effort into her love life. They'd met through an online app, of course—she had no time for anything else other than a few minutes of swiping every day. The conversation had been smart; nice. A woman, two years older than her, who happened to be a business professor at USC. She'd even made Elsa laugh, which, she took some years to admit, was not an easy task. They did not have sex, however, even if Elsa could tell her date wanted to. Because the suggestive looks and flirting tones rarely ever succeeded, and to this day she could not understand why.
When they finally exited the freeway onto Sunset Boulevard, she sent an expectant glance Kristoff's way.
"Just keep going straight, it's past Fairfax."
Out with it already! she wanted to scream. But instead she kept on driving, slightly annoyed, and slightly in need of a drink.
"This better be good, Kristoff," she said.
"I think you'll enjoy yourself."
"This morning you seemed pretty sure that I would."
"This morning you didn't seem as tense as you look right now," he responded.
Self-conscious, she rolled her shoulders back as best as she could. "I'm tense because you won't tell me where we're going."
"I'll give you a hint. The place is called The Penthouse."
Elsa grimaced. What a lousy name, she thought. Unoriginal. She glanced at the neon lights of the businesses around them, at the names of the streets she drove by, at the people strolling on the boulevard. A Thursday crowd—tourists; casual dinner attendees; clubbers who didn't know how to stay put until Friday.
"Give me a hint I can actually work off of."
Kristoff was grinning when she stole a glance at him. "I'm literally telling you where we're going. You not knowing what it is only means you've never been there."
"Bullshit," she muttered under her breath. Minutes later she reached Fairfax, slowed down, and waited for Kristoff's next direction. You must be really lonely, she said to herself.
"It's this one, make a right."
Elsa studied the single storey building on the corner. Its outer walls were painted black, while the entrance—or any semblance of a door—was nowhere in sight. "What is this?" she asked. Kristoff ignored her. He told her to go inside the parking lot behind. The lot—bigger than expected—was practically full. Audis, BMW's, Mercedes Benz sports cars were parked and lined up as if it were a showroom. In the back of the building, as it turned out, was the entrance. In neon pink and cursive letters: The Penthouse. Next to it, an unassuming awning protected the doorway where a man in an all-black suit stood by; a valet not too far from him.
"Park there," Kristoff said. "They'll take care of your car." Too stunned and bewildered to ask, Elsa did as she was told. She did not wait for the valet to open the door for her. She stepped out of the car as soon as she'd parked it and stared at the entrance. The pink neon letters were a hint all right. The lack of a line; the sports cars, pristine and shiny and stupidly pretentious; the guy at the door who looked like he could snap a back in two. Elsa may have never been into the nightlife style but she was not clueless.
"You brought me to a strip club?!"
.
She headed straight for the bar while Kristoff trailed somewhere behind counting singles. She ordered a Whiskey Sour, stood up straight with her hands gripping the surface, watched the bartender make the drink with minutiae detail. She would not speak until she had a drink, and she had a feeling Kristoff knew this because he did not speak either until she was taking the first sip.
"You've seriously never been to a strip club before?"
Elsa raised a finger at him as she took her time savoring the slight sweetness of the sugar in her tongue and the burning sensation of the whiskey down her throat. She licked her upper lip to get rid of the froth of the egg white, then looked him square in the eye. "What do you think, Kristoff?"
He laughed. It was unnerving how easily he shrugged off the tones and looks that had most people backing off. "I think it's bullshit," he said.
She rolled her eyes, took another larger sip. "Of all places, why a strip club?"
"So that you'll loosen up." He asked the bartender for a Heineken and handed him his card, something that made Elsa realize she hadn't even thought of doing.
She decided to scan the place again. Blue hues colored the crevices of the low ceiling while moving spotlights danced over the main stage, the leotard print of the carpeted floor, the lush chairs occupied by men whose sleeves had been rolled back and their shirts with the top button undone. They drank from dark bottles of beer and lowball glasses with eyes that did not waver away from the girl dancing on a pole. The ones sitting closest to the stage waved their dollar bills at her, as if they were trying to beckon her with the scent of money. Elsa looked away when they began to tuck them under the string of her thong.
"Relax," Kristoff told her when he caught her gaze again. "It's just a strip club."
"How did you even find this place?"
"I came with some of the guys at the office."
"Who?"
"I'm not telling you."
She glared at him from behind the rim of her drink. Another large, sour sip. "What's the appeal anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
Elsa waved in the direction of the stage. "Where's the appeal in any of this? You come to look at women you can't touch because... what? What do you get out of it?"
He shrugged easily, as if unwilling to fall for the seriousness of her questions. "Sometimes it's just about the teasing, dude."
She wasn't exactly having it but felt like there was no point in arguing.
"Look," Kristoff said, "just give it a try. If you're not feeling it in an hour we can leave and have a drink at the Mondrian instead."
Elsa considered this as she took a slow, deep breath in. She could leave, she thought. She could walk out of here and tell Kristoff to order a taxi. She exhaled through her nose with a clenched jaw. Or... she could stay; attempt to do something different and try to enjoy herself for once. Relax. Even loosen up just like Kristoff had said.
"Fine."
"Great," he grinned. "Because I've got just the perfect way for you to loosen up." He waved at the space behind her, which caused her to whip her head around. A man, not too far from their own age, was approaching them. He walked with a little bit of swagger, his suit—a deep violet—tailored to perfection. He greeted Kristoff first, as if they'd known each other for some time, with a one-armed hug and a heavy pat on the back. Turning to Elsa next, he stretched out his hand for her to take. Trying to keep herself from staring, she accepted it. His black coiffed hair shone under the lights of the club and so did the large Rolex around his wrist.
"It's lovely to meet you, Miss..."
"Anderson."
His lips gave way to a perfect row of white teeth. "Anderson. It is nice to meet you. My name is Johnny E. but everyone calls me Papi."
Elsa glanced a Kristoff, who shrugged. Papi. She had a feeling that if she were to take off her heels he would still be a couple of inches shorter than her.
"Nice to meet you," she mumbled.
Papi straightened up, flattening the lapels of his jacket with a smile. "My buddy Kristoff told me it was your birthday," he said.
"How—" she shook her head. At this point it didn't matter how Kristoff knew this guy, or when he told him about her birthday. It surprised her he didn't tell the bouncer, or the valet, or the dancers lounging in the club, or the creepy-looking business men. "I'm sorry," she said instead, "who are you?"
"I'm the owner of this place," he replied, proud as a peacock showing off his feathers. "And I'm here because I have a little present for you."
You don't even know me, she wanted to say. "Oh."
"All you have to do is pick a room." Reaching behind her, he grabbed a flyer out of the stack she had only glanced at while she was waiting for her drink. He handed it over to her as he began explaining. "Any room you pick is one hundred percent private. Our high-end clientele needs some kind of anonymity, you see. So even the lighting inside will provide for that kind of atmosphere. You can pick one of our girls, or we can pick one out for you if you're not sure what your tastes are."
Elsa's eyes scanned the paper in her hand. Sexiest dancers in Los Angeles... First-class ambiance... Best night of your life... She wondered if the hour was up as she handed the flyer to Kristoff and chugged the last of her Whiskey Sour. The liquid burned sweetly down her throat.
"You want the Champagne Room, the Glitter Room, the Red Room..."
"Any."
"Elsa, that's not—"
"Red," she muttered. "Just go for Red."
A wicked grin appeared on Papi's face. "That is our best room."
"Right." A lap dance. She was getting a lap dance. "I need the restroom first." She walked away with only a hunch about going in the right direction. The pulsating beat of the music thrummed in her ears as she watched a new girl dancing on stage. She had a lace bikini on, scarcely there.
The bathroom was empty, which was not surprising. Elsa grabbed a few paper towels, placed them under the running faucet and then touched them to her warm cheeks. She stared at herself in the mirror, at the pair of stony blue eyes looking back at her. She didn't know why she felt this way, flustered and unprepared. It's not like Elsa was inexperienced—she had not been for many years. She moved the wet paper towels to the back of her neck. This might loosen her up. If she thought like a man, maybe...
Elsa walked out of there with her white blouse rolled up at the sleeves and one more button undone at the top. Her heels were muted by the carpet as she made her way back and ignored the looks of men who rarely took the time to discern one woman's face from another's.
There was a Whiskey Sour waiting for her at the bar, and Kristoff and Papi with two smiling girls clad in revealing outfits at their side.
"Is this for me?" she asked while she was already reaching for the drink. She took the girls in from behind the glass and gave them a sly smile.
"Are you ready?" Kristoff asked her.
"Sure." She was halfway there.
"My girls will escort you to the room," Papi said, grinning again with his abnormally perfect teeth.
Elsa did not ask if she could take her drink with her. She simply did. She walked, guided by a girl on each side, down a warm-lit hallway where a few men, similar to the bouncer outside, guarded closed doors. Elsa's forearm brushed against the redhead's on her left; against unbelievably soft skin.
"Have you ever had a lap dance before?" the blonde on her right asked.
"Nope."
"You're a girl, so I shouldn't warn you as much, but you know the main rule, right?"
"No touching?"
The blonde smirked. "No touching."
"Unless you ask nicely," the redhead quipped with a sultry voice.
"And that's still no guarantee."
"Right," Elsa said. She doubted she could bring herself to consider touching anyway.
"The mask stays on though."
"The what?"
Both girls ignored this.
They reached the end of the hallway where an unassuming door stood closed. The redhead leaned forward to open it while Elsa caught a whiff of her sweet scent. It quickened her pulse for a moment as she felt the beginnings of an attraction wash over her like a small wave. The door opened to a curtained room bathed in red light. The girls moved to the side, allowing Elsa to take a step forward. It was then that she noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man that was meant to guard the room from outside.
Soon, the redhead was behind her. "Happy birthday," she whispered in Elsa's ear as she placed her hands on her lower back and gave her a gentle push.
A few seconds later, the door was closed.
Elsa brought the glass of Whiskey Sour up to her lips but barely drank from it. She took slow, deliberate steps towards the leather Chesterfield sofa that sat centered against the wall as she failed to see what made this room so special. She sat down, let herself sink into it. They were serious about the anonymity, she noticed, finding it a bit extreme that the red spotlight above her only illuminated one's lap so that the face of whomever sat there remained partially indiscernible. Still, she tried to relax. The alcohol, she realized then, was kicking in.
The music coming from the outside was muffled while the silence inside lay suspended and almost palpable; throbbing along with the quickening pulse of her heart. Elsa could hear the air that escaped through her nose, the impatient clinking of her fingernail against the glass.
Suddenly, the room dimmed further just as the beginnings of a low beat started to boom against the walls. Her eyes adjusted to the lighting. From behind a black curtain, a pair of stilettos revealed themselves. She observed the long legs clad in stockings, the black lace panties, the garter belt. Elsa gulped and nervously licked her dry lips. A black mask covered half of the girl's face, highlighting the eyes that were penetrating even through the shadows of the red room. She moved closer to the slow rhythm of the beat while Elsa's eyes remained pinned and entranced to the swaying of her hips.
The song, as far as Elsa's mind could register, didn't truly begin until the girl was mere inches away from where she sat.
"Spread your legs," she told her with a low voice that had Elsa obeying without a second thought.
The girl stepped in between and crouched, her long hair cascading over her shoulder as she inched the tips of her fingers up Elsa's inner legs. They stopped mid-thigh, then pulled away, leaving Elsa with a breath stuck on her throat. At the next beat, she teased her way up her body, so short of touching her that her muscles tensed with anticipation.
She swayed her hips as her hands roamed over her own body until they were cupping her breasts. She then began to turn around, the skin of her back glinting with a hint of shimmer, the fabric of her garter belt hugging perfectly around her waist.
A moment later, she was bending over.
The first traces of arousal settled between her legs as Elsa took in the view before her: the smooth roundness of her ass, the muscles of her back as she slowly straightened up, the spine that curved before hiding behind luscious hair. Below the red, dim lights, Elsa could not tell its color. It could have been light brown. It could have been strawberry blonde. She could not think, because suddenly the girl was lowering herself down onto her lap.
She let out a puff of air at the first grinding. Slow and sensuous, the girl rolled her hips to the rhythm of the music. Her ass brushed over Elsa's center before pressing more firmly and forcing a gasp out of her. Unexpectedly, she found herself longing to touch. To hold the girl right where she sat. To trace her lips over the smooth skin of her back.
She bit her lower lip instead, watched with rapture the body moving on top of her. Wet heat was pooling between her legs as she relished a sensation she was far too gone to feel guilty about. The girl threaded her fingers through her own hair, revealing a tattoo on the back of her neck that Elsa barely registered. She rolled harder onto her lap, the satisfying friction driving Elsa to level herself with a hand on the girl's hip.
She removed it a second later, as if the skin burnt. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice hoarse with unforeseen arousal.
The girl chuckled without missing a beat. "You can touch," she breathed, and Elsa could have choked on her saliva.
With erratic breaths, and with the girl now resting her hands dangerously high on her thighs, Elsa sought a flat surface where she could place her long-forgotten drink. It was embarrassing how desperate she now felt to free both of her hands. But everything had left her mind at this point. Her annoyance. Her reluctance. Even her birthday. This was simply not what she'd expected. The tension in her body had not left. It had transformed itself, seeking release.
There was a shelf behind her, and Elsa thanked the heavens for this small birthday present. This must have been its intended purpose. Either way it didn't matter. Her hands were free.
But suddenly the girl was turning around. And suddenly she had no idea what to do with them anymore.
Time slowed down as Elsa watched her place one knee on each side of her; as she felt the heat of her body and the scent of her perfume. Her senses were on overdrive. Her conflicting emotions about receiving a lap dance left stomped on the floor.
With tentativeness, she rested her hands on the girl's thighs. Her nose was inches away from her neck now. Her lips, parted, hovered above. Elsa felt the girl rest her arms over her shoulders as she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she should not be letting go of herself this much. That she was crossing some sort of boundary. That she was acting animalistic and desperate, like every other man this girl had danced for before. The problem was that the thought was so far away from her grasp that she could not bring herself to listen to it for longer than a fleeting second.
The girl rocked her hips once, then twice, while Elsa felt delirious and with a need that drove her to softly squeeze her thighs. She rode her for a few seconds, brushing with her fingers—if only for an exhilarating moment—the back of Elsa's neck. She pushed herself away then by supporting herself on Elsa's knees, giving her a full view of her bra-clad chest. Without bashfulness, Elsa devoured the sight: the soft curves of her breasts, her waist, her navel.
She braved inching her hands farther up, to the sliver of skin where the garter met the girl's underwear. Elsa was entranced by her own actions, vaguely wondering how far she could go, but not once daring to. Yet, she brushed her thumb over the fabric, pushing it slightly down while the girl continued to dance for her.
It was then that something caught her eye.
Sharpening her focus, Elsa moved the fabric again, this time farther down to reveal a faint birthmark at the base of the navel.
The girl faltered in her movements before pulling Elsa's hand away from what was clearly a restricted area. But Elsa was not interested in that anymore. Instead, she lifted her gaze—something she had not actually done since the song started—and studied as best as she could the girl before her. So caught up in a trance of building arousal, she had not noticed the freckles on the girl's shoulders, and from up close, she could tell much better now, the color of her hair.
Elsa's heart felt as though it were leaping out of her chest when the girl made an attempt to get off her lap. To stop her, she secured an arm around her waist while her subconscious screamed at the familiarity of this. They struggled for a second before she moved them both under the spotlight and pulled, finally, the mask off her face.
The moment their eyes met Elsa felt the air leave her lungs.
"Anna?"