Hi, I had an idea come to me, this will be different but hopefully still true to the characters E.L James created. Ana is a stripper working hard to afford college, while Christian is his usual, CEO possessive self. I would love to know if its something you'd like to read more of. This is inspired by the movie Pretty Woman, pretty much. Hope you enjoy the first chapter. I own nothing of the characters, they remain the authors respectfully, I just adore them.

Wanting you

Christian

I don't know why I keep coming here, but all I know is that there's something comforting about being in a room filled with other people; Other people that, you can't help getting the impression, are just as fucked-up and lonely as you are.

The lights are low, flashing fluorescent red to white as I sit in my usual spot, in a fake red vinyl booth by myself, drinking my tumbler glass of gin and tonic, with Hendricks. After a hard day at work, I often find myself coming here, losing myself in the vibration of the bass music beats, of the pulsating lights. Or maybe, who am I kidding? Lately, it isn't because of the atmosphere at all.

It's because of... something else entirely.

Taking a slow sip of my drink, letting it tingle on my tongue, I glance around the strip joint, looking for My Girl. My Girl, as in Brunette. I don't know her name or what age she is. All I simply know, is that she's a Brunette. She isn't My Girl either, but I feel she should be.

The first time I saw her, I couldn't keep my eyes off her. The way she works the room. The way I was reduced to being like every other man in this sleazy place- captivated, entranced by her.

She'd taken to the stage, doing her little routine. Long dark hair, flashing blue eyes. A shy yet alluring smile on her face. That night, she had been dressed in little more than thigh-high fish net stockings, stilettos and a black bra. I remember being intoxicated by her, by the way she moved, prancing around a pole, gyrating to the beat of the music.

Ever since I'd first seen her, I'd been hooked ever since. I couldn't get her out of my mind.

Admittedly, at work, I'd started fantasizing about her giving me a private lap dance. I'd wonder how it would feel to peel her out of her fish net stockings, to brush my hands up her silky thighs. I thought of how it would be if I'd bent her over a desk, spanked her, the little noises she'd make. How I would kiss her, how her lips would feel. The noises she'd make as she came.

That was why I was here tonight, just like the many other nights before it. Seeing her do her little performance, it has now become an addiction, a craving I cannot get rid of.

She must be eighteen or nineteen- I don't think she's anywhere older than that.

One night last week, I'd come in early before she started her routine. She'd walked past me, and I'd seen her better in the light. How carefully painted her lips were red, the bottom lip plumper than the top one. As she'd walked past, her ass was begging for me to spank it, teasing me in her tight shorts.

Sighing as I glance around the room, I check my wristwatch again. It's already fifteen minutes later than the usual time it is that she comes out on stage to do her little show. I'm growing agitated. Sad panicky feelings start to develop inside of me as I lean back in the booth, checking the exit for any sign of her. Am I too late? Have they changed the hours she does her little show? Or does she no longer work here anymore?

It horrifies me, how disheartened I feel over the thought of never seeing her again. I don't even know her, after all. I've just seen her, admired her from afar. Yet the idea of never getting the chance to see her again absolutely devastates me.

Swallowing another sip of gin and tonic down, I start tapping the glass impatiently with my fingers.

Come on, Brunette Beauty, where are you? I'm waiting for my show, I'm your devoted fan.

I like to think of you as mine, and not a day goes by where I'm not thinking of fucking you until your sore...

Do you even notice me sitting here, always waiting for you and you alone?

Can you see how much I fucking want you?

Ana

Five minutes until showtime...

If someone had ever told me that this is how my life would turn out, I would have laughed straight in their faces. Yeah, right. Me? Working as a stripper, an exotic dancer for men? I would have thought I would have been the very last person to have a job like this. Yet, sometimes, we can't afford to be picky. Beggars can't be choosers.

After failing yet again at multiple job applications, I'd seen a notification looking for dancers in the jobs column in a newspaper advertisement. The job called for a female, around 18 to 35, with reasonable dancing skills, a woman well presented. The job advertisement had made the vacancy position seem so normal, so classy. I hadn't realized until I'd gotten here for the interview, just exactly what the job was and what it entailed.

I've only been working here for less than a month, and the pay has been pretty good. Men are generous with their tips and we get to keep a percentage, which helps.

I'm saving up to afford my college tuition and then, once I have enough, I hope to leave this life forever.

Being an exotic dancer is not my dream job. I have bigger aspirations, like getting into college, studying English Literature. This is just something I hope to do until I can get enough money.

It hasn't been too bad. My boss, Jack Hyde, can be annoying but he's also encouraging of us girls. There is about twelve other girls who work here, and we all get along really well. We egg each other on and support each other. If a male client gets out of line, another girl always steps in, reporting it to Jack or just intervening if the guy gets too handsy and rough.

I think the friendship I've developed with the girls here is about the only reason I like it.

It's degrading at times, and demanding. My heels are constantly hurting and my toes ache at the end of the day. And the bruises; I am always covered in bruises, from either accidentally knocking myself on a pole or just being clumsy. But as I said, the pays good enough so far, I've found.

I just can't ever tell my Mom or my stepfather what I do for a living. It would be embarrassing. I always lie and say I work at a grocery store near here, just so they won't start worrying.

Brushing my hair, I pull it up into a tight ponytail, then fix the elastic band around it. Then I swoop my bangs with my fingers, scowling at myself in the grotty, make-up smeared mirror in frustration. My fringe refuses to sit right tonight, but at least my make-up is perfect.

My red lipstick coats my lips perfectly, not a smear in place. My eyeliner brings out my large blue eyes.

I stand from my chair, readjusting my stockings around my thighs a bit more comfortably. Then I grab my stilettos and sit again, pushing each ankle into the heels. I strap them up securely, and stand again, breathing deeply through my nose as I turn on my side, inspecting my outfit for tonight.

I'm wearing a fire-engine red midriff top that shows off my belly, my stilettos matching in color. At least I can wear somewhat modest clothes, but seeing as I'm showing off my legs and my butt in the G-string I'm also wearing, it isn't as modest as I'd like. But we all have things we have to do to get by. I'm a lot luckier than the other girls so far.

Some of the long time workers, they've already done private lap-dances in the other special rooms. I haven't done that as yet, seeing as I'm new and I'm not quite ready for it yet. I also know that some girls, on the side, know how to get extra tips. Some secretly give handjobs to make a bigger buck. The thought of doing that, it makes me queasy.

"Hey, girl." My heart races and I startle as one of the girls, Kate, suddenly pounces into the room in her heels. Kate's one of the girls I get along with really well here. She's my age, also trying to save money for college. She's blonde, green-eyed, and she's even what I'd consider sexy. "You just starting your shift?" she asks as she walks past me, and she sighs loudly in relief as she collapses into the chair next to the mirror.

I smile at her nervously as she reaches down, rubbing her toes. I wish I could be more like her. Kate's adventurous and confident in her looks. She has no hesitation in wearing G-strings or going topless.

"Yeah, I am," I admit to her, smoothing my hands down my sides, trying to suck in my belly. "My dance is coming up in five minutes. Is it busy out there tonight?"

"No busier than usual," she assures me. "I saw your guy out there already."

I feel myself flush at her words, rolling my eyes. "He's not my guy."

"Well, your devoted fan," she amends with a laugh. "Pretty sure he's out there waiting for you."

There's this guy, about in his late twenties or early thirties, that always seems to be sitting out there whenever I'm due to start. The girls like to joke that he's obsessed with me and that I ought to offer him a lapdance. Apparently he leaves straight after I've finished up for the night.

He's rather good looking and well dressed too. Kate likes to sometimes refer to him as Mr Richy because, her words, he looks rich, like a young entrepreneur or something. Apparently wearing designer tailored suits and ordering fine bottles of champagne makes you rich. Admittedly, I have noticed him paying extra attention to me whenever I'm out there. He'll just stare at me- his gaze intense, focused, beneath the red flashing lights.

There's something about the guy that is rather sexy, but I would never be confident enough to approach him, even while doing what I'm doing now, often dancing in G-strings on stage, while other men jerk off or cat-call me.

My time is up.

"I better get out there," I breathe under my breath.

"Have fun. Blow a kiss to Mr Richy."

Sighing at her words and shaking my head, I move towards the door, my stomach in knots. Heading out at the start of a shift is always the worst. It's the time my anxiety really gets going.

Lifting my chin high into the air, I try to focus on nothing else but the song that starts playing on the speakers. Also, I try to make sure I walk in a way that's confident, praying I don't trip in my heels or stumble.

Kate's right and it's nerve-wracking. It seems a bit more crowded tonight with men.

There must be a bachelor party happening or something, because I first notice two tables are utterly full of rowdy men. My eyes sweep the room to that one single table and, surely enough, there he is. My devoted customer.

Mr Richy.

There he is all right, sitting at his usual booth which is, admittedly, where the best view of the dancers are. He always sits there, sipping his drink, dressed head to toe in what seems to be the finest menswear. I notice he sits up in his seat, crossing a leg over his thigh as he makes himself more comfortable, settling himself in for my performance. Maybe the girls are right, after all?

Maybe it is only me he comes here for, hard enough as that is to grasp?

I head towards the in-built stage, concentrating on breathing deeply. The red pulsing lights are confronting, flashing in and out before my very eyes.

"Take it off!" I hear a man call near the stage boisterously. "Take it all off, baby! We want to see your tits and pussy!"

Hearing such vulgar things isn't such a shock to me now. First night I did this, I was petrified, and I felt sick and startled when hearing men shout at me. Now, I ignore it, focusing on moving my body instead.

I run a hand down the length of my ponytail as I stop at the center of the stage, then start moving, doing my thing. It's always easier to focus on one single person in the crowd. That person, for me, always seems to be Mr Richy for some reason. I find him as I start moving my hips in sync with the beat, doing my usual performance.

The strobe lights flash over his face, illuminating him more clearly. Up here, he definitely looks like sin on a stick. Chiseled, masculine jaw combined with cheekbones, but not in a feminine way that some men have. No, he's purely masculine. Full bottom lip, his lips always arched slightly at the corners whenever he watches me. That gaze of his, intense, unwavering, like Mr Richy is undressing me with his eyes himself, following every single movement I make.

I used to feel so awkward when I was practicing this, but now I don't. I've learned how to make sure my arms aren't stiff or awkward, and I always keep my hands busy, just as the men like. I caress myself, running my hands over my legs, around my crotch. I'll bend slightly, putting my hands up over my head,stroking my face. Then, drag my fingers lower, down my chin, past my throat, stroking my cleavage.

It becomes just me and Mr Richy in the room.

I clench a hand around the pole, striding forward while my other hand, I teasingly let run up beneath my midriff, over my belly, showing him- and all the others in the room- a peek at it.

"That's it, baby! Show us your tits! Take it off!"

Kate's playful words came back to me out in the other room and I do it, without thinking.

Bringing up my hand while making sure I have Mr Richy's attention, I blow him a kiss.

Christian

I can hardly believe my luck when I think I see Brunette Beauty do what she does.

Her fuck-me-I'm-shy eyes on nothing else but me, she raises her hand, pressing her palm to her lips. Then she waves it towards me with a flourish, blowing me a kiss. My first impulse is to glance behind me, to make sure it's actually me that she's doing it to.

But I don't need to, I know she's doing it right at me, daring little thing she is. There's no one behind me.

I need this girl. I need to have her, goddamn it.

Fingers curling tighter over my glass, I raise my drink to her, saluting her.

Oh, baby. Don't you know what you've just started between us? Talk about trying to put out a fire with gasoline.