The lights in the club were dim, the spotlight was on me, and I loved it. I felt like a goddess as I did my exotic, erotic routine. I was the top dancer at the Purple Plume, the highest paid. That is why I wore purple. It denoted my rank.

The colours the others wore signified their grades. From pale blue to shades of lilac and ultimately purple. I never performed topless or nude. Some of the other girls did their routines wearing nothing but a thong, their glistening, oiled breasts and butts bare and shining for all the clientele to gaze and lust over.

I had done my apprenticeship elsewhere, and didn’t need so much exposure. Later , I will tell you how I transformed from a sweet 16-year-old, discovering her sexuality, through to a struggling art student, to exotic dancer. “Siren.” That’s my stage name. They wanted to call me Red, but that was my childhood and teen nickname.

My routine was coming to an end, the slow, sultry notes of the saxophone dying away. I never connected with or looked at the horny, randy men who indirectly paid my wages. I was doing my final spin when I saw him.

Steve.

I was 16 again.

I never faltered; my professionalism kicked in.

With a flourish, I left the stage to cheers and thunderous applause. My status meant I had my own dressing room.

Breathless, I rushed in and locked the door. I whipped off my mask and stared at the face in the mirror. No not 16 any more. On the table was an ice bucket with a bottle of sparkling water. I drank deeply, recovering my composure. I’m not 16; I am 26, and ten years have passed.

He wouldn’t have recognized me. I was just another redhead dancing seductively to entertain him. But what if...?

I had known him in the dim lights. I had never forgotten him. No, I hadn’t pined and died of a broken heart, but a girl never forgets her first time. Ok, it wasn’t actually, but it was the one that started it all off.

I removed the purple basque and stockings, laying everything over the back of a chair. Mary would be along when the club closed. After every performance, my “uniform" was cleaned and checked for repairs. I pulled on a robe and removed the heavy makeup and lashes. Then I headed to the shower. Yes, I was lucky enough to have a small room with a toilet and shower cubicle. The other girls had to share.

Purple Plume isn’t a backstreet dive. The girls are paid well; they work hard and are looked after. Perhaps because it’s females who own and run this establishment. We have male security, and no customers are allowed anywhere near the dancers.

It wasn’t closing time, but I showered and dressed in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie. I grabbed my bag with my car keys and headed out the back door, wishing good night to Greg, who stood guard.

Only when I was leaving the lights of the city behind, did I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I gave myself a telling-off, telling myself to get a grip.

The notes of the saxophone faded away; she spun round, and for a fraction of a second our eyes met. Was that a flicker of recognition or just wishful thinking? Then she was gone, accompanied by shouts and thunderous applause. She was magnificent. I summoned the waitress and asked who the dancer was.

“That is Siren. You were lucky you were here tonight. Her performances are quite rare. She’s number one here and much in demand. We all love her. She never forgets that once upon a time she too was a newbie.” With a smile, she was gone.

The show continued, but I went to find the backstage door. Not a chance of that. A giant of a man stood there. Polite but direct. “No entry, sir. This area is private.” I asked about Siren. Again:

“Sorry, sir. Strictly confidential, but if you head across the foyer, you will see a door marked Office. Perhaps they can help you.”

I was pissed off at being denied access, but impressed by the security setup.

I found the door and knocked. A woman’s voice told me to come in.

The office was clean and organized, and sitting behind the desk was an attractive woman, possibly in her late fifties, wearing a cream high-neck sweater with glasses perched on her head. Photographs of dancers adorned the walls. She certainly didn't look like a madam running a brothel.

“Please take a seat. How may I help you?”

I explained that I would like to see Siren, that she was a friend from the past who I had lost contact with. She smiled but said they don't give out personal details. She wouldn't even confirm that Siren’s name was Steph or Red. Women are not usually immune to my charms, but she was. I realized I wasn't getting anywhere. Finally she relented and said if I left contact details, she would ensure Siren got them. I handed over my business card. I asked when Siren would be performing again. Again, I was given no details.

We both stood, shook hands, and I left.

I didn’t go back into the club but hailed a cab back to my hotel. Frustrated. I had a ten-year itch that needed to be dealt with. Would she get in touch? Would she remember me?

Through the darkness, the lights of the village welcomed me home. Home was this small village on the edge of the moors. Here I was, Stephanie, a successful artist whose paintings sold well and could be found in good gift and craft shops around Yorkshire.

I let myself in, lighting the lamps in the hall and heading to the kitchen, where the warmth from the Aga heated the entire cottage. Stretched out on a rug, soaking up the heat was Sam, my scruffy but adorable rescue cat. He opened one eye lazily and went back to sleep. Typical self-satisfied male.

I switched the kettle on. I needed a cup of Strong Yorkshire tea. I settled in my rocker beside the Aga.

Yes! A rocker. It’s old and battered and comfy! My world was restored, and I settled into the peace.

Didn’t last long. The tones of “Let It Be” pealed from my mobile. Kate, my boss from work.

“Steph I’m so sorry to disturb you at home, but just shortly after you left, an admirer came to the office looking for you. We never give details, as you know, and politely send them on their way. He was insistent and charming and called you Steph and Red. He left his business card. His name is….”

“Steve.” I ended the sentence for her.

We finished the conversation, and she sent me a screenshot of his card. I’m staring at it now.

I like my life. I have plenty of male friends to satisfy my needs, but…

He was unfinished business. His was the first cock I saw, his hands were the first to touch me, and his mouth was the first to kiss me. He ended my childhood. I never got to try him.

I took a deep breath and entered the number. It was answered immediately.

“Steve Baxter.”

“Stephanie Wilson.”

The call was brief. I got back into my car and headed back the way I had just come. I didn’t change or put on makeup. If he was expecting Siren, a goddess in her exotic plumage, he was in for a disappointment. I really had made a big effort, hadn’t I?

This was unfinished business. Sex. That’s all.

I knocked on the door of room 424 of the Leeds Dakota. It was answered immediately, and I went in.

He was still gorgeous, with black hair and green eyes, but definitely older.

He smiled slowly. “Hello, Siren, or is it Steph or Red?”

In that moment I cursed myself. Why had I not made an effort? Ok, he was barefoot and in black jeans and a tee shirt. His hair was wet and slightly longer. He was obviously just out of the shower. He smelled good too. Oh well, too bad. At least I had had a shower, and my underwear and clothes were clean, but nothing else.

“Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, or wine?”

I desperately needed alcohol, but I settled for sparkling water. I informed him I was driving. He raised one eyebrow quizzically, but he had water too.

I needed to take control.

“It’s been ten years. Neither of us is the same person. I’m not exactly sure why things ended as abruptly last time we met. I don’t need to know. But I’ve often wondered. I guess you have too. We never talked before, and it will be the same this time.”

Before he could say anything, I pulled my hoodie over my head and stepped out of my trainers and sweatpants. Ok, the underwear was almost modest, pale green, but my body wasn’t. He never missed a beat. He pulled his tee shirt off, unzipped his jeans, and stepped out. He was commando. I stared.

He came towards me and unhooked my bra. Watching every movement on my face. Then he lifted me onto the bed. He started kissing me gently like ten years before. His mouth and tongue became more demanding, and his hands wandered down my body to my full breasts. He fondled and caressed them, becoming rougher. He started to pinch my nipples. His mouth followed. Biting and nipping. I could feel the heat rising. With a quick, impatient move, my panties were off. His hands pushed my legs open but then stilled. He stopped kissing me and rose up to look. He smiled that seductive smile again and lowered his face to kiss me. His hands and fingers were exploring very thoroughly.not just one finger this time. Through my chaotic thoughts, I realized what had happened.

The flaming red bush was gone. I was completely smooth, my slit no longer hidden by my adolescent pubic hair.

My hands were no longer unskilled. I found his erect penis and began my magic on it. He started to groan and gasp, and just when he thought he’d finally gain entry, I slipped down and took him in my very skillful mouth, working my tongue and teeth expertly along his length. I knew he wouldn’t last much longer, but then neither could I. The first time it wasn’t going to be in my mouth.

I moved with the grace and ease of a dancer and straddled him, guiding his throbbing cock inside me. I was more than ready. I had waited ten years. My breasts swung freely, inches from his face. I watched every emotion, and then everything shuddered, and we both came at the same time. I collapsed on top of him, our bodies shining with sweat, my thighs wet with our lovemaking. Although it wasn’t lovemaking; it was fucking.

“Was I worth waiting ten years for?”

We both said the words at the same time.

It definitely won’t be ten years till the next time!