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     It was peaceful in the club. The music had stopped, the lights turned up and the last remaining stragglers had been moved on. Punk liked it like this. There was an eerie hush about the place, almost unnatural, a stark contrast to the hub of noise and bodies only moments before. But now he was the only one left standing, everybody from the crowd to the dancers and even the owners, Knight and Randy, had retired for the evening, leaving the club abandoned aside from its sole occupant. Sometimes, at this time of night, it felt like he was the one one left in the entire world.

     But unbeknownst to Punk, he was not alone. 

     At the back of the closed club, a large figure stirred from his slumber. Waking up with an agonised groan, the drunk found himself underneath a table in the booth where he usually sat, alone and woozy. It took him a moment or two to recognise his surroundings and the late hour. 'Shit,' Drew muttered under his breath, forcing down a wave of nausea. He was about to shuffle out from the table when he heard somebody approaching and retreated back into his hiding place.

     Punk pushed his cleaning trolley into the centre of the club, the wonky wheel he'd been meaning to fix quietly squeaking at intervals until he reached the edge of the main platform. He glanced up, looking at the pole at its centre. His old friend. He knew it as well as he'd known ex-lovers. Better in some cases. He knew its radius and its length, the solidness beneath his fingers, the parts that held true, the others that were weak. He'd put more trust into that rod of steel than he'd had in most people he knew.

     Unable to resist the allure of its pull, he abandoned his trolley. 

     The drunk at the back watched as the janitor sauntered along the side of the stage, trailing his hand along its edge as he went, and up the small set of stairs. His baby pink sneakers squeaked as they scuffed the worn surface of the platform, step by step while he looked around him, drinking the view in.

     Punk could still picture it all so clearly. The blaze of lights in his eyes, the faceless crowd watching him enraptured, the thumping beats thundering in his ears. Those first few steps onto the catwalk were always the most jittery, the nerves roiling in the pit of his gut, his throat bone dry. He may not have been able to see the myriad of eyes but Punk could always feel them on him, trying to probe through the long black and white jacket he wore to begin his act.  

     Those same butterflies afflicted him now, faint, like a ghost's caress as he walked the final few steps of the runway and reached out to grab the pole. The moment his hand touched the solid steel, he let out a breath, and he was calm. He had no idea why but whenever he came into contact with that pole, he was able to centre himself, to forget the audience and the lights and the nerves and to focus on the one thing that mattered. Himself. His body. His movement. His flow.

     The drunk gaped in awe at the figure on the stage. He could still remember the first night he had seen Punk perform. He'd been beautiful back then. Slim-waisted and athletic, a prickle of stubble on his young cheek. They always said he was the only white boy worth seeing in the club and they were right. He moved like the wind, his long golden hair glittering in the light, moving around the pole like an angel unfurling his great pale wings.

     Drew had fallen in love back then. In a world that was rapidly crashing around him, he had found a shred of joy in the bottom of a dirty glass and a pretty trailer-park stripper. His friends and family had warned him of the dangers yet they offered him none of the comfort that he found at the Rose Rattlesnake, and so he came night after night, spiralling into the depths of addiction. He wasn't even sure which one hit him harder; the drink... or Punk.

     If only he hadn't injured that damn arm! 

     Punk shook it out, stretching and contracting his fingers. To him, it still felt good, still felt strong but the doctors had deemed the damage too severe to continue his chosen profession. Punk didn't listen. He returned to work only to have Knight and Randy call him to their office. They sat him down, told him he would no longer be allowed to dance at the club. That it was for his own good. Punk could have looked elsewhere for work but by then he was getting on in years, no longer the pretty young thing with the flowing locks and the piercings, so he accepted his fate. As well as the janitorial position. Least that way, he still had a connection to the place. Kid like him, who'd always longed to feel the warmth of a home and family, the Rose Rattlesnake had been the closest thing he'd found. 

     From his hiding place, Drew watched Punk grip the pole, smoothing his fist up and down the shaft. Then he stepped back, his other hand easing towards his throat, finding the zipper of his overalls. Drew slammed his hand over his mouth, stifling the gasp as Punk slid the zip all the way down. With both hands, he peeled the navy fabric away, shedding it like an old skin to reveal the colourfully inked flesh beneath, partially hidden under the skimpy lingerie.

     Punk dropped his overalls, let them fall and pool at his feel. Toeing off his sneakers, he pulled each foot free and stepped away from his prison uniform, to finally become his real self, his true form. Smoothing a hand down from collar bone to stomach, his fingertips skimmed the soft black lace of his bra and panties set. These days they looked a bit tattered, worn and faded, more grey than black. Old, just like him. One of the clasps of his garter belt had come loose and he bent down slightly to attach it back onto the lace trim of his thigh-high footless stockings.

     Drew's eyes raked all over, taking in every curve and line of the other man's body. It had been years since he had seen Punk like this and it felt like returning to his home town after years of being away; comfortably familiar, yet different in small subtle ways. He had more tattoos now on his shins and the insides of his thighs, the dark patches showing through the sheer, shiny silk of his hosiery. He still had his hour glass figure only broader with more bulk in the chest and arms but it was his waistline that had altered the most. The slim delicate midriff had matured, filled out, and now hung over Punk's V-shaped panties in the form of a cute paunchy belly and the two most perfectly formed muffin tops Drew had ever seen. 

     He wasn't wearing heels but that was alright. Punk actually preferred performing barefoot, that way he could curl his toes around the bar and perform more elaborate moves. It was the punters that demanded the stilettos and most of the time he would indulge them, but not on the pole. If they wanted a show, they had to endure his naked soles (although he knew of several among the crowd who were thrilled with this choice!).

     Punk started off slow with a few lazy twirls. There was no music playing bar the notes in his own head. Drew wished he could hear them, wished he could be a part of this intimate moment instead of lurking, concealed in the shadows like a peeping tom. He thought for a moment of speaking up and revealing himself but he was so afraid of scaring away the beautiful forest nymph that he stayed where he was, as silent as the grave.

     Punk was warming up, growing comfortable. Building up some speed with his latest spin, he wrapped his thighs around the pole, leaned back and draped one arm out lazily. Let the world spin past him in a blur of lights. Felt the familiar haze of dizziness take hold, filling him with courage. He snapped back up, grabbing the pole in two hands, and started to climb, coiling his body around the steel rod like a snake ascending a tree.

     Mesmerised, Drew followed the display, stunned by the other man's poise and agility. Punk was good, always had been, there was no denying that, but it wasn't his technique that stood him apart from the other dancers. It was the way he lost himself in the routine, the way it seemed to consume him entirely. The Uso twins, Jey and Jimmy liked to flirt with the crowd - for some, a bit too much, in particular Jimmy's boyfriend, Kevin Owens who also worked as the bouncer of the establishment. Roman, while talented with a commanding aura, was always hyper-focused during his dances. Look closely enough into his smouldering eyes and you could see him furiously planning his next move. Solo was all power and strength, still finding his feet as the newest dancer on the roster.

     But Punk... Punk danced with a sort of reckless abandon. Like he didn't care about his own welfare. He fell under the music's spell, compelled by the throes of its trance and he pulled the audience under with him. The way he arched his back, the facials he pulled, the noises he made. It was almost as if the routine pained him, the pole acting as a pair of cursed red shoes, dooming him to dance forever more until his feet bled and his lungs gave out. 

     Time had done nothing to slow him down. Punk could still move, still fly. He floated up to the top of the pole and down again, the muscle memory kicking in and making every move feel natural. He loved this! He was born to do it. And Knight and Randy were cruel for tearing it away from him. 

     That was why he'd worn his old gear that night under his overalls. He'd wanted to prove it to himself that he could still go. That the doctors had got it wrong and were only erring on the side of caution. That he belonged on that stage and if they let him, gave him another chance, he could dazzle the customers as well as he could in his youth. He'd been practising for weeks now, reminding himself of the moves and the routines, slowly testing his limits night by night and this had been the final test. Tomorrow, he would show Knight, Randy, everybody that his rightful place was on this stage, in the spotlight.

     But then... his arm gave out!

     Drew flinched when Punk fell. Hitched his breath as the other man crumpled into a heap on the floor at the foot of the pole. He lay there, unmoving and Drew was terrified he had seriously injured himself but then he heard Punk curse and watched him slam his fist hard against the ground. After a while he sat up, crossing his legs into a basket, he held his face in his inked hands, scrubbing them back and forth over his face. 'Damn it,' he heard Punk mutter bitterly. 'Damnit! Damnit! Shit! Shit! Fuck!' The last curse was punctuated by another bash of his fist against the floor.

     Punk looked up at the pole, like a sacred bastion he had been forever exiled from, never to grace its shores again. Oh, but how he longed for it. How could life be so cruel to take the one thing he loved away from him?

     Letting out a sigh of resignation, Punk glanced to his side, finding the discarded overalls. His prison cell was calling out to him, ordering him to return, only now, when he pulled that zip up tight to his throat, he knew he would never escape its bars again. He sat there, shivering against the cold of the empty room, too afraid to move, stubbornly refusing to relinquish his freedom when-

     'Punk? A-are you ok?'

     The tattooed man jumped with a start. Throwing his head around, he peered through the shadows and spied the huge stranger standing only a few feet away. Staggering up to his feet, Punk wrapped his arms around him, trying to cover himself up.

     'Who the-? What the fuck are you doing in here? Place is closed.'

     'I'm sorry,' Drew put up his hands, trying not to appear intimidating which was difficult when he looked the way he did. 'I must have passed out or something because I woke up under the table over there and-'

     'Hold on! You've been here this whole fucking time?' Punk asked, growing indignant. 

     Drew's arms fell to his side, guilt sweeping through him. He should have stayed in his hiding place. 'Yes,' he said, sadly.

     'What, you didn't see enough earlier to jerk off to, pervert?'

     'You're right, I'm sorry. I'm just... gonnae leave.' But Drew didn't move. Knowing that if he missed this opportunity, he would regret it for the rest of his life. 'I just...' Punk glared at him from atop the stage. 'I... missed you.'

     The tattooed man narrowed his eyes at him, furrowing his brow. Drew waited, hoping he would catch the bait. And he did. 'What do you mean?'

     Drew took a single, gingerly placed step closer. 'You probably don't remember me but I used to come here every night. To watch you.' The bushy brows softened, climbing higher with intrigue. 'I wasn't... in a good place back then. I was grieving, depressed. I felt like everything in my life was darkness, and the only light I had was this club.' Drew looked around the room fondly, a sad, nostalgic twinkle in his eye. Then he turned to Punk. 'And you.'

     Punk's brows shot up at the revelation. Moving further forward on the stage, he held onto the pole for support. 

     'I came just for you,' Drew went on. 'To watch you dance. Those days when I'd lost all hope, when I felt like ending it all, I'd remember that I'd be seeing you perform later and I kept myself going. Just so I could sit over there in that booth and watch you. I stayed alive just to be in the same room as you, breath the same air as you. When those lights went down and you stood there centre stage, I could pretend that we were all alone. That it was just you and me, and that you were dancing just for me. I... loved you.' Drew caught himself and lowered his head with embarrassment. 'I guess you hear that a lot.'

     'Every Tom, Dick and Harry in this club thinks I'm dancing just for them,' Punk shot back, although not unkindly. More honestly. He wasn't the kind to lie, that was why his routines felt so genuine. 'At least...' he gave a sigh and shook out his injured arm, '.. they used to.'

     'Why did you stop?'

     Punk glanced up, caught the bright pair of blue eyes sparkling at him from across the room. They unnerved him, like they could see all the way inside of him.

     'Got hurt,' he replied with a shrug. But then he considered it more, chewing his bottom lip. 'I got... old.'

     Drew took offence. 'No, that's not-'

     'I'm in my 40s,' Punk smiled wryly back. 'I got greys in my beard and fucking cellulite everywhere. Not to mention all of this!' He jiggled his little belly with disdain. 'I can't even hold on for a full routine anymore. Who wants to see some washed-up old man drag his carcass around the stage.'

     'You have no idea.' Drew's voice was low, breathy. Punk looked him dead in the eye as the Scot's dimples deepened, a wistfulness in his expression. 'You have no idea how magnificent you are up there.' 

     The tension from Punk's shoulders dropped, his chest heaving and falling as he tried to take in what he had just heard.

     'When I was watching you just now, I couldn't tear my gaze away! You were breathtaking! Every move you made was like you were floating on air. You've still got it, Punk, all your elegance and grace-'

     'Yeah, until I fell flat on my ass!' 

     The sparkles dimmed. Drew sighed with defeat. 'But hey, who am I to say? I'm just some random drunk.' He turned to leave, for good this time, feeling deflated and a little ashamed when Punk piped up again, stopping him in his tracks.

     'You're wrong by the way,' he said. Drew glanced back over his shoulder. 'I do remember you.' The light hit Punk's face from every angle, softening his features like a romantic filter from those old, classic films. He had never looked so... flawless. 'You've changed a lot, but I know who you are. You always blushed a pretty pink whenever you slid a bill into my G-string.'

     As if one cue, Drew felt his cheeks start to redden. Not even his thick, dark beard could hide the colour flushing his face. 

     'You know,' Punk smiled sweetly, leaning cutely against the pole, 'of all my regulars, you were the one I most expected to request a private session, but never did. What was the problem, big guy? Typical Scot not willing to cough up the dough?'

     Drew gave a huff of laughter and ducked his head, shyly. 'I had the money,' he admitted, 'just not the guts.'

     Punk leaned further into the pole, touching the side of his face against the steel. 'You got the guts now?' The Scot hitched a breath, feeling his throat turn sandy. 'You already had the dance.'

     Drew's tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth. He had to rip it loose to say, 's'ppose you're right.' Reaching behind him, he pulled his wallet loose from his pocket and opened it up. He grabbed up a generous wad of bills then walked forward, each step wary as he approached the radiant being on high, watching him, and placed the entire wad down onto the stage at Punk's feet.

     The tattooed man squinted down at the notes then back up at Drew. 'Why don't you come up here and pay me in person?'

     Drew tried to gulp but the lump remained, stuck fast in his gullet, as he shakily picked up the bills again. The soles of his feet glued to the floor, each step difficult as he walked up the steps and onto the stage. He felt exposed, like the lights were x-rays boring down through his clothes and skin to his bones quaking down deep. The closer he got to the pole, where Punk stood, one arm on the steel, the other on his hip, eyeing him with a glint in his bright hazel eyes, Drew felt himself falter. Growing weak, starting to sweat like a sudden fever had come over him.

     At last, he stood only inches away and looked down on the figure of his deepest desires. Punk, up close and practically naked, looked so small all of a sudden, like he was a china doll that Drew could pick up and inspect. He wanted to touch him so badly but instead he remained still, his hands fidgeting with the bills nervously.

     'Well?' Punk let the hand on his hip drift up to smooth against Drew's bristly cheek. 'Go on then.'

     The Scot drew in a long, calming breath. Bringing a single bill out from the wad, he held it in front of Punk's face to show him the amount, but the other man barely took notice; all of his attention was centred on Drew. The note was lowered to his waist, Drew's other finger coaxing open the band of his garter belt to slip it in, smooth and easy. 

     The silence around them hung heavy, only the sound of their heaving breath breaking the stillness as one-by-one, he applied more bills. Each filling Punk's garter belt, his bra and even the hems of both of his stockings until there was only a few more left. These, Drew paused at, catching the tattooed man's intense gaze as his fingers reached for the band of his faded lace panties. Punk let out a small gasp as Drew placed the bills in, feeling them glide along his twitching skin.

     After placing the last one in, Drew let the band close again, but not before softly stroking it back and forth, Punk finding himself missing the other man's warm touch as soon as he withdrew his hand. 'Well?' he asked again, but Drew stayed still, waiting for permission. 'Go on then. I'm all yours. Bought and paid for.'

     It was like turning on a switch, or firing a starter gun. Drew pounced. Lunging towards Punk, his hands on his hips, his face buried in the crook of his neck, he pushed the smaller man up against the pole. Like a man starved, he moaned at Punk's throat, kissing him along his grey-speckled jawline and down the curve of his long, graceful neck. 

     Punk's own hands went to Drew's button band, only managing to unclasp the first one when his wrists were caught in impossibly large and incredibly strong hands. A thrill rocketed up his spine, making him dizzy when his hands were prised away by force. For someone so sweet and gentle, Drew was unbelievably powerful! If he'd wanted, he could have taken Punk without asking.

     His knickers started to feel a little tighter at the prospect.

     'No,' Drew grunted, his voice hoarse already, as he directed Punk's hands, one up on the pole above his head, the other reaching behind him to grasp it at his lower back. 'Tonight... this is all about you. Worshipping you, my angel!'

     'I'm all yours,' Punk repeated sweetly, letting out another gasp as Drew's lips returned to his neck and started sucking against his pulse.

     With Punk in position, Drew returned his hands to their work. Finding the clasp at the front of his bra, Drew expertly snapped it open, scattering all the bills he'd slipped in earlier and letting both sides of black lace fall open to reveal the full fresco of inked flesh on Punk's chest. Punk's grip on the pole tightened when Drew's mouth lowered, sucking in one of his pert nipples. The tattooed man hissed through his teeth, feeling Drew's tongue tease all around his sensitive bud. It was like the Scot knew, knew how crazy this drove him and was piling on the torture, especially when his incisors lightly bit down, eliciting another sharp snarl from his idol. Drew sucked, his tongue and teeth clawing the skittish rabbit-flesh. Only once he was certain he'd completely wrecked his prize did he move his mouth over to the other side, leaving behind a finger and thumb to twist his swollen nub.

     Drew was lost in ecstasy. The noises dripping from Punk's slack lips were intricately crafted music notes, and while, for a brief moment he wondered if they was as trained and practised as his routines, he just as swiftly swiped the notion away. What did it matter if this was all an act? He was performing for him, for Drew, and he gladly accepted the beautiful lie.

     After abandoning Punk's other nipple in a similarly tattered state, Drew's mouth began moving south, peppering messy kisses all the way down Punk's stomach, the toned muscles underneath flinching with every cashmere touch that paid sweet homage to his body. Punk closed his eyes, mewling pathetically as Drew placed a kiss on each of the inked letters arched over his naval, vaguely aware of the large hands moving down to his thighs.

     He shuddered as the elastic of his garter strap pinged up, his foggy brain registering the others being loosened in succession until the tops of his stocking turned slack and droopy. He expected them to be yanked down next but Drew had bigger game on his mind. 

     His panties. 

     Fisting both sides of the frayed lace trim, Drew peeled the tiny scrap of faded fabric down, threading it around Punk's toned legs and off, leaving him completely nude around the hips. Punk blushed as his impressive semi burst free, pleading up at Drew like a whining puppy dying to be petted. To be loved.

     He obliged, but not in the way Punk wanted. He could wait. From down on his knees, Drew continued his pilgrimage, kissing all the way up Punk's legs from his ankle to the inside of his thighs, each one so soft and sumptuous that the idol of his worship was rendered speechless, only managing a weak moan as Drew's lips travelled further north until the bride of his nose teased the bottom of Punk's sack.

     'Hold on tight, angel,' Drew hushed out and somehow Punk understood, tensing his grasp on the pole right before Drew grabbed him from under the knees and tossed his legs over his broad shoulders. Crossing his ankles for grip, Punk gave a small grunt as his body was folded in on itself, manipulated by his much larger, much stronger customer.

     Drew knew exactly what he wanted and he wasn't waiting around any longer. Both of his huge hands moved to Punk's rear, his thumbs pulling his naked asscheeks apart to reveal the treasured prize beneath. Then attacked it with his tongue!

     'Haaahhhh!' Punk rasped out, his body jerking at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, nearly losing his grip as his arms threatened to buckle with joy. He could swear he felt Drew smiling down there, delighting in the reaction he was wrenching from the older man. 

     Drew's tongue pushed its way in and out, swirling around the foamy cavity before thrusting again until Punk's hole was sloppy and drenched. Drew's own spit dribbled down his chin, his cheeks flushed and moist from being buried so deep into the heat of Punk's thighs. He could feel the smaller man tremble, the legs on his shoulders quiver, small tell-tale signs of his building euphoria but Drew wasn't going to satiate him just yet. He wanted Punk to feel good, to crumble under the weight of his own desire. He wanted him to feel like a prince, to finally see what it was that Drew saw. That he was a deity walking among mortals, shining and sublime.

     'Hah... hah, please! Please...!'

     Punk's little whines only spurred him on, digging his tongue in deeper, sucking the edge of his swollen entrance with his lips until those knees at his neck started to squeeze, pressing Punk's thighs hard against Drew's ears.

     'I... I need.... oh fuck!'

     But on and on the gift went. Waves of pleasure washing over Punk, like his foot was trapped among the rocks, a prisoner of the sea's whims. The unyielding waters lapped at him, tugged at him, tried to pull him under completely.

     And succeeded!

     The legs went slack, the cue Drew had been looking for. He pulled back, releasing his hold on Punk's hole. Placing a little kiss on the tip of Punk's seeping cock when he came up for air, Drew's fingers went to the older man's knees, coaxing them off of his shoulders. Punk squeaked with dread but Drew's fingers held him firm, merely moving his legs to his robust waist and encouraging Punk to lock his ankles again.    

     Lifting Punk up as easily as a kitten, his back still against the pole, Drew lined his own rock-solid dick up with Punk's weeping entrance, their eyes catching. The hazels were heavy, glassy under the half-lids, but with enough spark to reassure Drew that he was ready for the real thing.

     Despite the lubricant, Punk expected resistance however Drew slid right in, almost to the hilt with only the second thrust. The tattooed man opened his mouth wide in a silent howl, his head tilted right back against the steel while his eyes screwed shut, overcome with the sensation. A brilliant dash of colours sparkled behind his lids, bursting into his brain as Drew began to pump into him, each drive slow, intense, blocking out any other coherent thought.

     Punk was happy to have the pole at his back, squashing in between his shoulder blades. Something familiar, grounding him, even though his head was floating sky high. Every so often, he could focus, honing in on Drew's fingers digging into his thighs, his mouth on his neck, his breath in his ear. Down below, Drew's dick had found his swollen prostrate and was massaging it ruthlessly, driving Punk's shattered nerves even further over the edge.

     Drew couldn't stand it anymore. Could no longer resist the urge. He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was considered something of a taboo in these circles but he needed to feel even more connection. He needed to be inside his angel both below and above.

     Lifting his head up from Punk's neck, he let his lips hover just above Punk's. The other man gazed up at him quizzically, pitifully. A wretched, sorry little waif that Drew had all but destroyed with his passion. 'Go on,' it was the Scot's turn to embolden the other, 'taste yourself. Taste how incredible you are.'

     Punk no longer had the strength to resist. Tilting back his head, he offered his mouth and Drew took it, plunging his tongue in as vigorously as he did below. Trusting into him from both ends, hitting such sweet spots inside of Punk that it made his naked toes curl with delight. 

     However his arms were growing weak. Turning to jelly with both pleasure and pain. He'd been holding himself up too long now and couldn't stand it any longer, but he couldn't say anything aloud, gagged as he was by Drew's hungry lips. Punk tried his best to hold on when his bad arm, poised in a torturous position above his head, gave out. Again.

     But Drew caught him. Held him securely in his mighty grasp. Punk's hands moved to Drew's shoulders, grasping onto them. 

     Something solid and familiar.

     Drew never once broke away, both his mouth and cock continuing their dominance over the smaller man, breaking him down further piece by piece. Punk's fingers fiddled with Drew's hair tie and ripped it off, snaring fistfuls of the Scot's long hair between his knuckles. Drew gave a throaty hiss at the burn and retaliated by thrusting in deeper, dragging the neediest, obscene noises from his fallen angel. Even Drew was struggling to keep quiet. His own voice-box betraying him with grunts and groans, breaking through the pauses in their sluggish kisses. 

     Finally, with a sudden snap of his head, Punk broke free. 'Close!' he wheezed through ragged pants. 'I'm so close...'

     Drew knew. He could feel Punk's dick pressing hard into his stomach like a dagger threatening his guts. 'Don't worry angel,' he cooed in Punk's ear, sucking the sensitive skin directly behind it, drinking in the unchecked sobs filtering into his brain. 'I'll help you.'

     He shifted Punk's weight, holding him up with one arm to allow the other to slide in between their slick, sweaty bodies. The second he brushed Punk's swollen cock, the other man bucked, the poor thing desperate for relief. Drew gave a filthy chuckle when he felt Punk's fingernails digging into his shoulder blades the moment he wrapped his fist around his shaft and slowly started to pump. Tears started beading at the corner of Punk's eyes, his eyebrows hooking skyward and his mouth hanging agape. It made Drew want to claim his mouth all over again.

     So he did. And squeezed him tighter against the pole. And thrust in harder, faster, more frantic.

     Punk came with a wail, his fingernails so deep in Drew's back that he was sure they'd broken the skin, trickles of blood dripping loose. He brought his angel to his full climax, savouring every sweet sight and smell and sound and taste of him as he lost himself completely, and when Punk's tight, spent muscles started crunching around Drew's cock, he felt himself spill over too. Both men coming almost in unison.

     They slumped against the pole, neither barely able to breath. As they wobbled back into the present, their eyes met again, heavy and blown. Drew blinked when Punk placed both of his inked hands on the Scot's cheeks, and pulled him in for one last kiss. Softer this time, sweeter. Something more gentle but equally as meaningful. Maybe more so.

     'Can I see you again?' Drew asked, his lips flush against Punk's.

     The Scot's casual question spooked the tattooed dancer. 'Course you will,' he replied with a wry laugh. 'You're here every night, right?'

     'That's not what I...' Drew stopped himself, gave a curt nod. Reminding himself of the reality of the situation. This wasn't real. Never had been. Never could be. 'I meant... can I see you on that stage again?'

     Punk shook his head. 'I'm not a dancer anymore.'

     'Yes, you are,' Drew told him sternly. 'That's what I've been trying to tell you. Show them.'

     'Huh?' Punk asked.

     'Show Mr Knight and Mr Orton your routine, the one you did tonight. They'll see that you've still got the talent to work the stage.'

     Punk shook his head with a withered sigh. 'I don't think I'm...'

     'Please. Promise me, you'll show them. Just once.'

     'Ok,' Punk acquiesced. 'But listen, if they say no-'

     'They won't say no,' Drew smiled warmly. 'Trust me.'

     Punk ducked his head shyly. 'Ok then. I trust you.'

     'Ok then.'

     The world snapped back into place around them. Both men abruptly realising how close and sticky they both were. 

     'I'd... better get back to work,' Punk admitted with a coy grin. 

     'Aye. And I'd best be getting home.' Drew eased himself away from the tattooed man towards the edge of the stage and jumped down. To Punk's delight, the larger man staggered as if he were drunk - not the boozed up kind, more the love-drunk kind - and crouched under the table he'd awoken under to fetch his jacket which he flicked over his shoulder. 'See you around, Punky.'

     'See you around... uh...'

     The Scot smiled warmly. 'Drew,' he replied.

     Punk grinned back. 'See you around Drew.'

     The Scot left. In an instant, the room felt colder. Lonelier. 

     Punk pulled his knees in tight, stifling a shiver. Opening his legs quickly, he inspected himself below and grimaced at the mess he'd made on the stage. 'Urgh, this is gonna need some bleach,' he groaned with a roll of his eyes. It was then that his gaze fell on the bills that had fallen from his undergarments. Carefully, he picked up each one, plucking the remaining ones that were still stuffed in his lingerie and collecting them together, counting as he went. 

     'Fuck me. The Scot did have the cash,' he exclaimed under his breath. He slid off the stage, his bare feet padding against the sticky floor as he headed behind the bar. Entering the combination into the safe, he pulled loose a number of envelopes, flicking through each one until he found the one he was searching for.

     'Drew...' he said, inspecting the name on the envelope. 'Drew McIntyre.' He flicked the lid open and stuffed the money inside. 'Well Drew, that's your tab covered for a few weeks. I don't want your money.'

     He closed the enveloped and placed it back in the safe, smiling as he clicked it shut.