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He was your favourite because he was the pretty one: The one with the nice body and the big, strong chest; the one with the beautiful blue eyes, and the sad, nervous little smile that so tragically betrayed his shame.
You were his favourite because you were the one who didn't care— the one who never curled her lip up at him in disgust; the one who never stiffened at the sight of him, or looked away when he appeared in your booth with something new to show off.
Sometimes, it was something simple— something subdued and lacking frills; something like what you might buy at a mall or department store. Other times, though, it was something more elaborate: A lace-trimmed corset with ribbons up the back; bras with tiny cups and loud prints, or stockings with garters attached to panties made of real silk. One time, he'd shown up in a leather bodice tied so tight you were sure he'd crush his own ribs if he breathed too hard while he jerked off.
Aside from his taste in underwear, you didn't actually know very much about Anakin... all you knew besides his first name (you were sure it was fake; it had to be) was that he was a cop: A cop who liked to wear soft, frilly things beneath his uniform, who never wore his badge into the club, and who was apparently ashamed enough of his predilection that you— a lone dancer in a private booth rendered untouchable by a sheet of glass— were the only person to whom he felt he could reveal his true self.
If he'd had anyone else in his life who could accept him the way you could, after all, he wouldn't have been forking over cash in exchange for the illusion of communing with you through a windowpane, would he?
The glass was there largely to protect you— from unwanted touching and spitting, and from the men (every day, there was always at least one) who didn't want to leave. Your window wasn't by any means soundproof, though, which meant that you could communicate with your customers verbally, if you both desired. Often you didn't, but for Anakin, sometimes, you did: You'd saunter up to the glass while he'd lean into it, put your ear up to where he held his mouth, and listen to what he had to say.
"This one is a bit tight because I borrowed it from my wife," he'd told you breathlessly on the day he'd worn the bodice, voice obscured just enough by the glass that you knew you'd never recognize it as his outside of the club. "I think she bought it to turn me on."
"Well," you'd answered coyly, "If that's why she bought it, then I guess it worked pretty well, didn't it?"
His face had gone red then, because you both knew that even though it had worked (the raging boner sticking out the leg of his panties had been evidence of that), it perhaps hadn't worked in quite the way his wife had intended.
As far as you knew, no one alive except for you both understood and accepted that Anakin's greatest pleasure was the lingerie he wore beneath his uniform.
Today, you watched with what you hoped was palpable anticipation as he started to unfasten the shiny, black buttons running down the perfectly-ironed front of his uniform shirt. What would he be wearing underneath it this time, you wondered? It was always something different; something sexy— something cute, or fun. One of the things you liked best about Anakin was the way his own personal tastes seemed to clash with the icy sensibility of his job, and the clothes he had to wear to get it done.
He'd opted for something in red today, by the looks of it— bright red; scarlet red.
The kind of red that brought out those sad, blue eyes of his, and stood out starkly against his flawless skin. You wondered if, on some level, he wasn't actually aware of just how good he looked this way. How could he not know?
Easily, a little voice in the back of your head reminded you, especially if you're the only person in his life who thinks his undies suit him.
And they absolutely did suit him, at least from your point of view: Having come right up to the glass to get a better look, you grinned and nodded as he pulled his shirt out of his pants, finished with the buttons, and let it fall onto the chair behind him. He cut a striking figure in just that little A-cup bra, no doubt amplified by the fit of his prescribed trousers with their reflective red stripe, and the formidable silhouettes of the tools mounted to his belt. Handcuffs, gun, taser, baton-style flashlight— it was all there, and just like the shade of the bra popped against his skin, it contrasted exquisitely with the image you knew he'd rather project.
"It's beautiful!" you told him excitedly, raising your voice a bit and making sure to enunciate, just in case he had trouble hearing you from so many feet away.
He must have understood, because he looked at you seductively, and began to detach the belt. (It made you happy that Anakin felt empowered to be seductive with you.)
You kept on watching as he shed his pants; when he was finally rid of them (and his shoes), you were treated to a spectacular view of a bulging erection, swathed in a shiny little patch of straining, red fabric. Anakin never touched himself right away; he was here, primarily, for a show... and so you licked your lips and motioned with your finger for him to spin around for you, prompting him to start things up.
The sign outside might have said the women were the ones performing here, but when it came to Anakin, that couldn't have been farther from the truth.
He surprised you by holding up a hand as if to advise you to wait; after that, he put one rock-hard, perfectly-waxed leg up on the chair, and began to strip off his sock. You paused and waited for him, tilting your head curiously while he freed both of his feet of their black cotton bindings... only to replace them with a little something you hadn't noticed him toting in with him.
Out of a nondescript plastic grocery bag, Anakin retrieved what might have been the most ostentatious pair of shiny, red, fuck-me pumps you'd ever seen in your life (and that was saying a lot, given your line of work). He applied them to his body expertly, as if he'd done it a thousand times before; once they were securely on his feet (the fit was perfect, you noted) he stood up tall, and finally indulged you by turning around to show you his ass.
You clapped and hooted at the sight of his firm little bubble-butt framed by the bright-red lace of his thong. You couldn't help but reflect that you sounded not entirely unlike some of the other men who came to see you, when you danced for them.
Anakin, having slid into his secret identity quite comfortably in your very special presence, egged you on even further by bending over— legs as straight as rods and enviably tense, he folded himself adeptly right in the middle, and peeked out at you from between his thighs. He smiled, you waved, and (after allowing you a few pleasant moments to observe the way the string of his thong only barely covered his tight-looking little asshole), stood up again.
You raised your arms above your head next, in the hope that he would copy your pose. When he did, you moved to place your fingertips on the glass, as though it were the only thing stopping you from putting your hands all over him (with Anakin, it really was). He responded by inching a bit closer and starting to sway his hips; he did it with a level of grace and fluidity unlike any man you'd ever seen before.
Rejoicing in your rapt (and unabashedly positive) attention, he began to put on a little show for you: It was brief, as he only had so much time to spend with you over the course of his lunch hour, but it was easily as titillating as anything that might have been going on right now in any of the club's other private rooms. The way his abs shifted beneath his skin as he thrusted and twerked made your pussy throb inside your own panties, and every time he turned to show you his ass made you feel like you ought to be the one paying him.
He turned to the side for you, rubbed and teased his nipples beneath his cups, and flexed the substantial muscles in his arms. He grabbed at and spread his own perfect ass cheeks, displayed his shiny red pumps in various poses with the aid of the chair to which he'd discarded his shirt, and looked up at you with those big blue eyes you loved so much. His face was sweaty by then, and his chest was heaving; his mouth seemed to only barely resist crying out for you to strap on a dick and fuck him.
Leaning up against the glass, you ground your hips into the window as if to tell him that if you could, you most definitely would.
Again, he seemed to understand exactly what you intended to communicate... and this time, he displayed his comprehension by falling to the chair, spreading his legs, and finally starting to touch the dripping hard-on that had been wantonly threatening to tear through his panties since he'd first begun to reveal himself to you.
"Show me," you mouthed at him through the glass. "Play for me, Anakin— you know what I want to see!"
Between his own desperation and the concentration required to dance, his smile had left him sometime during his little performance. It came back to him now, though, as he reached into his panties to tease his cock out of them: Anakin's dick was big; not only was it big, it was attractive, too. You hoped he knew it, although you doubted he did; you highly suspected that the sheer beauty of his long, smooth shaft and slick, pink head were largely lost on him.
This only enhanced your willingness to encourage him; cheer him on— if you didn't do it, you feared no one would... and anyway, Anakin was more than worthy of your cat-calls and enthusiasm.
Soon enough, he was stroking himself base-to-tip with ever-increasing speed. His face reddened and his eyes squeezed shut; those beads of sweat on his forehead turned into little rivers, and one of his bra straps slid off of his shoulder. He looked like such a slut, you thought— a gorgeous little slut who never, ever should have been sentenced to secrecy for his desires.
Anakin had been coming here for a long time now, but these days, he only ever asked for you. If you weren't there, you'd been told, he'd wait until you were due rather than take his chances with another one of the performers. He'd been burned too many times, he'd told you— laughed or giggled or snickered at; sometimes even worse, if he happened to catch a girl on a particularly bad day. One of them, he'd told you, had gone so far as to refuse to take him at all, instead offering to refund him out of her own wages.
You supposed you understood: Some of the men who came here were unpredictable; any sign of nonconformity could, theoretically, be read as a legitimate threat. You didn't begrudge the other girls their caution; however, you didn't see Anakin or his fancy underwear as a 'threat'. Instead, you saw him as a man whose station in life seemed to have denied him the privilege of being himself.
Even today, you suspected few people (including his wife) would take very kindly to the notion of his masculine veneer being just that— a veneer.
If you were able to make him feel comfortable enough to take off that mask of his, even just for the ten minutes it took him to show off to you and pump his cock for a bit, then who were you to deny him his validation?
Shame surrounding one's choice of undergarments, you thought, had no place in a civilized society.
Anakin, interestingly, always hopped to his feet and put a hand on the glass when he was about to finish. Today was no different; to your shock and awe, he wasn't at all impeded by his heels. You lined your palm up with his against the window, and found that you could feel his warmth through the thin pane. He'd turned his head down by then; his short crop of blonde hair was drenched in sweat, and the tendons in his neck looked as tight as the strings of a well-tuned violin.
You heard him grunt and shout as he finally let go, leaning forward while he treated the floor in front of him to the very peak of his own relief and gratitude. It wasn't until he lifted his head to meet your gaze that he noticed your hand against his through the glass; when he saw it, he seemed distinctly taken aback. He stared at his own hand first, and then at you; when you made eye-contact, you smiled at him the same way you always did.
Fear flitted across his face, but it was short-lived. Soon, he smiled back... standing up straight because he knew it was time to start putting himself back together. He unfastened the straps on his pumps first, taking them off to reveal the little red lines they'd left on his skin, having been worn through his dance routine. He put them back into their plastic grocery bag, wrapping them up carefully before retrieving and replacing his socks.
After that came the shirt, which he buttoned up and smoothed carefully over his thighs; next were those pants with the clean-looking red stripe. After those, it was the belt— the belt with the gun and the handcuffs, and the flashlight that doubled as a truncheon. Watching his lingerie disappear beneath his uniform was bittersweet; while the sheer strength of his facade surely served a protective purpose for him in the wider world, you knew it wasn't what really made him happy. He always looked a little dishevelled on his way out, you thought, but that suited both him and his situation as well as his red pumps or his pink, sweaty face.
It was more likely than not, you guessed, that Anakin's wife had already rejected this aspect of him— maybe she knew about it and hated it; maybe he'd ventured to tell her once, and she'd made him swear to never bring it up again. Maybe she was just like the girls here at the peep show who'd treated him poorly, or turned him away.
...Maybe, though, there was a chance he hadn't told her: A chance that she didn't know; that she'd never had cause to find out.
That notion gave you hope for him, because if he'd been too frightened to tell her, then there was still a chance for him to get from her the things he came here and paid to get from you: At the end of the day, Anakin wasn't here to consume women's bodies at will; wasn't here to watch them strip or dance, or finger their pussies.
No, Anakin was here because he happened to be in possession of a part of himself he felt he couldn't show to anyone else; a part of himself that had, for much of his life, made him feel sad and excluded— something he had to hide.
With you, though, he didn't need to do that... because what did you care if he lived up to the impossible ideals bestowed upon him by a society that didn't value his happiness?
The fact was, you didn't care: All you cared about was that he was content when he left. He was a beautiful stranger whose willingness to model his intimates for you had clearly been born of desperation, and all evidence pointed to you being the only person able to give him what he needed. As long as it was you who was waiting for him behind the glass, Anakin had nothing to hide.
He turned his head as he left, looking back at you one last time over his shoulder... seemingly to shoot you another sad, conflicted little smile. He did it just before the door closed behind him, rendering the room empty until one of the cleaners took it upon themselves to ready it for the next customer.
You smiled back at him, of course... and not just because he needed you to. Rather, you smiled because he made you feel like smiling.
For all of the reasons he'd just been so brave as to show you, Anakin was always going to be your favourite.