A.N.:I intended to go on a break from writing the multi-chaptered and long stories. My big project started and after two years of writing almost non stop I feel sort of empty, and I also developed the need for others to acknowledge my work, because I'm too unsure about it myself (have also this feeling that I'm not improving anymore, actually that the old stories are better than the new ones) and also sharing my stories have been frustrating me lately.

Is such a contradiction: writing is my pick up when ever I'm in a bad mood. I can't go through live without writing, have discovered this when I was in this short time staying away from the writing and felt like a fucking junky in the rehab. So I have to write, even though I wanted to take a breather from all of it - it seems that I'm not capable to do that- got too depressed. But uploading stories when there are not a lot of people who like them, and I can't even connect with the ones that do (I suck at connecting with my reviewers, so I don't even try anymore) - makes me sad and depressed too. I have become so greedy.

And to those who are giving me motivations and encouragement on regular basis, thank you guys, you are the one for who I upload my stories. And I do appreciate every comment and review that you have given me, even though I'm nagging and complaining right now. I just hope this 'writer low' would pass soon.

Summary: When Marshall won on the amateurish contest in striptease, he hadn't expected to find himself on the stage wiggling his ass more than once or that the gorgeous stranger would mistake him for a prostitute.

WARNING: NON-CON This is GBLT/LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) themed fiction with explicit contents that is NOT appropriate for minors.

And as always a big thanks to the wonderful diluain for beta'ing (have you by any chance read her latest story? If you didn't, you should, you definitely should). All the remaining mistakes are mine.

Saint's seduction, I. part

Marshall Parker put both hands around the pole in the middle of the T-shaped stage and swung around it with his knees bent, then with all his weight hanging from the pole, and his black platform boots on the floor, he shook his black leather-clad ass to the rhythm of Rihanna's "Disturbia."

He sighed internally, his gaze travelling through the semi-darkness at the lechers -, pardon, the upstanding patrons of this fine establishment, which was just by sheer necessity registered as a striptease club. Damn, you do one appearance for a Wednesday amateur night to win a bet with a friend, and then you end up on the stage for the third Friday in a row?

Marshall stepped away from the pole and, his legs wide apart, cupped his family jewels with both hands and rolled his pelvis. He kept his big blue eyes hooded and just wandering over red leather and dark wood furniture, not lingering on the faces in the audience, not that he could clearly see them; the white light that was focused on him was blinding his vision. But he could still see that it was the same crowd that you could find even in the most prestigious private club: old, wrinkled, bald and rich.

Or maybe not. His eyes stopped on the tall, dark-haired guy who, even though he was dressed in the obligatory dark suit, was sticking out of the usual crowd like a sore thumb with his wide shoulders, young face and long, silken hair that fell over his shoulders and onto his chest.

Marshall slipped his hand under his net shirt and slid them up, caressing his belly, his chest, pulling his shirt up as he went; he exposed his softly defined six-pack, all the while shaking his hips to the beat of the music.

Only a couple of swings of his hips, small licks of his finger and a deep bow, showing those dirty old men his little, tight ass in all its glory, and then the song ended and he was off.

He sat in the small dressing room with a mirror and counter across one whole wall, chairs in a row before the counter, with rows of clothing racks on the other side. The light was harsh and it hurt his eyes even more than the light on the stage. He just leaned toward the mirror to remove the short, red wig from his head, when Cecil, the owner of the club, rushed into the changing room, ignoring all the other boys lingering in the room waiting for either their turn on the podium or an invitation for a lap dance. Because here, the money wasn't tucked into your pants or your shirt; instead, after your show you were politely invited to perform a lap dance for a promised hundred pound tip -minimum.

"Don't even tell me." Marshall rubbed his temples. He knew why Cecil was here, the tall, skinny, white haired stick came after every show to give Marshall his admirers' invitations. "I'm not interested."

"Please, Angel." Cecil put his hand on Marshall's shoulder. His silver nails flashed in the light. "This one is important. Very important."

"I don't do lap dances, you know that." Marshall swatted Cecil's hand off his shoulder. "Hell, I don't even do striptease. I just dance on the stage." And this was the last performance; he wouldn't give in to Cecil's begging anymore, not even if he went on his knees like he had done last time. And it didn't matter if he still hadn't gotten the prize money he had won on amateur night - even if he didn't get the money for this last show, he would survive;, he had a steady income, it wasn't like he had to work for a living.

"Not even if I pay you what I owe you?"

Marshall tilted his head, a small smile appearing on his face. "With interest?"

"How much?"

"An additional two hundred on that five hundred."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"And oh, this is the last time. No more begging and no more calling me and whining," Marshall said. It was a good thing Cecil paid cash in-hand and that Marshall hadn't given him any additional information like his surname and address; Cecil only knew his first name, even though he called him by a stage name, and his cell number, which wasn't registered.

"You are killing me."

"Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it. I'll take it."

"And cash up front, please, with today's wages."

Cecil grimaced, but he pulled a wallet out from underneath the folds of his kimono-ish shirt and counted out a thousand in fifty pound bills for Marshall.

Marshall took the money and carefully stuffed it into his boot. "And you say you are broke." A quick glance into the mirror, to make sure everything was the way it should be before he stood up. "Ok, lead the way to that big shot of yours."

Cecil led him out of the changing room, across the main room, up the stairs and into the L-shaped hallway where the private rooms were. He knocked on the second door and as soon as a voice said, "Come in," he opened the door and gently pushed Marshall through it, then closed the door.

Marshall leaned on the door, his gaze travelling over the room, two by three meters large and poorly lit. The wall opposite the door was all glass and it had a direct view of the stage. There on right and left walls were old-fashioned sofas, identical to those that were in the main hall, but violet instead of red; between them sat a low iron table with a wooden top, with a bar-trolley beside the sofa on the right wall.

And there by the trolley, with a glass of what appeared to be scotch in his hand, sat not an old goat as Marshall expected, but that young man he had noticed before. Well, not exactly young, since he appeared to be a little over thirty, but you could say "young," since all the patrons here were over forty-five and fifty. And he was gorgeous-looking too, oval face, with narrow nose and a strong chin, framed with long, black hair.

"Angel, right?" The man's voice was rich and slick as honey.

Marshall nodded and pushed himself away from the door. "I don't know what Cecil told you, but I don't do striptease or lap dances. If you want, I can dance for you, but that's all."

"That's fine." The man crossed his legs. "Get on the table then."

"Without music?" Marshall raised his brows and stepped further in the room.

The man clapped and the gentle sound of instrumental music filled the room.

Marshall frowned and stepped onto the table. How was he supposed to dance to something that sounded like the theme music to some drama? He shrugged his shoulders – whatever – and closed his eyes. He let the music to fill him, overflow him and then he started to move with the sound- first just his arms, which flowed thought the air like silk, then the hips followed, just tiny swings. And it felt silly, but also so good. He touched himself, slid his fingers over his arm, shoulder, chest, rubbed his palm over his nipple, the nett fabric creating such a wonderful friction – he bit in his lip- and then slid his hand on the side, down over his hip.

He opened his eyes and those emerald eyes bore into his, inviting him to get closer, to see them closer, to drown in them.

The man offered him his hand and without thinking Marshall took it and was pulled down into man's lap. He ended up with his knees on either side of the man's body, his hands on the man's shoulders and the man's fingers in his short, red wig, while the fingers of his other hand dug into the soft flesh of his hip. There were bound to be bruises there tomorrow.

The man tilted Marshall's head and pressed his lips against Marshall's.

Marshall blinked. What the hell was he doing? Even though a lot of people called him a slut behind his back, he had never been one. He had never in his life had one-nighters and he only put out on the fifth date, not the third, and even then he had to be sure that there would be more of them. He also had a fuck-buddy/best friend for times between boyfriends, and since that fuck-buddy had fallen in love, he now had a two-for-one deal - but that still didn't make him a slut.

"Hey!" Marshall pushed against the man's chest and tried to turn his head.

The man used the opportunity to push his tongue into Marshall's mouth. He explored and tasted Marshall, his tongue sliding over the roof of Marshall's mouth, his teeth, rubbing against Marshall's tongue.

Marshall lifted himself onto his knees and wrapped his arms around the man's neck, his fingers tangling into that soft, fine hair. He leaned all his weight on the man and reciprocated every caress of that wonderful, so wonderful tongue. This was bad, this was sooo bad, but he couldn't stop. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss and found himself grinding against that wonderfully hard body. This was really bad.

The man turned them around and pushed Marshall down into the soft surface of the sofa, his teeth nibbling on Marshall's lower lip, while his hand slid down between them. He opened Marshall's pants and slipped his hand inside them.

Marshall started to squirm; he tried to lift himself up and he was about to push the gorgeous man away, but then those fingers wrapped around his cock and – his head fell back on the couch – it was heaven.

"You are so sweet." The man loomed over Marshall and his long hair fell down like a curtain around them. He grabbed Marshall's hands and pulled them up.

"No," Marshall breathed. He squeezed his legs together. "No… No sex."

"How much?" The man shifted, somehow he managed to wiggle his body between Marshall's legs, his hand jerking Marshall harder and faster. "How much do you want?" His breath caressed Marshall's temple.

"No." Marshall turned his head to the other side, away from those green eyes, and bit in his lip.

"How much?" The man slid his mouth over Marshall's cheek.

"I'm not… I'm not for sale." Marshall pushed into that hand. Oh, god, he was almost there.

"Everybody is for sale. Everybody." The man bit Marshall's earlobe, then licked the sensitive flesh and squeezed his fingers tightly around Marshall's dick. "Just name your price."

Oh, shit. Marshall's frame shook, he came. He smiled and lay there for a few moments, all pliant, his lungs taking in big gulps of air, while the fingers that were fondling him slid lower; he could feel their touch at his entrance.

"Your price?"

"Hmmm?" Marshall blinked away the haze of afterglow. He gazed into those eyes, those emerald eyes that told him that his owner was a man who always got what he wanted and when he couldn't get what he wanted, he took it. But because Marshall also saw a businessman there, he still held out hope of getting out of this with his panties intact, so to speak. "You are right. Everybody has their price. It's just…" he wiggled in man's hold, testing the man's hold on his wrists, "mine is high and for tonight I'm already booked."

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"I'm enchanted with you. I don't think I can let you go." The man's lips hovered above Marshall's before he pressed a kiss on Marshall's lips. "Cancel it."

"I can't." Marshall slightly turned his head and the lips slid on his cheek and then travelled down his neck. "I always keep my appointments."

"That's very commendable." The teeth were scraping the skin on Marshall's neck. "Cancel it anyway. I will pay double."

"It's five thousand per night. Double means ten thousand and I don't do hourly rates." Marshall had to concentrate hard to ignore those fingers that were still rubbing his entrance and to keep himself from pushing down on them. But it would be so easy just to let go, to let this beautiful stranger just do whatever he wanted to and just to let him blow his mind away. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "But I can't… It's…It's…" What? Think, Marshall, think. What is it? "It's a regular. I never let regulars down."

"I will be your regular."

"Tomorrow. I will be all yours tomorrow after the show."

The man's eyes searched Marshall's face, then he laid a quick kiss on Marshall's lips before he loosened his grip on Marshall's wrists and pulled his hand out from Marshall's pants. He pulled himself into sitting position. "Tomorrow then."

Marshall blinked, already missing the warmth of those fingers. Damn. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Here." The man tossed Marshall a few tissues he took from the table drawer; he himself had already used two of them.

Marshall picked up the tissues from his chest and used them to wipe out the wetness in his pants as best as he could, then zipped up his pants and sat up.

The man pulled Marshall into his lap again. "I'm Simon. Simon Neil Vanderbrake. And I'm going to be your regular. Your only regular." He pressed his lips against Marshall's.

Marshall opened himself to Simon's caress. It felt so good. So amazingly good. If he had met Simon somewhere else and Simon had asked him on a date, he would be probably dancing in joy, but meeting him like he had and treating him like the prostitute he posed as – he wasn't a thing, damn it. He wrapped his arms around Simon's neck, even though he should be pushing the cocky bastard away. And he did, after a few minutes. "Simon, I have to go."

"Yeah" Simon, still holding Marshall around the waist, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the wallet and pulled out a bunch of bills. He pushed them into Marshall's hand and let him go. "Don't forget about tomorrow."

"I won't." Marshall crumpled the bills in his fist and got up. Knowing himself, tomorrow he would be thinking about Simon and doubting that he had made the right choice in standing him up, even though showing up would be the stupidest thing ever. He gave Simon a last appraisal before he went toward the door and through it.

He rushed into the changing room and hid in the corner behind the row of clothes. He had planned to take a taxi home , but now, just in case, he called Geb, his best friend, and begged him to come get him. And Geb did, after a lot of nagging that Marshall shouldn't be wasting his time in places like that. He was still giving that speech to Marshall while he and Robin, Geb's boyfriend, were escorting Marshall toward the car. Of course Marshall ignored him and instead clung to Robin, who always gave him sympathy whenever Geb got on his case.