The valet takes the keys from you and your hand gracefully finds its way to her back, guiding her up the steps of the club. The Vegas strip is there behind you somewhere, but this isn’t the Strip, the club where you’re going. No middle-class couples on their anniversaries are going to this club. This is high-class, high-roller, somewhere the ceo takes the foreign bigwig to show everyone in Tokyo or Mumbai or Geneva that Vegas isn’t all plastic flamingos and leathery old women in bunny suits handing out free weak gin martinis. In this club, the music is high-class and gentle, a skilled older performer that everyone has heard of, singing old classics from the American songbook, with a gentle world-weariness and wisdom in their voice. Maybe a few small anecdotes about the business, late in the show, once their tie’s been loosened and the light have been slowly faded down, and someone has given them a drink to wet the ol’ whistle. In this club, it’s always Vegas’s golden Rat Pack age, or it’s where that dream lives on.

But all that high-class showbiz is yet to come, still in store, and anyway, you’re not here for all that. Your entertainment isn’t going to be on the stage, tonight. The show is just the distraction, to take eyes of everyone around you off the real action, hidden and secret.

The waiter is handsome and lean and guides you to your reserved table with a practiced, modest gesture, the way a waiter would have done to minor aristocrat on the Orient Express. You don’t sit down first, of course. She does, gracefully slipping her long red dress under her as she sits down at the table. And you sit down next to her, to her left, so she is to your right.

And the table and booth are straight out of a Vegas film from 1960, clean Deco lines, and it is a booth built for this theater, tiers of tables so every single one has an excellent view of the stage, where the band of seasoned musicians is warming up, taking bright instruments out of black cases, the blue and red and purple lights glinting off trumpets and a saxophone, and strings of a guitar, and the lacquered lid of a Steinway. There is a microphone in the middle of the stage, and there is a quiet murmur as people come in, are shown to their seats, and anticipate getting to see the performer in the flesh. The younger guests would have remembered their parents swooning over the singer.

Your companion for the evening, sitting beside you, might be that young, or she might not. The gently inquiring glances of the other people, at the neighboring tables, can’t quiet make out her age; she has a kind of timeless beauty that’s mature without showing wrinkles, and young without seeming childish. She could be 25 or, with enough care and makeup, a youthful 45. She smiles and you can feel the warmth, and she raises her eyebrows at you, as if to say, can you really believe we meet going to see them? Right here, singing for us tonight, just a few feet away on that stage? You smile back at her.

But neither of you is smiling about what will happen on the stage. You are both smiling in anticipation of your coming escapade, your public fling, secret pleasures of public intimacy.

She is wearing a red dress, you are wearing a dark suit, and final member of your little degenerate band is the table in front of you. It’s wearing white, a stark white tablecloth with a candle on it, lit in a glass, and the drinks, which the same handsome and lean waiter has already served you. The white tablecloth is long, it goes all the way down to the floor, in the front, and when you and your companion are seated at it, nobody can see anything that’s happening under the table.

The music has started, a brassy number, something familiar to everyone, something for the folks to get to know the band itself before the Big Name steps out, and this gives you reason to lean forward at the table, to rest your left elbow on it, your left hand hesitating over your glass, a whiskey sour, and your eyes follow the movements of the sax player and the movements of the man at the piano, while your right hand is hidden under the table, between you and your companion, and she brushes her brunette hair behind her left ear, and your right hand moves between her legs.

And nobody, in this mildly crowded theater, is watching you, every eye is fixed on the musicians, and she uncrosses her legs. You haven’t rehearsed this, but both of you know how to read the movements of the other, both of you want exactly the same thing.

It’s like unhooking a bra, undoing the little clasp she’s made for the thong. And this, this you have practiced, your fingers know exactly what to do. They nimbly undo the final clasp, and your hand turns to recieve the thing that’s been tied down by the thing between her legs, under the red dress, the whole timing driving here and being led to the table and sitting down— her cock.

It almost claps against your palm, as it swings up from where it was confined. She was half-hard already in anticipation, and now you feel the blood flowing into her member as you grip it. Her dick is big, the head reaching well past the little ring of your thumb and index finger, and it points straight up, almost tall enough to brush against the underside of the table, but not quite.

Up above the table, where there is music and mood lighting on the stage and a hundred people around you, and your left hand is innocently touching the rim of your whiskey sour, you steal a glance at her perfect, beautiful face. She shows no hint of what is happening under the table. Her elbows are on the table, her little hands cupped around her wineglass. She does take a look at you, and raises and lowers her eyebrows, but it is part of the game. She acts as if to say, ‘wow, honey, I can’t believe we’re here!’, and under the table you can feel her heartbeat in the massive cock in your right hand.

The main act has started. The main act, the Big Name, has stepped out from behind the backup singers, tossed their fedora to someone in the audience, and is singing a song everyone knows and loves. It’s a crowd-pleasing song to gain the trust of the audience, to show them the singer still has it, even if they’re in Vegas now, it’s a song to offer relief to those who bought tickets apprehensively, to those who were dragged here tonight not sure if they’d enjoyed themselves. You can feel the atmosphere in the room change, there is a warm comfort in the audience, and the excitement is building for what this old Big Name is going to do on the stage.

But under the table, your hand is still gripping a cock that almost puts yours to shame, a big and veiny member and a meaty pair of balls under it that nobody in the room could ever imagine attached to the beautiful women sitting next to you in the booth. She has taken a sip of her wine and settled back slightly, but the angle of her body under the table still allows no hint that anything unusual is happening, and her face betrays no hint of her big secret, or the pleasure she feels as your hand gently starts to stroke the monstrous appendage that the white tablecloth hides…