Club 42

by Joanna Angel

  To see what happens if Naomi keeps her mouth shut, turn to page 77.

  “Officer Johnson!” I said, squishing my B cups together and batting my eyelashes behind my taped, thick-rimmed, lens-free glasses. “Is there ANYTHING else I could do to make this better?”

  This sentence had seemed to work fabulously in a copthemed film I’d watched on Pornhub just the other night. And Officer Johnson did, in fact, have the bulging muscles and industrial-strength handcuffs needed to satisfy this plotline.

  “Excuse me?” he replied, frowning. “You seem like a nice girl, don’t make me write you up for solicitation of an officer.”

  “I can be nice, or . . . I can be REALLY bad,” I suggested. I mean, clearly, he was flirting back. Right? He really left that one open. Also, why was it that even when I was almost getting arrested for being an accomplice to an underground drug ring at a strip club, in a short skirt that showed off my actual asshole, somehow I was still typecast as a “nice girl?” Humph.

  Brandi grabbed my arm and hissed, “What are you doing? Just be quiet!”

  I faced Brandi, my fake glasses slipping down my nose, and turned around, lifted up my skirt, and showed Officer Johnson my ass. “The officer here is going to punish me,” I said.

  “No. No he’s not. Just stop it!” she said, and she stepped in front of me, ruining any chance of this heroic fantasy playing out. “None of us are accomplices in a drug ring, because Tony here is just an asshole customer in my club.”

  Officer Johnson’s mouth opened, and then snapped shut. He turned to Tony, whose smirk was impressive for someone in the middle of being handcuffed.

  “What is she talking about?” Officer Johnson asked Tony.

  Brandi cleared her throat. “What she is talking about is that she is the manager here. And she would like you to get this drug-dealing asshole out of her club!”

  To go back and see what happens if Naomi keeps her mouth shut, turn to page 77.

  To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 79.

  I opened my mouth, took a deep breath, and attempted to speak—but I looked straight at the gun being pointed toward my face, and I froze. Perhaps today was not the day to be some kind of martyr who dies on the stiletto cross to save the strippers.

  “Alright guys,” Tony said. “You caught me. Took you long enough, assholes. But guess what? I resigned as the manager a couple of weeks ago. I’m just here hanging out! You know, just a customer, looking for some new customers for my drug business. Too bad none of my old friends here wanted to buy any drugs. I guess I’ll have to hit up Pumps in Queens instead. The ladies there are a little more rough around the edges.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Tony?” the officer said. Apparently, they were old pals.

  “I said, I’m not the manager here anymore, so none of the girls are an accomplice to anything.” His tone was firm. “Take me down to the station, I’ve still got a cell with my name on it.”

  “If you’re not the manager, then who is?” the officer asked. Tony turned to Brandi.

  “I am, officer,” Brandi said.

  “What?” The officer seemed genuinely confused by this turn of events.

  “Yes. I’m the manager here. And I’d like this drug-dealing piece of shit out of my club,” Brandi said.

  To go back and see Naomi try to flirt with Officer Johnson, turn to page 75.

  To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 79.

  “Aww—it’s always good seeing you again, Christina!” Tony said. I knew this was Brandi’s legal name. I guess calling her that . . . sounded more managerial?

  All the girls were dead silent, though the dog could not stop barking at the large supply of drugs right in front of it. It must be really exciting to be a drug dog who’s just found so many drugs.

  “I have my license and all my paperwork downstairs. I’d be happy to go get it for you if you take the gun out of my fucking face,” Brandi said.

  “That’s what you wear to work as a manager?” Officer Johnson said, scoffing at her.

  “I’m the manager at a strip club. Not a Sunday school. Are you gonna write me up on a violation of dress code? What is this?”

  The officers all shifted, confused. Tony and Brandi kept exchanging looks, having a full-length discussion with their eyes. I had no idea what plans they were secretly scheming, but I did know that Brandi had everything completely under control.

  The cops escorted Tony and all the drugs out of the building. The girls turned to Brandi, unsure of what to do next.

  “Alright everyone . . . let’s get back to work! Come on TJ, put the music back on! Joey, get out there and hand out some flyers. Let’s get some life back in here and make some money! If anyone’s got any questions, come find me. I’ll be in my office,” she said. Everyone cheered, moments later the music came back on, and all of the strippers breathed an enormous sigh of relief. We conversed with one another, hugged each other, and a few cursed Tony’s name for getting us into that mess.

  Brandi turned the other direction and walked toward the office. I followed her in there and sat down in the very same place that I’d met her, only this time, she was on the other side of the desk.

  “So, do you want to fill me in on . . . anything?” I nervously asked.

  “No, not really. There are some things that are just better if you don’t know,” she laughed.

  “So are you really the manager?” I said.

  “Well for now . . . technically, yes. And technically, I guess I have been for a while. I just haven’t really showed up for work.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Anyways, I want you to go home—”

  “You’re firing me!” I gasped.

  “No! I want you to go home, and report back tomorrow at 5:00 p.m. I’m promoting you to the night shift.” She winked at me. I didn’t know if the wink was a code for something else, like perhaps an invitation to the secret drug ring, or if I was actually being promoted to the night shift with a flirtatious invitation.

  “Really?!” I said.

  “Oh yeah, really. And you better be ready. It’s a whole other game here at night. It’s fucking packed. Go get some new clothes, get some rest, and bring your Agame tomorrow. We’ve got a huge bachelor party coming tomorrow night, and I’m gonna put you on stage when they first get here.” She smiled, her bikini still just barely covering her nipples.

  “You got it boss!” I said.

  I was about to walk out, but I hesitated. I wasn’t entirely sure how appropriate it would be to say what I wanted to say, but I’d just had a gun pointed in my face ten minutes ago, and I was pretty sure she was partly responsible for it happening, so all rules about what was “appropriate” had gone out the window.

  “I’m gonna miss doing doubles with you,” I said.

  “Well,” she replied, her mouth quirking up. “You don’t have to. I have a really great private VIP room right here that you’re welcome to any time.” She winked at me and said, “Come here, Harry Potter.”

  I climbed over the desk and jumped into her managerial chair, and I kissed her for several minutes. Then I got down on my knees and ate her pussy as she shuffled papers around and picked up the phone to yell at soda suppliers and such.

  Let me tell you, it was a whole lot sexier when she did it.

  THE END

  To go back and find a different fantasy, turn to page 119.

  “Um, that actually sounds a little too advanced for me! Thanks for the invite though, I’ll catch up with you later.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, kissed Tony on the cheek, and left the office. I sat in complete silence, unsure of what to do next. The phone on his desk starting ringing, which was impressive because it was such an old phone I’d thought it was like, a prop, a set piece to make the room more office-like. He picked it up and immediately started cursing at the person on the other end about a missing shipment of coconut water. I saw this as my
cue to leave, but I hoped that his yelling would resolve the problem, because I did love coconut water.

  I wandered back upstairs and found myself back on the strip club’s main floor. It took my eyes a moment to re-adjust to the frantic club lighting. I wandered around aimlessly, and I didn’t seem to be the only one who was unsure of what to do—there were about a dozen customers sitting around an empty stage, staring blankly at nothing but revolving disco lights and a pole. Were they all imagining someone up there? What was going on?

  A moment later, I saw a stressed guy in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy black pants with headphones around his neck running through the floor toward me. He stopped me in my tracks. The sight was jarring, perhaps because Hawaiian shirts and headphones were normally synonymous with fun times, vacation, and tiki drinks . . . anything but stress.

  “Hey! New girl, what’s your name?”

  “Oh um . . . Naomi but . . . I don’t really—” I started.

  “All my dancers are in VIP, and I need someone on stage, stat. Can you hop on there?”

  “Um, sure! Yeah, sure! No problem,” I replied. Look at me. My first day on the job, and I was saving the strip club already. What would they even have done had I not stumbled in here today? How would they function? There were horny men staring at an empty stage, and I was the only one who could fix it.

  “Thanks.” And he disappeared into the darkness of the DJ booth, looking less stressed as he walked away, slightly closer to the energy of someone on a beach in Hawaii.

  I got back on the stage. A completely different crowd of people surrounded it now. When I was on stage before, the “crowd” had been disconnected—individual men ignoring each other. Now, there were about a dozen people surrounding the stage, and they were all interacting with one another. Their ties were loosened, and some of their jackets were on the backs of their chairs. If I had to guess, they were younger professionals between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. It was early afternoon, and apparently this was when the more rowdy suited men came in. A loose tie and an unbuttoned collar is about as rowdy as you can get in a club with no alcohol.

  I walked out to the tune of “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC. Everyone knows this song, but mostly the chorus. The group of suits all collectively sang different versions of the song, all shouting what they thought the words were, until the chorus kicked in and they finally sang in unison.

  I slowly unbuttoned my polka-dot dress. I made this seem intentional and seductive, but I’d learned today that it was virtually impossible to unbutton this dress at a fast pace. The tempo of this song worked nicely with a slow unbutton. Thankfully, I was able to slide it off just as the first chorus kicked in and the united sing-along started. The hipster inside of me was silently judging all of them— that’s just what we do when we see groups of people who are financially stable enjoying themselves. However, the naked side of me on stage appreciated all the excitement, even though most of it was for AC/DC.

  I threw my legs up in the air and had them land on one of the guys’ shoulders. The entire crowd got a kick out of this, so I decided to think of ways to interact with each person by the stage. I pulled someone’s tie, I took a fedora off someone’s head and put it on mine, I grabbed someone’s root beer and sucked on the bottle like it was a tasty glass penis, and I pulled my panties slightly away from my pelvis, as if I was opening a wallet, motioning for the guys in the crowd to slide a dollar bill in there.

  I felt like a naked circus clown, or a silent stand-up comedian. Neither of which exactly sounds all that empowering, but the truth was, this was a large group of men, and it was my job to control their chaos. And I was doing it! It turned out it took a lot less mental energy to entertain the perverts earlier. These people wanted nudity and some kind of vaudeville, and that’s not an easy feat, even when your stripper career hasn’t just started an hour ago.

  I noticed that a shorter, stocky guy in a gray suit with curly brown hair left the group, and from the corner of my eye I saw him walk to the DJ booth. He seemed to be the most vocal Angus Young enthusiast, and whatever he was doing, I hoped he came back before the chorus kicked in because it wouldn’t be the same without him. He kinda led the sing-along, and his leadership encouraged the group to throw more dollars on stage.

  But before we could hit another chorus, the song suddenly switched. I wasn’t at all prepared for this. I had just gotten into a good rhythm here, incorporating some hair flips and perfectly timed boob and butt shaking when, instead of a rock and roll sing-along, the 50 Cent birthday song came on, and quite frankly . . . I had no idea what to do.

  “Attention everyone! We have a birthday in the house! Josh! Where you at?” the DJ shouted, and the crowd clapped and hooted, all pointing at a skinny blond guy with large glasses and bright blue pants. Not a distinguished navy blue, a bright blue similar to the color of an iPhone text message. His expression was bashful, and his friends were pulling on his arm. He was so skinny, I feared if they kept going, they might actually pull his limbs apart. A big bald man wearing all black and an earpiece put a chair up on the stage.

  “Come on! Josh! Get up there!” the DJ insisted. I mean, Josh very clearly didn’t want to come up on stage, and didn’t my input matter here? Shouldn’t Josh and I get a say in this?

  I’ve always hated it when people go behind your back and tell the waitress at Applebee’s that it’s your birthday, and then, BAM, everyone in the restaurant is clapping and singing, and there are balloons at your table, when all you’re trying to do is eat some onion rings with your friends. I had experience as both the waitress at Apple-bee’s who sang too many “Happy Birthdays,” and a customer at Applebee’s who has had “Happy Birthday” sung to them, and I knew full well that it was humiliating for both parties involved.

  Poor Josh. Or, no wait, poor me. I had barely learned how to properly take my dress off—how could anyone possibly put me in charge of whatever this birthday chair ceremony was? What on earth was I supposed to do here? I looked up at the DJ for help, but couldn’t catch his eye. I was on my own. Josh reluctantly walked onto the stage, assisted by the same guy who’d placed the chair there. The 50 Cent song continued to play, and ... then I was standing there in nothing but small heels and my underwear with a “Josh” to entertain. I had to think of something fast.

  I presented the chair like I was Vanna White. Josh’s inconsiderate friends clapped their hands and shouted for him to sit in the chair. Peer-pressured, Josh sat down. I stood behind him, and I loosened his tie. Of all the guys in the group, this one had the most tightly tied tie, which was fortunate for me because it gave me something to work with. I loosened it until it completely became unraveled, and then, on the spur of the moment, I decided to take this tie and use it as a blindfold. Because that was ... kinky I guess? And also, that way, much like me, Josh would have no idea what was coming next.

  I tied the blindfold around his eyes. Now what? I theatrically unbuttoned his shirt, and his friends applauded and shouted stuff like “OH SHIT!” because, I guess, it was humiliating for a man to *gasp* remove clothing in here, even though the entire purpose of this establishment was to celebrate nudity. After his shirt was unbuttoned, I reached down and pinched his nipples. He winced in pain. I’m not going to lie, I kind of liked it.

  “Awww Josh, does that hurt?!” the DJ said over the speakers, patronizing him. His friends threw tens and twenties on the stage. I had no idea my nipple pinching could be so valuable. I pinched them harder, pulling his skin until they looked like little tents on his chest. He yelled “Ouch!” and his friends continued to scream and cheer. I suddenly felt a little sorry for Josh, and I let go of the nipples, patting them softly.

  What else could I do to the blindfolded Josh over there? Hmmmm. I saw he had a skinny leather navy belt on. It clasped together with some kind of gold, manly belt logo, a brand I definitely wasn’t familiar with. I swiftly managed to pull the belt off, and as I did, I arched my ass toward the crowd. I took Josh’s hand, pu
lled him off the chair, and placed him on all fours. It was kind of incredible that he just went along with everything so easily. All twelve of his big manly friends could barely get him on this stage, but I got him blindfolded and on his hands and knees without him even flinching. What a good boy Josh was!

  I glanced down and noticed how loose Josh’s pants were. I smiled a devious smile, and took it upon myself to pull his pants down, revealing his thin white Hanes boxers. I found this set-up to be completely fair, since now we were both on stage in just our underwear.

  But really, why was I still in my underwear? I was so busy undressing him and finding creative ways to use his own clothing as weapons that I sort of forgot to take my own panties off. I bent over and removed my panties, and then . . . I went over to little Joshy’s mouth, forced it open, and shoved my panties into his mouth. The DJ chimed in, delighted.

  “Josh is that lunch? Or is that dessert?!” The crowd roared with laughter.

  “You want a side of fries with those panties?” the DJ said, and everyone got a real kick out of this, too. Of course, he could have washed my panties down with some carrot juice if he’d liked, but for fries he’d need a different establishment.

  Now that I had him on all fours with my panties in his mouth and his almost-bare ass sticking out, I whipped him with his own belt.

  “How old are you turning Josh?” the DJ said.

  Josh attempted to answer, but all he could do was mumble since my panties were in his mouth, and as we have seen, Josh was a very well-behaved guy. He was not gonna drop those panties until I let him. Even though we hadn’t really communicated at all, I could feel his body language. Josh would not disobey me.

  His friends shouted numbers, and from the chaos in the crowd I gathered that he was turning twenty-five. I made the crowd do a count of twenty-five lashes, my strokes getting progressively harder each time. I was enjoying myself and quite frankly, I could tell . . . so was Josh.