But they were seasoned professionals and had probably seen this movie a million times. The other women exited and suddenly I was by myself, alone on the center dais, nude except for my tiny pink bikini and towering glitter heels.
Why oh why had I worn these heels? I usually wore cute sneakers even when reporting, it was appropriate if you were on the sidelines of a football field or tennis court. But the stripper heels had appealed to something in me … maybe the see-through plastic platforms, glitter embedded inside, making my insides course with feminine delight, bringing out a new, slutty side.
And so I spun around like Cinderella at a ball, pivoting, twisting, kicking my heels up in the air, bucking like a filly.
“Oh yeah!” howled one dude. “Hi-ho Silver!”
“Go get ‘em little girl,” whooped another customer, stamping his feet. “Ride ‘em hard!”
And I began dancing in a frenzy then, shaking my hips, running my hands up and down my bod, cupping my breasts, before sliding them over my abdomen to my sweet snatch, that private part covered by only the tiniest of triangles.
With a sly smile, I did the move I’d been practicing at home. Running my finger along the string tie, I fingered it, and then snapped it boldly, giving the men a peek at bare snatch, my pulsing pink cunny on view before letting the fabric drop back in place.
That got a lot of whoops and hollers, dudes clapping their hands, stamping their feet with encouragement.
Feeling brave, I went with it. I ran my finger along the string tie again, but this time when I snapped it, I snapped it in the back and the guys got a look at my bare ass cheeks and anus, that dark star on view for the first time in public.
This time, the hoots were deafening, the clapping and stampeding becoming a roar, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was the unmistakable whir of a couple zips loosening. Oh yeah, penis was coming out, I could see the outline of a couple shafts in the dark, big hands moving up and down those poles, giving them the old stroke.
I felt good for the first time in a long time, my cheeks flushed, my body tingling, warm and wanted. It was exciting and I could see why Jen had recommended the Donkey. There was something liberating about dancing naked, about controlling a roomful of men, their minds on nothing else but you, seeing your assets shake and shiver, boobs quivering, cunny dripping. I loved it all, oh yeah.
So I let go of all inhibitions and began performing the routine I’d planned while in the shower, warm water gushing over me, my nude curves slick with soap.
Taking a deep breath, I got down onto my hands and knees, slowly pulling off my bikini along the way so that I was completely bare except for my high heels. Oh yeah, total birthday suit, my lush curves on display, my nips hard and taught, ready to cut glass. And my puss? Well that little girl was dripping, sticky fluid running down my thigh, my clit pulsing with the excitement of so many male stares.
I lowered my torso until my cheek was pressed against the floor, the smell of cheap beer rising up to fill my nostrils, heady, the alcoholic fumes a bouquet. Positioning my knees apart, I reached in back of me a grabbed a butt cheek in each hand, pulling apart my white mounds, letting the guys see me fully, all my pink real estate from ass to cunt.
And it was amazing. The guys lost it then, the roar thunderous as they ate it up, chairs thumping as dudes rocked back and forth giving themselves handjobs, the unmistakable sight of jizz arcing through the air before splattering on the floor, hitting wetly against the walls.
To focus, I closed my eyes and began the next phase of my dance. With one hand, I reached between my legs and started stroking, rubbing up and down my hard clit, massaging that sensitive nub which had grown so large that it was two inches long, my pride and joy.
I used my other hand to finger my vag, touching my hole, pushing a finger in as I flicked my clit, all the while balancing on my shoulders and knees on the floor, my cheek pressed to the ground.
And as the massage intensified, I felt a rush in my body, an unmistakable tingle that started in my cunt before spreading, my pussy clenching and spasming, hammering through my body, sparks igniting all throughout my bod as I came hard.
And the release was so electric, so uncontrolled, that my pussy spurted. That’s right. I’m a squirter, it comes to me naturally, a skill heaven sent, incredible to behold.
I sensed rather than saw the clear fluid leap out from between my legs, spraying the front row, a particularly strong arc hitting a young farm boy who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, his expression dazed as he lapped at the sticky liquid on his lips.
Meanwhile, other guys fought to get into the spray, opening their mouths, hoping to taste the cream, letting the sweet, clear juice drench them. Their friends hollered and hooted, stamping their feet, dollars showering me from all directions.
And the best part? The cheers felt so good, the attention made me so warm that I knew I’d be coming back to the Donkey … to perform again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Pax
Holy shit. It was unreal. We’d heard rumors that the Donkey had a new girl, someone who could pulse pussy juice, make it rain in the best of ways, but we hadn’t believed it. I mean, we’ve seen all sorts of depraved acts, but believe me, female squirters are rare and most are holding a little balloon in their hand, pumping when the time is right. It’s generally an optical illusion, guys will believe anything when they’re horny.
So when Dante told us there was a new girl who was the real deal, we were skeptical.
“Right,” I said. “And Jenna Jameson is a virgin.”
My brother chuckled at the reference. Jenna was a porn star who’d made billions showing off her body, she was one of our favorites.
But Dante was insistent.
“No seriously,” he said, whipping off his helmet. “This new chick, she’s got a body to die for and she’s able to shoot like a waterfall, it’s fucking amazing.”
We stopped to consider. Our efforts to seduce our sister hadn’t been repeated since that day at the Four Seasons. We thought for sure we’d won her over, that Stacey was ours now but instead she was vague whenever we called.
“Oh yeah,” she’d mumble. “I miss you too.”
This was new. Most girls cling to us, not letting go, desperate for more of the Jones boys, but Stacey was different. I guess we were still persona non grata. It stung, but what could we do? So with a shrug I turned to my bro.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, and that was it. We were headed to the Donkey to check out this new stripper, the one who had a waterfall between her legs.
And it’s not like we’re new customers. We’re red-blooded dudes and the Donkey is just one of the strip joints we frequent. Granted, we don’t go that often, we’re more into Cream, Lace, or Scores, but every place has its charm and the Donkey was always a possibility when the night was ripe.
“Ready when you are,” Peyton grunted to me later that night. I looked over. Yeah, my brother was dressed right, in jeans and a muscle T. No sense in wearing a suit for this joint.
So we rolled up to the Donkey and Jordi, the bouncer, recognized us right away.
“Hey my man,” he crowed. He raised one massive fist for a fist bump, excited to see two NFL players. “You start spring training soon?” he asked.
“Yeah, in a couple weeks,” grunted my twin in return.
“Oh cool,” wheezed the big man. “You know, I’m hoping to try out this year, get called up from the farm team.”
That’s the thing with a lot of guys. They think that their sheer size makes them eligible for the NFL, and Jordi was a solid three hundred pounds give or take. But it takes more than size or even speed and agility. Football takes brains, it takes intuition, it takes a ton of practice. Believe it or not, we work hard and the NFL isn’t something you can just walk into.
But everyone has their pipe dreams, right? So we nodded, promising him our agent’s number, and strolled into the Donkey.
It was just as
terrible as we remembered. I don’t care about interior design, wood furniture and dirtiness doesn’t bug me, but the other customers … man, who would dance for a crowd like this? Because if you wanted to take up a collection for missing teeth, this was the place to be.
More than one guy had gaping holes in their mouths, front teeth knocked out by who knows, hard labor on the farm maybe? Maybe someone should introduce them to helmets and mouthguards, we could provide a hook-up.
I shook my head. Well, the market was about supply and demand, and evidently girls made enough here to make it worth their while. Maybe they just danced here before they moved up to Lace or Mystique, surely they knew that just down the block were upscale joints, no need to establish a career in this pigsty.
Shrugging, we sat down. The night was still young and we ordered a couple beers, reclining, relaxed, psyched for the show.
Stanley the manager came over, dressed in a purple velvet suit.
“Hey, Peyton, Pax, great seeing you guys, long time no see,” he chirped. Yeah, we hadn’t been here in a while, he was probably hoping to make some serious cash this evening. “What can I do for you?”
“You got any new girls?” my bro threw out casually.
“Oh sure!” wheezed Stanley again. He had serious asthma, not helped by the smoky atmosphere in the club. “We got Monica the Monster, Jania Jugs, and Kim-Bimbo.”
Kim-Bimbo? What kind of stage name was that? But Stanley was already rambling on.
“We got whatever you need,” he oozed, his face shiny in the dim light. “Frankly, Jania Jugs is my favorite, she can smash watermelons with her titties, you’ll like it,” he tittered. “Imagine if it were your head!”
I hated stuff like that, girls who were straight out of a circus, freaks almost, enhanced by surgery. But that wasn’t what we were looking for. It was a different kind of attraction that had brought us here tonight.
I decided to go for it.
“You got any squirters?” I threw out casually. “Me and my brother, we’re looking to get wet tonight.”
That caused Stanley to quiet, his expression growing somber.
“A real squirter,” he said breathlessly, “you know those are rare.”
“Yeah,” Peyton grunted. “That’s why we’re here. You’re the great recruiter right? You scope out girls and procure them for clients?” he asked.
“Oh sure, oh sure, that’s me!” exclaimed Stanley. “Sure, sure, let me think. Well, Jania can do some squirting, I can call her up and tell her to come in tonight.”
I frowned. I wasn’t interested in Double H sloppy jugs coupled with a few drips here and there. I wanted the real thing, none of this second rate shit.
“Naw,” I said dismissively. “No worries, if it ain’t here, we’ll go elsewhere.”
That made Stanley jabber all the more.
“Hold on, not so fast,” he squealed, jumping up, filled with nervous energy. “I’m sure I have just the girl for you, let me see if she’ll do a private show.”
“No private show necessary,” growled my twin. “Just have her come on stage.”
Stanley slowly shook his head.
“No can do,” he said, pretend regretful. “This is an extra-special girl and we only loan her out for private shows.”
My brother and I shared a look. Bullshit. Stanley was trying to make a few extra bucks by booking a room in back, but we let him have it. A few thousand wasn’t going to make a difference to us anyways.
“Sure, tell her we’re interested,” I drawled. “Her name?”
“Inga,” cackled Stanley. “She’s backstage now, let me just get the room ready,” he promised.
And sure enough, in fifteen minutes he was back out, sleazy, smiling that shit-eating grin.
“Inga is waiting, kind sirs,” he groveled. “It’ll be five thousand.”
Five thousand? WTF the private room usually only cost three thousand on a busy night. But grunting, I pulled out my wallet and tossed a fistful of cash his way.
“Here,” I snorted.
The manager was practically drooling now, his fingers excitedly scrabbling at the money, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Yesss,” he hissed, hyperventilating, his expression filled with greed. “This way.”
And we followed Gollum into a dark hallway, narrow and twisted, until we came to a door in the back. It was painted black with a picture of two donkeys humping each other on front, spelling out the room’s purpose. Classy, real classy.
Shaking our heads, we opened the door while Stanley peered around our shoulder.
“I think you’ll find everything you need,” he wheezed. “Champagne, strawberries, condoms, lube …” his voice trailed.
“Thanks,” said my brother coldly. “Now beat it.”
And with that, Peyton slammed the door in the skinny dude’s face. We definitely weren’t buying Stanley’s company with five big ones.
The room was even darker inside, shadowed as our eyes adjusted in the dim light. There was a mini-bar, well-stocked with the glint of bottles, plus a plush purple sofa, shag carpeting, and a lamp flickering in the corner.
Plus, there was a female form outlined in shadow, bent over the couch, leaning towards us suggestively, her boobs pressed against the velour, the lush curves obvious even in the dim lighting.
“Welcome to the Donkey Club,” she breathed. “Inga at your service.”
And my brother and I stopped at those words. Because despite the darkness, the aura of mystery, that voice tipped us off immediately. The sound was sensuous, throaty, unmistakable whether on TV or in real life. It was Stacey, our stepsister.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stacey
I wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, I’d been having an argument with Stanley backstage and the next, I was in a private room, about to do my first one-on-one dance.
“No private shows,” I protested. “I only dance in public, on stage.”
But Stanley was insistent.
“You think you can make money the way you’re going?” he asked scornfully. “What, you get tipped two hundred, three hundred per night?”
I was silent. It wasn’t the tips I was working for, it was the control, the independence, the boost to my self-esteem that drove me to the Donkey each night.
Because, yeah I’ve been performing regularly, this has become my home away from home, the place where I’m most myself, where I feel good and whole. I wish there were some other way, that I could release tension by rock-climbing, cycling up a storm at Soul, or playing bridge, but none of it works. Instead, it’s dancing at the Donkey that’s my out, that keeps me sane.
And it’s been awesome. The endorphins start going when I’m onstage, and pretty soon I’m letting go, letting myself shake, shimmy and shiver without abandon, giving myself up to the gods of music, rejuvenating myself.
Sometimes I wonder if people recognize me, if they realize I’m the disgraced Stacey Light who’s been all over the news. But then again, the clientele here doesn’t seem up on current events. Oh yeah, it’s that bad, the patrons are hillbilly rednecks all the way.
But it suits me, and to keep my job I had to appease Stanley.
“Okay fine,” I pouted. “But what goes on back there?”
“What do you think?” he huffed, eyebrows waggling. “This ain’t no G-rated joint.”
I sighed impatiently. Of course the Donkey wasn’t G-rated, girls don’t take it all off in Disney movies. But I wanted some guidelines.
“Yeah, but what are the rules?” I pressed insistently. “I can’t just go in there without knowing anything.”
“Listen,” wheezed Stanley. “It’ll be fine, the customers have already pre-paid,” he said. “Plus, these are old clients and girls always like them. You will too,” he promised, eyebrows waggling.
Bullshit. Stanley would say anything to make a buck and the pre-payment meant that he’d already taken his cut, he wouldn’t be coming backstage to harass me about it late
r. But I shook my head stubbornly.
“No,” I said flatly. “I’m not doing any private shows.”
Here’s when Ebony butted in.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said silkily, “Inga is scheduled to do a private?”
“Oh yeah!” crowed Stanley. “To the tune of five thousand, yep, five G’s pre-paid,” he said, patting his pockets.
And damn, but his suit pockets were puffed-out, like he had wads of cash crammed inside.
That made Ebony light up with I-don’t-know-what. Greed, maybe? Envy?
The Dirty Hotel King: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Page 59