Stripped

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  “Anyway, I better get back to her before she tries making a break for a taxi. Good luck with the show.”

  I let out a deep rushing breath.

  If I wait by the loo for her, I’ll be assaulted by every other woman going in… and it’ll probably make me appear like a stalker.

  “Stone, get your fucking ass back here!” Thompson’s voice cackles through the room’s private intercom system, interrupting my stalker-ish thoughts. “You’re up next!”

  Chapter Three

  Emelie

  Poor Kitten nearly drowns in a vat of margarita mix

  (And I’m never drinking tequila again)

  “I am so not staying!” I try making my way to the heavy front door with the large red neon exit sign above it, but Violet grasps my shoulders and steers my nearly drunken ass back to our front row table.

  “Oh yes you are.” She yanks me down then presses me to my seat. “His dance is about to start and you don’t want to miss it.”

  The lights and music—not to mention thoughts of Mr. Wright and his freakishly stupefying abs—hypnotize me into a befuddled and dizzy state of mind.

  I’m one drink away from utter inebriation.

  “Your margaritas, ladies.” The waitress circles our table and sets fresh drinks in front of each of us. “Enjoy.” The drinks are a pretty shade of festive green with an unbreakable ring of salt around the rim, like a circle of protection from my favorite paranormal TV show. I have a feeling this one won’t protect me from a certain spellbinding stripper.

  I groan. I’m completely mortified while being miserably fired up as hot as a NASA rocket that just fueled for lift-off and is waiting for someone to hit the launch button. “I really didn’t mean to go in his un-dressing room.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve told me like a thousand times in the five minutes since you finally came out of hiding in the bathroom. Stop acting like an escaped mental patient.”

  I let go of my lusty, margarita-addled thoughts and look kindly at my best friend. “I’m sorry I’m such a whiny pain in the ass.”

  She smiles with an extra dose of sisterly love. “Just drink up. You need this.”

  Without warning, the throbbing beat of hip hop techno music shakes the speakers as the bass makes the floor tremble. I can feel the sensation seeping rather luxuriously through my thin-soled shoes. It vibrates up through my calves and legs, scorching my thighs and taking my breath away on its ascent right into my—

  “This is it!” Vi is ready to explode with excitement.

  The house lights drop and the stage goes pitch black. The music quiets.

  A deep voice rumbles, “Ladies… are you ready?”

  The audience collectively screams.

  “For the thunderous, dirty Aussie who stirs up torrential downpours while making you thunder down under?”

  Nice. How can anyone take this seriously?

  “Foreplay’s very own Australian treasure of one-ton-hung tungsten…”

  Vi just about loses her mind with the rest of the women in here as mine wanders to the oh-so-fresh and recent memory of the up close and personal viewing I got earlier of the perfectly formed V line pointing straight to that…err… treasure.

  “…who is about to take you on a panty-exploding, wild outback ride.”

  I shift uncomfortably. Did he have to say, panty-exploding? Dear God, how long has it been? And tilling in my own lady garden doesn’t count.

  “Ladies, give a healthy, hot and bothered, wanton welcome…”

  “Why are stripper MC’s always trying to string crazy-ass words into logical structure? I mean, who talks like that?” I wonder out loud.

  “…to the solid-Stone Wright!”

  The audience welcomes him with a deafening roar loud enough to possibly create a second big bang and a brand new universe.

  A bright floodlight cuts through the darkness of the stage. There he stands, Adonis himself, with his back towards us. I would know that very fine, chiseled ass anywhere. After my eyeful in the dressing room, there is no mistaking who it belongs to. I’d like to think my breath is caught in my chest all feminine-vapors like, but the truth is I’m lustfully hyperventilating, like an asthmatic strumpet.

  I feel myself lean forward in my chair.

  I notice a thin layer of water on the stage, which now has a lip around it to hold in the liquid prop. What’s that about? I wonder.

  The music starts off fast and furious and so does Stone.

  He graciously turns, allowing his hungry, zombified fans—only instead of brains, we’re starved for sex—to rake our deliriously fuck-needy eyes over the heavenly front of him. The five o’clock shadow over his jaw gives his boyish charming smile a rugged look. He’s everything I remembered; his body is flawless—as in, he’s so absolutely ripped, no wonder this audience has lost its collective mind—from his solid six-pack of lady-leg-spreading abs to the hypnotic panty-disintegrating power of his solid walled, muscular chest, broad hulking shoulders, and long, strong arms.

  He’s easy on the eyes, like a slip and slide. Meaning it’s all too easy to imagine your naked self underneath him while he slips and slides all that animal physique over you.

  Guys who look like that make smart girls do stupid things.

  His shoulders, neck, and back ripple in sequence as he controls each muscle with precision.

  The black backdrop behind him becomes a rush of stars and bursts of colored lights like the Aurora Borealis, working in sync with his motion.

  This is not what I expected. He is not what I expected. Neither is his level of production or skills on the dance floor.

  Clothed in nothing but his jeans—even his feet are sexy and beautifully bare—his entire body becomes one with the rhythm.

  His audience screams but he seems oblivious to them.

  I know where he is. The universe of the dance, where he’s able to turn off and shut out everything and everyone around him. It’s an incredible wonderland where you discover your true self. Where real life doesn’t even exist any longer—now the only thing that matters is this moment, this song, this move. I see him there, and I’m envious, as Stone becomes one with the thrum of his heart, the pulse of the music, the heat of his taut muscles, and the power of the dance itself.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been there myself.

  The reminder twists my belly in a bittersweet memory. With an extra splash of vinegar.

  Stone moves and spins, coordinating each movement so it glides fluidly into the next while he combines elements of hip hop, street, and contemporary dance.

  His stunningly artful body twists and bends backward, folding towards the floor, and he lands on one hand, creating a body-bridge. He swivels his legs, flips abruptly in the air, rolls, and spins out on his back in an impressive old school breakdancing move. The water splashes and sprays around him, creating a dramatic presentation.

  Suddenly, he stands, drops to one knee, switches to the other, then shoots back up; he sprints forward, falls to both knees, and slides across the stage—effortlessly, he rotates like a planet’s satellite. The water cascades around him, spraying out from his outstretched arms, soaking his denim to a deep, dark blue that clings to his strong legs and curvy ass.

  When he stops mid-slide to execute a backflip, the crowd loses what’s left of their minds—which, ever since he took the stage, wasn’t much.

  And I’m falling off the cliff right along with them.

  While he pops and locks and allows his form to bend and wave, the light display as his backdrop either corresponds to his fluidity—causing him to appear to be some magical god controlling the lights and stars with his every move—or it becomes a contrast in art—a visual internal struggle brought to life.

  The water enhances an already brilliant performance. The liquid flows with his body, creating another dancing extension of himself—droplets suspend then release, falling to the floor; with each motion, the fluid follows him, cascades about him, streaming over his arms
and back, spraying out and arcing around him.

  Next he stomps each foot to the rhythm of the song, drops to a roll, bounces back up with agile athleticism, and lands a spinning kick that fans the water out into a wave like a wall.

  His most amazing gift, even more remarkable than the energy he possesses, is the emotion that he deftly displays. I can feel his joy and energy, his power. It is so tangible it gives me goosebumps. My own body responds to his passion.

  As does my alcohol-lubricated lady business. How many margaritas have I consumed tonight?

  I now understand and can fully verify with a hardy amen that what the MC forecasted in Stone’s introduction was accurate—he is definitely causing torrential downpours and thunder down under!

  His dance is sensual and raw. Nothing short of spectacular.

  Stone Wright takes my breath away.

  For the finale, he slams his hand to the floor, and the whitewater bursts up around him, ending the dance with a dramatic display full of power, angst, and need.

  The music stops and he freezes, while the screams of the women in the club reach volcanic proportions at decibels sure to shatter all eardrums within a fifty-mile radius. Good thing I have all that tequila in my system, dampening my eardrums so they don’t explode.

  They shower him with a standing ovation—or maybe ovulation—take your pick.

  My eyes trail from his strong, beautiful toes up his dreamy, god-like body as he unrolls his spine slowly and comes to standing. His firm chest heaves with exertion, and his muscles are bunched and coiled like he has one very serious and pressing need on his mind.

  Right before the lights go out, my eyes finally finish their ascent and meet his gaze. I realize he is staring straight at me.

  Chapter Four

  Stone

  Evil-brain dick sends telepathic messages

  She’s still here. The girl with the dark eyes. From the moment I stepped out here on stage I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I kept thinking she might disappear. I’m going with the wildcard guess that Foreplay isn’t her kind of thing…

  So, I know I shouldn’t do what I’m thinking.

  Too bad the dragon below has other ideas.

  If I were smart, I’d let that thought sink in and follow my own advice.

  But the overdrive gear-shifter in my pants has set my brain to cruise control and is running the show.

  It’s like all the intelligence I possess is seemingly being transferred to the brain between my legs as it strives to become its own thinking machine, usurping the system it belongs to in an evil-robot-takes-over-the-world sort of way.

  When the music stops at the end of my performance, I watch as her gaze climbs up my body, only to stop when she reaches my own stare.

  Just that one look and those eyes—all the wind is knocked out of me!

  Evil robot gains more control. My dick grows hard and my stomach twists with desire.

  I hold her gorgeous baby browns while I argue with myself. I should target a different woman in the audience—one who didn’t have a wanker of an ex-boyfriend mess her up recently.

  Most women walk through these doors to experience some sexual freedom, but… I’m not so sure about Anne.

  Definitely Anne. Evil brain robot dick apparently sends telepathic messages. You’d really be helping her out.

  If I could’ve gotten more information from her friend…

  She’s still holding my eyes.

  I sift through the mental files: ex-douchebag, darkest time of her life.

  She’ll have fun either way, evil-brain dick assures me. That’s why she’s here tonight. Just don’t take things too far.

  She did come here, to Foreplay. I have to agree with evil-brain dick on that.

  She paid to see me behave badly. I think it’s time to give her her money’s worth.

  The lights go black. Thompson comes up with the towel and my shirt. Fast, I swipe away the excess moisture from my torso and force my arms into the long sleeved white button-up. I leave the black bowtie undone to fall around my neck. A few seconds later, the first chords of Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty to Me” pumps through the room as the bright white spotlight hits me.

  I drink in the screams like a vampire drinks blood. With greedy abandon.

  Anne is my target.

  I always hit my target.

  I let the music pump me up with adrenaline. With ease, I drop from the stage to the main floor. I flex my arms, fold them behind my head and pump my hips to the beat of the song. After throwing in some footwork and sexy grooves, I use a couple of chairs as steps and climb onto a few different tables to give the ladies their own VIP display. They grope my legs, squeeze my ass, and a few even get close enough to swipe their tongues across my abs as they squeal in delight.

  My target stares on while biting her lip in a bad way— not in a tarty come-fuck-me way but a deep in thought way—she looks disappointed.

  I can play that card.

  Gripping the forearm of a woman whose hands are all over me, I pull her onto the table and fall to my back, bringing her down on top of me. Guiding her body, I get her bum over my dick so she’s sitting on me while facing the opposite direction, and I piston my hips. Her body bounces and shakes as she throws her head back, laughing, enjoying it as the audience erupts.

  How’s Anne with this?

  I search out those eyes. Ahh, pretty baby seems disgruntled. I like it.

  Maybe jealous. Like it even better.

  I can remedy that.

  I maneuver myself out from under my present situation, leap off the table, get a running start, and slide on my knees dramatically across the floor until I’m before her, worshipping her from my knees.

  First I take her hand in mine and kiss the inside of her wrist. Then, rolling my hips in a slow deliberate motion, I fuck her with my eyes while leisurely peeling the shirt from my shoulders.

  Her frustrated lip-nibbling ceases as her pretty mouth curves into an unwilling grin.

  I’ve got her.

  My objective: make her feel like the only girl in the room.

  So maybe the evil-brain dick isn’t so evil after all.

  Maybe.

  Without the use of my hands, I seamlessly rise to my feet before pulling her sweet form against me.

  “You’re never going to bloody forget me,” I breathe into the tender curve of her ear.

  Lifting her against my chest, I wrap her shapely legs around my waist and carry her directly to the stage—which, incidentally, has been changed to a new dry platform.

  My cock rises to the happy occasion by greeting the feel of her soft pussy.

  I firmly grasp her outer thighs so I can circle her sweet center against my bulge. The not-so-innocent dance action is sure to make Anne positively beg for more.

  Purring against her lips, I coo, “Forget the rest of the world, Sunshine. It’s just you and me up here.”

  Bending my knees and flexing my arse and quads, I roll my hips into her, giving her a taste of what I would do to her if we had our clothes off and I were actually fucking her.

  And Christ, what I’d do to get that skimpy layer of cloth that protects her from me off!

  Her nipples are pebbling and rubbing against my bare chest.

  I’ve got to see them. I jack her back and capture her tender throat in the curve of my hand.

  Her dark eyes fall closed as her head tilts back to give me full access. I stroke my fingertips down the softest part of her neck, until all five fingertips sit poised on her collarbone. Gently, but demandingly, I press her away so her back has no choice but to arch and her tits mound and raise.

  Jesus, I have to touch them.

  I sweep a cascading hand down the center of her chest to her belly. Teasing.

  When she goes breathless and doesn’t struggle, I graze my hand back up so that this time I enjoy the sensation of her spectacular mound beneath my palm. I make sure my thumb gives her nipple an extra graze.

  The crowd is wild
, but the din fades into the music. There is nothing but her and me.

  I desperately want to suck one of her sweet tits into my mouth.

  But because I obviously can’t—with my own perturbed frustration that we’re really not alone—I slide my supportive hand up her spine to bring her close again.

  Her eyes open and take mine, and she brings her soft hands trailing, tickling tentatively down the grooves and muscles of my arms as if she’s reaching out to explore something forbidden.

  In that moment I lose myself and evil-brain dick gains complete control.

  “Baby, you’re so fucking hot,” I manage in a throaty voice.

  I’ve got to do something fast, ’cause she’s just turned the tables. I feel like I’m going to come, and I haven’t even gotten my pants off.

  Oh fuck! I’ve got to get my pants off!

  I lay my prima ballerina on the floor and press myself over top of her as I slide my body between her silky spread legs.

  “You’re perfection,” I breathe, and she really is.

  I kneel back and make a show of pulling at the button and zipper of my jeans.

  My rock hard—evil brain—dick is throbbing, and the vein is aching as I release the bulge from the grip of the denim to reveal to the audience the second-skin, black Emporio Armani briefs that are a size too tight to properly accommodate the length and girth of my shaft.

  Anne’s gorgeous eyes widen in an expression that is somewhere between lust and terror. Is lusty-terror a thing?

  Not like I can actually penetrate her with it right here, anyway… … …

  No! Stop it.

  Falling back over her body, I catch myself with my arms at the last moment before crashing into her and work myself in a series of gyrating push-ups.

  The women in the crowd are wild imagining they’re her.

  I’m wild imagining I’m alone with her!

  I’ve worked at Foreplay for the last three months. I’ve brought countless beautiful, underdressed women up here for a good time—a couple I’ve even taken to a hotel after the show… so what is making this one feel so different?

  I take a moment to appreciate her throat again—I’d love to stick my tongue down it.