His for the Taking
By
Samantha Madisen
Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Samantha Madisen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Madisen, Samantha
His for the Taking
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by iStock/Dziggyfoto and iStock/Kiuikson
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
More Stormy Night Books by Samantha Madisen
Chapter One
Natalie
I know I said I would do it, and I was all set to go through with it, but when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I lost my nerve.
I looked good and had, by chance, put on a costume that wasn’t as trashy as the usual garb around here. Maybe that was the problem: I saw my long limbs, my lithe body, my pale skin, and my pretty blonde hair, and I thought: what the hell am I doing?
I swore I would never do this.
When I started working at Kitty Bang Bang, I was a waitress only. Absolutely firm about that. I knew I had a killer body—and Chris, the old owner, and all of his skeezy friends and ‘associates’ pointed that out whenever they got the chance, in the sleaziest way possible—but stripping was not for me. It was a bridge too far. I needed money, but I’d seen where stripping leads: straight to turning tricks, being a mule, or just getting whacked because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Guys sometimes just flipped out and beat girls up for no reason.
No, thanks.
The problem, of course, was that I needed money, and I needed it fast. Suffice it to say I’d chosen to love the wrong people and had the wrong friends.
So waitressing at Kitty Bang Bang seemed like a good deal, and Chris said no problem, with a smirk on his face that indicated he thought the allure of the money the girls were making would suck me in.
He doesn’t know me, I figured.
And I was doing just what I’d said I’d do: waiting tables, keeping out of the way, and not stripping.
Until we got this new owner.
Russians. These guys just didn’t give a shit. Not about rules, not about people’s problems, not about feelings, and definitely not about any previous arrangement I’d had with Chris. So Andrej—he’s a big meathead, with a thick neck and a thick accent and some scary-ass tattoos—made it pretty clear as soon as he took over: no stripping, no job.
I walked out, of course, because no one tells me what to do.
I’d find another job, right? I’m a hard worker and I have a pretty face, and most of the girls don’t even want to wait on tables when they aren’t dancing, because it isn’t where the big money is and it’s a lot of work.
I hit the pavement and figured I’d have a job in no time.
Now, when I say job, the only problem was that I needed a job that paid about fifteen hundred dollars a week, required no degree, background check, or training, and didn’t happen during the day. My choices were pretty limited.
But I thought whatever. I’m a good-looking, blonde, nineteen-year-old girl. I figured, after Andrej gave me the ax, I could find a job at The Den or Diamond Studs or any of the other craptastic strip joints along Brighton Avenue, because frankly, being attractive and not having track marks makes you the Brighton Avenue equivalent of a Harvard Business School graduate.
But fuck me if anyone would hire me on.
Not as a waitress.
Not as a stripper.
And finally I got the message. That prick Andrej had gone around telling everyone not to hire me.
So I marched back into his shithole establishment, and I told him to go to hell. He laughed at me.
To be honest, I didn’t believe for a minute that Andrej was anything but some Russian prick who liked to pretend he had mob connections so that everyone was afraid of him. I really gave him an earful.
I should have looked a little closer at his tattoos.
So long story short, Andrej had me over a barrel: no one on Brighton Avenue or anywhere else was going to hire me, and if I ever talked to Andrej like that again, I was going to end up somewhere dark. Like the inside of a carpet in a dumpster.
Okay... no, thanks to that either.
“All I want you to do, Natalie, is put on a nice show for my guests,” Andrej told me. “You’re a nice, pretty little girl, good as Russian doll. And I know I can count on you to keep quiet. You’re smart, and you need some money. So I pay for your little friend to stay at rehab place, and you take off clothes and keep mouth shut. Simple deal. No complication.”
“No sex,” I snarled.
Because no matter how desperate I was, I was not going down that road.
Andrej smiled. Personally, I think I got a few weirdo mob brownie points with him for being sassy. This girl Jen says those guys like a little sass. Not a lot—that will get your eye blackened—just a little.
“No sex,” Andrej said agreeably. “Two thousand a week. You work upstairs.” He had pointed at the office upstairs, where no one but thugs was allowed to go.
I’ve seen mob movies before, so I should have known where this was going. Irrationally, though, I said:
“Two thousand?”
Andrej nodded.
“No sex.”
He smiled. It looked like he moved his head in an affirmative nod. But who knew with these Russians? For all I knew, he could have meant, “No.”
I folded my arms and glared at him. “You gotta say it.”
“No sex,” he said casually.
And then he stood up. I’m not sure I had ever seen Andrej standing before. He is a big guy. He towered over me, and he had a mean glint in his eye. The kind of glint that made me re-think the way I’d been so flippant with him.
I held it together, but only just.
“But your mouth?” he said. Then he put a big meaty finger on my upper lip and a thumb on my lower lip, and he pressed them together hard. It hurt, and I had an invisible bruise the next day that made it hard to eat. Not that I’d ever show him that. Then he mimed buttoning them, zipping them, and throwing away a key.
“You don’t know nothing about nothing,” he said coldly.
And then he mimed slicing his neck. “Or anyone.”
I was in too deep, but I didn’t really have a choice.
It was also—at least for a while—a good gig. He paid me cash, they spoke Russian ninety percent of the time, I kept my eyes on my tray. No one aske
d me for blowjobs—in fact, no one asked me for anything, and I went home earlier than the other girls most nights. It was pretty obvious that some seriously illegal shit was going on up there, but I told myself I was too dumb to notice it, and that was the story I’d tell anyone who asked.
I’ll admit, I got used to it, and I made a devil’s bargain. It wasn’t my business what Andrej was up to; him or his Russian friends, or his other friends who spoke English with accents. It was all Greek to me. Lucy had her room at Stoney Creek, and I got one extra hour of sleep, which made a real difference in my grades.
Because I am going to finish my degree and get a real job and get the hell out of here.
That went on for a while. I got used to Easy Street.
But then he showed up.
And all that went out the window.
“This guy,” Andrej said, his hands trembling, which scared the shit out of me, “you do whatever he says. Okay? No fucking lip, Natalie, I’m serious.”
“You told me—”
Andrej had his hand on my throat so fast I didn’t see it coming, and I was a little confused as to why my eyes were watering.
His eyes were bugging out, and I had a second to think this was the end, when someone spoke Russian to the left of us.
Or some Slavic-sounding language.
Again, not my business.
How to describe this voice? Not deadpan, because deadpan is for when you’re trying not to be funny. This was the kind of flat, controlled, serious voice that you just know has never been funny in its life.
Andrej let go of me as fast as he grabbed me, and he was shaking for real. Tremors just below the surface of his skin, which terrified me more than if he’d just wigged out.
I rolled my head along the wall to look at this guy—voice guy—and the stage lights were on behind him. But his silhouette was bulky—not like Andrej, leaner than that, and wearing the kind of suit that shines because the material is more than your monthly rent per yard. But muscles pressed against it in all directions, and... I don’t know. You just know when a person is someone you don’t fuck with.
I got the shakes just like Andrej. Right under my skin.
“Got it,” I said, just to have something to say.
“Upstairs,” Andrej whispered, and now he almost seemed to be pleading with me.
Another short sentence came from the mystery man, who had his hands in his pockets and hadn’t moved. This time his voice sounded like whiskey, and I don’t speak Russian, but I somehow knew what was said. I mean... ‘problem’ in Russian is ‘problem’ with a Russian accent, so it wasn’t that hard to figure out.
He said, “Is there a problem?”
“Nyet.” Andrej said, his eyes still on mine. “Natalie will go get into costume. She will be ready in five minute.”
This last bit definitely happened in English, because Andrej said it more for me than for the mystery man. In other words, Natalie would get into her costume and be ready in five minutes, or else.
I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. But it was a pretty easy calculation, kind of like a Mack truck headed at you: if the ‘or else’ is something that made a guy like Andrej nervous, well... you better get out of the way.
So I got into a costume—the only one I could find in five minutes—and got into the private room to give this guy the first dance of my life.
A private dance.
Two problems presented themselves right away, of course: one, I wasn’t a dancer, and two, I didn’t want to be.
And three: everyone in Kitty Bang Bang knew what ‘private dance’ meant, and I was no virgin, but I wasn’t into that.
There was also this problem: This guy, whoever he was, was just about the scariest person I’d ever seen in my life. He wasn’t especially big, though there was definitely some hard muscle behind his purple shirt. It was just... his eyes were dark, which is to say, they were blue, but they were dark—the kind of eyes that had a lot going on behind them and I just knew it wasn’t good. His jaw was square and covered in a stubble that looked as sharp as his gaze, and his mouth—plump lips, perfectly sculpted—was resting in an expression that was... well, unsmiling.
In like, a serial killer sort of way.
Good-looking serial killer way, but still scary as hell.
His hair was dark, almost black, and if he weren’t so scary and his arms weren’t so bulky, he would have looked like a model. There was a tattoo on his neck, and I could see some ink under his cuff.
It set my stomach on ‘cold’ right away.
He was sitting when I came in. Eyes on me like a predator: unflinching, unsparing, hungry in an ‘eat-you-for-dinner’ kind of a way. At the same time, I had a thought go through my mind, right through my brain, down my spine, and right to my pussy, where it throbbed: I could almost feel what that sharp stubble would be like against my inner thigh.
I realized that I was in a very bad situation.
I reached this moment of clarity too late. The door had just clicked behind me, and I had my hand on the handle. I turned it, while doing my best impression of a real stripper for Mystery Man.
But Andrej must have known I’d chicken out. The door was locked.
Mystery Man looked impatient.
Well, I thought. It was a good run. The realization washed slowly over me: of course things would have ended like this when I worked as a waitress at a Russian mafia-owned strip joint.
I was a lot of things, but above all I was a realist.
So I decided to get on with my life by getting out of that room with my life. If this guy was going to try to serial-killer me, I wouldn’t make it easy for him.
“What’s your name, tiger?” I said, throwing myself into my role. At that moment, I had a thought flit through my head: why had this guy asked for me, of all people?
His face didn’t move. He just blinked slowly, tilted his chin, and leaned back in his chair. His mouth didn’t smile, but for some reason he gave the impression of being very cruelly amused by what I had just said.
Sort of like a cat with a mouse.
Well, that didn’t take long. I was out of strategies. This guy didn’t really seem interested in me in a stripper kind of way, which was bad news.
I looked at the door with desperation, and then back at the guy. “You speak English?” I asked, dropping my stripper act.
Nothing. He just looked me up and down. I could actually feel his cool gaze like fingers along my body.
Okay.
This guy was very, very hot.
But scary, I reminded myself.
“Um,” I said, and I looked at the stage. It was best to just get on with it.
Which is when I saw myself: silver panties, glittering bra, thigh-high stockings, clear plastic heels I could barely walk in. All of it supposedly coming off soon.
I met my own eye in the mirror.
I’d always believed that if anything ever came to it, I’d draw a line. It was about my own ethics and whatnot. But when I saw his cool gaze behind me, I lost my nerve.
“I’m Katie,” I lied hopefully, forgetting that Andrej had already used my name.
He looked amused. My heart lifted a little.
“Al,” he said plainly.
For a second I didn’t understand.
He kept staring, and the amusement drained out of his face.
“You don’t look like an Al,” I said doubtfully, trying one last time to make a joke.
Al narrowed his eyes. I physically felt his diminished gaze squeeze me in the abdomen, as surely as if he’d reached forward and twisted his fingers right into my gut. Embarrassingly, I also got a little pang of lust.
I had an idea then, and it made me have two feelings at once: maybe this guy was FBI or something. That gave me a hopeful rush, because then I wouldn’t have to... it was too embarrassing to even think. And he wouldn’t kill me. But it was also terrifying, because if he was a Fed or a cop, then Andrej would probably kill me.
“You’re no
t a cop, are you?” I asked.
Nothing. A little flicker of amusement, and quick shake of his right wrist while he sort of cracked his neck. This unintentionally called attention to his tattoos.
Yeah, no. This guy was not Fed or cop, and I had just pissed him off making that suggestion.
“Okay,” I said, more for myself than him. “I’ll just... start dancing now, then.”
Why not? If a tree falls and embarrasses itself right before getting knocked off by a hot, scary guy in the back room of a trashy strip joint, does anyone care?
I climbed on the small stage, which was a sturdy circular table with a pole running through the middle and LED lights under a thick plastic top that served as the floor. When I stepped up the ladder, a staircase for pampered dogs to get into their owners’ beds, I tripped and nearly fell... the shoes I’d grabbed were too big. I had to steady myself on the pole and my ankle twisted almost all the way to the floor. I smiled, and struck a pretty lame pose.
I could do this. And if I did it long enough, maybe I would think of something to get myself out of this situation.
And then I realized I had no music playing.
My face was red, a curious mix of embarrassment and fear, and maybe attraction... I didn’t know. Just get it over with, I thought.
“I, uh... need to, uh... put the music on,” I stammered.
I looked around the room, locating what I thought was the stereo system. Clumsily, I climbed off the stage and wobbled over to the system, only to be mystified about how it worked when I got there.
Okay, I thought. This was actually perfect. I could just bang on the door, tell Andrej I needed some music, and then escape.
In these shoes. Yeah, right.
I spent a lot of time in the corner, ‘inspecting’ the stereo, thinking about how I could slip out of my shoes, and which way I would run, and what I would do after I did. My throat was getting choked up, my heart was throbbing in my throat, and my stomach was giving a series of wrenching twists.
I jumped when I heard the music, and I looked over to see him setting his phone down on the table next to him. Music played from it.
No drinks, I noticed.
God. Even worse. Staying sober to methodically chop me up, I guessed. I’d noticed that all the Russian hatchet jobs that came through never did any drugs or drank any vodka.
His for the Taking Page 1