by Lane Hart
"So?" he says, causin’ me to shake my head. I don't want to encourage the bullshit game he's played ever since he met my older sister a few years ago. It’s only gotten worse after...whatever the fuck happened this past summer between the two of them. I really don’t want to know what he may or may not have done with Hailey the last time she was home.
For the past few years my sister’s been travelin’ back and forth from LA to New York as a "plus size" model, whatever the fuck that is. She's barely a few inches shorter than me at six feet, and can't possibly weigh more than a buck twenty, yet she's constantly on a diet. I know every time I see her lately, which is mostly just around the holidays when she stops in for a day or two, she seems…really unhappy, which sucks, but she's a grown ass woman, livin’ her own life, so what can I, her little brother miles away, do? Well, other than offer to beat the shit out of whoever makes her miserable?
"Can we please stop talkin’ about my sister while we're in the middle of a goddamn strip club?" I ask Senn. "You're killin’ my buzz."
"Fine," he agrees with a sigh. "So are you gonna try and meet your girl before she leaves or what?" He nods to the group of men still formin’ a circle around the back table where Eve is signin’ autographs.
This is the reason we’re here, right? Because I need to meet the woman of my erotic dreams, see that she’s a horrible, nasty slut, and hopefully be able to rejoin the real world. It’s a necessary step in my addiction recovery.
"Might as well," I agree, causin’ my dick to twitch in approval. “Although it looks like I might be shit out of luck based on the crowd.”
Gettin’ to my feet, Senn follows me over to the cluster of anxious men. If I don't at least try to see her face-to-face, I know I'll always regret it.
The hoots and hollers increase in frequency and volume as we get closer to the group. So do the obscene comments. Fuck, I know I'm no better than these guys since I’ve thought about what it'd be like to screw Eve more times than I can count, but the shit they're sayin’ is startin’ to really piss me off. Like the frat boy standin’ next to me.
"Will she fuck me?" the redneck asshole with a backwards baseball cap asks some greasy haired douche wearin’ khakis and a cheesy jacket.
"You really think Eve Kelly is gonna fuck you for five hundred dollars? Are you out of your goddamn mind?" the douche scoffs. "Cough up five thousand and then we can talk."
My blood pressure rises at how they're talkin’ about a woman like she's an item up for sale. Yeah, I know she stars in porn, but after seein’ the girl actually dance all shy and hesitantly on stage tonight, I have a hard time believin’ there's any amount of money that could pay for a night with her. Maybe I'm naïve and just don't want to think of my dream woman as a whore, but that's her decision to make, not these two dickheads barterin’ her body for cash.
"How about two thousand?" Senn suddenly speaks up from beside me and asks the dick in the jacket. "Is that enough to get Eve Kelly to dance for my boy, Linc Abrams?"
My jaw drops and I don't even have time to ask Senn what the fuck he’s doin’. "The Linc Abrams, big time cage fighter?" The asshole in the jacket’s eyes widen as he strolls over to us. He glances down at the brace on my left arm, apparently answerin’ his own question. "Fuck. It is you!"
"Ah, yeah," I respond, still givin’ Senn a what the fuck look.
"Hell, now, we're talking," the man says, rubbin’ his greedy palms together. "Two grand for a private dance with you? That I can damn well make happen."
"You really think she'd actually go for that?" I ask in disbelief. There’s no way it can be that easy to meet her with all these dickheads tryin’ to get at her.
"She'll fucking go for it," he replies, then pulls out his cell phone and looks down at the screen. "Let's find an empty room, and as soon as she finishes up here in about fifteen minutes, show-fucking-time."
"If you're sure," I say, not wantin’ to get my hopes up, but at the same time unable to help the ridiculously giddy feelin’ wellin’ up inside me. With the amount of money in my bank account from wins and sponsors, two thousand is nothin’. I can pretty much buy any fuckin’ thing you can dream up. And this opportunity? Priceless.
"I'm sure, but I've gotta be honest with you so you don't bitch afterwards," he starts. "Eve can’t fuck you tonight, even for two grand. The bouncers here won’t even let you lay a finger on her in the private rooms. But we can probably set something up for later at a more…private location." This dude is definitely rubbin’ me the wrong way, makin’ my fist beg to get acquainted with his face. Who the hell does he think he is? Her pimp?
"All I want is me and her in a room without all these assholes," I tell him.
"Right," he says sarcastically before walkin’ away.
“Probably best you can’t fuck her,” Senn says, claspin’ my shoulder with a smirk. “It would suck to catch an STD and have your dick fall off.”
“Shut the fuck up. She doesn’t have any STDs,” I bark at him, even though I can’t possibly know if that’s the truth or not. Am I willin’ to bet my cock on it? Probably not.
The line of men moves up and then I can see Eve, sittin’ at the end of a small table with her lean legs crossed while reachin’ up to sign some fucker’s t-shirt that he’s still wearing. At the moment she doesn’t look the part of a porn star. No, I’d almost swear she’s more virginal than slutty.
That thought has me instantly hatin’ myself, because there's a small yet enormous bastard-size part of me that is disappointed I won’t ever get to live out the fantasy of fuckin’ the depraved Eve Kelly from her movies. I'm not sure who I'm more disgusted with, her shady fuckin’ manager or myself for even thinkin’ of puttin’ a price on gettin’ a woman to ride my cock just like that other asshole. It's seriously fucked up, since there are plenty of beautiful women who would willingly spread their legs for me on demand. That's not arrogance, that's the straight truth. Half probably because of my money, and the other half because, well, of how I look. Now that definitely makes me sound like a fuckin’ prick.
But seriously, my parents, who are by far the absolute dorkiest people on the planet, also happen to possess some bizarre strand of genetic perfection. The two are national comic and gamin’ convention legends ever since a couple years ago when they showed up as Han Solo and Princess Leia. If there was a way to delete shit off the Internet, I'd start with the photos of my mom in the gold bikini. Don’t even get me started on all the MILF shit I’ve had to endure from my friends over the years. My parents are geek gods with their own crazy fans, fueled by the fact that they also kick ass on about any online game you can name. My mom is an IT network consultant by day, while my dad is a software developer Monday through Friday. On the weekends growin’ up, and still to this very day, my mom refuses to cook on weekends durin’ their marathon sessions that includes the two of them blowin’ shit up with game controllers in hand. Hailey and I lived on junk food and deliveries those two days, which we loved as kids. My parents are awesome, they're just a strange combination of freaky, beautiful blond nerds.
So back to my point, I've never had a problem findin’ women to date, especially not after I won my first Welterweight World Championship title five years ago. The fact that I lost my belt on July Fourth to Jude Malone hasn't diminished the number of cage cunts throwin’ themselves at me in the least. Or maybe I've just noticed them more because other than cardio, I'm not allowed to spend my usual six hours a day trainin’ in the gym. Instead, I've been turnin’ women down to spend hours with my dick in my hand watchin’ Eve fuckin’ Kelly.
Chapter Three
Claire
After what feels like a million dirty hands have copped a feel of my tits and ass in this skimpy bikini, James, Mandy's manager, leans down, and says, "Let's go. You're doing a private lap dance for Linc motherfucking Abrams."
"A what? Are you out of your damn mind?" I ask indignantly. I'm ready to get the hell out of this disgusting place, take a hot shower using Clorox inste
ad of soap, get comfy in my warm flannel pajamas, and do the one thing in my life that makes me utterly happy - pick up my paintbrush. There's something about brushing the strokes of beautiful colors that I love. It's sort of the same, easy feeling I had as a kid when I'd color with crayons. Painting is just so nice and relaxing, letting me get away from my shit life for a few minutes, even if my final pieces will never be anywhere close to museum worthy.
"Eve is going to give a lap dance to one of the best fighters in the entire world," James says to me through clenched teeth. "Now get your ass up and get in that goddamn room."
"I don't give a fuck who he is! That wasn't part of the deal," I snap back at the slimy asshole, refusing to budge from my seat. There is no way in hell I'm gonna get naked for some stranger's perverted viewing pleasure. I'll probably need weeks of therapy to overcome the humiliation of wearing a thong in public while grinding on a pole. What was I thinking when I agreed to this bullshit?
"Fine," James says on an exhale. "I'll give you half of the two grand he's paying."
Another thousand dollars just to rub my bare ass on some jackass's lap? "For how long?" I ask hesitantly. Am I really willing to give up my self-respect to make a few dollars? Well, more than a few. A freaking thousand.
James smirks, knowing he has me. "Half an hour tops."
"Half an hour!" I exclaim. Five minutes? Over and done, quick and easy. Ten minutes? I could possibly endure. But anything past fifteen, and now I'm not so sure.
"Yes, thirty whole minutes you have to dance naked for the bastard. Look, the time will fly by, and he's not allowed to touch you," he says, pulling me up by both of my arms to get me on my feet. I barely have time to find my balance in my sister's red, skyscraper heels as he drags me past the line of gawking men and down a dimly lit hallway.
My heart starts racing so fast that I suddenly feel dizzy and short of breath. And that taco salad I had for lunch? Yeah, it's getting tossed around in my stomach right about now and threatening to make a reappearance.
When we come to a stop in front of a closed purple door with a gold number three on it, I panic because this whole ordeal is starting to feel like I'm about to enter a sleazy pay by the hour hotel. My eyes start to burn and I gasp to take in some much needed oxygen. "No!" the word comes out of my mouth sounding close to a sob. I jerk free of the asshole's grip and flatten my back against the wall, shaking my head. "I can't...I can't do this."
"Yes, you are," James replies before he opens the door and walks into the room that's my worst nightmare come to life. I always swore to myself that I would never, no matter how desperate I am for money, sell any part of my body. Dancing on top of a man naked is pretty damn close to that line. Closer than I ever thought I would get, and I'm ashamed for losing sight of that promise to myself because of a thousand dollars.
James steps back out of the room holding a thick wad of cash. God, that's a lot of money. More money than I make in weeks waitressing. Money Mandy needs to start over. To finally get clean.
"Give him a good show," James says. Yanking me off the wall, he shoves me none too gently into the room before slamming the door in my face. My teeth grind painfully against each other as I imagine the variety of ways I plan to kick him in the nuts one of these days.
Eyes squeezed shut with my hand on the door knob, I'm still considering my options. Stay or run? I turn the knob just to prove to myself it's not locked, and I can still leave if I want to. When it easily twists without resistance, I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth to try to stop my body from shaking. I give myself a quick pep talk, chanting over and over, I can get through this. It’s worth it for Mandy. I can do this. It’s for a lot of money.
Finally opening my eyes, I'm glad to know the room has only a soft, warm glow to it instead of high beams to brightly illuminate the private parts of my body that strangers shouldn't get to see. There's been less than a handful of men to ever look at every inch of me, and I was nervous those few times even though it was a decision I voluntarily made. I barely resist slamming my forehead against the wood in front of me for putting myself in this situation. No, my sister put me in this situation. And because I love her, I will suck it up and do this to get her a thousand dollars closer to freedom. At least there's only one man in this room, and regardless of how atrocious the rich fucker is, it will all be over in thirty minutes. Besides, it's not like he can touch me. He can only look. At my private parts. For thirty. Freaking. Minutes.
Finally squaring my shoulders, I force myself to turn around and face the music before I hyperventilate and pass out. My eyes widen, accompanied by an audible gasp of pleasant surprise when I see who has been quietly occupying the majority of the small, plum colored loveseat the whole time I was having a mini-breakdown.
Instead of an old, dirty bastard there's this...incredibly gorgeous, blue-eyed, blond man staring back at me with an excited, Colgate smile on his young face. His tight-fitting, black tee with some sort of red logo in the center accentuates what has to be rippling muscles underneath the soft cotton, leaving thick boulder-like biceps peeking out of the short sleeves. I can't help but cringe in sympathy when I notice the brace wrapped around his left elbow like he's recently been injured. His long, jean-clad legs are stretched out wide in front of him, hinting at quite a bit of height on his impressive frame.
Holy shit, I just hit the fucking jackpot! Panty-wetting hot and rich? This guy is too good to be true. What had James said this guy did for a living?
"Hey...I mean, um, hi," the beautiful man stammers with the hint of a slow, southern drawl, rubbing a hand nervously along the back of his neck. The fact that he doesn't immediately come across as cocky and arrogant because he's wealthy and extremely handsome only makes him more endearing.
"Hi," I repeat softly, unable to resist reciprocating his smile.
"You are...wow...absolutely stunning in person," he says while his eyes devour me. If it was any other man in this building, I would feel cheap or dirty by their sensual stare. Instead, he's looking at me with a reverence I don't deserve, yet I know I'll never forget, even in a million years from now. Just seconds earlier I was practically in tears, hating myself for hitting this all new low point in my life, and now here he is, looking at me like I'm a goddess who just fell from the heavens.
"I know you probably hear it all the time, but I'm a huge fan."
Fuck a duck.
My face falls at the unfortunate reminder that he is, of course, here to see my sister, the porn star, and not me, the waitress. Stupid, silly girl.
"So you've...seen my films?" I ask, unable to prevent my annoyed tone. I cross my arms over my mostly bare chest and watch my fictional white knight ride off into the sunset without me. I knew he was too good to be true; probably into all sorts of kinky shit like whips and chains and double penetration. Those thoughts should repulse me, not cause a tingling sensation to ignite in my lower belly.
"Uh-huh. Own all ten of your movies," he responds, shifting in his seat, smoothing his jeans over his thighs like he's uncomfortable with my scrutiny. Or making room for his expanding erection. Mmm, surprisingly enough, I kind of hope it's the latter. My breasts suddenly thrust themselves out into space a little farther, all on their own volition. I swear I had absolutely nothing to do with such a trampy little move.
"Oh really? What's your favorite one?" I ask curiously, resting my hands on my hips with one cocked, trying to provoke him further.
An adorable, red hue immediately stains his fair cheeks. "Um, I guess, ah, the naughty schoolgirl scene, you know, in Bend Over, Bad Girl?"
Of course I've never watched my sister's films, because that's just ew, but I can guess from the title and his description that there's likely a scene with her wearing a pleated skirt, tight dress shirt, and knee high socks with her hair done up in braids. And it doesn’t take a genius to imagine she gets spanked and fucked by a pretend principal or teacher in some sort of classroom setting.
I'm shocked and som
ewhat thrown off balance when the image of myself in a schoolgirl uniform, bent over a desk while this man does those two naughty things to me causes an unexpected flood of arousal to my lady parts.
Suddenly I remember that the thin bikini top I'm wearing doesn't have much material to cover my nipples when they tighten, and I'm worried that the wetness between my legs will soon be noticeable. Ugh. What the hell is wrong with me? I try to remind myself that this guy is no different than all the other nasty perverts jam packed in here tonight. Ones that beat their meat while watching my sister get screwed by dudes with big dicks on camera. But this guy, though? God, he is so damn hot that he can actually get away with a lot of perviness, including owning all of my sister’s videos and paying for a private lap dance with her.
“So you must be a really big fan to pay so much for a lap dance.” I state the obvious, but it comes out sounding naughty.
“You have no idea,” he replies deep and husky. I’m almost certain he’s referring to not only his excessive fandom but also the size of his cock.
If Mandy were here, and able to stand on her own two feet, she would have jumped on him already and be well on her way to eating this sweet, southern fan of hers alive. Instead, he gets me; her timid, awkward and inexperienced sister as her stand-in. While I may be far from comfortable in this awkward situation, I'm suddenly glad that it's me and not Mandy who gets to be up close and personal with this guy. I love my sister and I'm constantly trying to protect her from her own demons. But tonight, for the first time in my life, I'm relieved that this sweet man will never become one of the short-lived, monetary pit stops on Mandy's reckless, bumpy ride down the never-ending highway to hell. Also known as her addiction to cocaine.
While at first I was apprehensive about doing this type of slutty thing with a stranger, now I'm more than ready to give him what he wants, and have a little fun of my own while I'm at it. In fact, I'm really looking forward to seeing just how happy I, straight-laced Claire, can make his lap. I guess I need to be the one who makes the first move here, and be more...assertive, like I know what the fuck I'm doing.