#BABYMACHINE: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

Jen read my expression and nodded.

  “I didn’t want people to know, I didn’t want their pitying stares, the uncomfortable looks, the victim-blaming,” she said bitterly. “After all, I was drunk, someone would say it was my fault. So I stayed silent,” she said. “The police never figured out who it was.”

  “But was there any DNA from the rape kit?” I asked.

  “No, he was careful and used a condom,” she said, her eyes tearing again. “I’ll probably never find out who did it to me.”

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching to take her hand. For the first time since the scandal, I felt someone else’s pain in place of my own. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “That’s the thing, I needed time to recover, go to therapy, take art classes, do whatever I needed to become myself again. And dancing … that was a big part of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I said puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  “Dancing took me to a higher plane,” she said simply.

  Huh? I shook my head, confused. I’d never taken Jen for the mystical type.

  But my friend sighed and tried again.

  “I was lost, Stacey, really lost. I didn’t feel like myself, I was spinning through a void with no direction, no sense of self. And the Donkey gave it back to me,” she said simply.

  “But how?” I asked. “How did dancing do that for you?”

  “It was empowering,” she said simply. “I chose when to take off my clothes, how to do it, I controlled the men with my dancing, they looked, they touched, but only if I let them. And it helped me regain control, all eyes on me but only if I wanted it that way,” she said. “I went from being a victim to the one holding the reins.”

  I looked at her with my head cocked. Jen was pretty but I would never have pegged her for a stripper. She looked too wholesome to play the part. No stripper heels, heavy make-up, or visible tattoos. Instead, her medium-brown hair was pulled into a sensible ponytail, and she was wearing regular clothes, totally office appropriate.

  “I know,” she laughed. “It’s hard to believe that Jen Rollins is also Cherry Max, but I was and I still am,” she confided.

  “You still are? You’re still dancing?” I asked, disbelieving. Holy cow, this was a lot of information.

  “I am,” she confirmed, “and I’d recommend it for you too. There’s something about you right now Stacey, you’re so lost … drifting. Take back yourself, and use the Donkey to do it.”

  I sat back, unconvinced. This sounded too sketchy, I had no dance skills, and I’d never taken my clothes off for anyone other than Peyton and Pax.

  But after another miserable week like a limp dishrag, I decided to go with it. Jen had given me the name of the manager, and I dialed hesitantly.

  “Donkey,” said a nasty voice.

  I almost hung up right there, but forced myself to reply.

  “Hi, I’m calling for Stanley,” I said hesitantly.

  “This is he,” the voice said, suddenly welcoming. Oh gross, it was one of those guys who responded only to women. Uck.

  “Hi, I was wondering if you had a slot for a new dancer,” I began. “My friend Je- I mean Cherry, recommended that I come try out.”

  “Tell you what, instead of trying out, why don’t you come to Amateur Night tonight?” said the wheezing voice. “It’s open to everyone.”

  “To- tonight?” I stuttered. “That’s kind of soon. I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “Up to you girlie,” he wheezed again. “Tonight’s the night or no go.”

  Oh, so suddenly he was playing hardball. But I felt so miserable, so down on my luck, that with a snap, I made up my mind.

  “Okay, I’ll be there. Can you put Inga on the guest list?” I asked.

  The voice cackled.

  “Inga, is it?” he guffawed. “Sure, okay, I’ll tell management we’ll have an Inga trying out tonight.”

  And so here I was, outside the club, my coat wrapped tightly around my form, nude underneath except for the tiniest bikini and high, high heels. Oh god, what had I gotten myself into?

  But with one more resolute shake of my head, I stepped up, wobbling a bit in my high heels and said to the bouncer, “Inga, please” with as much confidence as I could muster.

  The dude smirked a bit, a big Samoan guy, making an elaborate production of looking through the list on his clipboard, squinting his eyes as if searching for my name. But suddenly the Bluetooth in his ear buzzed and he put down the clipboard, nodding his head and heaving open the heavy metal door.

  “Go ahead,” he grunted, nodding towards the darkness.

  And tentatively, I stepped into the absolute black, afraid of what I would find. I’d never done anything like this, I was still Ana on the inside, and my heart beat quickly, the fear bitter in my mouth.

  I gasped as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The club was just as horrible as Jen had described, bare bones furniture, a long wood bar on one side, three daises with spotlights pointed at them.

  And the girls. Well, the girls were okay looking I supposed, it was more their dancing, their unbelievable moves that shocked, straight out of the dirtiest porn you’d ever seen.

  One girl had one foot on the floor, the other one stretched upwards in the splits, her ankle propped up against the gold pole, her flexibility amazing. But even more amazing was that she was stark naked except for her heels, her cunny open and wet for all to see, slick and juicy, rubbing tantalizingly against that the metal rod. Man, that pole was going to be wet, an occupational hazard for whoever was up next.

  And another girl was on her hands and knees, shaking her assets for all to see, her boobs bouncing below her, her rump squeezed and slapped by all sorts of men, a couple even dragging their fingers through her snatch if my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

  But what made her set incredible was that her mouth was full … with dollar bills. The dudes, instead of putting bills on the floor for her to pick up, instead folded them into squares, pushing them into her mouth like the tastiest appetizers. And the girl would part her plush lips and let the guys insert the money until her cheeks were puffed up like a chipmunk, stuffed with cash. Talk about salting away a nut for a rainy day.

  So with trepidation, I looked for a place to sit. The performances were NSFW to the max, surely no one would notice me, not a small figure hunched over in the back. I wasn’t sure I could do this, my confidence slowly but surely ebbing away.

  But it was too late because someone had already seen me. A dude rambled over, malnourished looking, missing two front teeth, and leered.

  “Buy you a drink?” he sniggered.

  I almost slapped him right there, he was so gross and nasty, how could he think I was interested?

  “No thanks,” I said coldly, turning my face away.

  But the dude wouldn’t go away, sliding into the chair next to me, putting a dirty hand on my knee, his stinking breath hot in my face, until I finally jumped up and said, “It’s my turn, I have to go,” before running up to the stage. Amateur Night hadn’t started yet but I couldn’t hang out with this guy, any excuse was welcome.

  So without any ado, I started to dance. It was crazy, I’m sure the other dancers were wondering about the strange girl prancing around in front, off-beat and desperate.

  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 th
e 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.”