CHAPTER ONE
Kacey
I have a secret. I’m a stripper and I have a crush on one of my customers. It’s the ultimate no-no for girls in my line of work. I mean, who dates and marries the stripper at their local club? No one, right?
What makes this worse is that this isn’t even Lace, Mystique or New York Dolls. I work at the Donkey Club, a joint that prides itself on its hot girls, but also the sawdust on the floor, the peanut shells littering the ground, the take-no-prisoners approach of its dancers.
Because that’s why we’re called the Donkey Club. Here, the girls are able to take nine, ten, eleven … even fifteen inches. Not that I’ve ever gotten up to fifteen. Since starting here a couple weeks ago, I’ve done nine and ten, but fifteen is like a myth. It’s something the girls are always chattering about backstage, but who knows if it really exists?
“I could swear it was at least fifteen,” confided Alana to the semi-circle of ladies around her.
“Oh yeah, did you have a ruler with you?” snapped Jenny, a bitch as usual.
“Please, girl, this is my line of work. You know how many men I’ve fucked by now? I can size up a cock in two seconds, sometimes even before his tightie-whities are off,” Alana spat in retort.
And it was true. Though I’ve only been working a few weeks, I’ve already been promoted to the exclusive Donkey Girls service. Not every stripper here is trusted to fuck our customers … only those who have elastic pussies, who can take a big man hard, deep and rough. And you’re put through the ringer during tryouts too. I had to fuck three men, all of them enormous, before I was even considered for the job. I wish I’d gotten it on tape. Those tryouts had been brutal but yummy … god, I’m getting wet just thinking about it again.
But my line of work pretty much means that I don’t have a boyfriend. After all, I dance three or four nights a week, and I’m fucking six to eight men per week too. I’m proud to say I’ve built up a few regulars even, guys that I see once or twice a week after they’ve had a hard day at work.
So I’d been dancing last Tuesday, shimmying for dollars, when I saw him. He was dominating and elegant at once, which caught my eye because unfortunately, most guys here are overgrown frat boys, their mouths open, drool practically hanging off their chins. But not the new guy. He was wearing a grey suit and I couldn’t see his face because he sat in shadow, but I could see his crossed legs, arms neatly folded over his chest.
And damn what an expensive suit can do for a guy! The stranger was trim and fit, not too bulky, but definitely athletic, you know? It takes a lot to make my mouth water these days, but I was curious about our new customer, and started sidling over to him, shaking my ass, gliding my hands over my curves.
You know you’re a good stripper when a guy is completely still, his hand too busy to even stroke his dick. I admit, at the Donkey Club, guys whip out their poles in public, fondling themselves, letting those stiffies get some air. But you know you’ve got a guy captive when he’s not even beating himself, he’s just so mesmerized.
The classy guy obviously didn’t have his dick out. But he was absolutely motionless, still as a rock. He didn’t move a centimeter as I approached, stroking my curves, wiggling my ass, letting my breasts bounce up and down. Oh, and did I mention I was completely naked? Yeah, the Donkey Club doesn’t pull its punches … we girls wear nothing but our heels by the time we’re finished.
So I was butt-naked, sensuously gliding over to this guy, and I could tell he was breathing hard, but still as a statue. When I finally got close to him, I gasped involuntarily. He was gorgeous. Deep, dark hair, coupled with emerald-colored eyes that took in my every movement. I shimmied seductively, my body begging him for attention … and dollars.
Like a movie in slow motion, his hand reached for his money clip. Hmmm, I liked that. I’ve noticed that high rollers don’t really use wallets, instead they have these fat rolls of cash, and sure enough, this dude pulled out an extra-wide roll. Peeling off a bill, he gestured for me to dance closer.
I pulled up in front of him, shaking my boobs in his face and then held still so that he could latch on. Fuck, his lips felt good! He lapped gently at my nipple first, teasing my tit with his tongue, before suckling hard, pulling on my breast flesh. When he’d gotten his fill, he nodded and gestured for me to hold my boob up.
I lifted the pendulous Double D, and he tucked a Benjamin Franklin underneath, my jug pinning the bill in place as I lowered it. He then nodded to my other tit, the nipple hard as rock now, and I lovingly offered it to him, letting him suckle to his heart’s content. And god, the man’s mouth was like honey. He slipped and slid over my peak until my cunny was gushing, it felt so fucking good. Again, he had me lift my breast so that he could slip another bill into my secret space.
But the best was coming. I twirled around, the money tucked securely under my girls, but there was still one entrancing crevice that attracted bees like honey. Taking advantage of a chair nearby, I perched a high heel on it, lifting my knee so that my cunny was bared. Taunting him, I reached down and spread my lips with my fingers, showing him my hole, that deep, pink flesh moist and dripping. He nodded and gestured for me to turn around.
I knew what he wanted. I bent over, spread my legs, and held my ass cheeks apart so that he could get in. Lovingly, he licked my cunny and I mewled, it felt so fucking good. I love this job … I love the attention, I love dancing, and most of all, I love feeling men in my snatch. And this one was particularly handsome, just an incredible fuckstud, someone I wanted to do hard and unprotected.
As he licked my cunt from the back, I moaned again, wiggling my ass in his face, forcing him to grab my butt to hold me still. But he got the message. He took a couple bills from the roll this time, and folded them up into a little square. Teasingly, he pushed it into my wetness, the folds grabbing the money like it was gold. Fuck, bills are always nice, but it felt extra-nice in my twat.
Straightening, I blew him a kiss, and the dark stranger smiled. My set was ending, and I’d be damned if this guy didn’t order a private dance from me later in the night. Our interaction had been too hot, too steamy for him to walk away.
But as the night passed, there was no call from the manager, no nothing. Instead, the evening continued, and I went up for a second set, then a third, but the dark stranger had disappeared. What the … ? He had to come back. He had to.
CHAPTER TWO
Logan
Fuck, that stripper was still on my mind, and I hadn’t even fucked her. I’d just tongued her hole, licked her nipples a bit, sampling that sweet flesh between her legs. What the fuck was wrong with me?
I usually don’t even frequent joints like the Donkey Club. It’s so fucking low-class, the girls garish and coarse, and the setting, don’t even get me started on the sawdust on the floors, I was mad as shit knowing I’d have to get my shoes professionally cleaned now. But that girl, fuck that girl was amazing.
She’d had an amazing body, firm, curvy, and luscious. Hers was a hundred percent real though, the tits heavy teardrops, her ass tight with a juicy honey pot. Her hair was naturally streaked by the sun, with warm caramel eyes and pillowy, kissable lips. Not that I’d kissed those lips. I’d only kissed her bottom lips, and goddamn, they’d been delicious.
“What’s your problem brother?” asked Lance. He’s my twin, born only five minutes later. We’re real estate guys. We sell property in the city, and shoot, the Phillips Group is the highest grossing team in the country. We specialize in marketing high-end condos to international billionaires, netting ourselves a pretty penny in the process.
“It’s that fucking Jane Street deal,” I rumbled. “The developer is a fucking asshole, refusing to put in the high end finishes we agreed on.”
But my brother knew me better than that.
“Patricia tells me that you didn’t come home for dinner last night,” he drawled. Patricia is my wannabe girlfriend, a beautiful woman, really too beautiful for her own good. We met a year ago, and she convenie
ntly quit her job and moved into my condo last month, living the high-life. I got her credit card bills each month and believe me, these were bills that could make your fucking eyeballs bleed.
So I’d been feeling trapped lately. I knew what the woman expected: a diamond ring, courtesy of a pale blue box, soon and fast. Fuck. I’d even half-heartedly looked at some rings on line, but couldn’t get myself to pull the trigger.
Lance, on the other hand, was still living the high life. Single and ready to mingle, my asshole twin was going out every night looking for trouble, fucking girls right and left. Fuck my life! How had I gotten here, dreaming about a stripper who’d let me suck her tits? Ah, screw it.
I wasn’t about to tell Lance about my depraved night at the Donkey Club. He’d consider it slumming, a far cry from the fancy joints he frequented, filled with bottle service and sleek models. But I wanted to go back again, if only to momentarily shake off the nightmare that my life had become.
“Um yeah that Jane Street deal, I’m going throttle James and Vikram,” I said, referring to the developers again. “They’re such fucking bullshitters. They want twenty-five million for the place and won’t even put in high-end finishes? Fuck them,” I growled.
Lance still had his eyebrows raised, but didn’t pursue it further. He knew when not to push me, and straightened his tie instead.
“The boys and I are going to the Dream Hotel tonight, you want to come?” he asked. By boys he meant Jeremy and Jonas, two dickwads we hung with sometimes.
“Nah,” I growled. “I better go see what Patricia wants.”
But I knew I was headed back to the Donkey Club, to see the stripper with the big tits and even bigger smile. She’d wormed her way into my brain … and seeing her again was the only way to rid myself of the addiction.
CHAPTER THREE
Lance
I knew Logan was lying. That fucker was always bad at lying which is why I’m the negotiations guy. My brother is charismatic and friendly, great at getting a potential seller to list with us, at partying and making people like him. But he’s never been great at driving a hard bargain, slamming down on his emotions while playing the big points. So I knew he was lying through his teeth. It had something to do with where he’d been last night, and I’d been tipped off after Patricia called me, her voice venomous.
“Where’s Logan?” she hissed. “Did you take your brother to Club Luxe again?” She was referring to a gentlemen’s club around town famous for its hot underage hookers.
“No Patty,” I ground out, knowing she hated that name. “I have no idea where Logan is. Why don’t you try calling him?” I said, my own voice cold as ice.
There’s no love lost between us. Patricia’s like a fucking poison vine growing on my brother’s soul, and it hurt me to see him like this, depressed, moody, not wanting to go home because that blood-sucking leech would be there. Ever since she’d had that “miscarriage” last month, he let her move into his place. What a mistake. She’d done nothing but spend his money and whine, living a life of indolence and greed. God, how I hated that viper.
So I knew my twin wasn’t headed back to the penthouse he shared with Patricia. He was sneaking off … to where? Patricia keeps him on a tight leash, her fucking minions reporting back to her at every chance.
I watched as Logan grabbed his stuff, calling downstairs for his car to be brought around. I heard the motor of the Tesla roar and with a squeal, he was off.
I dialed downstairs as well, and hopped into my Lamborghini. I had a feeling I knew where he was headed … and it was connected to a girl we knew a long time ago.
CHAPTER FOUR
Logan
I was back at the Donkey Club, the music banging and grinding, splitting my ear drums even from outside.
“A hundred bucks cover,” spat a dude with a greasy comb-over. A hundred bucks for this joint when last night it had been ten? What the fuck? But whatevs, I was on a mission.
Indoors the noise was even worse. Sawdust flew everywhere, making my throat itch and eyes water, the other patrons a line-up of red-neck meth users. Where did these people come from?
I know I’m an arrogant shit, using phrases like “these people.” But seriously, you don’t find folk like this in Manhattan. There were literally dudes wearing overalls and cowboy hats, like they were just back from the farm after a hard day’s work. What the fuck? Didn’t they see it was the concrete jungle out there?
But I was here to find one girl only. I didn’t know her name, which was pretty pathetic because how could I ask management if she was working tonight? But I’d find her. A girl like that has assets worth solid gold, and she’d be working them for all they were worth.
Three girls shimmied and jiggled on-stage, but none of them were the delicious blonde I’d sampled last night. I waited patiently in the back, semi-hidden in the darkness, waving away girls who tried to approach me.
Suddenly I heard the trumpeting of bugles, a cheesy prepackaged sound effect.
“Ladies and gents,” blasted the MC. “May I announce the start of tonight’s Mongo Size Contest?” he chortled.
What the fuck was this? Were girls with huge breasts going to get up and dance, showing off obscenely huge knockers? God, I hoped not. I hated those Guinness Book of World Record types, the girls who could smash watermelons with their Double H jugs. It was disgusting, the women almost deformed, painful to look at from multiple plastic surgeries.
But instead, I saw that security was locking the doors, a hush of anticipation descending over the all-male crowd. A blue light came on signaling the ok, and the MC gestured for a few girls to come on-stage.
“Come on ladies, don’t be shy… not that you’re ever shy,” he cackled again, the purple velvet suit making him look like a garish clown.
And oh shit. One of the girls was the girl from last night, the one I was looking for. She was luminous, her skin golden and tan, her legs long and shapely. The other girl was just mediocre, and the third was downright fugly. Hey, this is the Donkey Club. If you want to find a stripper who was the product of incest, you’ve come to the right place.
I saw that my girl was smiling but edgy too. Why? In fact, all of the girls looked a little jumpy, nervously eyeing the crowd.
“Alright gents, it’s the first time we’re running the Mongo Size Contest, so thanks for forking over that extra cover tonight, one hundred percent of it goes to our girls,” he said with a wink. Bullshit, that cover was going straight to management. But what the fuck was the Mongo Size Contest?
As if answering my unspoken question, the MC blared again.
“These girlies here are going to ride some dicks … and the girl who rides the biggest one wins!” he cackled.
No shit! Was this really going to happen? Were dudes really going to put their stiffies out there and let a girl climb on in public? Shit, this cesspool was even more depraved than I thought.
But sure enough, a greasy dude stepped up, one of those Jersey Shore types who’s worked out so his chest is really built-up, but his legs scrawny and chicken-like.
“Alright, let’s take this gent’s measurements!” announced the MC. A woman with a long ruler appeared, unzipping his pants. He pulled out his dong, and fuck that thing was a monster. He began stroking it until it was full-size, and then the woman measured it, whispering in the MC’s ear.
“This here gent’s got eight inches! Eight solid inches of cock for a girl to ride! Who’s gonna ride him tonight?”
The girls looked at each other uneasily. I don’t blame them. Although it was their job, eight inches is never easy, it’ll stretch even the loosest pussy. With a deep breath, the mediocre-looking girl stepped forward, probably just to get this over with. She put her arms around the dude’s neck and hoisted herself up. I saw the guy’s cock quest around a bit before finding her hole, splitting that wet flesh as she sank down on the dong, her pussy straining as it ate the fuckpole.
Her face was twisted in agony, but after a minute or so,
she was able to squirm down all the way until the only thing visible was his balls. The woman with the ruler reached a hand down to check, and sure enough the dong was all the way in. She gave a thumbs up to the MC and he shouted with glee.
“Crystal’s taken eight straight, all the way up into that sweet pussy. She’s going to win the prize unless one of the other girls takes more!” he roared. Shit, this was so fucking depraved. How much were the girls getting to do this?
But by now, a second dude had wandered up to the stage, his dong out. This motherfucker was already hard, his slit dripping, droplets of pre-cum hitting the stage. The woman measured him, and the MC called out, “Ten inches! Burt here has ten inches for one of our girls to ride!”
This time the fugly one stepped forward. The dude frowned for a moment, pointing instead at my beautiful girl, but the MC overruled him.
“Nope, you know the rules, ladies’ choice. Sandy’s chosen you, and you get to fuck this little bitch!”
This time though, the fugly one lay on her back, spreading her legs, gesturing for the dude to get on top of her. Really? She was lying on sawdust, it was so fucking unhygienic, probably particles getting in her cunt from this pigsty.
But the dude didn’t even hesitate, unable to resist a free fuck, and knelt between her legs, pushing that massive dong in. The girl cried out, and I could hear her scream shrilly, even from the back. Man, she was in some real pain from the fuckpole! But he drilled her deep, and when the woman referee reached a hand in to check, she gave the MC a thumbs up.
“That’s right folks! Sandy is fucking a ten-inch cock, and boy, it is IN all the way! Kacey, can you do better?” he crowed, glancing at my beautiful blonde. Oh shit, it was time to see if there was a bigger dong for Kacey to ride. At least I knew her name was Kacey now.
A huge biker dude shouldered his way up to the stage and I felt my hackles rising. He was so fucking disgusting, old, saggy tattoos running up and down his arms, with an untrimmed greyish-yellow goatee and a leather vest with “Hellions” emblazoned in gothic script on the back. Hellions, my ass, this dude was sixty if a day, he’d be lucky if he lasted another week without a wheelchair.
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