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.”
That made Stanley jabber all the more.
“Hold on, not so fast,” he squealed, jumping up, filled with nervous energy. “I’m sure I have just the girl for you, let me see if she’ll do a private show.”
“No private show necessary,” growled my twin. “Just have her come on stage.”
Stanley slowly shook his head.
“No can do,” he said, pretend regretful. “This is an extra-special girl and we only loan her out for private shows.”
My brother and I shared a look. Bullshit. Stanley was trying to make a few extra bucks by booking a room in back, but we let him have it. A few thousand wasn’t going to make a difference to us anyways.
“Sure, tell her we’re interested,” I drawled. “Her name?”
“Inga,” cackled Stanley. “She’s backstage now, let me just get the room ready,” he promised.
And sure enough, in fifteen minutes he was back out, sleazy, smiling that shit-eating grin.
“Inga is waiting, kind sirs,” he groveled. “It’ll be five thousand.”
Five thousand? WTF the private room usually only cost three thousand on a busy night. But grunting, I pulled out my wallet and tossed a fistful of cash his way.
“Here,” I snorted.
The manager was practically drooling now, his fingers excitedly scrabbling at the money, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Yesss,” he hissed, hyperventilating, his expression filled with greed. “This way.”
And we followed Gollum into a dark
hallway, narrow and twisted, until we came to a door in the back. It was painted black with a picture of two donkeys humping each other on front, spelling out the room’s purpose. Classy, real classy.
Shaking our heads, we opened the door while Stanley peered around our shoulder.
“I think you’ll find everything you need,” he wheezed. “Champagne, strawberries, condoms, lube …” his voice trailed.
“Thanks,” said my brother coldly. “Now beat it.”
And with that, Peyton slammed the door in the skinny dude’s face. We definitely weren’t buying Stanley’s company with five big ones.
The room was even darker inside, shadowed as our eyes adjusted in the dim light. There was a mini-bar, well-stocked with the glint of bottles, plus a plush purple sofa, shag carpeting, and a lamp flickering in the corner.
Plus, there was a female form outlined in shadow, bent over the couch, leaning towards us suggestively, her boobs pressed against the velour, the lush curves obvious even in the dim lighting.
“Welcome to the Donkey Club,” she breathed. “Inga at your service.”
And my brother and I stopped at those words. Because despite the darkness, the aura of mystery, that voice tipped us off immediately. The sound was sensuous, throaty, unmistakable whether on TV or in real life. It was Stacey, our stepsister.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stacey
I wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, I’d been having an argument with Stanley backstage and the next, I was in a private room, about to do my first one-on-one dance.
“No private shows,” I protested. “I only dance in public, on stage.”
But Stanley was insistent.
“You think you can make money the way you’re going?” he asked scornfully. “What, you get tipped two hundred, three hundred per night?”
I was silent. It wasn’t the tips I was working for, it was the control, the independence, the boost to my self-esteem that drove me to the Donkey each night.
Because, yeah I’ve been performing regularly, this has become my home away from home, the place where I’m most myself, where I feel good and whole. I wish there were some other way, that I could release tension by rock-climbing, cycling up a storm at Soul, or playing bridge, but none of it works. Instead, it’s dancing at the Donkey that’s my out, that keeps me sane.
And it’s been awesome. The endorphins start going when I’m onstage, and pretty soon I’m letting go, letting myself shake, shimmy and shiver without abandon, giving myself up to the gods of music, rejuvenating myself.
Sometimes I wonder if people recognize me, if they realize I’m the disgraced Stacey Light who’s been all over the news. But then again, the clientele here doesn’t seem up on current events. Oh yeah, it’s that bad, the patrons are hillbilly rednecks all the way.
But it suits me, and to keep my job I had to appease Stanley.
“Okay fine,” I pouted. “But what goes on back there?”
“What do you think?” he huffed, eyebrows waggling. “This ain’t no G-rated joint.”
I sighed impatiently. Of course the Donkey wasn’t G-rated, girls don’t take it all off in Disney movies. But I wanted some guidelines.
“Yeah, but what are the rules?” I pressed insistently. “I can’t just go in there without knowing anything.”
“Listen,” wheezed Stanley. “It’ll be fine, the customers have already pre-paid,” he said. “Plus, these are old clients and girls always like them. You will too,” he promised, eyebrows waggling.
Bullshit. Stanley would say anything to make a buck and the pre-payment meant that he’d already taken his cut, he wouldn’t be coming backstage to harass me about it later. But I shook my head stubbornly.
“No,” I said flatly. “I’m not doing any private shows.”
Here’s when Ebony butted in.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said silkily, “Inga is scheduled to do a private?”
“Oh yeah!” crowed Stanley. “To the tune of five thousand, yep, five G’s pre-paid,” he said, patting his pockets.
And damn, but his suit pockets were puffed-out, like he had wads of cash crammed inside.
That made Ebony light up with I-don’t-know-what. Greed, maybe? Envy?
“Stanley,” she purred. “Why don’t I do the dirty instead? Inga is new, she doesn’t wanna to go back there, how about me instead?” she flirted, striking a pose with her hip cocked out, hands on her waist.
I had to admit, Ebony was gorgeous. An African queen, she enhanced the look with feathers on her g-string, a tribal headdress, and palm fronds as props. If you wanted to bang the Queen of the Nile, then Ebony was your girl.
But Stanley shook his head.
“The customers have asked for Inga specifically,” he said. “No exceptions.”
And that got my attention.
“Customers, plural?” I asked slowly.
“Oh yeah, there are two,” he cackled. “And massive down there, fifteen inches each.”
Suddenly, I knew who it was. It had to be.
“I’ll do it,” I said quickly. “Just let me get ready.”
Ebony shot me a dirty look but Stanley smiled condescendingly.
“It was the money, right?” he sneered. “That’s what got your pussy wet, isn’t it?”
I shook my head at him, disgusted, but no matter. He was the middleman, a necessary evil in this encounter.
“I’ll meet you in back,” I said. “Just bring them to the room in ten minutes. Knock first,” I called even as Stanley sauntered away.
“Sure girlie-girl,” he called, his voice fading with the distance, the hubbub drowning out his singsong tones. “You got it coming!”
And I knew I did … but it wasn’t going to be what my brothers expected.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Peyton
The voluptuous form slowly bent forward over the couch, her boobs on display, almost spilling over the small cups. Damn but that demi-bra wasn’t enough for those lush Double D’s, she needed something sturdier if she wanted to keep those under cover.
But that wasn’t the point was it? Inga, I mean Stacey, was here to tantalize, to shake, shimmy and wiggle, to give it up to the customer.
Because yeah, we knew it was our step immediately. It wasn’t just her voice, it was everything about her. The glinting blonde hair, the curves, the unmistakable wiggle of her hips as she swayed seductively, tempting us with everything she had.
“Sister,” I growled. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, the girl leaned further over the back of the couch until she literally slithered over the backrest, slipping and sliding until she was settled on the plush cushions, her entire figure nude and on display.
“What do you mean?” she asked coyly. “What are you doing here?”
Good question. We’re rich guys, there’s no need to pay for sex. But like Charlie Sheen says, working girls are the best because they go away after it’s over. Only pros get it, skipping the “When are you going to call me?” “I’m free Thursday,” and other such veiled references. Come to think of it, it’s not even veiled, the women are obvious.
But we’d come to see a show with a woman who a genuine squirter and found our step in the room. There had to be some mistake.
“Stacey,” my brother frowned. “What are you doing here?” he repeated, his tone deep.
The girl didn’t bother to get up from the couch, her form twinkling at us, winking with its nudity, those nips hard and tasty, her cunny already glimmering wet in the dim light.
“I got what you need,” she cooed. “Here, look.”
And with the sauciest smile, she parted her thighs, lifting up one knee before holding herself apart. And damn, but it was a beautiful sight. The pink called out to us, moist, glistening, already pulsing with pleasure, her clit standing up at attention, begging us to lick, kiss, taste.
I almost sank to my knees in front of her right there, a slave before the goddess, but my
brother’s stern voice stopped me again.
“Stacey,” he ground out. “Why are you prostituting yourself?”
The p-word made her knees snap shut. Damn it, why did he have to be such a hardass? Why couldn’t we get our fun in first? Fucking Pax, I was ready to throttle him.
And Stacey immediately sat up, her beautiful face angry, clouded.
“What do you know about what I do and don’t do?” she asked huffily. “It’s not your business.”
“It is our business,” growled my brother, his brows lowered, shoulders tense. “You’re our girl, you can’t be doing this.”
“What do you get to say about what I do and don’t do?” she asked scornfully. “You’ve never seemed to care before.”
“What Pax means is,” I interceded with a warning look to my twin, “is that we’re worried about your well-being. Is this … how you meet guys?” I choked a little. “How many times have you done a back room special?”
Realization dawned in the blonde’s eyes.
“This is my first time,” she said shortly, “I don’t do private dances, not usually.”
And the admission made me exhale in relief. God, the thought of sharing that hot bod was scary, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if other men were able to touch her, push inside her. Go ballistic, probably.
But fortunately, we were here and ready to do the deed. I was more than excited to see a girl pulse between her legs, jet like Mount Vesuvius, and hey, if it was our step, all the better.
But fucking Pax was at it again. The asshole started bundling the girl into a silken robe he’d found somewhere, manhandling those slender limbs in his rush to get her covered. And Stacey was fighting back, a squirming ball of luscious flesh, arms and legs futilely punching and kicking while her assets swung in every direction, pendulous, a creamy display.
“What the fuck?” grunted my twin as he tried to subdue her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she screamed back. “Why can’t you just act like normal guys and leave me alone!”
The F*ck Book: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance Page 45
