by Marata Eros
The Crawl comes up on our left. Parking sucks. But Noose has Trainer there. Prospect-secured parking. The poor sap.
We pull up to the steeply sloped parking lot stuffed between two high-rise buildings revamped in used brick for a hipster vibe. A metal box is covered with slots for stuffing dollar bills from years ago but now those slots have been replaced with credit card readers.
I pull the fake credit card out of my wallet and stuff it into the reader. The machine whirs, adding up the parking fee. I hear a ping and retract the plastic.
Noose and I glide inside.
We park in the same slot, stacked. We turn off the engines of our bikes, and they tick, cooling off. I lift my cell out of the back pocket of my jeans. It's too hot tonight for chaps. Soon it'll be too hot for them any night. I'll be glad to give them up. They're great in a crash but cook my nuts.
Trainer, me, and Noose head across the street to The Crawl. Looks like it's just what Noose said. A small upscale bar that expanded into the next building. My eyes travel upward, noticing apartment suites over the main bar like dark eyes overseeing the men coming to lust after women. My gaze moves to the sleek, all-glass front.
“McKenna's got another club too.” Noose appears to think about it, then snaps his fingers. “Black Rose or somethinʼ.”
“Been there,” Trainer comments, then licks his lips.
Makes me want to punch him. “You couldn't make the cover charge.”
He waggles his brows. “Saved up. High-class tail in that place.”
I whirl.
Trainer backs up. “Hey, man!”
“You fuck the dancers?” I ask, seething, my fists like ready hammers at my sides.
He shakes his head. “No. I'm just saying they look like high-class tail. They wouldn't have given me a glance. They can have richies, Snare. Only the golden cocks hang around there.”
Golden cocks. My stomach churns. What the hell do I have to offer Sara anyway? I'm fucking charging into a place where she probably pulls down ten K a month and what? I'm going to improve on that haul? Can't. I do good in the club but not that good.
I keep moving my feet one after another. Five years of ignoring my feelings, and fucking everything with a vagina hasn't worked. Nothing can erase her. One thing I can offer Sara that the others can't: I love her. I want to protect her—be her man.
The rest just want to bang her.
I want to bang her too. My balls ache with it. But Sara's more than tail.
Somehow I get to the front door of The Crawl. There's a short line, and I check the time. Straight up midnight on a Monday. Lots of people for this day of the week.
My stomach does a sort of lazy roll when I check out the headlining poster.
Sara has a sultry pout, and her large, midnight-blue eyes sparkle under the icy stage lights. Her tits are offered up by a barely there glitter of material like ripe fruit. Her pussy is covered by a scrap of the same material. High heels make her small body have the illusion of long legs. I know for a fact she's petite. Gorgeous.
Dread pools in my gut. Lust and impatience too. I'm fucked up in the head. I'm here where my stepsister works. Because I want to fuck her. I also love her.
Such a fucked-up combo, even I can't make sense of it.
A big, mixed-race dude stands at the door. He gives us cool eyes, cop eyes, if I'm any judge. The rest of him looks like neighborhood to me. Funny how you recognize what and who you grew up with.
I move right up to him. His eyes size me up. We're both big fuckers.
At a glance, survivors.
His eyes rake our cuts. “Don't need any trouble from MC shit.”
Noose flicks his hair back, gives an irritated snort, and whips it into a hair tie at his nape. “No trouble. Here to check out the bitches.”
I don't pull a surprised face, but I forgot how much softer Noose is since he got with Rose. Not on the surface but down deep. Hearing him call women bitches wouldn't have pinged my radar before. Now it does.
But it works with this guy. No surprise there. Figure he's from the Yesler projects.
“Fine.” He jerks his thumb behind us, and another guy that works there yells out from inside, “Thorn!”
“Yo!” he calls back, but his eyes continue to follow us. He senses our potential for violence. Makes me wonder about him. Don't run into a lot of instinctive men anymore.
We move forward, but Noose nearly clotheslines me with his arm.
My face reactively turns toward the stage, where a woman sways in a G-string and heels that glitter. Her small pert breasts are erect as she swings around the pole. My exhale is pure relief. It's not Sara, just some chick that's channeling Marilyn Monroe or some shit.
My gaze shifts to aggressively scan the club. Don't see Sara. “Where?”
Noose interprets my question perfectly, pointing toward the back of the club.
A corridor roped off with twisted red velvet has a softly illuminated sign in pale whitish blue hanging above the entrance.
VIP.
We head that way.
8
Sara
Lola doesn't ask what's wrong.
Tears stream down my face.
But we don't speak.
I wipe the wetness from my cheeks.
Finally, she says, “Your makeup's screwed six ways to Sunday.”
I hiccup back a chuckle of despair. “Yeah,” I reply quietly.
She sighs and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Listen, Kitty—I don't know what's made you change your mind. You said you'd never do VIP. You worked your way up through all the shitty venues to The Crawl. But if you ask for my help, I'm giving it.” Her hazel eyes are serious, deep, unrelenting.
I look away.
“Hey, Kitty.”
I shake my head. The soft curls slide between my breasts and halfway down my back.
“I have to.” She gives me a look of pure curiosity. “Don't ask, Lola.”
“Okay.” Her inhale is shaky, uncertain. “But I have to say, there's a certain expectation. You're going to have to put out.”
“I know.” I raise my eyes to hers. “The Dicks won't force me, will they?”
“Hell no. Thorn doesn't allow rapists, Kit.”
I nod vigorously. “I'm ready.”
Lola cranks her head to the right, tapping a nail on her chin. “Not after the blubberfest. Let's redo the face, and then you'll be ready.”
I can't do more than nod. I follow her into the narrow makeup catwalk. It's lined with mirrors on one side and feels vaguely like a fun house at the circus. Bright, circular lights glare down upon a long vanity. It's covered with scattered tools of the trade: lipsticks, eyeshadow, curlers—nipple covers. You name it, it's here.
Lola carefully tucks my hair behind my shoulders and critically examines my face. Tracks have sunk into my makeup.
“Shit, you did a number on my awesomeness.”
“Yeah.”
She whips the chair around, and I spin to face her. “Sadness is not sexy.” Lola bites her lip, rolling it into her mouth. “Is Jaylin okay?”
A fresh wave of tears threatens, and I nod, pinching my leg to chase the grief with pain. “Yes. But the school terminated her enrollment because I've been late so much from work.”
Her face pinches into an angry frown. “Damn.”
“So now I need money like yesterday for a new school, just as good. They'll want the tuition for the half year up front.”
Lola frowns. “So let me get this straight. They boot Jaylin because mommy's always late—”
I roll my eyes. “I paid my overages too.”
“Uh-huh. Then the new school's gonna want the half year, but there's only, what—two months left?”
I look at my hands, answering softly, “Yeah. It's the way that type of school works. They're all the same.”
“So this VIP money is really needed?”
And maybe escape money. I can't let Riker force me to lie about Snare's brother and sister. I can't hang t
he twins out to dry. Even though Snare might find out about our daughter. About me.
Lola can think it's all for Jaylin's school. I raise my face, look into her eyes, and spill my half truth. “Yes.”
She blows a stray hair out of the way, seeming to resolve something. “Okay.”
Lola begins repairing my raccoon look. By the time she's done ten minutes later, my eyes glitter like dark sapphires captured in the reflection of the mirrors. They don't sparkle with desire for the schmuck that I'll get off in the VIP but because of restrained despair.
Somehow my past follows me, no matter how fast I run.
*
I walk past Thorn, giving him a wide berth. Lots of the dancers say he's cool. That he's actually a cop and works as a manager for the rich guy that owns the place, Jared something. I've been working here only for the last half year. I finally got past probation after ninety days. Signed a non-disclosure about his “dual role” as cop and club manager.
But he's a scary dude. Well over six feet tall, built like a pro football player, and his dark eyes see everything. I don't want to be seen.
His wife is Juliette. She comes in once in awhile, and it's the only time I ever see his gaze soften. Today his gaze is granite, but he gives me a nod as I walk by, not bothering to check out my outfit. Doesn't have to. All wardrobe is approved gear for The Crawl, bought by the owner. We don't wear our own stuff. Approved wardrobe is a uniform at The Crawl. I don't care what I wear. It ends up coming off eventually anyway.
“Hey, Thorn,” I say.
“Kitty,” he replies.
I skedaddle past, and he moves behind me with two fluid strides. For such a large man, he moves gracefully.
“Heard you're on for VIP tonight?”
I turn. That hard gaze bores into mine, studying my expression in minute detail.
I gulp. “Sure. Signed up.”
“Don't like chicks working VIP that aren't on board. Got protection right outside the door.” His dark eyebrows slowly rise. He holds my gaze prisoner.
I don't flinch. “I need the extra money, Thorn.”
“Gotcha.” He turns on his heel and walks away.
Thorn doesn't pry. My shoulders drop, and I fight tears for the second time that night. I think of Jaylin.
In the end, I think of Snare.
Like a pirate on a plank, I walk toward the softly lit corridor that leads to the VIP rooms.
*
A man sits comfortably in an overstuffed armchair.
I close the door behind me. Candles are softly lit. Hot wax drips silently into the catch basins of the sconces.
He's dressed in the sleek way that smells like money. He's also about sixty years old. A well-preserved sixty, but putting out for someone that much older than me is what Lola refers to as Sahara vagina.
No chance of enjoying anything.
His salt-and-pepper hair is cut close to the sides of his head, and thick pewter hair tops it with soft, gentle waves.
“I asked for you, Kitty.” His voice is low, melodious.
Great. His voice causes my stomach to clench. “Oh.”
“Come here. I don't bite.” That rich voice pries me from my frozen spot by the door, and I move toward him like a sleepwalker.
The closer I get, the more years I take off. He's one of those men who go prematurely gray. Maybe he's fifty and built well underneath his suit.
The charge for VIP begins at five hundred. The extras happen between dancer and Dick.
He holds out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, I take it. His fingers are strong, warm, and dry. He pulls me onto his lap.
His erection presses up underneath the thin dress I wear, and I automatically shift, causing it to split my ass cheeks.
He groans, kissing my arm softly.
I bite my lip, knowing he can't see my face. Hating his dick pushing my butt apart.
Hating him.
“Get the candle, Kitty.” His large eyes, nearly feminine in their size, sweep to my face, and I ask stupidly, “What candle?”
His low chuckle pulls a thread of unease through my body, my eyes scanning the room, stuttering over the sconces.
Oh no. A sadist.
“I don't like pain,” I admit, impressed by how calm my voice sounds. Hot wax? No.
“I do,” he replies, and my breath stills.
“Oh.”
He helps me off his lap with a push of my ass.
I totter on my high heels and walk reluctantly to the closest candle glowing softly against the patterned wallpaper like a ghost of darkness dancing against the geometric shapes.
Lola hadn't mentioned a price for this. I reach out and carefully pull and twist the candle from the threaded dull silver holder. It takes me a minute of careful wrangling to remove the candle without burning myself.
When I turn, the man is naked from the chest down, his hand wrapped around an impressive cock. Having thought about Snare's for the last five years, I find no comparison. Snare's penis had been monster sized. Perfect in every way.
The only cock against which all others shall be measured, I think mournfully.
With a deep breath, I move forward and come to stand in front of him. Those large speculative eyes go my breasts and to a spot between my thighs that I know he'd like to touch. His desire is a breathable thing between us. Heavy and cloying, thickening the air.
He slides forward, his legs spread, and begins to work himself hard. Harder than I'd ever touched Snare. His hand moves down and up on his prick, squeezing with relentless strokes.
My eyes skate to the jars on top of the table beside the armrest of the chair. There's lube, rubbers, everything.
“Do you need—” I begin.
“Got lube on my cock. Strawberry.” My breaths come faster. He hasn't touched me. “You're going to eat my cum, Kitty,” he says, and I blanch, retreating a step.
His dull eyes watch me, and hot wax reaches my hand.
I hiss.
“Kneel.”
My inhale is sharp. “Price first,” I blurt.
Our eyes lock. His palm is a huge distraction as he strangles his cock. “One thousand to swallow my load, and I must burn you.”
I gasp softly, and he groans as he watches my reaction.
He's getting off because I don't want to. One thousand dollars to swallow semen. I lower to my knees, balancing one hand on his leg as his hand blurs in front of my eyes.
His other hand grabs my nape.
I whimper at the contact.
His hand leaves his dick, and he takes the candle stump from my hand. “Open wide, Kitty.”
God help me, I do. My lips hover above the tip of his cock, and his strong hand presses me forward over the tip of him.
He moves me up and down his shaft, hard. I haven't given head to anyone but Snare, and that was so long ago. In fact, I haven't allowed myself pleasure with another man. It's just me and my vibrator. And my memories of one man. Forbidden. Treasured.
The vague taste of strawberries assaults me, and I gag.
He groans at my discomfort, my head kicking back, and his thighs tense around my shoulders as he fucks my mouth.
I don't know I'm crying until salt mixes with my saliva.
He lets go of my head, and I come up for air. “Stay on my prick.”
I keep shoving down, taking him deep, earning the one thousand dollars while my tears soak his legs.
I feel fingers before the back of my dress is ripped from neck to ass, my body jerking from the harshness of the move.
His prick stiffens slightly, and I know what's going to happen. “Coming!” he half yells.
Hot jets of cum pour into my mouth, and I convulsively swallow. When the first drop of wax falls onto my back, I jump.
His hand smashes me to the root of him.
I thrash. Can't breathe—hurt! Black spots burst in my vision, and I grab his thighs, fighting to get up, fighting.
“What the fuck!” I hear someone yell, and suddenly strong ar
ms wrap me, breaking the seal of my lips from the vileness of my deed.
I'm spun around, facing the one man I would have never wanted to see me like this.
Snare looks at me with a grim resolve.
Tears stream down my face, mixing with the foulness of what I've just done.
“What the fuck? Sara.” His voice sounds grief-stricken, rage-filled.
I open my mouth to speak and spit out semen instead. I sob, fighting to get away from Snare, fighting to breathe, to weep—to flee.
“Not fucking letting you go, Sara.” His arms tighten around me like a vise, but I feel so ashamed I can't get a thought to stick inside my brain.
I turn wide eyes to the Dick. A huge man with long hair on top and a leather vest is knocking the shit out of the client.
Another huge man I don't know stomps over to the biker guy and bear-hugs him from behind.
The Dick stands, his spent cock a limp noodle between his legs.
I choke back bile. Close my eyes. My mouth was on him. My eyes snap open the next moment as Snare jerks me out of the way of the melee.
“Noose!” Snare shouts, and the huge man getting bear-hugged breaks the hold on the other guy, and in a smooth pivot of body, strikes him in the gut.
The other giant folds over Noose's arm, and the Dick scrambles over the top of the chair, upending it in the process.
A wave of heat rushes through my head, and I sort of slump against Snare. He solves the problem by picking me up in his arms as though I'm not a full-grown woman, like I weigh nothing.
I wipe my mouth, and his eyes move to the motion. I suck back a sob, and Snare presses me against his chest.
They say the sense of smell is the biggest memory trigger. I'd have to agree.
Snare doesn't smell like a man. Or the protector I so vividly remember.
He smells like home.
9
Snare
Noose floats a Ben Franklin at a bouncer with a bald head that glows underneath the soft illumination inside the club. He stands guard at the edge of the scarlet ropes, his large hands clasped together at the entrance to the corridor that houses six doors. Brass numbers are affixed to each one.
