“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 SEVEN
TEEN
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!”
Now I had to step in. “Hands off bro,” I grunted, shooting another warning look his way.
Pax backed off, both sides panting and huffing, casting glares at each other, but not before I saw my bro eye her boobs which were quivering with indignation. Yeah, it was hard to keep your eyes off such tasty morsels.
“Listen,” I said soothingly. “What’s this about?”
Pax held his hands up.
“Just trying to get her outta here. What girl wants to be at the Donkey?” he said, his brow darkening. “Look at this dump,” he said gesturing to our surroundings.
He was right, the velour on the sofa was worn thin in places, the shag rug had seen better days. But before I could say anything, Stacey interrupted.
“I can mind my own business, thank you very much,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “No need to look out for me.”
Now my expression darkened as well.
“We’ll always be looking out for you, sister,” I said seriously. “If this is where you want to be, then fine, but just tell us.”
“Of course it’s where I want to be,” she flung out furiously. “And what do you mean, ‘you’ll always be looking out for me’? You never have before,” she said with an angry look.
“That’s true,” I acknowledged. “Pax and I, we haven’t been fair to you in the past, but I thought we already apologized.”
“You mean that ‘sorry not sorry’ apology I got at the Four Seasons? The one where you talked in circles?”
Now I was utterly confused.
“Stacey,” I said patiently. “Pax and I are so sorry about leaving you in the woods,” I said. “If we could do it over, we would have picked you up, brushed you off, covered you with kisses. But we were assholes and walked out. Again, we’re apologizing with the utmost sincerity.”
Maybe it was my somber tone, maybe it was my brother nodding his head in tandem, but it seemed to make an impression. The girl nodded and reached for the short silken robe, slipping into it, sitting up.
“Listen,” I said seriously, “what are you doing here? I mean, here, at the Donkey? Are you hard up for cash?” I asked, frowning. “You know we have plenty of money, no sister of ours needs to use her body to make a living.”
“It’s not the money,” she said with a sigh, blowing a long strand of blonde hair out of her face. “It’s the control.”
With that I frowned.
“What do mean?” I growled. “You have no control in a place like this. Trust me, two six-four guys like us in a private room? You got no control, honey.”
“No it’s not that,” sighed the girl. “It’s that my life went spiraling out of control because of the video. My job? I haven’t been on camera in months now, I’m just doing back office work at the affiliate. And every day, I go home hoping to pass out asap. It’s only at the Donkey that I feel good about myself.”
I shook my head, confused.
“Is it the audience? Do you like performing?” We could relate. As pro athletes we play in front of huge crowds all the time, the fans are a living force in and of themselves.
And the girl nodded slowly.
“Yeah, it’s the audience, kinda. But it’s more than that, it’s guys watching me, thinking of nothing but me. It helps me feel like I’m in control again, that I control them.”
That kind of made some sense.
“Dancing at the Donkey is the ultimate escape,” my step continued. “I become someone else, Inga to be specific. I get to hold all these guys in the palm of my hand, knowing that they’re thinking about nothing but my body, my tits, my ass, watching me with nothing else on their minds. And plus,” she said with an arch look, “I make money. So it’s a win-win.”
I frowned. This was still hard to understand. You take control by turning men into horndogs? But the girl was nodding, as if mind-reading my question.
“Think of me as an enchantress,” she said. “Mysterious, seductive, my spell cast over the audience. They do whatever I want, whenever I want, and pay me for the pleasure of watching,” she said. “Dancing has made me feel better about myself.”
And she had a point. Having men eat out of the palm of your hand must be like taking a drug, one that left you heady and warm.
“Stacey,” I said slowly. “I get it. I get it because we play in front of a crowd every week and it’s amazing, we wouldn’t be pro athletes if we didn’t draw energy from the masses. So we get it, and besides,” here I took a deep breath, “it’s honest work.”
Our step cracked a smile for the first time, giving me a shy smile.
“I’m so glad you’re not judging,” she said softly. “I didn’t expect that. It’d be so easy to label me all kinds of things just because I dance.”
Pax shook his head.
“No, we get it sister,” he said emphatically. “If this is what you need to heal, then so be it.”
And with that, she let out a huge sigh, as if we’d just reached a truce.
Closer: A Blind Date Bad Boy Romance Page 38
