STRIPPED
by Allie Juliette Mousseau
Copyright © 2016 by Allie Juliette Mousseau.
All Rights Reserved
Published by Allie Juliette Mousseau
Edited by Nicole Hewitt
Formatted by Mike Mousso
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
More From Allie Juliette
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Emelie
Special Mission: Save the Kitten
“That arrogant…”
“Hot.”
“Cocky…”
“Gorgeous.”
“Unmannered…”
“Wild.”
“Disgusting…”
“Tempting,” she singsongs.
“BASTARD!”
“GOD.”
“What is wrong with you, Violet?!” I shout, and everyone loitering in the parking
lot of Foreplay while smoking their cigarettes turns to look over at us. They see I’m the girl who was humiliated inside and begin making sure I’m the juiciest part of tomorrow’s gossip as they press their heads together, laugh, and share the recordings on their cell phones, which no one was supposed to use in the club.
“You’re just mad because he unleashed your inner vixen,” she accuses as we walk through the parking lot and away from the club.
“I don’t have an inner vixen,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
“Of course you do, all women do. It just takes a god like that to free it.” She speaks her words as if they’re part of a glowing sermon then grumbles the next part angrily. “Especially when a certain someone’s ex-boyfriend has kept it caged, hidden, and neglected for three years.”
“You promised…”
“Yeah, yeah, no mentioning Monsieur Erectile Dysfunction.” Vi says the name in her very best fake French croissant-laden accent. I nearly crack a smile.
Until…
A drunk woman in a tight leather mini dress with a wide gold zipper down the front that matches her gold colored Jaguar comes stumbling into us as she teeters on designer Louis Vuitton stilettos.
“OH MY GOD! You’re her!!” rich drunk lady coos with admiration and a hint of jealousy. “I would’ve given anything to have been you tonight!”
She presses into us like we’ve been best friends for years, and I suppress the urge to unzip her dress.
Violet smiles, nodding her head in agreement. “Right? That’s what I’ve been telling her.”
Rich drunk lady lowers the volume of her voice—as if we’re sharing a really juicy secret—and holds up her iPhone so I can watch a video of my utter mortification that someone has already posted to YouTube.
“What the…? It only happened like five minutes ago!” My voice raises an octave.
“Yeah,” she muses. “It’ll probably go viral.”
I almost choke. There I am, in full color HD, half-drunk as Stone Wright carries me onstage with my legs wrapped around his waist and commences to weaken me to the point of…
“I’d give my ovaries to have a public orgasm as explosive as that!” rich drunk lady slurs.
Oh that fucking… “Royal… PRICK!” I scream.
Emelie
Three hours earlier
“Foreplay? Not a chance. Stop asking.”
“I’m not asking, I’m pleading! And plus, you promised—anywhere I chose.”
“And risk seeing someone who knows me?” I shake my head. “No way.”
“No one you know will be there. I’m positive.”
“You’ll be there.”
“Shut up, I’m different.”
She’s right, she is.
“Let me rephrase. No one in your uppity, New York Ballet universe will be there. This is Los Angeles, baby, and anything goes,” Violet sings before examining her face in the mirror. She gazes critically, wrinkles her nose in dissatisfaction, then continues to apply more makeup for the outing she’s trying to talk me into. “Now go to your room, take off your mope-around-the-apartment-’cause-I-don’t-ever-need-to-get-laid-in-this-century granny gray sweats and put on a dress worthy of a body like yours.”
“Ugh… you mean, actually get dressed?” Even the suggestion is exhausting. “Take Tanya with you. Or Raphael,” I say casually while flipping through the pages of American Ballet Magazine.
“It’s ladies’ night, sweetheart, or I’d be there in my cock-outlining white leather pants,” Raphael, Violet’s gay roomy says as he strides through the apartment with flair. “I could teach those dancers at Foreplay a few moves.” He stops in his tracks, poses like a runway model, turns his face towards me, and winks. That puts a wide smile on my face.
Raphael is gorgeous. He has the lean, muscular body of an athlete, edible chocolate skin, and long dreadlocks that cascade over his shoulders. But, to every girl’s loss, he swings for the other team.
Both Violet and Raphael are fine arts majors. At the prestigious UCLA.
Vi, obviously satisfied with her face now, stalks towards me. Smile gone.
“You came to warm, sunny and sultry LA to get away from it all, sort out your future, and experience the land of the living again. You’ve been here almost two weeks now… sulking around the apartment while you pine away over ballet magazines”—she rips the glossy dance rag from between my fingers and flings it across the room so it spins through the air like a flapping paper bird addicted to crack—“will not help you move on.”
She flops herself down on the vacant sofa seat next to me. “Just consider your poor, lost, malnourished kitten.”
“Keep my kitten out of this,” I warn, then ask, “How is a male strip club supposed to help me… move on?”
Raphael slides in tight against me from the other side of the sofa, hemming me in between the two of them.
“They have this incredible dancer—”
“You mean, stripper,” I remind him. “There is a difference.”
He ignores me. “Not only does he know how to take it off, he knows how to use the equipment the good Lord gave.” Raphael’s voice jumps i
n excitement. “I saw him perform at Colors.”
“Colors is a gay club in Hollywood,” Vi explains.
Raphael pouts. “Mmm! Too bad he’s a straight man, because he has one hell of a—”
“Lucky for us, he is.” Vi nods at me. “Now stop being a couch-whore and get dressed. My sofa is getting tired of being the only one with access to your lady parts.”
“Well, unless you want me to go sporting this fine, faded ensemble of drab-gray poly-cotton blend athletic wear, you’re shit out of luck. I brought nothing that resembles your flashy, red sequined micro-mini dress. Which, where I come from, is the style of choice of streetwalkers on lower 58th.”
“Aww… then I’m rocking my intended look,” she gushes. “Hopefully, one of those hard and ready dancers—”
“Strippers,” I rightfully correct.
“…will invite me backstage. See, I take good care of my kitten.” She gently pats the space just above her vadge, before dropping her brow and scolding me. “Shame on you for not.”
I roll my eyes. “All I packed are my favorite, comfy, I’m-not-getting-laid-in-these clothes, so you’re on your own.”
Vi glares at me. She’s bumming. I’m 5’9 and she’s under five feet. I don’t fit in anything she owns.
“You didn’t really come three thousand miles to go from brooding on your own couch to brooding on mine?” she whines. Then an idea sparks through her eyes. “We’re going shopping! But we’ll have to do it tomorrow—we’ll be late to the show if we try to do it now.” She turns her attention to Raphael. “Let’s go dump out her luggage. She has to have something. IT’S SPECIAL MISSION: SAVE THE KITTEN!”
Chapter Two
Stone
My dick rambles
(And stalks)
Foreplay has its very own unique opiate brand of funk-you-up hard on. Lights pulse to the beat of the music—flashing and streaking over the stage—bathing the walls, the floor, and the tables in scintillating, hypnotic seduction. Each woman is intoxicated by a potent mixed cocktail of strong alcohol, throbbing music, and nearly-naked strippers swinging their dicks and winding them into a frenzy.
Jay’s got the stage now, but soon it’ll be my turn and they’ll forget about every other man before me.
Jacked up on adrenaline, I dart behind the bar undetected and scoop my absolute favorite blonde barmaid into my arms from behind before landing a smooch to her full cheek.
“Shouldn’t you be making yourself pretty for your big performance?” Glenda says in an out-of-place Aussie accent as thick as mine.
“And miss the opportunity to kiss my favorite girl?”
“He’s already too pretty as it is,” Kate, her best friend and fellow barmaid, quips as she rubs a towel along the outside length of a cylindrical hurricane glass.
“None of the women are gonna to be lookin’ at my face.” I ogle the dark haired beauty like the good friend I am. Her more than ample cleavage is bursting to say ’ello in her white button-down and push-up bra.
“Look who’s hot and bothered thinking about me whilst fondling that smooth, long glass.” I leer down over her plump breasts as her nipples try to pierce through the fabric. “Is that you needing to get laid or are you just happy to see me?”
“Shut up, Stone!” She whips me with the end of the towel.
“OH MY GOD, IT’S STONE WRIGHT!” a woman at the bar screams.
In seconds a tsunami wave of estrogen comes rushing in and floods around me for autographs.
“That’s why he does it, you know—comes back here all shirtless and baby-oiled up, with nothing but a pair of low-slung, hip-hugging denim Lucky’s on—to take the attention from Jay,” Kate says to Glenda then shoots me a know-it-all look before turning to stack the glass she’s holding.
She’s right about that. Plus, it’s damn fun. With a wink, I whip the black Sharpie out from my back pocket and begin signing whatever body part I’m offered—that usually means tits.
What a hard job. I’m really put out.
A second later the lights flicker. That’s the house cue.
“Get out of here and get ready,” Glenda reminds me as she pours Jim Beam into a row of shot glasses.
“I’m always ready,” I crow and jump up on the bar.
The ladies scream their approval and run their hands up and down my legs as Glenda rolls her eyes. I can see her lips form a silent, Eww. I bask blatantly in the shining rays of her disgust. My first act is strictly a dance number, and she’ll stick around for that; my second, however—that’s when she’ll take a long break.
After extending—literally—my gratitude to each groping fan I dash to my dressing room. Okay it’s not just my dressing room, but it’s mine while all the other blokes are waiting backstage, like say, now. That’s where we’re all supposed to be so we don’t steal another dancer’s thunder. But Jay’s a dickhead. He deserves it. It’s precisely why I time myself like this.
I stand facing the full body mirror to take a quick assessment. My body hasn’t changed much since my high school years and the sports I played—I’ve made damn sure of that—surfing, netball, running, chin ups, burpees, and of course, dancing has kept my physique.
Closing my eyes in the quiet little room, I breathe in through my nose and expand my lungs with oxygen as I relax my mind. The second act is as easy as copping a feel from a virgin on prom night. It’s the first act that’s another story altogether. I’m reminded that there are less than six weeks before the audition that could change my entire life.
A sudden burst of sound erupts from behind me.
Fuck, I thought I’d locked the door! Probably Thompson, the stage manager, saw me cramping Jay’s style and is coming to give me shit. I position myself to give it right back.
I’m more than surprised when I whip around and discover a young woman standing inside the doorway who looks so much like Anne Hathaway that, being in LA, I have to do a double take. She has large, round, soft dark eyes—the kind you could get lost inside—and gorgeous dark hair falls around her shoulders in sexy waves. Anne has a lithe dancer’s body. She appears confused and embarrassed.
“I was looking for the ladies’ room.”
“That’s what they all say, Love.”
“Only difference is that I really mean it.” Anne tries looking annoyed, but she can’t seem to tear her gaze away from my oil-slick abs.
I consider telling her it’s flavored. At the mere thought of it, my manstick’s mind-of-it’s-own runs positively wild with a porno fantasy of Anne swiping her tongue over my Essence of Hawaii-oiled abs.
She’s absolutely the most exquisite creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I reel it in and use her flustered state to my advantage. Flexing my muscles to keep her attention I say, “No such thing as accidents, Sunshine.”
“Me… My… Opening this door was.”
She’s sexy when she stammers, all rattled.
Interestingly, and maybe oddly, she’s wearing a one-piece black dance leotard under a little sheer pink shirt that quakes with each gasp of air she pulls in. It ties just below her breasts, accentuating her toned waist and midriff. On her hips sways a flowy piece of fabric that can’t be legal as a skirt—it is way too short—and shows off her long, smooth legs all the way up to her creamy, delectable thighs. She must’ve just come from ballet practice.
Now I’m thinking about sliding my tongue up those perfectly edible legs.
“Stone Wright.” I hold out my hand, undaunted, to greet her.
She swallows hard. I watch her throat muscles tense then let go. There is a timidity behind her expressive eyes—which is ironic considering most women coming through Foreplay are predatory as panthers that haven’t had a kill in three days.
Anne begins to reach her hand to mine but, having second thoughts, pulls it back at the last second. “I have to go.”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” I offer.
Now another woman pokes her head through the door. “What the…?�
�� she begins and then sees me standing there. “Fuck me.”
Anne backs away from me so quickly she slams into her fuck-me friend.
“This is… um… Stone,” Anne says, her pretty porcelain face blotching into red tones.
“Stone, huh?” her friend reiterates with a leering gaze.
“She seems a bit misguided,” I tell her.
“OH, THAT ACCENT!” Fuck-me friend starts off staring at me, then tilts her head towards her friend when realization dawns. “You’re in Dirty Aussie’s dressing room?!”
“I didn’t mean to be.” Anne looks horrified.
I can’t help but crack a cheeky grin at her sweet embarrassment. God, she’s cute. It’s rather refreshing. I wonder how much she’d blush if she knew where I was visualizing placing my tongue now.
“Sorry, Mr.… Aussie. My friend was just trying to locate the little girls’ room. After three drinks she’s a little tipsy. She doesn’t get out of the ward much—if you only knew what I went through to get the doctors to let her out.”
“I’m not tipsy,” Anne retorts.
“Oh, you’re totally tipsy.”
“Both rooms have white doors, and you said the white door.”
“Really, loves, it’s all good,” I assure them. “In fact, why don’t ya come back and meet me here after the show.” I need to know this girl’s name.
“I have to get out of here.” Anne pushes her friend out of the way and rushes back out through the door.
A second later, the door to the ladies’ loo down the hall slams shut.
“I apologize for her obvious dementia. She’s my best friend, but she hasn’t been herself for the past year.” She leans in, close and comfortable, like we were once adjoined twins, and the scent of tequila wafts from her lips.
I nod as my eyes trail back to the doorway.
“Her asshole-douche-ex really fucked with her head. Left her a mess during the darkest time in her life. It was all I could do to get her to come out here with me tonight. She’s forgotten how to have fun, ya know?”
Oh, how I know.
Stripped Page 1
