I nodded, murmuring a few vague promises before hanging up. Because the way MK made it sound, I was a hero for the new wave of girls coming up in Littleton. With the #MeToo movement, a lot of females wanted to find their way out of our rust-belt hometown what with its declining blue-collar manufacturing base. So what message would it send if I came home with nothing to show? Beaten down and tired after only a few days in the cosmopolitan city?
And with that, I resolved to give dancing a go. After all, like MK said, no one would ever have to know. I’d do it for one night, make my money, and then leave with this chapter shuttered forever behind me. So taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and began rummaging around for my laptop. I’m a modern, resourceful woman … and the heartless Chesters and Cheryls of the world weren’t going to keep me down.
CHAPTER THREE
Susie
Six months later …
“Annnnnd here she is, gentlemen, our very own Pearl Evanescence!”
I strode out onto the stage, shimmying and smiling, shaking my bottom for what it was worth. The male crowd erupted into cheers, guys stamping their feet as the feathers on my head wiggled. In fact, every part of me was wiggling, come to think of it.
For sure, this isn’t what Mary-Kate had in mind when she said it would only be a one-time thing. Because that first night, I made my way to The Pink Flamingo with a lot of fear, trembling beneath my thin trenchcoat.
“Um, I was wondering if you had Amateur Night tonight?” I asked in a whisper, cheeks flushing red. Good thing it was so dark that no one could see. The manager barely glanced my way.
“Sure, just wait until they announce it,” he said, already looking off disinterestedly into the crowd. “Angel, over there,” he said, pointing to two guys who’d just walked in. And immediately, the girl named Angel strutted their way, a welcoming smile wreathing her lips.
I watched, mouth agog, as she led the men over to the bar by their ties, striding along sassily while swinging her hips. I was nothing like Angel. Nothing at all. But the thing is that even across the room, I could see that the girl had dozens of bills tucked into her g-string, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the new guys were pulling out their wallets even now.
So I swallowed hard, turning back to face the stage. Could I do it? Could I, Miss Straight A Student, go onstage and dance for money?
And evidently, anything is possible when you need to make rent. Because I strutted my stuff, and the heavens opened, money pouring down from the clouds. It wasn’t easy. It’s not like I’m a natural stripper, who immediately began undulating to the music with hot lights bathing my curves. But I did well enough, and sure enough by the end of my set, I had five hundred bucks in cold, hard cash.
“Yo,” hissed the manager, beckoning to me. I was just about to go, my trench coat already cinched tight around my waist. “So you wanna come by and do another set tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Is it Amateur Night again?” I wondered in a small voice. “I thought it was only Wednesdays.”
The manager, who’s nametag read Nero, shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“No, it’s not Amateur Night tomorrow,” he snorted with exasperation. “I meant as one of our regular girls this time. You know, one set every hour. You dance, you twirl, and boom! You get paid.”
I just looked at him for a moment, mouth open. This was only supposed to be a one-time thing, so I was about to say no. But then Chester’s face appeared before my eyes.
“Cash,” he sneered. “I’ll need it by tomorrow afternoon.”
Oh god. I only had five hundred right now, and I was supposed to come up with a thousand. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it to the four figure mark if Chester gave me another day. So I nodded my head quickly.
“Sure, I’d be happy to come again,” was my quick reply. “Just let me know when.”
And one night led to another, and then another, and finally, I I became a regular girl at the Pink Flamingo. It’s no better than the Red Raccoon back home, to be honest. The Flamingo is a seedy dive in Midtown Manhattan where mid-level managers in baggy suits come to while away their time and dollars. We don’t get high rollers who spend thousands or tens of thousands in one night. Instead, we get guys who like to throw back their drinks while tipping ones and fives.
But I’m not complaining because it’s the only way I can get by in Manhattan. I work as a librarian during the day, putting in my hours at the New Academy’s circulation desk. But my salary’s barely enough to make ends meet. In fact, I looked it up and I qualify for public assistance and food stamps, given the high cost of living here. But that’s going too far. I’m an able-bodied adult who can work, so instead, I dance at the Pink Flamingo now to make sure there’s money for rent, food, and electricity.
Plus, it’s not so bad. A job is a job after all, and there aren’t many places that have flexible schedules like the Pink Flamingo. For example, if I can’t do Tuesdays, it’s simple to switch to a Wednesday or Thursday. They even let me do weekends sometimes, although the girls who dance then are territorial, since those are the nights that make the most money.
And now, after six months in the city, I’ve settled into a groove of a sort. I go to my desk job during the day, wearing conservative brown tweed skirts and button-up blouses. Dutifully, I help people find reference materials and sort returns into their different stacks. And then at night, I’m a stripper called “Pearl Evanescence” who shakes her bom-bom to the music, collecting tips in her g-string. If the folks back home in Littleton knew, they’d be scandalized. But then again, owning my femininity and controlling my body are my right. Maybe my old neighbors would be supportive in their own way? Who knows.
So one such night when my song came on, I strutted onto the stage, smiling beneath the hot lights. It’s hard to see out into the crowd, but my eyes could make out some regulars. There was Tim Lewis, whom we called Tiny Tim because he really did have a bad leg. And tonight, he was here with his co-worker Adam Morrow, who drank girly cocktails all night like cosmos and Manhattans. Over in the corner was Jake the Snake, with his oddly beady eyes that you could see gleaming even in the darkened room.
But I put it all out of my head. I was here for a job, and that was to dance and show these guys a good time even if on the inside, I thought thinking about mundane stuff like bills and what I’d be having for breakfast. So I closed my eyes, running my hands through my long brunette locks and parted my lips slightly, as if in ecstasy.
Heeeere she is! sounded the announcer’s voice over the PA. Let’s give our girl Pearl a hand!
And slowly, my hips began to sway to the left, and then to the right. My hands ran up over my waist, slipping up to cup my gigantic Double Ds. Because when I left Littleton, I was in pretty good shape. Cheerleading helped keep my glutes tight, and athleticism was natural to me.
But the thing is that once I got a desk job, the pounds came piling on. I sat at the circulation desk all day, doing nothing except eating snacks while helping people find books. So now, I’m no longer “athletic” or “trim.” I’m officially a curvy girl with lots to spare in every direction. My boobs are out to there and my ass has plenty of junk in the trunk.
But the truth is that customers seem to like it. Guys like having luscious flesh that swings this way and that, even if they can’t touch. So if anything, the extra weight has made me an even bigger draw at the Flamingo, and now I’m the show opener on Tuesday nights, competing with girls who’ve been here for years longer.
But I wasn’t focused on the competition right now. I was focused on letting the music flow through my soul, and with my eyes closed, I shimmied a bit to my left, hooking my leg around a shiny golden pole. Ah, the pole of goodness. Lasciviously, I leaned towards it and winked at the crowd before licking up the hard metal suggestively. Ick, it didn’t taste good but sure enough, dollar bills started raining down on the stage as guys hollered their appreciation. Good. That’s what I like to see and hear. I take pride in a job well-done, no ma
tter the circumstances, and my dancing was no exception.
Slowly, I twisted my torso to the left, and then to the right with one knee still hooked around the pole before hoisting myself upside down. This isn’t easy. It’s like being an acrobat, but fortunately even though I’ve put on weight, some of the muscle memory from cheerleading has stuck and I’m still limber and adept. So upside down, I slid down the pole, my assets jiggling and full, almost dropping out from under the tiny bikini.
But when my head was about six inches away from the stage floor, something caught my eye. It wasn’t the money on the ground, or the funny gyrations of Geezer Coots, a dude who likes to dance along with the music. It was the gleam of an expensive watch from a man who sat in the back, half-hidden in shadow. What in the world? Most guys here are middle managers and don’t wear a lot of finery. Or if they do, it’s gold-colored Rolexes that are as thick as a brick and stuck with rubies and diamonds. Not the subtle, distinctive gleam of true wealth.
Because this man was different. His silhouette was imposing and massive. I could see broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, plus long legs crossed casually at the knee. He wore a perfectly-cut suit that hung from that broad frame, highlighting the strength, power, and assertiveness of the male within.
What in the world? This guy wasn’t our usual customer, that was for sure. So righting myself, I shimmied again suggestively while peering into the darkness. But I couldn’t see much except for a strong, hard jawline and a pair of blue eyes that made my heart literally flip for a moment. He was looking at me, and liked what he saw. The air between us shimmered with electricity and I swayed again, dancing for his eyes only.
Slowly, I saw those hands raise up and clap. No, he didn’t throw dollars my way, nor did he approach the stage. But again came the glint of that expensive watch as the man applauded, egging me on. My heart pounded in my chest, cheeks flushed. How could a stranger be doing this to me? But in my soul, I knew he was different. This was no Cooter, no Geezer, no Marky. This was someone at a completely different level, who frankly, didn’t belong at the Flamingo.
And helpless before his gaze, I threw myself into the dance. Turning around, I ran my hands through my long mane again before lifting it off my shoulders and peeking at him suggestively over one shoulder. This time, I saw the gleam of white teeth as he smiled.
With my back still turned, my hands slipped up to my bikini tie and suggestively pulled the long gold string. The material began to come undone and a collective gasp rose from the audience. Oh yeah, the Pink Flamingo is a full-nudity type place, but even though the guys know they’re going to get it, they still love the teasing and anticipation. So I pulled the tie slowly, stringing out the wait.
And finally, the gold bikini top slithered down my body and fell to the floor, revealing my luscious Double Ds.
There you go! hollered the announcer. Pearl has the greatest pearls doesn’t she? Hardy har har!
I barely kept from rolling my eyes at the ridiculous banter while swaying to the music. They needed to replace Mickey D, he just wasn’t doing a good job as an MC. But fortunately, the dark man in the back didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he made a circling sign with his finger, and I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. Slowly, I rotated until I was facing him, both boobies out, luscious and full. Oh yeah, my nips were hard and pink, already pebbled for his gaze and I caught them in my hands, pushing the creamy mounds up and out as if in offering.
He smiled, those white teeth flashing before indicating what he wanted next. But I was going to do him one better. After all, I’ve been on this job six months now, and it’s clear what gets guys going. Slowly, I lifted my breasts to my mouth and never dropping his gaze, licked one hard nipple before licking the other. The man jerked silently in his chair. Oh yeah, he liked it. That’s one of the great parts of having huge ta-ta’s. You’re able to suckle yourself, and right now, I could tell that the man wanted to kiss my breasts desperately.
But the Flamingo is a no-touch type of place, so I smiled at him once again before letting my fingers slide down to toy suggestively with the sides of my g-string. And with clever fingers, I plucked one side open, and then the other, the gold lamé falling to the floor and leaving me completely nude.
Oh yeah. The man jerked forward in his chair now, eyes glinting as they took in my pink pussy. Because the folds were puffy and aroused, glistening moistly under the hot lights. Did he know that it was for him? Could he tell that I was already seeping moisture from my sacred spot, anticipating his touch?
But no. Again, the Flamingo is a no-touch shop. So instead, I shook my finger at him while smiling coyly and shimmying away before leaning back against the pole and spreading my legs. And I did it then. One hand slid over my creamy, undulating body to slip between my thighs while pulling my nether lips open. And that’s when everything was revealed. Because I was aroused too, and my clit stood at salute, hot and throbbing while pointed straight at the strange man.
He growled. I could hear it even across the room and over the thumping beat. The dark man was an animal who knew his woman on sight. So he let out a vengeful rumble that let me know just who my master was as the man stood halfway in his chair.
And that’s when I saw it. That humongous dick, or at least the ridge of an enormous monster wrapped around his waist. Even though it was dark and even though he was wearing suit pants, his jacket fell away enough so that I saw it. The man was enormously aroused and it was all because of me.
That was enough. My teasing play had turned me on so much that I lost all control then. Still leaning against the pole, I reached one hand over my head and grabbed the golden stick to steady myself. Because my other hand held my pussy open, and lo and behold, but I was coming right there on stage. With the eyes of the mysterious alpha male on me, I pulsed and shivered before his eyes, my cunt spasming under his gaze as my breasts shook and trembled. Somehow, without even touching me, the stranger had made me come.
But that’s when things took a turn to the bizarre. Because after the orgasm passed, I opened my eyes and he was gone. What in the world? Bizarre things have happened before. After all, I work at a strip club and this environment attracts weirdos all the time. But disappearing? That was a new one. If anything, most guys try to hang around, asking for a date or something even worse.
Yet this man was different because there was no trace of him now. His seat empty and even odder, there was a certain stillness in the air as if all the energy in the club had been sucked out now that he was gone. Stay with it, the voice in my head warned. Keep dancing. You’re still on the job, and they’re not paying you to lose your head over one customer.
Fortunately, the song was about over and I picked up the dollar bills, grasping them into my fist while skipping off stage with a false smile and wave. But the entire time, my mind was whirling. Who was that handsome man, why did he disappear, and most importantly … would I ever see him again?
CHAPTER FOUR
Thomas
Holy shit, who the fuck was that girl? She was amazing, curvy and lush exactly the way I like them. Even more importantly, when was I going to see her again?
Because it was clear that I was going to see her again. Shit, I’m the President of the United States. Commander-in-Chief and the leader of the free world. The Secret Service does as I say, not to mention the FBI and CIA. So of course I was gonna meet the hot stripper in person, someway, somehow.
But it would be a clandestine meeting for sure. After all, you can’t exactly do a press conference and say, Hey, our president is out there looking for a woman. And by the way, he’s hooking up with strippers along the way. But that’s where the beauty of this office comes in. Because my guys are at the top of the game, and they know exactly how to set these things up. Secret meetings in the Seychelles with African diplomats? Please, that was easy for them. So organizing a meeting with “Pearl Evanescence,” as she called, would be ten times easier.
Because I have needs like any other red-blo
oded man. This job is stressful and it ain’t easy being a single guy in D.C. You’d think that there are plenty of society debutantes who are dying for a date with the President, and yeah, sometimes I take one or another of them out. But it’s never right. First, these girls are social climbers. There’s no other way to put it. They want to see and be seen, and what better way than on the arm of the President of the United States?
Second, the society debutantes are practically inbred. I don’t mean that they’re dumb. Quite the opposite in fact. The females here have degrees up the wazoo, and probably got perfect scores on their SATs. It’s just that none of them are street smart, and that really turns me off. If I wanted to have a conversation about the literature and peoples of ancient Nova Scotia, that would be one thing. But if I wanted to talk about real things, like the price of a hammer or the cost of a cup of coffee at a local diner, it’d be impossible. They’re used to getting single origin roasts at places like Kounter Kulture or Wayville, and not Big Mike’s Munchbox over on Second and Northwest Avenue.
So it’s left me in a conundrum. On the one hand, I’m a red-blooded man who needs release to perform at the highest levels. But on the other, it’s hard to find a woman in this city. Isn’t that the problem that all guys have? I guess being the President hasn’t made things easier. If anything, it only means that I have to wade through more layers of muck before finding what I really want.
His Baby: A Babycrazy Romance Page 11
