Revue

by K. M. Golland

  Cover Design by: Buying Ham

  Copyright 2015

  Published by KM Golland

  ISBN: 9780987497758

  Cover model and photography: Shannon Robinson

  www.srpstudios.com.au

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders

  Love is a faux twinkle in the eye and a factitious curve of the mouth. Love is fucking unbearable.

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DISCOVERING STELLA PROLOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Powerless.

  I was powerless to stop my feet from going forward, and powerless to convince myself to turn and go back the way I came.

  I. Was. Fucking. Powerless.

  Or incredibly curious, not to mention somewhat of a voyeur.

  The unmistakable sound of two people fucking was what I could hear: erotic murmuring, groaning and heavy breathing. Delicious noises that were causing a sensation of heat and desire to filter through my body, but more so because I knew that what I was about to witness was something I perhaps shouldn’t. Yet it didn’t stop my tentative steps, nor did I turn away. No. My primal instinct was to continue along the darkened hallway, to see with my own eyes the act eliciting the sweet feeling now tightening my lower abdominal muscles and making its way in between my legs.

  I really should stop, or go back, but … well … powerless.

  Walking slowly, apprehension tingling my fingertips, I second-guessed that the sounds were, in fact, two people fucking, as it wasn’t exactly a ghost town backstage—performers, crew and the odd audience member with a VIP pass wandering about. I mean, yeah, male revue shows were all about sex, but real sex … backstage? Surely not. Regardless, the notion of two people fucking—loud and unashamed fucking—in such a public place, both surprised and intrigued me.

  Letting out the breath I’d held prisoner in my lungs, I shook my head and inwardly cursed my stupidity for thinking that what I was hearing was live, in the flesh and just around the corner … until I rounded that corner and came face to face with the sex I’d just told myself wasn’t real.

  It was real.

  Very real.

  I froze, stepped back—partially hiding behind the corner—and sucked in another breath, watching deviously as the tanned, toned, muscled arse of a man pistoned into the apex of spread legs belonging to a young woman held against the wall next to a drink vending machine.

  “You fucking like it hard and deep, don’t you?” he hissed.

  The woman moaned and dropped her head back, exposing the sweat-dampened skin of her neck. “Yes, I do. Harder. Yes!”

  He ran his tongue across her collarbone and let out an animalistic growl as he wrenched the front of her dress down, her heavy breasts bouncing free of the material. Soft skin was met with a ferocious hand before he dipped his head and flicked her nipple with the tip of his tongue, bearing his teeth and clamping down.

  She cried out.

  My nipples tingled.

  And just like that woman in When Harry Met Sally, ‘They wanted what she was having’.

  “Ow! That hurts,” she whimpered. Okay, maybe not. Maybe they don’t want what she’s having.

  The guy released her nipple and grabbed hold of her chin. “You want me to fucking stop? Because I can and I will.”

  Eyes wide, she pouted and shook her head. “No. Don’t stop. Please don’t.”

  “Then shut the fuck up.” His harsh words hung momentarily before he resumed the deep thrashing of his hips.

  Powerless.

  Yep, I couldn’t look away, my eyes uncontrollably dipping toward that thrashing motion. It was a great arse. In fact, it was probably the nicest I’d ever seen: flawless golden skin and not a single tan line to be seen on what was visible above the waistline of his hanging jeans. And the way it contracted and released as he moved back forth … Oh. My. God!

  Forcing myself to swallow—because as humans, we do need to do this from time to time—I nearly choked when he let out a guttural groan that not only had me crossing my legs, but also went hand in hand with the high-pitched screams of bliss screeching from the woman’s mouth. “Yes! Oh, yes!”

  I was panting … as in real, short, puffs of air leaving my mouth, which was open—wide—quite possibly bowing in admiration of the arse not even three metres away, and how that arse thrust sharp and precise as its owner came—the muscles in the guy’s neck and shoulders tense and well defined. Good God.

  The young, petite blonde leaned forward, mouth open, chest heaving. She tried to kiss him but he pulled back.

  “Sorry, babe, not tonight,” he said dismissively, reaching behind his back and unhooking her ankles so that she could plant her feet on the ground. He then stepped away and zipped up his pants, turning in my direction and meeting my stunned gaze. Holy shit! Josh Fucking Adams! Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I knew that face. I knew it well. I was going to be photographing it pretty much daily for the next couple of months.

  “Good show?” he asked, a smirk plastering his face.

  “Uh … I … um—”

  Josh stopped before me and traced his finger across the skin of my shoulder, sending a tingle dancing down my spine. “Want to be next?”

  “What?” Shocked, my cheeks heated to a temperature near boiling point, and I backed away, my eyes flicking from his to the blonde who was now standing awkwardly by the vending machine.

  “Want to ride my cock like this bitch just did?” He nodded in her direction.

  My eyes bugged. “Excuse me?”

  “You deaf or somethin’?” He tilted his head, curiously.

  “No, I’m not. My hearing is perfectly fine. And as for wanting to ride your cock, hell no.”

  “Suit yourself.” Josh shrugged, then winked and strolled past like an arrogant prick before disappearing from sight.

  I let out my breath. “What an arsehole!”

  “Yeah,” the blonde sighed, her voice sounding dreamy and sated. “But he fucks like a god. You totally should’ve taken him up on his offer.”

  Slowly, and with my mouth even wider than before, I turned back in her direction and watched as she adjusted her skirt, hitched her breasts, then gave me a satisfied smile before she, too, disappeared in the same direction Josh had. What the hell?

  Shocked, turned-on, disgusted and dumbfounded—quite a nice combination of what-the-fuck—I leaned against the wall and covered my face with my hands, regret churning my stomach as what had just transpired hit me. Damn it! Damn you, Tom.

  Tom was my broth
er and whom this particular job had originally belonged to. But the dickhead was currently laid up in a hospital bed with a broken hip due to channelling his inner Evel Knievel while riding his dirt bike. And seeing that both he and I were partners in our photography business, I had no choice but to take his place as the current Wild Nights Revue photographer.

  Fuck! What have I gotten myself into?

  After finding the ladies room, splashing water on my flaming cheeks, and staring at my reflection in the hope that what I’d just witnessed was a mind trick, I realised I was wasting time. It wasn’t a mind trick; Josh Adams had just screwed a skanky groupie backstage then offered to do the same to me.

  Disgusting.

  To be honest, it really shouldn’t have surprised me, as the Wild Nights research—also known as social media snooping—that I’d conducted, had given me a vague grasp of the guys’ public personas. According to Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, Josh was an active party animal and thrived on the attention of the women he seduced during the show. He even had a trademark whisper: hushed words of promised sex into the ear of the woman he wished to fuck. Talk about degrading and an instant label that said T Minus Thirty Minutes Until I Become A Notch On Josh Adams’ Belt Of Meaningless Fucks.

  Whatever.

  That was his thing, and each to their own, I guess.

  After leaving the ladies room, I managed to track down the Wild Nights’ manager, Patsy: a buxom, shorthaired lesbian with a mouth as bold as the sun. Yet despite her in-your-face, say-it-like-it-is personality, she was also lovely and armed me with every detail needed for the nationwide tour set to begin the coming Wednesday.

  Tonight’s performance by the revue was a practice session, a chance for the guys to test their abilities on stage in front of competition winners and charity recipients. And, in Josh’s case, apparently it was also a chance to test their abilities ‘off stage’ as well. “Want to ride my cock like this bitch just did?” Ugh. The guy, despite his impeccable arse, was an outright prick.

  “Corinne, did you want to take some test pictures now, while you’re here? The guys have one or two more performances before they’re done for the night,” Patsy asked, dragging me away from my thoughts.

  I lifted my gaze and made eye contact with her. “Yes.” I smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

  “No sweat, hon.” She clapped her hands excitedly before rubbing them together. “Excellent! Okay, you’ll need this for tonight.” She handed me a lanyard that read, ‘Crew’. “It’s temporary. I’ll have your official access pass ready by next week.”

  Smiling, I accepted the neckpiece, slipped it over my head then headed out of the office, making my way toward the large room where the guys were currently performing. Okay, Cori, you can do this. You can take photos of naked dancing men. Easy! I gave myself an affirmative nod. I mean, really, how hard can it be?

  Turning the corner, I’d just finished mentally revving myself up when I instinctively stumbled to the side to avoid crashing into one of said naked guys, as he bounded down the backstage stairs with a white towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Shit!” he said, grabbing my shoulders to stop me from falling.

  I latched onto his arms, steadying myself. “Whoa!”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was go—“ His words cut short when the towel wrapped around his waist unravelled and slipped down his thighs. I watched it drop before he quickly snatched it back up again, my eyes copping a peek of his impressive package during the process.

  Nice.

  Very nice!

  “No, no, it’s all good,” I said, trying not to smile and tilting my head up, diverting my stare to the white and green exit sign glowing just above us. “I’ll need to learn not to get in your way.”

  Stripper Dude One—because I wasn’t quite sure if he was Wild Nights twin Brad or Noah—reached forward and flipped my lanyard tag. His eyes then flicked to my camera in acknowledgment, which was hanging from a strap around my neck. “You must be the tour photographer.”

  “Yep, that would be me.” I nodded slowly, my friendly sarcasm emphasised by my over enthusiastic smile.

  Stripper Dude One chuckled then sized me up, performing a quick once-over with his wandering gaze. “Excellent!”

  I scoffed and shook my head, unable to hide my smile. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really! The name’s Brad,” he said, offering his hand to shake. “Or Surfer, as I’m called.”

  Brad was tanned with dirty blond, medium length hair. His eyes displayed a blue hue of mischief, and from what I could see he wasn’t a hell of a lot taller than I was, my guess being roughly six foot one. He was incredibly hot, no doubt about it—the epitome of Aussie Surfer Sex God.

  Placing my hand in his, I took note of the black tribal tattoo circling his left bicep—a bicep that would near put Popeye’s to shame. “Corinne,” I said, shaking his hand, “or Cori, as I’m called.”

  A boyishly seductive grin spread across his face as he lifted my hand to his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Cori.”

  Smooth. The guy was smooth.

  I gently pulled free of his grip and patted his cheek in a playful manner. “Pleased to meet you too, but don’t get any ideas.”

  “What?” he asked, cracking up laughing and slowly stepping backward, his hands raised in surrender. “What ideas?”

  “Just … ideas,” I reiterated, smiling as I turned on my heel and headed toward the screaming chaos that was a room full of horny, drunk women.

  As I was about to enter that world of crazy, he called out, “Hey, Cori!”

  I stopped and pivoted. “Yeah?”

  “Just so you know, I’m starting to get many ideas. Good ideas. Really good ideas.” He saluted me and disappeared around a corner, leaving me wide-mouthed. Holy hell! How am I going to put up with these ridiculously good-looking male tarts for the next three months?

  The answer was simple: I was screwed. Seriously fucking screwed!

  ***

  The noise. Women … everywhere. Screaming, wolf whistles, the chinking of glasses—it was all hurting my ears.

  Setting myself up front and left of stage, I held my camera to my eye, the near naked men performing visible when I manually adjusted the focus on my lens. Why hello there, dancing testosterone. I could honestly say that what filled my viewfinder made me smile—it wasn’t all that bad.

  After Tom had had his accident and the reality that I would have to take his place on the tour dawned on me, I couldn’t have been more opposed to the idea. Near-naked, testosterone-fuelled men on stage just weren’t my photographic muses of choice. I was a scenic photographer—landscapes, colours, textures … places of beauty. Not sweaty, over-sexed, dancing and thrusting men. Still … I’m sure I’ll live.

  Snapping a couple of shots and playing around with composition, angles and depth of field, I zoomed in on each of the guys’ faces as they occupied a line of chairs across the stage.

  Five shirtless, sexy, promiscuous specimens of man, each with their own set of panty-melting muscles owned the room. Brad, Matt, Lucas, Noah and Josh were Wild Nights Revue. Brad was the twin I’d met backstage, his cheekiness amplified by his radiant smile as he thrust his hips toward the back of the chair. Then again, perhaps that was Noah. Shit! It was too hard to tell.

  I zoomed in on those hips for a better view, grinning satisfactorily before zooming back out again. Oh well, does it matter who it is? For now, I didn’t think so.

  Spanning to my right, I focussed on Matt: tall—probably the tallest in the group—dark brown, closely-shaved-to-his-head hair, chocolate-coloured eyes and flawless, unmarked skin. He seemed to be the oldest and group leader.

  Spanning yet again, I settled on Lucas, the newest member of the ensemble. His presence on stage wasn’t dominant. Yet, he still drew the eye with his dimpled cheeks, light brown clean-cut hair and bluish-grey eyes. Wow! He’s a cutie!

  While adjusting my focus, the guys all changed positions—kind of like musical chair
s—and I soon found myself surveying Noah, Brad’s identical twin. At least I think it was Noah. He, too, was tanned, dirty blond and sporting a very similar style tattoo to his brother.

  Taking the camera away from my eye, I moved closer to the stage, positioning myself near the steps. I squatted and made myself as comfortable as possible, given the position I was in—obtaining the best angle wasn’t always kind to the body.

  I peered through the viewfinder once more, focussing on Josh: short brown hair, brown eyes and the hint of ink across his chest, left shoulder and bicep, creeping out from the edges of his T-shirt. He also had the nicest set of pearly-whites I’d ever seen. Physically, he was a fucking god.

  Undisputable.

  Near perfection.

  Arrogance rolled from him in waves. He owned the stage, owned the props and, taking a quick scan of the rows of screaming women behind me, he appeared to own most of them as well.

  “Take it off, Joshy!” one of them yelled.

  Her command caught his attention, so he raised a teasing eyebrow and tore the front of his T-shirt, ripping it entirely from his chest.

  My eyes popped.

  My jaw dropped.

  Every woman screamed.

  The heightened decibels filling the room appeared to fuel his ego, because he pounded his chest like a gorilla and roared. I guess he was a gorilla, in a sense: big, strong, masculine, and asserting his dominance without a care in the world.

  Personally, I found it way over the top and mildly annoying, yet I pressed down on the shutter button, snapping a few shots in succession and capturing his brazen display. Truth be told, he howled sex appeal. His hands were large and commanding, sliding down chiselled abs and stopping to cup his cock. And his gyrating hips were strong and alluring, deliberate in their teasing drive toward the audience. Nice! The man could dance, and I mean really dance.

  The problem with Josh though, was that he knew he had the moves, knew his level of hotness, and knew how to play on it, using it to his full advantage. Sure, that could sometimes come across as sexy and confident, which it did. But it could also be conceited and ugly … which it was. Ugh!