by Vivian Cove
He looks down, and for some stupid reason, my eyes follow his. Slowly, he lifts up his shirt, exposing his muscular torso. “Or here?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper as his finger traces the outline of his perfect V.
Oh fuck. I close my eyes, trembling. I’m so aware of him that I swear to god I can feel him move closer. My body tingles. My neck cools from his shadow. Goosebumps flare over my skin as if he were kissing me.
“Princess.”
I respond to the implicit, unspoken demand in his voice: Look at me.
I glance up and his dark eyes soften. My lips part but I remain mute, unsure of what to ask for and horrified to admit how I feel. Every part of me wants to give in. Even my rational mind and my pride have been silenced by desire. My body wants him so badly that it feels like I truly will shatter if he doesn’t fuck me right here, right now.
Slowly, he brushes the hair from my face. “It’s okay to admit how much you want me,” he says with the same “understanding” he used when he’d explained to me the intense psychological devastation women who weren’t allowed to suck his dick endured.
I realize he sees me just like the rest of them. A silly girl who can’t help herself—a girl he has to fuck out of her misery. Maybe part of his assessment is justified, but I don’t want it to be!
“Damien, the only thing I need to admit is how mad I am at you. You’re a dick. And no, this isn’t me talking about how huge your dick is or how great it is, it’s me telling you that you are a dick. Who cares if you’re hot? Confidence is sexy, but off the charts arrogance? Not so much.”
He sighs. “Your attitude’s gonna make it difficult for you to pay off your debt to me, Princess.”
Ugh! He spent so much money on his damn bike. Couldn’t he have spent a little more and made it crash-proof, like a bumper car or some shit? “I thought you said it was alright.”
“I did, but like you said, that bike was my pride and joy as a man, and you destroyed it.”
I cringe.
“You killed it, Princess. It’s gonna take a long, long time to get my man pride back, and I’m gonna have to pay for loving what I’ve lost for a long time.”
Ugh! Why did I have to have a goddamn conscience? “Look, I’m sorry about your bike, but I’m not paying you back with my body.”
He grins. “…Oral agreements are legally binding in this state.”
“Well, that oral offer wasn’t for you, Damien. It was for my father!”
Damien’s face twists in disgust.
Why the hell is he looking at me like I just said something totally gross?
Wait.
Hold up.
Oh. My God.
FUCK!
My face explodes like I just chugged sour milk as the most awful thought I’ve ever had invades my brain. “That’s not what I meant!”
“What did you mean?”
“I mean…shit.”
Damien shakes his head. “You owe me, Princess. Not your father, me.”
Fuck it all, he was right. I collapse on the floor and rest my forehead on my knees. “I know. I’ll do anything you want.”
“I know you will.”
My head whips up. “Anything except that. I’ll work really hard but…not that way…on your…you know.”
“Actually, I don’t know. I’m going to need you to be more specific.”
“Damien, come on! I don’t feel comfortable doing all that…stuff for money. Besides, I’m pretty sure it would be illegal.”
“Illegal, huh? Does that mean you’re gonna lay down the law on this outlaw biker?” He bends down, grinning. “I’m going to be really upset if handcuffs aren’t involved.”
“You don’t want me tying you up and having my way with you, trust me.”
He shrugs.
“You wouldn’t be grinning long if I did. I’d just tease you.”
“Teasing, huh?” He glances at my nasty sweat pants. “You offering me a lap dance?”
I swallow, throat suddenly very dry.
“They’re legal, Princess,” he says, voice as invasive as smoke. An image flashes in my mind. In it, I’m not dressed in my neon SLAMMIN! shirt and sweatpants. I’m barely dressed in anything at all. My legs are parted over his. My hands grip the back of the chair he sits in. I roll my head back, black hair spilling over my shoulders and down my back. My body aches from the knowledge of what it could have, and from the agony it experiences by not giving in. I look into his eyes and see my own desire reflected in his.
Come on, Princess. He would whisper. Admit how much you want me.
I shiver, squeezing my knees together. Giving Damien a lap dance is probably the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. So why the fuck do I squeak, “Yes.”
Damien walks over to the poster board. Currently, the only thing on said poster board is a photo of Ganja, passed out drunk, sporting a dick he drew on his own cheek. (Oh, and by the way, Ganja’s also the one who tacked it on the board. Damn that guy is weird.)
Damien doesn’t touch the poster board, though. He grabs the chair beneath it and sets it in the middle of the hallway. His strong hands grip the back of the chair as he bends over, drinking in my body once again. “So, Princess. How much do you think one lap dance should erase from your debt?”
I gulp. Here we go. “$50,000.”
Damien’s lip quirks. He pushes the chair away from him and bends over, holding his head in his hands, trying unsuccessfully to stop himself from laughing. “Oh God.”
“What? You don’t want to watch me do a lap dance?”
“Come on. Don’t even pretend like that’s the reason why I’d say no. I thought you were going to say something reasonable, like $100, though in all honesty someone like you should probably start by charging $15 or so while you develop some skills.”
$15? That’s all he thought I was worth? “Fuck you, Damien. It will be amazing. I’ll jiggle my bits all over you.”
“You’ll jiggle? Your bits? All over me? I’ve never heard anything so sexy before in my life.”
I shoot to my feet and kick one of the legs of the chair. “Come on, I’m trying really hard here.”
“Princess, you’ve never even given a lap dance before.”
“How do you know?”
He folds his arms over his chest. “When was it? Who was it for?”
Damn, he had me. “Alright, so I’ve never done it before. It can’t be that hard.”
“Now, that’s just offensive. There’s an art to it.” His fingers trail along the back of the chair as he walks around it to the front. Slowly, he sits, leaning back.
“It’s an art I could learn,” I tell him. “I could start taking classes.”
I don’t bring up the other arts I tried to learn, like pottery. But really, it wasn’t possible to fail that hard again. I mean, it wasn’t like a little lap dance could make it look like an atomic bomb had gone off in his pants!
Damien, thankfully, does not bring up the teapot. He does bring up some other important stuff, though. “You’re not very flexible. It’s going to take a long time for your body to even get to the point where it can move the way it will need to. You’ll also have to do some strength training. Build up some muscle. My guess is all this will take you six months at least. Do you really think you can defer your debt for six months without accruing massive amounts of interest?”
“Interest? What the hell!?!? I didn’t sign on for that!”
“Princess, you’re looking at me like you don’t think I’m fair. There is another way.”
I know I’m going to regret asking, but I can’t help myself. “What?”
“I could teach you. After all, the only person you’re going to have to convince your performance is worth $50,000 to is me.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone, Damien. You’re just trying to get some free lap dances.”
“Really?” He glances at my outfit. “You shouldn’t be fooling yourself, either.”
He had a point. The only dreams
featuring people showing up dressed like I am usually end with being hacked to death by an axe in a remote cabin in the woods. Guys liked a girl who’s a little crazy, but not serial killer crazy. I stand, realizing I don’t even look like a woman in this thing.
“I still don’t know about this.” Mostly because if I danced for him with this nasty shit on, he’ll spend the rest of our lives making fun of me for it.
“Come on, Princess. I’m offering you a lesson and a way for you to get out of this debt on your terms, not mine.” He pats his thigh. “Start jiggling.”
Damnit, he was right. “Jiggling” was the least sexy word ever. Nothing that jiggled was or would ever be worth $50,000. Still, I spread my legs apart and jump over to him. The only part of me that’s into this are my pink bunny slippers, which rock out with each hop forward. When I finally reach him, I shut my eyes and hop one last time.
The insides of my thighs hit the outsides of his. He’s right, I’m super not flexible.
“Interesting opener,” he tells me.
“Hey, I didn’t have time to prepare for this.”
“A pro who commands the price of $50,000 is someone who can make a guy want her no matter where they are or what she’s wearing.”
Even if what she’s wearing are crusty sweatpants and a neon green t-shirt with an ugly ass mascot? And even if she has to do the dance staring at Ganja’s self-drawn dick face on the company cork board? Damnit, is he freaking drooling in that photo?
“First lesson: Attitude is everything,” Damien continues. “If you look like you don’t want to be here, then I won’t want you to be here.”
“But I don’t want to be here.”
“That true, Princess?”
My breath catches as I look down at him. Strands from my hair fall from my shoulders onto his cheeks. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, not like I’m a girl in old workout gear who spent hours crying and stuffing her face with chocolates.
As much as I hate to admit it, I like this feeling. My stomach muscles tighten. Other parts of me tighten, too.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Damien.”
“Why?”
I shiver as a thousand why’s fill my head. Why is his voice so low and soft? Why do I like the sound of it so much? Why do I want to do this so badly?
Those are all why’s I can’t share, though. Not without revealing something else. So instead, I tell him, “Because you’re right, a $50,000 lap dance is just too much.”
“You don’t have to convince anyone but me that your dance is worth $50,000,” he whispers. “And lucky you, you already have an edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you’re the only girl I’d ever pay such a ludicrous sum to see like this.”
I feel weak. He can’t say stuff like that to me when he’s looking at me like he wants to simultaneously worship me and show me the true meaning of sin. I feel something shift between my legs.
“Oh God,” I whimper, feeling him.
“Don’t worry, Princess. It’s a quarter erect at most.”
Jesus Christ, how was that comment supposed to make me not worry? Once again, I wonder how the fuck he fit that inside me. And then I remember exactly how he did and my legs give out.
I grab his shoulders to keep from impaling myself on his massive cock. His muscles flex beneath my grip, and through my sweatpants and his jeans I feel his length flex near my ass.
“You aren’t supposed to touch me, Princess.”
“Really?” I squeak?
“Yeah.” His eyes grow dark. “’Cause it makes me want to touch you back.”
Oh fuck! I shoot off of him and stumble into the wall, panting. “Great lesson,” I whisper. “So, how much do I get per lesson?”
He frowns. “What do you mean, how much do you get?”
I gulp. I can do this. I can play hardball. He’s not a sexy sex God, he’s just Demon Spawn. “I want to know how much I’ll be paid per lesson.”
Damien chuckles. I crack my eyes open to find him smiling at me devilishly.
“Princess, I’m the one giving the lessons. It’s how much it will cost you, not me.”
My eyes flare open. Is he saying what I think he’s saying??? “You pig!”
“I charge in seven minute increments, so you already owe me $10.”
My nostrils flare. “What? Where the hell do you get off on making me pay how to learn to give you lap dances to pay off my debt?”
“Don’t worry, Princess. I’m sure in six months you’ll have accrued $50,000 worth of lessons, so you should be able to pay it all off with two lap dances.”
Oh fuck him if he thinks he is going to get shit! I stomp off, fuming, as he laughs behind me.
To make this work, I’m going to need help. Maybe it’s time I bring in Candy.
Chapter 7
Candy flips through the CDs of artists that were popular a few decades ago. Ace of Base. Dead or Alive. Spice Girls. “I don’t understand what we’re doing here,” she mutters.
“You wouldn’t,” I respond. “But I owe Damien $10 and I need to pay up.”
“Okay. Great. Give him some money. I don’t understand why we’re digging around on tables outside Star Power’s.”
Star Power had retired from stripping a few years back. She was a hoarder, the kind where they send in CSI and an evil celebrity nutritionist/therapist/uncertified “doctor” to tell you to get your shit together or else they’ll call the CDC and quarantine your state. Well, the rest of the America doesn’t care about our backwards asses so that never happened. Instead, about ten years ago, Star Power decided she wanted to make some space in her trailer and so she started selling shit.
And I mean shit.
It was like every rejected item from all the garage sales in the county got together, got shitfaced, and passed out on her lawn. We were rummaging through the corpses.
I’m not using the word “corpse” figuratively. Candy and I are knee-deep in things like:
Half-finished arts and craft projects.
Furniture that I don’t think you can really call broken because I don’t think it had ever worked.
Multicolored Yarn so bright it looks like a unicorn puked it up.
And so on.
On the table to the left, a kid in a Spiderman suit decapitates Barbies. His eyes gleam and he laughs a bit as each head pops off into the bin of growing doll heads. He throws the bodies over his shoulder onto the lawn. Some have made it as far as the gravel parking lot.
“So, let’s see what’s going on over there,” Candy says, pointing to the right.
“Good idea.”
After ten minutes of sorting through sequence infested bras, tutus, and granny panties, Candy mentions her idea again.
“Girl, I’m cold. I’m tired. Just give Damien a little striptease and call it a night.”
I take a deep breath. Count to three. “No. We are not doing your idea. It was a mistake to come to you for help again after what you did last time.”
“But your idea sucks!” Candy says.
“It may suck, but at least it doesn’t lead me back into Damien’s bed.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
What’s so bad with that? Absolutely everything imaginable. Why did I have to keep explaining this? “Candy!”
“Look, you know it’s going to happen again, and when it does it should be on your terms, not his.”
“It is not happening!” I shriek in the least convincing shriek in the history of shrieks, which aren’t even all that convincing to begin with.
Candy raises her eyebrows.
“I can’t let it happen,” I continue. “He’s already gotten the most inflated ego in the world. I wish I could pop it, but I swear to god, it just gets bigger and bigger with every conquest. It’s like the blob, only with sex. The Sex Blob. It won’t be satisfied until it’s consumed the dignity of every woman in America. Which is why
your idea is so stupid!”
Candy pouts. I don’t give a shit. So, what was the brilliant plan she came up with after I came back and told her about the humiliating experience lap dancing for Damien? She suggested that I go back for more lessons and negotiate a price for something “a little more fun.” That’s right. My best friend told me to prostitute myself to my mortal enemy.
Her reasoning? It’s gonna happen anyways, girl.
To which I explained to her that just because I wanted something to happen that doesn’t mean it actually should happen. I mean, I want to stuff my face with chocolates all day every day, but it’s not like I allowed myself to do that because…
Fuck. Bad example. I guess I did pretty much stuff my face with chocolates, but it wasn’t all day. It was like just most of the day.
So I guess my point still stands.
Sort of.
I scowl and focus on finding $10 worth of shit to stick in Damien’s room. It needed to make a statement. To say something about how I feel about life and the universe. To poetically express my epic hatred for the personification of the bowels of hell.
And then, I see it hanging from the heavens—or, in this case, halfway down the flag pole.
“Candy,” I whisper.
She hears my voice and turns. Her mouth drops open. She sees it immediately—how can you not? It’s like the sun. Big and bright and if you look at it for too long, you’re totally gonna fuck up your retinas for life.
Candy’s response is a little different than mine, though. “No.”
“It’s perfect.” I move forward.
Candy grabs my wrist, stopping me. “Hell no, girl! You’re gonna get STDs and shit!”
STD’s? Please. “I can’t believe you’re more worried about me getting them from that instead of Damien.”
“Hey, I’m pretty sure Damien wraps himself up most of the time. That thing is the wrapping! Only god knows who or how many men that have done their thing in that!”
I rip myself from Candy’s grasp, but she won’t give up. She tackles me.
My chin hits the ground, hard. Grass and mud smash into face. I scream, trying to push myself up, but Candy’s parked herself on my big ass.
