Side Game (Men of Trance Book 2)

by Nicole Loufas

  A woman appears in a stairwell on the side of the building. She lights a cigarette and blows smoke toward the exposed light above the door. A pink robe covers the top half of her body, and a strange crown sits on her head. It looks like a balloon tiara, the sort of thing a clown makes for a kid.

  “Are you Giovanni?” a male voice calls from the front door.

  She looks down from her perch, smoke seeping from her mouth when she smiles at me.

  “Yeah.” I walk toward the man, hoping he’s not the job.

  Rico knows my limits. I don’t fuck men, and I don’t let them suck me off or touch me. Dancing for them is okay. I’ll do a birthday party for a dude, but it’s a hands-off event.

  “I’m Gilby.” He extends his hand. “Call me Gil.”

  Like the woman on the stairs, Gil is tall, slender, and blond. From his slight accent, he’s most likely German.

  Gil leads me into the warehouse. It’s a large open space with a metal staircase leading to an observation deck surrounding a large open area filled with balloons. It reminds me of Oasis. If it weren’t for the twenty half-naked adults, this place could be mistaken for Chuck E. Cheeses or some other annoying kid-friendly establishment.

  After a quick scan around the place, it’s clear I wasn’t hired as entertainment. I’m not even the best-looking guy in the room—the darkest, yes, but not the most handsome. That title would go to the six-six blond dude with ice blue eyes and a chiseled six-pack. For a guy who takes his clothes off for a living, I’m feeling a little self-conscious around this crowd.

  “Have you heard of looners?” Gil hands me a bottle of Hefeweizen.

  I don’t usually drink wheat beer, but I doubt they have Guinness.

  “I don’t think so.” I nod my thanks for the beer.

  “Looners are people who find balloons arousing.”

  Wait, what?

  He picks up a long red balloon. “This is an airship.”

  The oblong shape looks like a blimp.

  “It’s made of a special material so it’s durable.” He squeezes the airship until the sides are smashed together then places it on the ground, slips out of his loafer, and steps on it.

  “It seems very durable.” I have no fucking clue how someone can get off on a balloon. “Do you like, rub on it?”

  “You fuck on it.” He certainly gets to the point. “Women like to bounce on them. It depends on the person.”

  Balloons or no balloons, this feels like an orgy. That costs extra.

  “And how do I fit into this?”

  Gil laughs and calls someone to join us.

  “Runa, love, come.”

  The woman from the stairwell outside appears from the other side of the balloon pit. Her pink robe is gone, and she struts toward us in a black lace bra and high-waisted panties. Garters hold up fishnet stockings. The only thing missing is a pair of stilettos. Like most of the people in the building, she’s shoeless.

  “Runa, this is Giovanni from The Agency.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Her hand is cold and soft, traces of her cigarette wafting into my nostrils when she leans in to kiss my cheek.

  I pray to the sex gods that I get to fuck Runa on a balloon tonight.

  “Giovanni, do you know how to use one of these?”

  Gil pulls a camcorder out of a duffel bag.

  “Uh, yeah, but we have a no camera rule, and that includes video.” As much as I’d love to watch the playback of Runa riding me on top of that red airship, it’s forbidden.

  Runa and Gil laugh.

  “No, no. You’re mistaken. We aren’t filming you. You are here to film us.” Gil pulls Runa into his arms, staking claim.

  The chatter around the room softens as the music dies down.

  “So, you need me to play cameraman?”

  “Follwo me.” Gil leads me up the stairs to a tripod holding a camera. “We have cameras set up all around the warehouse to catch us at various angles from above. We need you down there, up close.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why you hired someone from The Agency for this job?”

  “Our regular man had to cancel last minute—he was hired to film a private event for Elon Musk, and he pays more.” Gil laughs. “Rico understands the importance of discretion.”

  “That we do.”

  “Wear this.” He hands me a beanie and a pair of dark glasses. “You’ll be caught on film from these cameras, and I assume you want to keep your identity hidden.”

  “Should I avoid your faces?”

  They have a lot of cameras set up for people who don’t want to be seen.

  “We aren’t ashamed of what we do. The secrecy isn’t about our identity—it’s for the movie. People will pay to watch this, so we can’t have it leaking on YouTube, you know?”

  Fetishes are a huge online business. People pay a lot of money to watch kinky shit.

  “You’re good now?” Gil sets his hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m good.”

  My dick is disappointed we won’t be participating, but I’m good with being paid two grand to film a gang of Nordic supermodels fucking balloons.

  We return to the main floor and Gil gives me some quick pointers on what people want to see, and the angles I should film.

  “It’s okay to run from one person to another. Make sure you get everyone. Some key shots will be foreplay. Viewers get off on watching us inflate the balloons. You must also get shots of bouncing.”

  “Bouncing?”

  “Yes, bouncing. Runa show him, darling.”

  Runa chooses a black balloon shaped like a light bulb and smiles at me as she straddles it with the narrow part protruding between her sexy-as-fuck legs. She slowly starts to bounce, the way a woman does when she sits on your dick. Her head falls backward, and she moans like it’s the best ride of her life—just from bouncing on a balloon.

  “Let’s get started,” someone yells. “You’re killing us, Gil!”

  The crowd shouts agreements in English and another language that sounds like German or Swedish.

  “There are more cameras there”—Gil points to a table in the corner—“in case the battery dies. Don’t forget your disguise, unless you want your face on video.”

  I pull the beanie on and test the glasses. The lenses are dark, but the room seems relatively clear.

  “Any questions?”

  I shake my head.

  “Great, I’ll go change the music.” Gil starts back up the stairs then stops. “Don’t stay on one person too long.” He finds Runa in the crowd. “She’s beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s my wife, and we don’t fuck other people.”

  Noted.

  Gil puts on Bjork’s “It’s Oh So Quiet,” the strange theatrical tune making the scene almost comical as the lighting flickers red, blue, yellow, and orange. People remove what little clothing they have on. Nobody is fully nude, just panty-less under a skirt or lace lingerie.

  Runa and Gil remain in their fancy underwear.

  I walk around holding the camera waist high, shooting hands caressing these massive balloons. One dude takes a deflated balloon and rubs it between a woman’s legs. She’s spread eagle on a green airship. I zoom close, so close I see her wetness on the black latex. After a few minutes he lowers his mouth. Instead of licking her crotch, he wraps his lips around the balloon and starts to blow it up.

  The woman loses her shit.

  I make sure to get her face in the shot. Her red lipstick smears over her cheek as she thrashes in pleasure from a balloon rubbing against her pussy. I move back to the action between her legs as the guy lets the balloon deflate against her clit then blows it up again.

  I move on.

  With every climax in the music, someone in the group has an orgasm.

  I find Gil and Runa on a yellow airship. She’s lying face down, straddling the balloon. Gil spanks her softly then slips his fingers inside her panties. Every time Bjork whispers, “Shhh,” Gil kisses Runa’s bac
k. As the song crescendos, so does Runa. Gil pulls her underwear down, exposing her perfect milky white ass. He looks right at me, and we lock eyes through the camera as he fucks her. The music is blaring, Bjork is screaming. Gil keeps pounding. Runa comes.

  Fade to black.

  Gil walks me to the car at four in the morning.

  “Call me anytime you need a cameraman.” I hold out my hand.

  He shakes it and looks into my mouth. “You have great teeth.”

  I quickly purse my lips. This guy is into some kinky shit; who knows what he wants to do with my teeth.

  “I’m an orthodontist, and I’m always looking for good teeth models. I can use you.” He pulls out a card with his name and practice information.

  “But you didn’t do my teeth.” Dad sent me to the dental school because it was cheaper than an actual dentist.

  “So?” He shrugs. “Since when is advertising honest? I pay good money to my models. Give me a call next month—we’re running a new ad campaign for fall.”

  “Sounds good. I can always use the extra money.”

  Runa walks out of the warehouse in a long black coat and high-heeled boots. “Darling, I’m tired,” she calls to her husband.

  “Have a good night, Giovanni.” Gil runs to her like a bitch. His arm slides around his wife’s waist—her tiny, sexy waist. Marriage wouldn't be so bad if you get to fuck a woman like for the rest of your life.

  Most nights I leave a job and return to my empty apartment. Not tonight. I drive home excited to have someone waiting for me.

  My apartment smells like burnt coffee. Three mugs sit on the counter, along with a bowl, and a poorly folded newspaper. The couch is empty, but Leeyan's shoes are sitting in front of the coffee table.

  “Honey, I’m home.” I roleplay like this isn’t my messy apartment. Like Leeyan isn’t my best friend’s baby mama.

  She comes out of the bedroom with a carton in her hand and a spoon in her mouth.

  “How was it?” Her speech is impeded by a mouthful of ice cream.

  “Were you eating in my room?”

  “Uh, no.” She shows me the empty carton. “I was just cruising the apartment, getting the lay of the land while I enjoyed some of your delicious coconut milk ice cream.”

  She walks into the kitchen, tosses the empty container in the trash and drops the spoon in the sink.

  “Oops.” She pulls it out, rinses it, the places it inside the dishwasher. Looking up with a satisfied grin. “Did you have to fuck anyone?”

  Leeyan’s ability to jump from one moment to the next makes me dizzy. She’s moved from eating my emergency ice cream stash to making small talk about my gig.

  “No, I didn’t fuck anyone.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  I wonder if there’s more to her questions than curiosity. A little jealousy, maybe.

  I unzip my hoodie and hang it in the closet.

  “You owe me a carton of ice cream.”

  “Done.” She skips ahead of me to the couch. “What did they hire you for? Did you dance?”

  I sit and take off my shoes. “I filmed a fetish video.”

  She sits cross-legged on the couch, warming the air around me. She’s intrigued and asks a million questions.

  “It was a balloon fetish.” I yawn and look at my watch. “Do you always eat ice cream at four-thirty in the morning?”

  “I couldn't sleep so I stalked Theo online,” she shrugs. “I also looked for apartments. My prospect fell through. So, I’m on to plan b.”

  ‘That’s good. The apartment search, not the stalking,” I chastise. “You could call him. Give him a heads up that you’re coming back.”

  She shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

  “If I let you hide out here, you have to agree to at least call him.”

  “I will.” She does some kind of scout’s honor gesture. “Is that it? No other house rules?”

  “No walking around naked. In fact, no being naked period if I’m in the apartment. Shower when I’m gone.” I get up and walk to the desk. “And stop dressing sexy.”

  She stands and looks down at her clothes.

  “That sweater…”

  “Is old and stained.”

  And you look hot as fuck in it.

  “Burn it.”

  She holds up a finger as if a point is about to be made. “This can work—us as friends, roommates.”

  “Do we need a no sex rule?” I’m only half joking.

  “I think we’re on the same page when it comes to sex.”

  Did someone say sex?

  Don’t get excited—she means with other people.

  “For the record, I don’t want to see it, hear it, or smell it.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “Smell it?”

  “Hey, I don’t know what you’re into.”

  She pulls her sweater off and spins it around her head before tossing it at me. It lands on top of my open laptop. She’s wearing a black t-shirt underneath.

  I give her a stern look. “You’re already breaking the rules.”

  “You said take it off,” she says defensively.

  “I said burn it.” I throw it back.

  Is she intentionally trying to make me crazy or is she just being a brat?

  Is there a difference? This friend thing is unfamiliar territory. Can you be turned on by a friend you’re not allowed to fuck?

  Yes. Hell yes.

  “Did we not just have a talk about being sexy?”

  “I’m being a good roommate.” She tosses the sweater at me again.

  “Is this a challenge?” I stand. “Because I will win.”

  The sexual tension built up from the looners gig paired with Leeyan’s flirtatious behavior is a dangerous combination. There’s only one way to relieve the situation. I pick up my phone and Bluetooth it to the audio system across the room. I open my music app and search the Bjork song. When the music begins, Leeyan falls backward onto the couch in hysterics.

  I do a visual translation of the words in the song, dancing like I’m on Broadway, spinning like a fool. I pull my shirt off and rip the fly on my jeans open. Leeyan’s jaw drops. Her eyes creep from my crotch to my eyes. I hold my finger to my lips, imitating the lyrics.

  I twirl her around then pull her to me like we’re ballroom dancing until my jeans slip halfway down my ass. Leeyan takes hold of my pants on both sides of my waist and pulls them up. Her fingers move swiftly over my fly; faster than it takes for blood to rush to my dick.

  I grab her hands and lift them above her head. Then I freeze. I don’t know where to go from here. I shouldn’t even be here.

  How the fuck did we get here?

  “You’re good.” She’s breathless like she’s the one dancing.

  The song ends, and I release her. “I win.”

  I walk to the desk and open my email.

  “I have a rule,” Leeyan finally says.

  “You can’t have rules.”

  “As a temporary occupant, I feel like I am entitled to certain regulations.”

  “Such as?”

  “You can’t walk around naked either—or shirtless.”

  She tosses my shirt to me.

  I grin, knowing I got to her. Being wanted is how I make a living. Leeyan isn’t a job. She isn’t a sexual prospect. She’s a test, one I plan to ace.

  Chapter Eight

  The sidewalk outside Café DeLucci is busy with tourists. I watch them through Ray Bans while Rico works on his phone. We always sit outside—Rico likes to be on display. It isn’t hot, but he’s sporting a douche-fit: muscle shirt and shorts. He never passes up an opportunity to book a job. He’s a walking advertisement for sex.

  Face of a model.

  Body of a god.

  Tattoos of a biker.

  The real star of his show is hidden inside his pants. They model dildos to look like Rico’s dick. That monster launched his career. He posed nude for an art class and one of the students happened to run a talent age
ncy. It was a run-of-the-mill strippers-for-hire setup, but after a few months, Rico quit his day job with a plumbing company and worked for her full time. Eventually, he bought the business. When Trance opened, he looked at the club as an opportunity to build his client list.

  Not all the guys under Rico’s employment fuck for money and not all of our clients want sex. I’ve been hired for more Christmas parties and company picnics than any other kind of date. When some of those dates end in sex, it’s a bonus.

  The server arrives with our food. He places a green salad in front of Rico, and a burger and fries in front of me. Rico lifts his fork as his eyes drop to my plate.

  “You’re slacking.”

  I pick up my cheeseburger and rip into it.

  “Cheat day,” I muffle. “I call it fatter-day.”

  He points his fork at me. “Good thing you aren’t dancing tonight.”

  I’m missing another night at Trance for a side job. I’ll have to kiss some serious ass to get Jim off my back, but I need the money.

  I want to be ready to bail if shit goes south with Leeyan. Theo is in a good place, Leeyan can royally fuck him up. Unlike before, I won’t be his shoulder to lean on. I’m the one tossing him a live grenade.

  The grenade is in the East Bay today meeting someone about a job. She left a note on the refrigerator saying she’ll be back tonight.

  “You think Sway’s up for a gig?” Rico cuts a cucumber in half with a knife and fork.

  “Break him in with something easy like bachelorette party to see how he does in a more intimate environment.” I take another bite of my burger, savoring every drop of grease, every morsel of meat.

  “You’re a fucking pig.” Rico pokes at a tomato. “What about you—have you booked anything lately?”

  Rico handles the jobs that come through his agency, but I handle my regulars and word-of-mouth gigs. Still, just because they book through me, it doesn’t mean I keep all the money. I kick down ten percent to Rico. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have clients in the first place. It’s a courtesy.

  “Nothing special.” I lean back and rub my belly. “I have news about Brazil.”

  Rico sets his fork down. “Really?”

  “She wants me settled by fall.”