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Candy & KinK
Monday, January 11, 2016
I am offering the first three chapters of my first book Ripped & Twisted here free. If afterwards you decide that you may like to read more, please go clickity-click at Amazon. (It's Free on Kindle Unlmited) If you do enjoy it, please leave a review. I love reviews. I love feedback. Hopefully...Enjoy!
Also, this is the link to the First Three Chapters of my second book Candy & Kink
Also, this is the link to the First Three Chapters of my second book Candy & Kink
Warning: This book is fictional and depicts acts of violence, graphic sex, including BDSM, M/F/M menage circumstances, and oodles of kink. This book is recommended for mature audiences (21 and over) who are not offended by scenarios such as these.
Pinks, oranges, reds, purples, and blues, they were the colors of a sunset. I could not help but think, “How beautiful?” In the same instant, I thought that was a sick and twisted thought to have at this moment just as everything turned black and the bright stars zoomed as though I were watching a bad sci-fi movie and the ship were taking off into warp speed. Then again, I had been in this scenario before. I never did scream or plea. Those things were simply impossible with his tight grip around my throat, my body hard against the wall, and my feet barely grazing the ground. Oh, I used to try to struggle and cry. I learned quickly that that was a futile effort. Soon enough, I learned that if I closed my eyes and allowed my body to go limp he would usually drop me to crumple on the floor. It became a good defense for me. It was my plan this time. Only, this time was different. I felt the release of one hand. I opened my eyes only to see the barrel of the gun raising, then pressing into my cheek.
Have you ever had a nightmare where you try to scream and there is only silence? Or have you ever once experienced sleep paralysis? It is that frightening time where you are conscious but your body is frozen. That was exactly what I felt like. My mouth flew open but nothing came out, just wheezes and gasps. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Our house was secluded. No one would have ever heard the screams.
My eyes squeezed shut. My breathing stopped. My heart leapt. Wait. Wait. I slowly lifted my lids. He had the gun to his temple.
He laughed, a maniacal laugh. A chill went through me, no it was more like a rush of ice flowing through my veins. He looked like a demon, face contorted, “It’s not loaded, you stupid cunt.” His hand dropped from my throat. I fell to my hands and knees and scrambled on all fours to try and get under the bed, like that would save me. Then, he left… Just walked out. He didn’t come back until the wee hours of the next morning.
I crawled out from under the bed about an hour later. Juvenile, but under the bed was always a safe haven for me as a child. It was the place I would go to be alone, to read, and to hide from the monsters after a scary movie. It was my own fortress so to speak, and I still clung to it as one.
I was sure he was out at the bar getting completely wasted and who knows what else with one of his whores. One would think that I would have left then. But I didn’t, not quite yet. It is truly hard to explain to people the prison of fear that traps you into a really fucked up situation. I was not really concerned with me. Hell, I had always thought that I wouldn’t live to see thirty anyway. To me this was almost destiny. I was only twenty-six. Twenty-six and I was living a complete and utter lie.
At this moment, I hated him. But, I hated myself even more.
Sometimes, I think about how I wound up with this demon of a man. I was young. I had lived a sheltered life, cloistered by private Catholic schools. Hell, at one point, I even thought about entering a convent. That was until my hormones kicked in. He was the bad boy. All the girls wanted him, and he wanted me. How could I resist?
It all seemed so harmless to begin with. I thought the first signs of jealousy meant he really loved me. In my young, innocent brain I thought this was how it was supposed to be. I mean, years of soap operas couldn’t be wrong. Shouldn’t a man be jealous at times?
Then it progressed further. He claimed he could judge others’ character better than I could which was why I was not allowed to talk to certain people. I began to believe him. I began to shut myself off from friends, family. After all, he claimed to love me and worked my virtuous body to heights I had never known could exist, my first introduction to the yearnings of lust. I sunk deeper. Once we were married and had moved a few towns away, I was completely his, isolated and caged.
Everyone on the outside, well, they had no clue what went on behind closed doors. He was good like that. He left no marks that clothes could not hide.
As I succumbed deeper to his possession, rules began to be implemented. Psychologically, he had manipulated my mind so much that I really did think that I was crazy. I sat passively as the verbal threats turned into physical actions.
I say no one knew, but I had gone to confession. Falling back to something I once held so valuable in my life, I had told the priest about my unhappy marriage and vaguely hinted at abuse. The holy man told me that it was my cross to bear and divorce was a sin. Obviously, I was not fulfilling my role as a godly wife. You have to love Catholic guilt as the cherry on top of everything else you hate about yourself, your life. I believe this was the final straw with me, and religion as well. I stayed.
I attempted to leave once. He punted my little dog across the yard. Then, he threatened to kill my parents. I did not doubt him. He was insane, and he had always had complete possession and control over me. I was not allowed to wear makeup. I was not allowed to talk to anyone unless he approved or was around. This made working in an office a little difficult needless to say. He picked out my clothes. I was not allowed to shower in the mornings and had to wear my hair in a ponytail because as he had told me time and time again, “You don’t need to impress no one.” Then again, he was never impressed with me either. As the years passed, he savored the control, but he did not crave me or my body. He curbed those cravings with other women.
I worked full time and handed over my checks to him. It was expected that the house be spotless at all times. I had to vacuum and mop daily. Dusting was also expected twice a week. Once a week, I had to move appliances and clean underneath and behind them. Yard work was my responsibility. Everything in the house had a place, and it best be in its proper place at all times.
Imagine the movie “The Burning Bed” combined with “Sleeping with the Enemy.” Our pantry, yes, the canned goods were in a specific order, labels all facing forward. Water spots on any sink or surfaces were not tolerated. Curtains cleaned and pressed. Hell, I even had to iron his paper money. Have you heard of anything so irrational? Yet, I did it.
That was my life, and as long as I followed the rules and was a good girl, I was able to keep him calm enough to get through the day. I spent my life walking on egg shells, hoping not to poke the beast. Though, I had known no other relationship but this, in my gut I knew it wasn’t okay, but I allowed it and could not rationalize why.
The last straw.
We were over at a friend’s house. It was spring. Music blaring, meat grilling on the bbq, drinks being consumed. Everything seemed, well, normal for a change. Laughing, singing, dancing, talking, then like the flash of a camera bulb, it changed. For a very rare moment, I was relaxed and felt as though I could speak freely. I remember making an offhanded sarcastic comment joking around.
His eyes darkened, blackened. He strode a path straight for me, grabbed me by the arm and drug me into the bathroom.
His voice was low, harsh. I can’t even recall all of the words that spewed forth as he shook me and threatened me.
It was probably the usual rant about me being a stupid cunt, flirting, being a stupid bitch, a whore. As quickly as we entered, we were heading out of the bathroom where he announced that I wasn’t feeling well and he was taking me home. He had bought a new Corvette convertible. He had bought it without me knowing. He liked to drive like a bat out of hell in it, weaving in and out of traffic, going twenty to forty miles above the speed limit. We screeched to a halt across our manicured lawn. The pretty green St. Augustine now ripped and torn. He continued with an iron grasp to pull me inside the house, jerking me along by the hand he had rooted in my hair. He shook me more as he was now able to unleash his screams about me embarrassing him and being such a stupid little cunt.
For the first time, I dared to yell back at him. “Fuck you!”
That’s when he slapped me across the face. Out of my head, with a new found courage, I slapped him back. He was shocked, not for long though. That’s when he spit in my face.
I spit back.
He smacked me again in the face and threw me to the floor, then stormed out of the front door. I heard the tires squeal as he drove away. I sat in a slumped ball on the carpet and cried. I was repulsed. It wasn’t the fact that he had spit on me. No, that had happened quite a few times before. It was the fact that I had acted out, and in the same manner he had done to me.
He would often abandon me after any altercation to stew in my thoughts… think about what I had done until I would call and beg him to come back, apologizing profusely for my wrongdoings. Then, I would wait for him to arrive and face my punishments in silence, returning to my docile role once again. This time, though, this time I had fought back and tested him. Tonight would be indefensible to him. No apology, no amount of pleading would help me. My mind raced and became muddled with what torture he may inflict upon me in payback.
As I laid there sobbing, everything closed in around me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had numbed myself to so much over the years. I had come to the point that I knew he would kill me eventually. I even had begun to welcome the thought. Peace from torment. That’s when I made the decision. At least I could deny him the satisfaction of taking my last breath.
I had several bottles of painkillers in a cabinet. I never took them, I had a very high tolerance for pain and never needed them. In fact, I welcomed it. Pain made me actually feel. Over the course of a few surgeries, and ‘mishaps,’ the bottles had accumulated. He liked to fill my prescriptions and sell them by the pill to people he knew. I knew he did it. I had said that I didn’t like it. How could I stop him?
We always had a full liquor cabinet and fridge full of beer. People usually wound up at our house every night after drinking all night so that they could eat and drink more. You see where this is heading right?
I started on the first bottle of pills and washed it down with a bottle of vodka. As I moved to the second bottle of pills, I switched to a six pack of beer. I sat down and began scribbling on paper. Who knows what I wrote because everything was turning blurry, and I was getting tired. I think it just resembled black swirls and scrawls across the sheets of white paper. I was feeling tired, but hot and even a little nauseous. I crawled to the bathroom and splatted across the cool ceramic tile floor. I remember being able to lift my heavy body to the toilet and vomiting, then lolling back to the floor. I don’t know how many more times I vomited. My eyes wouldn’t open anymore. I had no concept of time. I heard him laughing above me and sort of nudge me with his foot. I heard the paper of the note ripping and then him leaving again.
It was late the next day when I became conscious. My heart dropped when I did. My first thought was, “Why?”
I could open my eyes. I could even raise myself up from the mess that I was covered in. Looking in the mirror, my eyes were swollen to the size of golf balls with little slits. My hair was matted with dried vomit.
Why didn’t it work? Why was I still here? Had I really been that bad in life? I had to be in Hell, right? I just couldn’t take it anymore. How in the hell was I still alive?
This was the last straw. This is when I knew I had to plot escape.
I’m a special sort of depraved.
We’ll get back to that part of the story, maybe.
I guess you should know that I did get out. There was no knight in shining armor to help, no prince charming, just little old me. This bitch was her own hero, sort of…. Here we are now, and if you saw where I was sitting at the moment, I’m sure that you would think that I had lost any little piece of sanity that I had left.
I’ve been pretty numb for at least six years now. I have not cried in the same amount of time. The only thing that I do feel is immense rage. This fury fills me until I feel as though I may explode. Don’t get me wrong, no one suspects how dark I really am. I live a complete lie to the outside world, once again. I have become a spectacular actress. I radiate fucking happiness. I plaster a glowing smile on my face every day that I walk out of my god damn door. I make people laugh. Trust me, I can be hilarious. I am quick, sarcastic, and have a quip for everything at any time. People always tell me that I make their day and love to tell me how I make them laugh all the time. It’s an art that I’ve perfected over the years. I give a great façade, social butterfly, life of the fucking party, and the girl many guys think they want to fuck. Pricks.
It’s not completely their faults. I emanate sex. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s true what they say about pheromones. Possibly, they just smell the horny on me. Essentially, I am insatiable. In this aspect, I am just like a boy entering puberty. I think about fucking all day long, all night too. Since, I can’t always have access to a nice cock, well, let’s just say that I keep the stocks up on the battery companies.
I really am not trying to be conceited. I know that many consider me “hot.” In reality, I’m nothing special. Personally, I have never felt pretty before. At least, it wasn’t until recently that people commented that they thought I was. Weirdness. I like to claim being five foot one. After all, it’s only a quarter of inch that I’m lacking. I weigh roughly a buck. I’m tight and ripped. No, I’m not lucky. No, I don’t starve myself. My body is this way because I’ve found one way to help control the violent intense anger that threatens to bubble to the surface. Discipline. Control. Instructions. These are things that I need. I follow a regime, given to me by a trainer who keeps my ass in check and isn’t afraid to call me out on any type of bullshit with her directions. Yeah, “her.” She’s a fucking badass. She’s one of the only people in my life that I allow to tell me what to do. I eat like a bodybuilder: pure, clean, and tons. Hell, I don’t even drink any more. I work out like a fiend. I spend two to three hours in the gym a day. I’m there while the rest of the world is still tucked away in their protected, sweet cocoons. I run. I lift. I run. I lift. I do this until the tightness in my chest begins to abate a bit. Afterwards in the morning, I am able to face the rest of the world with my happy little mask.
Let me explain a little further. I found this lifestyle purely by accident. I was a normal cardio bunny using running as a release when I was approached by a female bodybuilder in the gym. We began chatting. I was intrigued when she told me, “Discipline is freedom.” I thought she was insane.
Many people don’t understand that the discipline and control that one takes upon themselves in this lifestyle somehow really do give me a freedom to live the rest of my life without falling completely apart or becoming completely self-destructive. Maintaining the regime, and self-restraint that comes along with it, help me manage the times that I must appear normal to the rest of society. It does not help all of my inner yearnings though.
I work at a gym. I have to be a ray of sunshine to everyone who comes in. Therefore, the great faux persona is mixed with the bod that I kill myself for. I won’t lie, part of me does this from the years of being told how fat and frumpy I was when I was a whopping ninety-five pounds. Besides, during that period I truly began, and still somewhat believe, that I am “a horror to all men.” Yep I was told that. Do you like that one?
I like to keep a pretty, edgy, a somewhat punk vibe. I have tattoos, but they’re sweet. Fuck, even the LOVE/HATE on my wrists are inked in pink. I always joke, “It’s just a subtle, little dab of girly hate.” By the way, I hate the color pink. I sport it, though, with all of those other floral, bright colors because it makes me seem even brighter. I keep my hair short, crazy, yet feminine and bleached now. That would be rebellion for all of the years not allowed to color or cut it without retribution. This is me, Faith Dumont, who has the face of a sweet angel, filthy sense of humor, has a penchant for angry, aggressive rock, and love of everything. At least this is how it appears to everyone else. The dichotomy of the equation, I’m told, equals “hot.” Shrug.
It helps, the crazy routine. You know, they say that exercise releases endorphins to help improve your mood. For me, my mental state doesn’t change very much. I am riddled with nefarious thoughts and intentions. I am, however, constantly horny. I mentioned that, didn’t I? I am anything but promiscuous though. There have been only four men since I left my, um, situation. Suffice it to say that I own pretty much every battery operated device out there. I even carry them with me so that I can get a little self-quickie anytime during the day. Gotta love an orgasm for quick deliverance from tension. Can you believe that I can actually orgasm during my workouts too? Yes, yes, I can after exceptionally hard, long sessions. Those are the only two emotions that I actually feel now, hate and lust. I say hate, when in actuality it is a deep seated self-loathing.
This routine doesn’t help soothe my turmoil completely. Too many times, I feel that my skin is so tight and that the blackness expanding inside of me is going to rip me to shreds. These are the nights that I wind up here, Rapture. Fucking corny ass name.
Rapture, my friends, is an underground BDSM club. This place is nothing like you read about in those lame ass books either. It’s dark. It’s scary looking. It’s fucking paradise to a person like me. This is New Orleans after all. The building is old, exposed brick, old worn wood floors that creak, dark hallways. There are still oil lamps on the walls. No sign adorns the outside. Off the side streets from all of the famous bars and tourist traps, the building sits tucked between others looking like any other random private residence. The last thing we need is an accidental asshole tourist peeking in for a looky-loo. Just in case someone stumbles upon us and knocks, the foyer has a door that blocks what lies beyond.
This is where I come several nights a week. I’m here tonight, sitting at the ancient wooden bar nursing a club soda with slices of lemon and lime. I told you that I don’t drink anymore. Not only does the booze mess with my ability to create the intensity I need in my workout routine, I do not want it to dull what goes on here. Besides, suffice it to say, that I have a few issues with drinking until the point of blackout. Or even worse. This habit alone should have contributed to me being in jail or dead.
I sit scanning the entrance every few minutes waiting for Slade to come in. Slade is the man who can give me what I need. When I say need, I mean it. I require what he does like the necessity of oxygen.
Behind the bar, J grabs my glass and refills it full of my fuzzy favorite. “He’ll be here. He said he would, didn’t he?” I give him a little nod. J gives me a sympathetic but reassuring smile and goes back to serving other patrons. I turn in my stool to watch the front room. Lots of the usual suspects are here. Nothing outlandish goes on in this area. People mingle, dance, sit, and chat as though it were any other nightclub. We even look like it, no stupid getups. I’m wearing a backless black dress that dips so low that you can see the dimples at the top of my ass. It’s held up, barely, by two thin straps. The dress is silky, short, and sexy. Royal blue platform heels, “fuck me pumps,” round it out. I look like I could be dancing to the house music and pulsing lights in any club in the Quarter.
My skin has begun to burn. My insides feel expanded like a balloon about to burst. Pressure, so much pressure, and those feelings of hate and self-loathing. My jaw is clenching so hard that I feel as though my teeth may crack. The suffocating feelings are creeping in. I begin to slump a little in my seat, putting my elbow on the bar and my head in my hand. That’s when I feel him even before his finger lightly runs down my bare back. He steps in front of me smiling and bending down to look deep in my eyes. “They’re almost green,” he says referring to my eyes. “You must be bad, Squirt.” My eyes are ordinarily gray blue. My mood dictates the color. The wrath makes them this color, a weird mix of aqua and green.
“I keep telling you I’m a petite delicate fucking flower, you big oaf.” I give a half smile.
By anyone’s standards, Slade Gautreaux is gorgeous. He is about six foot three, dark brown hair, always mussed up. Slade is built like a Physique competitor. Hell, that’s because he is: lean, full blown shredded. He has that v-taper that makes the girls go crazy. I call them cum gutters, because well, yeah. Every single time that I see those, I want to run my tongue along those creases that lead to his cock for hours, mmmmmmm. His eyes, damn, they’re so icy blue. The man is downright beautiful. I’ve seen women throw themselves at him on the street or at the gym. Me? I use him, and he knows it. I don’t do romantic, neither does he. To me, love is for chumps. Love is evil. Love is a lie and the most sordid of all bullshit. I’ve been down that road before. He makes my cunt wet. But all that heart fluttering, stomach flipping shit? No.
Between us, there are no possessive feelings or jealousy. We respect each other. We do this. He does not ask me detailed questions about my past, and I return the favor. I will say, no matter what anyone tells you, there needs to be sexual attraction in this. We do have that, and we share the common fact that normal people cannot fulfill what we do here. Slade still creates the normal illusion on the outside though. He dates magnitudes of gorgeous clients. By date, I mean he fucks them. He’s a trainer at the gym. Yes, the one that I work at, imagine that. Poor women, they’re clueless, and they fall hopelessly for him even though he always divulges first thing that he is not a relationship type of guy. On the outside, we’re just friends. I mean, we actually are friends. He is the closest thing that I have to a real friend. We just carry the secret of what takes place here between us. I’m going to call us a special sort of friends, with ‘special’ benefits.
You may wonder how did this thing even begin? Fetish events are quite common here. It just so happened that I was at one, observing. Yeah, I like to watch and …exhibit. I was watching a super, sexy flogging when someone approached me from behind and whispered, “Well, well, well… who would have ever thought?” I turned to see Slade.
All I said was, “Face of an angel, the rest is pure sin.” That was the beginning and end. We’ve been hooking up ever since. Kin of the kink, you could call it.
There are times that we do not meet here. Slade has the honor of being the only person with a key to my house. What can I say? We both have an insatiable sex drive. I have never said no when he has happened to pop up for a little late night frolic. Besides, as happy as all of those toys make me, nothing replaces the real deal dick, my friends.
He offers his arm, and I stand taking it, snag my coat from the other stool, and we journey to another part of Rapture. Finally. My jaw relaxes just a bit. Soon. Soon, I’ll be okay for a little while. Slade and I almost always venture through the building to the far back where we take the skinny set of worn wooden stairs to the third floor. Two people cannot walk side by side, so he follows behind and puts his hand gently on my lower back. There is only one room up here, an old attic that has been roughly finished. Small windows allow the glow of moonlight through. Purples, blacks, burgundies are the colors in this room. The velvets and satins make the antiquated area look sumptuous with slight Goth club feel.
Slade closes the door behind us. I walk to the center of the room and kick off my heels. I lower one strap at a time until the dress pools at my feet. I step out and kick it to the side of the room and stand in my blue lace panties. I’m not coy. I’m ready. Slade just points and says, “Those too,” referring to the lace panties. I hook my fingers inside the lace at my hips and push them down. I know this means this evening will end with hard, fabulous fucking. He turns and goes to the armoire in the corner. My skin starts to tingle with anticipation to see what he pulls out.
Fuck yes. He walks over with the two metal spreader bars. He locks my ankles in the metal cuffs. My legs are spread wide. Immediately, I’m wet. He does the same with my arms, and up they go above my head being hooked to the chain hanging from the ceiling. Once again, He goes to the armoire. I swear I feel my wetness already sliding down my inner thigh. When he turns again and I see the leather cat-o-nine with metal studs on the ends, my pussy gushes. This is going to be so fucking good. The chomp of those studs, I can feel it before he’s even begun.
He likes to tease me, the bastard, gliding the leather and cool metal slowly up and down my spine, over my ass. I writhe. “Fuck, just do it, Slade.” There’s none of that playing master and servant between us. I don’t call him ‘Sir.’ He doesn’t demand obedience. Although at times, I wish…
This is pure ecstasy and raw urges that need to be fulfilled. The first sting always makes me flinch and let out a “God Damn!... God Damn!” He tells me that it reminds him of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. To me, that first hit is the beginning of my high. That burn, it gets an honest smile out of me. I can feel a tinge of release, like black smoke beginning to float out of me. The strike comes again, metal pricking my skin, searing pain. Real physical pain. I feel this. I can actually feel. The tentacles of the leather octopus deliver blows that kiss and caress and ignite me. My back, from my shoulders to my thighs, is inflamed. I probably even have tiny pricks where the metal has hit, and I love it. I throw my head back. I’m feeling lighter inside. He always moves away from my back after a short while and focuses on my ass. The padded area can take the exquisite torture for a longer period. I have no idea how many lashes have been delivered altogether. I stopped counting at thirty-two. I do know that my nipples are hard as rocks and puckered tight. I can feel them squeezing around the metal of the barbells going through them. I vaguely hear my moans amid the thwacks. Then, it stops. My heart drops slightly. As I lower my head and open my eyes, Slade is in front of me. He brushes my cheek with his hand and simply says, “Done.”
We don’t worry about the tiny pricks, but when there’s an actual cut or “tear,” Slade stops. I feel my mouth open and close and open again. I need more. I don’t feel enough. I’m not fully released of the churning within. I should know better than to think that Slade would leave me hanging though. No pun intended.
He releases my ankles from the cuffs, then bites his way up one leg, over my soaked pussy, licking over my stomach which makes my muscles twitch and jump, until he reaches my tits. He bites my nipples and somehow twists the barbell piercing at the same time. Holy fuck…. my cunt convulses. My brain snaps to a thought, “Maybe I should get my clit pierced.” I must have gotten lost in that thought for a few seconds because before I know it, his tongue was lapping the wetness that was pouring out of me. God, the man’s tongue was magic. Combined with his teeth biting my clit, I swear I have died and gone to heaven, if heaven was pure orgasm on top of orgasm. My breath is ragged, and I push my hips toward him when he pulls his mouth away.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
Then, he slaps my pussy. Gush. Damn, that always gets me. He stands and pulls off his t-shirt. Those fucking cum gutters. Gush. I lick my lips and even bite my lower lip. He undoes his jeans and pushes them down. There it is that amazing huge, fat cock. Gush. He lifts one of my legs and right before he wraps it around his hip, he slaps my pussy again. Moan. He slams that gorgeous cock into me and grabs me by the ass to lift me to his level. I swear he’s hitting up to my belly button inside of me.
His hands are gripped onto my ass cheeks spreading them wide so that he can pound me like a jackhammer. His hands move to grasp my hips so that he can hold me firmly in place to plunge deeper. I feel the metal pressing into my hands and wrists as he pulls me down onto his steel dick. With each agonizing yet gratifying drive, his pulsing rod slides across my aching clit. Combined with the scorching dull ache swimming across my rear, this teasing of my clit is driving me insane. Too gentle. I wanted to have my arms free so that I could pull Slade close and bite him. We never kiss, but we do bite each other, hard.
I also want to get closer so that I can get harder friction on my clit.
I just breathe, “More, harder.”
With that, he pulls me closer by the waist with one arm to free his other. He’s still slamming me up and down on his cock. His finger goes directly to my little screaming nub. He pushes and rubs it like he’s pissed at it, and I cannot get enough. I can feel his cock actually getting harder and bigger inside of me. Just then, he pinches my clit, pinches and twists.
“Oooooh my fucking God!!”
My whole body shakes, and my pussy begins its convulsions and pulses around him, as I cum and cum hard. With a push that I swear moves all of my internal organs, I feel him let go as he groans and bites into my shoulder. Perfection.
He holds me for a moment before sliding my legs so that my feet touch the floor again. One arm free, I slump spent against him. He keeps one arm around me as he frees my other arm. All the blood rushes into my arms, and they get that glorious pins and needles feeling. I laugh a little and look at Slade as I try to move them. Useless. He laughs and brings me down to the floor to lean against him. He turns my face enough to look at my eyes. His brow furrows a little.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
He sighs a little, “You sure?”
I nod and give him my sweetest smile.
“Twelve weeks, Fae.”
“Uuuuugh,” I collapse back onto the floor dragging my still tingling arms across my face. “I know this, okay? You don’t have to remind me. I’m a big girl, Slade. It’s stupid anyway. Maybe I just won’t do it… it’s stupid.”
Did I forget to mention that I compete too? Yep, I stand on stage in the teeniest of bikinis that has to be glued down so it doesn’t go up your ass crack and twat. The sucker is gorgeous though with all of those crystals. What can I say? I love the bling. I love being on stage. I am an exhibitionist. I have horrible self-esteem, though you would never guess it when I’m up there. I own that stage.
He pokes me in the belly with his finger, “Yes, you will. You love that shit too much, and you know it. You just… You know, we have to start being more careful… the marks, ya know?”
I lift my arms above my head and let them drop to the floor. “I know. It’ll be fine. There’s the other stuff. It’ll be fine.” I look at him square in the eye and cock an eyebrow, “Maybe we’ll just have to fuck more often.” He laughs, rolls me from his lap onto my belly on the floor, and rubs his hands across my ass and back. I prop myself up on my elbows and rest my head in my hands. I barely even feel the results. “We haven’t broken out the wheel in a while, or wax, or clamps, or…”
He interrupts me.
“O.K., O.K., I get it. Fae, you look like someone threw pepper on your ass.” I grin at him. “Last time you get that until after the show. You’ll be starting practice soon. What would you say if people asked what happened?”
“Well, Slade, I would say that someone threw pepper on my ass.” I give a facetious grin.
He bends again looking into my eyes and rubs his hand along my forehead.
I crinkle my brow and frown. “Would you?” I whisper.
He nods his head and rises and walks to the cabinet. I roll over onto my back and put my arms above my head again. I told you I need what this man does for me. Obviously, you see he is anything but vanilla. Slade knows my needs. He is the only person who ever has known of my urges and that something more rages within, and somehow, he always knows when I need more. He reads me like a book at times.
He returns and kneels before me unwrapping the hermetically sealed plastic box. He pops open the lid and raises the sparkling scalpel.
I told you; I’m a special sort of depraved.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
In hopes of piquing your interest, I have decided to give you the first few chapters of my book Candy & Kink for FREE. If afterwards you may want to read more, please go clickity-click at Amazon. If you do read it and enjoy it, please leave a review. I love reviews. I love feedback. I plan on doing the same with my first novel Ripped & Twisted for you as well later this week. Hopefully, Enjoy!!
Thank you! xoxo JLE
Thank you! xoxo JLE
“Britt? Hey, Britt?”
I call for the bartender. When she doesn’t answer me, I raise my head from my arms that are crossed on the sticky wooden bar. In my Jameson haze, I think I hear those sounds definitely equated with sex. Turning my head to the back of the bar, sure enough, I see Britt sprawled on her back over the edge of the lacquered wood top, legs flopped on top of someone’s shoulders. I say someone because there is no identifying the person whose head is buried between her legs. Then, I do see a pair of burley hands wrap around her thighs, so I do assume it is a guy…this time.
“Christ, Britt,” I mumble and make half of an attempt to address Britt and let her know of my intentions. “Hey, Britt, I’m getting a Jamie, okay?... k,” my voice trails off with each word. I lift myself onto the stool and belly flop on top of the bar reaching for the bottle of amber liquid in the green bottle just behind the ledge. I slide back down onto my seat and pour a liberal amount, hell, I pour the liquid to the top of my rock glass. I take a sip and feel that lovely burn down the back of my throat all the way descending to my stomach. I turn to my other side and notice Z sitting at the other end of the bar, seemingly oblivious to the show so far as well.
“Z, care for a refill? I hear it’s on the house tonight.”
I lift the bottle and tip it side to side when he raises his head. He seems to just notice Britt’s partner making for a late night snack and shakes his head at them and smirks. Then he turns to me and puts the book he’s been reading down.
Z is an imposing man with a full, yet well groomed, black beard. Just slight tinges of gray are beginning to make themselves known amongst his facial hairs. He combs back his equally dark hair in a style reminiscent of days gone by. Silver streaks the hair only at his temples on his head. One arm is decorated in colorful ink. Even though the white v-neck tee he wears is loose, you cannot mistake the strong build beneath. Though I would be petrified to bump into this wall of a man on the street, he is one of the nicest people that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
“Sure, sweets, fill her up,” he slides his empty glass toward me.
I pick up my almost full glass and carry the bottle down toward him. At this point, I just climb over the bar to grab some ice for our drinks, and wiggle back over after depositing the chilly cubes into their new home. After all, Britt and her partner are blocking the swing top opening usually used for easy access behind the bar. Z is laughing at me as I plop back down to the customer’s side. I sit two stools away from Z and pour to the top of his glass. We clink glasses and each sip simultaneously. I lean back over the bar and retrieve my secret stash that Britt keeps there for just for me. I plunk the plastic bag full of colorful confections on the slick top, and open them, tilting the opening toward Z.
He shakes his head declining this offer, “You and those damn jelly beans.”
I lift a pink one in front of me and look at it a second before asking, “Sometimes, I think they’re better than sex, ya know?”
“Sounds to me like you’ve been having the wrong kind of sex then, my girl,” Z retorts.
“I haven’t been having any sex,” I mutter. I do not even look at him, but continue studying the little candied bean. Out of the blue an odd thought crosses my mind, “Hey, you think these would taste good in whiskey? You know infusing a bottle, like they do the honey whiskey?” I glance back over at Z.
He scrunches up his face, “I don’t doubt that you’ll try it. I swear you have the worst sweet tooth of anyone I have ever known.”
I stick my tongue out at him, and I pick up the book from the bar top that he had just put down. The black cover has wear, The Jungle by Upton Sinclair.
“Just a little light reading for the night, Z?” I raise a brow and give him a grin.
“Don’t mock me. You’re the one who recommended it.”
I nod, raise my glass and take another sip.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Well, sweets, kind of makes me understand those vegetarian people a little more.”
“Oh, you’re still early on,” I laugh.
“What? It gets worse?” he actually looks a little concerned.
“Let’s just say that the working conditions and the state of affairs in a turn of the century slaughter house are daisies and butterflies compared to what else happens as the book goes on.”
“Christ, Claudette, you are one morbid girl. You tell me Dracula is your favorite book of all time; you suggest all of these zombie, horror or really depressing books for me to read. I bet you were one of those kids that dressed all in black and listened to The Cure and Bauhaus while you hung out in the cemetery, huh?”
I arch my brow and stare at Z.
“Forget it. I am not calling you that other name. Claudette is your God-given name, and God damn it, that’s what I’m calling you.”
I shake my head and cannot restrain the smile growing. I decide to prod Z a little.
“Well, Z, one day you will tell me your God-given name too. And, yes, I was.” I angle my head and in a hushed voice continue, “Still do too.”
“Why in the hell would you still hang out in the cemetery?”
I shrug, “Quiet, peaceful, pretty,” I look back up and stare him straight in the eye, “sexy.”
He belly laughs, “Shit, Claudette, you sure are one of a kind.”
I arch my brow at him again.
He arches his brow back, “I. Am. Not. Calling. You. That. Name.”
I turn from him with a smirk on my face and drink while staring into the mirror behind the bar. The smirk fades. The mirror is cloudy, like looking into a reflection through a thick mist. I wonder if bars purposefully do not clean the mirrors so that patrons do not have to get a clear sight of themselves. I mean, would we be sitting here drinking ourselves into an oblivion if we really wanted to see our true self to begin with?
“So, how is work anyway?” Z gently breaks into my thoughts.
“Same as always, Z.”
Just then, our attention is completely focused on Britt as she screams her proclamation of obvious pleasure. The perpetrator of orgasm finally rises and is revealed.
“He is fiiine,” I mumble as I catch sight of a hunk who is very reminiscent of Tyson Beckford.
“Close your mouth, Claudette. You’re gawking,” Z warns me good-naturedly.
“Well, crap Z, they’re the ones putting on the show. Besides, he’s pretty,” I grin to Z and slug back the rest of my glass.
He shakes his head at me.
“You women and your damn pretty men…There’s no reason that you can’t have a pretty guy, or boyfriend, or any guy at all, Claudette, but do you really want a guy that just did that?”
“I’m not saying I want him, Z. I’m just admiring the view. I did my fair share of that, well…not that.” I tilt my head to the couple who recently finished their public performance minutes earlier. “Crap you know what I mean, the jumping from one guy to the next…besides, no man wants a relationship with a stripper. If they do, it’s not for very long, and maybe I kind of want more than a fling these days. Maybe,” I grab the bottle and refill my glass and his.
“It shouldn’t matter,” he rebuffs. “You’re a good girl, pretty, smart. I’d date you sweets,” he winks and chuckles.
“Z, you’re old enough to be my father,” I poke his arm with one finger.
“Am not! I’m only forty for Christ’s sake. You know the old saying, age is only a number, Claudette? Anyway, if you think the only reason you’re not getting serious guys is because of your job, why don’t you go to school or change your career? All you do is complain about it anyway, the guys, the hustle…You’re young enough to make a change. For Christ’s sake, you’re only twenty-nine. I’ve told you time and again that I’ll even give you a job, my girl.”
I rub my temples, “Not this again.” I turn to face his dark, caramel brown, twinkling eyes, “See, not only are you old enough to be my father, but you act like one too. Besides, what would I do in a garage?” I snort.
I poke him in the arm again. It seems I enjoy poking him as I get more inebriated, just like his favorite phrase becomes ‘for Christ’s sake.’ Moreover, Z normally has a two, three drink max limit on nightcaps. It’s funny to see him get tipsy. I hiccup.
“Dunno… Maybe I should; I’m getting too old to be an exotic dancer too.” I throw up the air quotes. “Soon, I’ll be getting booed off the stage anyway. I may have to take you up on that offer,” I giggle thinking about the ridiculousness of it all.
“Oh for…” I chime in simultaneously with him “Christ’s sake!”
I begin to laugh uncontrollably, and Z joins in for a chuckle too.
“No, Claudette, you still look like a baby. Nobody is going to boo you offstage, my girl. You’re beautiful,” I think he turns serious for only a slight moment, as his hand brushes mine that is on the bottle of Jameson. Instead he quickly jerks the bottle away, and then he adds in, “even if you are a pain in the ass sometimes.”
“Okay, Mr. Funnypants, so, why don’t you have a girl?”
“Well, Dette, I have a certain girl…um, I mean type of girl in my head. I’m just waiting for her…”
I cut him off, “Probably, a pretty girl, like one of these pinups on your arm,” I poke at, then trail my finger along the vibrant and stunning, perfectly posed, barely covered depictions of female bodies on his arm, surrounded by equally exquisite roses complimenting the beautiful scene.
“Yeah, she’s pretty. I don’t deny enjoying a pleasing picture, Dette.”
“See? I’m not the only one. Maybe I should forget the fairy tale and just go back to being a little more like Britt…free, in it just for fun, no worries, just orgasm after glorious orgasm,” it comes out in titters. I poke him in the arm one more time. “I guess it’s better than waiting for Mister Non-existent. You know,” I get slightly wistful, “tall, handsome, a gentleman, spontaneous, reads, can actually have a conversation, attentive, a little rough around the edges, but polite, funny, adventurous, wants to have sex all the time, with a little romantic side,” I sigh and shake my head, “Shit, enough talk about me, my ass, my dancing, the dream man who can’t keep his hands off of me,” I giggle once more.
“That’s one hell of a list, Dette,” he sighs out.
“Yeah, maybe so…” I slap the top of the bar. “Well, Z, I think I’m going to go shower off the slut cake from my face and maybe go have breakfast. Come with?”
“Naw, I think I’m going to make sure this plays out okay with Britt and Mr. Munches over there. Don’t want to leave her alone, yet.”
I give his shoulder a squeeze and go to retrieve my clutch from where I was seated earlier. “Well, just text me if you change your mind. I’ll be at our usual place in a bit.” I walk toward the door, and Z rises and opens it for me. The orange glow of sunrise makes me squint. Obviously, I was ignorant of the hours wasting through the night that I’ve once again spent tucked away in The Hideaway…perfect name for the place.
“You okay?” Z asks as he places a hand on my waist to make sure that I’m steady.
“Yeah, I can make it the four feet to the front door.” He is really a good man, a gentleman, a dying breed for sure. “Thanks, Z. I’ll see you later.” Z continues to stand in the doorway and keeps an eye on me, but I am not kidding either. I turn to the left, step four feet from the bar’s entrance and unlock the next heavy black door embedded in the brick. The staircase is dark and narrow, the runs and risers painted black. There are two apartments above The Hideaway. I live on the second floor right above the bar. To tell the truth, I have no clue who lives above me. They are gone during the day, probably like normal people, and obviously, I’m gone all through the nights. I think it works out perfectly for both of us.
I make it to the second landing and unlock my purple door. On this second landing, there is my apartment. Directly to the right of my door is the laundry room, a prominent and desired feature of a building with just two living quarters. However, the bar below also has access and uses the laundry room for their bar linens. Because of this, the laundry room has two washers and two dryers, at no cost to us, plus some racks and shelving. It is the size of a small bedroom, probably the reason why my place lacks one.
I step into my cocoon of comfort, and I hear the familiar meow. My faithful companion all dressed in his black tux of fur, white at his chest and paws.
“Hey, Poe,” I reach down and graze my hand along his black coat. “Are you hungry, my dapper man?”
My platform heels click along the distressed oak flooring as I walk the few steps into my tiny efficiency kitchen. Opening a cabinet door, I grab a gourmet can of kitty food. Poe immediately jumps on the counter as the lid cracks open and pounds his head into my hand.
“What? Can’t even wait for a proper bowl? That’s no way for a gentleman to behave.” I try to lift my arm higher as I go to grab a crockery from a shelf, but Poe continues his barrage, but now against my ribs.
“What the hell,” I surrender and drop the can on the counter, “as dapper as you look, you are no gentleman. Oh well, the actual Poe was an alcoholic poetic fop. Why do I think he had manners when after his favored obsession? Binge, my love, binge,” I declare in an overly dramatic voice.
I leave Poe to his meal, pour myself a huge glass of water, and continue into the open space which serves as both my living area and my bedroom. There is a huge, fire engine red, velveteen couch against the east wall of exposed brick peeking through decades of worn and disintegrated plaster. It is a pullout, but I rarely take the effort to use it. A black coffee table is placed directly in front of it. Against the west wall is a plush, deep purple chaise lounge. I have four soft pillows in black and red propped against the brick on top of the seat of the chaise. Both of these pieces of furniture have served me well as places to crash.
I do love the cherry wood armoire which sits near my chaise. It’s antique, monstrously large and was in the place when I moved in. Well, actually, the place came furnished. All of my clothing is housed within this beauty of a wardrobe. On the wall separating the kitchen from this space, there is a grouping of shelves which houses all of my beloved books and a small deck for my music player.
The southern part of my apartment faces the street below. I love the two sets of French doors that open onto the cozy balcony that is railed with black wrought iron, my own private oasis. I throw those open now and fall into one of my two cushioned metal chairs there. Lower Decatur Street is just beginning to come alive this morning as those making their way home from the twenty-four hour bars stumble to their domiciles, and those other responsible folks are off to their reputable places of employment.
I love this outer part of the Quarter area. The streets are not as flocked with tourists, and best of all, they do not hold the prominent stench of stale urine and vomit. Those aromas are mainly kept to Bourbon Street and the closer surrounding streets.
The aroma of coffee floats on the air and fills my nose. This is one of my favorite smells. I enjoy it for a few moments and decide that I should get up and take a bath and go around the corner to Maxine’s for my own morning jolt.
Though my bathroom is not huge, it boasts another favorite perk of my abode, a beautiful cream claw-foot tub. There is nothing like a luxurious bubble bath to help remove the body glitter and caked on makeup from my glamorous job. In case you didn’t notice, that was said with a note of sarcasm.
While the water is flowing, I strip down and glance in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Unfortunately, this mirror is clean and throws my reflection back in full clarity. Many comment that I resemble one of those silent film actresses from the twenties with my black angular bobbed hair and heart shaped face.
Thick fake lashes and black eyeliner frame my light, sage green eyes. My lids are a little droopy from my nightly treks to The Hideaway. My red lips are still painted to perfection thanks to these fourteen hour brands of lipstick. My skin is porcelain white, however, this morning a few splotches of pink fleck my cheeks and black smudges that are not makeup induced shadow my eyes. Even still, I have a somewhat pretty appearance. I’ll admit it.
At five foot three, I’m not tall, but not too short. The hour glass figure works, even though I only possess B-cups. The customers don’t seem to mind, a handful or mouthful right? I take a deep breath and peel off my lashes.
And though my appearance is unclouded here, I still don’t know who or what I truly am beneath. I have been dancing for so long that I know nothing else and only identify with the performing, the glitter, the stigma, the stereotype, the money. I have been doing it since I was old enough to get into a bar. Even if I did quit, I was serious when I said that I had no clue what I would do with myself. Pondering it for too long jumbles my feelings on the subject even more.
Am I proud of what I do? It’s hard to say. I certainly don’t mind being an exhibitionist. I have no guilt over seducing from the stage scarcely covered. I do not, however, enjoy the constant ‘offers’ and ‘requests’ for more than what my job technically entails. During those incidences, I feel sleazy and sordid. That is when I feel repulsed by myself, less than valuable to anyone, just merchandise to be bartered over.
Then again, there’s no one around for me to worry about disappointing, or for that matter, being filled with pride by me either. What can I say? It’s simply easier to continue baring it all, have some drinks with bar friends, a few laughs, and afterwards, slip into my cocoon to withdraw until the cycle begins again. Thankfully, this arrangement keeps me tired and just social enough to not feel completely deprived of closer bonds. No, that’s not true. From time to time, I do muse of romantic interludes and rendezvous, the fairy tale even…but only from time to time.
I’m not ashamed that this way of life has allowed me to be independent. I’ve never depended on anyone, and have always been able to afford what I have desired. So, in a weird way, yeah, I’m proud of that aspect.
I stare a second longer into the mirror. That reflection, well, it is the honest truth. It could be that all I actually am is a step above the illustrious ladies of the night, and completely blank on the inside, void of self, just existing day to day, but not living. I’m not even sure I would know how.
I turn off the water and step into the citrus scented bubbles. I sink down into pure heaven. This is the daily ceremony that makes me feel purified after my nights in the murky, grimy darkness of my existence.
An hour later, I am seated at a table next to the glass store-front of Maxine’s. I have always enjoyed people watching. Sometimes, I make up stories in my head about the people I see. Maybe it is because I do not get to truly know many people. Sure, I come in contact with a hundred or more people a week at my job, but that is all so forced and phony.
Let’s face it, these men, and sometimes women, are not spending money to get to know me, nor me them. No, they want a fantasy. They want to feel wanted, sexually desired. I provide that glimmer of chance in their little illusion. I choose to think of it as theater. Perhaps, this is my way of somewhat rationalizing my occupation. I actually do love the dancing, the selling myself for lap dances and fending off the creepers that think they’ll get more, not so much. The money, however, helps me justify it all.
Derek, one of the waiters, approaches my table. Derek with his spike-y pink hair, black smudge-lined eyes and stretched ears is a fixture here.
“Morning, Candy. You’re looking smashing, as always, love.” He turns his head side to side looking about the shop, “What’s this, no Z this morning?”
In my 50’s style black cotton halter dress with a huge skirt and wedged sandals, I opt for just black cat eyes and my signature red lipstick. This would be my “simple” day look.
“Thank you, Derek, and no, when I left he was making sure one of Britt’s escapades didn’t take a wrong turn.”
He rolls his eyes, “That girl.” He sighs before asking, “Usual? Boyfriend or no?”
I contemplate his query. I shouldn’t, but I really do want it. “Thank you, Derek. Boyfriend, please,” I shine my prettiest smile.
Boyfriend, in case you were wondering, refers to my main man, Jameson. Jamie will be joining me for breakfast via my cup of coffee and cream. Should I be indulging after I have finally sobered up? Probably not, but there are days that I enjoy the unceasing buzz. It’s not like I have important matters to ponder or a job that requires intellectual rationale. Keeping my mind a little muddled prevents me from becoming preoccupied with my lack of self, or having to deal with those pesky feelings. Besides, aside from Poe, Jamie is the other stable man in my life.
And Derek? Well, unfortunately, he bats for his own team, a little disheartening as he treats me like a person regardless of my profession, but then again, he isn’t after anything my body can give to him.
“Have anything exciting planned for today, Candy?”
In case you didn’t notice it before, you now know my stage name.
“Um, maybe the bookstore, maybe day drinking outside somewhere or on my balcony. Is that exciting?”
“God no!” He gives an exaggerated gasp and continues, “Woman, when are you ever going to give me juicy stories? I want dirt. I want the sleaze. I want the decadent.”
“I’ve got nothing, Derek. You have to rely on Britt for that. I’m sorry that I’m so boring.”
“The way you look, there can never be anything boring about you. I think you hold out on me, Candy, I really do, but then again, a real lady never kisses and tells, does she?” He taps the wooden table top with his ink pen, turns, and wanders off to the kitchen.
I continue my window surveillance while waiting. That’s when I see him. As he approaches closer, my body tingles. He’s gorgeous, tall, lean, and those eyes. His eyes are piercing though I can’t tell the color. When he is only feet away, our eyes lock through the glass. It is only for the briefest of moments as he walks pass, but I am drawn to him and continue to follow him with my gaze. I just cannot look away.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“What?” I turn to see Derek standing next to me with a steaming mug also ogling the stranger through the glass.
“Elliot, he’s gorgeous, right?”
I shrug and accept the cup trying to remain cool. Derek takes a seat in the chair across from me.
“Oh don’t even try to act like he’s not OR like you weren’t staring, Candy.” Derek sighs, “He looks kind of like, who’s that guy? You know, the one that played in the angst-y teen TV show back in the 90’s. Oh! Oh! And he’s been in some movies, um, that really depressing one, Requiem For a Dream, aaaannnd, oh yeah, he just got an award for that Dallas Buyer’s Club?! He’s got that band? Joshua? Jacob?”
It clicks in my head of who Derek is trying to think of, “You mean, Jared Leto?”
“YES! Doesn’t he look like him?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I answer and shrug nonchalantly, but Derek has hit the nail on the head. This Elliot guy does resemble him, except he has dirty blonde hair. But even Leto had the shaggy style once that fell across his forehead and over one eye, and the blonde color too.
“I can’t believe you haven’t met him yet.”
“Why would I have ever met him?”
“Oh my God, Candy, he lives in the apartment above you!”
My stomach drops, and I bite my lip. Holy crap, this guy is my neighbor?
I try to remain unaffected, “Well, you know my schedule. I’m never home anyway.”
Derek rests his chin on top of his hands and looks off in thought, “I still haven’t figured out which way he goes, but I don’t think it’s my direction since he hasn’t succumbed to my charms.” He turns and faces me and waggles his brows, “Well, Candy Cane, that would leave him open for you, hun.”
I sip my coffee before shaking my head. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living?”
Derek waves a hand in the air, “Seriously, who cares about that?”
“Straight men care about that Derek. Who wants to date a stripper?”
Derek rises and shakes his head. “You are insane, Candy. Besides, who said anything about dating?” His brows dance in unison again, “I’ll be back in a few with your food.”
After I finish my breakfast, I stroll around to the tiny used bookstore tucked away in one of the alleyways. I finger all of the worn paperbacks, not sure what I’m really in the mood for. Then I see Salem’s Lot. I remember seeing the movie when I was small, and it scared the hell out of me, so much so that I have not watched it since. Feeling dangerous, I decide to get the book and see if it is as scary as the parts of the movie that I remember. It’s weird, but I enjoy being frightened. Maybe it’s the residual Goth in me. I was not lying when I told Z that I was one of those girls. I do revel in the ghoulish and morbid.
Books have always been a staple for me. They are my escape. Reading allows me to get out of my head for a short while and into someone else’s. I love that I can plant myself into a story and just lose myself. Daydream vacations from reality. It just so happens that I like realms of the dark and macabre to visit. Besides, though I do relish the thought of romance and happy endings, I prefer to steer clear of it in my reading. There’s no reason to remind myself of the unattainable on a constant basis. My head does it enough without even having to enter the book world of romance.
I decide to behave and skip the bar that is adjacent to the bookstore. Instead, I just walk back home with plans to lounge and read, and hopefully, nap before my shift tonight.
This is exactly what I do.
At two a.m., The Police’s Every Breath You Take is pulsing through the dark club. For some reason, the strip clubs around here love to stick to retro music. I stand on a glossy black round stage, pole in the center, light refracting a rainbow of skipping dots on my gyrating body from the mirrored disco ball above. When I am up here, I tend to zone out in a sense. I do not focus on anyone out there. I let whatever song is on talk to my body, and I sway and move to the lyrics and beat of the music.
I hold the pole in one hand while slowly sauntering in a circle, my free hand expertly unclasping my sparkling black rhinestone bra. I tilt forward allowing the straps to fall forward. One arm gracefully up and out, slipping to hold the cups in place as the other arm follows the same motions. Both hands then slide the glittering fabric down my stomach revealing all to those in the room. With a quick flick, I toss the bra toward the back of the stage so that I can retrieve it on my way out. My hands reach behind my head, gliding up above my hair to stretch and display the perfect pert pair that these guys want to get their hands on.
Now bare except for the matching thong and my six inch black pumps, I do the obligatory stroll around the stage so that hands can feel and claw all in the guise of stuffing bills into the garter on my thigh. I have become an expert at looking down, yet never making direct eye contact. My peripheral vision is stellar.
As the song ends, I sensually strut to leave stage. It is then, that I think I see him, blonde hair across the room in the shadows. I must have had a cocktail too many, though, because as I do a double take, he’s gone. I repossess my bra from the stage floor and head to the dressing rooms, just as Warrant’s Cherry Pie blares from the speakers. Seriously…
Bambi’s crayon red curls bounce while she is sitting on Cherry’s lap. Besides tongue wrestling, both have fingers leisurely rubbing each other’s stripped snatch. I watch a few seconds, entranced. It is hot; there is no denying it. You would think that after years of seeing displays like this, almost nightly, that I would be oblivious to it. Nope, somehow, it always catches me off-guard, and I always, always watch for a bit. I mean, they are right there in the middle of the dressing room. However, I haven’t ever jumped at a chance to take part when offered. I can’t explain why not either.
“Jesus girls, can’t you wait until you get out of here?”
They part only long enough to smile slyly in my direction and then continue on. It seems no matter where I go, I cannot escape people getting off lately. Well, at least someone is.
I throw my costumes from the night into my tiny cubby against the wall, and get dressed so that I can head to The Hideaway. Garbed in a black tight pencil skirt, fitted white tank, and high-heeled black Mary-Jane’s, I walk the six blocks through the drunken stragglers to my own watering hole.
The big black door is propped open when I arrive. Britt is behind the bar, her reddish blonde dreads all piled up on top of her head. Her blue eyes twinkle just like her rhinestone Monroe piercing. Across the pert nose of her café au lait skin, brown freckles are sprinkled. The girl is adorable and infectiously happy. She and Z constantly brighten my nights with their positive outlooks, quirky stories, and high spirits. I really have no clue how people can be that happy, yet they are, and they never cease to make me laugh. They both are bright spots in my life.
“Hey Candy, I’ll set you up. Sorry about last night, but I couldn’t resist.”
“I could tell,” I chuckle. “Do you even know his name?”
She giggles and shrugs.
“Only you, Britt,” I chuckle again. “He was smokin’.”
Britt gets a dreamy look on her face, “Yeah, he was damn good man candy. I kind of hope he wants to drop back in sometime.”
“You say that about every one of them,” I laugh more.
“Well, they’ve all been good!” she squeal giggles.
I shake my head at her and place my clutch on the bar top grabbing a few dollars from inside. I need music that is not from the stagnant catalog of every strip club around. The jukebox is my friend right now. I feed it the few dollars and stand picking out songs from Tool, 30 Seconds to Mars, Five Finger Death Punch, and Volbeat. I can play this type of music with ease because this is one of the few dives that keeps the level sane, more like background music. If we do choose to talk, we don’t have to scream at each other to be heard above ungodly loud tunes.
As Lola Montez begins, I lean against the jukebox and relax a little. The upbeat tune alleviating some of the tension from my night. Plus, the song makes me smile because I see myself as Lola Montez, showing my skin, full of sin, miners throwing their gold…Get it Lola! I laugh inwardly when the lyrics
Oh Lola I'm sure that the love would have been
The key to all your pain, the key to all your pain
come on. See, even in songs about strippers, there is no love or love is nothing but trouble. Maybe romance is dead for us. Perhaps I should just switch teams…or go back to quick flings with no attachments. I wasn’t exactly sad when I was doing that. Since when did I decided that I wanted more anyway?
come on. See, even in songs about strippers, there is no love or love is nothing but trouble. Maybe romance is dead for us. Perhaps I should just switch teams…or go back to quick flings with no attachments. I wasn’t exactly sad when I was doing that. Since when did I decided that I wanted more anyway?
I stare at the ceiling. I feel so at home in this dingy little hole in the wall. Remember how I told you about the dirty mirrors? Those are not the only things that have not seen a cleaning in many years. The black painted walls are littered with old Halloween decorations and string lights that have at least an inch of dust accumulated. The lighting is dark because the regular bulbs are much the same. There are two threadbare sofas against the wall facing the bar. A few video poker machines line the wall next to the jukebox. Then, there’s the darkened corner with a ratty plaid loveseat. I cannot tell you the things I have seen in the shadows there.
I don’t even turn around when Britt calls, “Got you set up Candy!” I just drown myself in the song with my eyes closed for a few seconds more, allowing some pleasure to enter my music loving soul remembering a time when I only danced for fun and not for profit. When I do open my eyes and turn to head to my stool, I stumble. It’s him, Elliot. He is sitting in the spot normally occupied by Z staring straight at me. His gaze is intense, almost lustful. Yes, that’s what it is. I know that look well. I see it every night that I work. I shake off the slight tremble that flows through my stomach and walk casually to my seat. Once I am seated, his scrutiny is unwavering. I can feel the flush rising across my chest. I tilt my head toward him and arch a brow.
Hell, he is staring. I decide to do the same. Close up his eyes are gray with hints of light blue, the color of a fading wool to a light denim. Though his hair is blonde, it is darker near the roots and progressively lighter the longer it gets. His brows and lashes are a very light brown, as is the light stubble across his jawline. While I study his features, his eyes never budge. I wonder how to end this match that we have begun. I fold first turning to pick up my whiskey on the rocks and speak. “So, are you going to speak or just burn a hole through me?”
“Maybe, I just like looking at you,” he responds, his voice low and smooth.
“Well, that’s honest, I guess,” I mutter back slightly stumped.
“Surely, you’re used to having people stare at you, Candy.”
At that, my head pops up, and I place my glass back on the bar top. He knows my stage name, so I assume he knows my “respectable” vocation. I slowly twist my whole body on my stool so that I am facing him. I don’t know why it angers me, but it does.
Trying to remain calm and not inflect a facetious tone, I retort, “Not so much when I’m off the clock and dollars aren’t being shoved at me.” What a prick…
I stand, pick up my beverage and clutch, and go to sit on one of the sofas near the rear by the darkened area. Encounters such as this are just one reason that I am not always the happiest in my path of life. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. This is the first time my safe haven to unwind has been infiltrated by one of the clients though.
The cushion slopes away from me, an indication of a body’s weight descending next to me. I exhale a breath. It doesn’t matter how good looking he is; I’m becoming annoyed. I do not bother to open my eyes or acknowledge his presence.
“Listen, that isn’t at all what I meant.”
I place one hand on the arm of the sofa to help me rise in my tight skirt and tall shoes. My bum is barely off of the cushion when he gently grabs the wrist of my hand that is holding my ice cold tumbler.
“Wait, Candy, just hear me out.”
I take my seat once again without sparing a glance his way. He may be beautiful, but he has already spiked my ire. I stare straight ahead holding a blank visage as he speaks. His grasp does not leave my wrist, so with my free hand, I retrieve my drink from the hostage one. I’m going to need it if I have to listen to the spiel I’m sure is coming.
“I just meant that, well, you’re beautiful so you must be used to people staring at you.”
I hurumph and turn my head even further away.
“Look, I know that sounds… lame, but it’s true.” He releases my wrist. “I’ve seen you, watched you. Okay, that sounded stalker-ish, but what I mean is that I can’t help but see you and watch you. You live directly below me. You’re right there, walking everywhere, on the balcony, at the cafes...Once I figured out that you lived alone, I decided to finally approach you. Obviously, I haven’t been too impressive.” His voice seems, I don’t know, sincere maybe?
Hesitantly, I face him again. I whisper sternly, “No, you haven’t.”
He smiles, and his smile is radiant.
“Look, I won’t bullshit you, Candy. I know who you are, what you do. I’ve been to that club, probably more times than I should have gone. I couldn’t believe you were actually the girl downstairs, or single. I would be lying to say that I don’t want you, but, you also intrigue me.”
“Well, Elliot, that sounds just like every line every man who wanted to lay a stripper has told me.” And it is in some form or another. He laughs, and my expression does not falter.
“So, Candy, you know who I am too,” he cocks a brow and leers as though that gives him some leverage in the situation.
I don’t even realize that I let his name slip. I do not want to, but I give a slight grin.
“Do not read anything into that. Believe me, I was not asking about you. The first time that I have ever laid eyes on you was at the coffee shop yesterday. Derek told me who you were without any coercion whatsoever,” I supply still grinning.
He does not look completely convinced of my explanation.
“You know, Candy, this is the first time that I’ve ever seen you smile, like really smile, not one of those forced ones. I like it.”
His finger brushes from the bottom of my jaw down my neck. I tense as heat rises along the path his touch has just travelled. Although, I enjoy the sensation a little too much, I tilt slightly away. I know that no matter what these men say, I am still only a stripper in their heads which is equivalent to a whore to many of them. I’ve always kept my guard up, been able to just enjoy and let them go in the past, but he’s gorgeous…My imagination begins to form images of him touching…stroking…Fun fling? I thought I wanted more now. Do I really? Or do I just want sex?
Time to make my exit.
“Well, Elliot, it was sort of nice to formally meet you, but I think it’s time for me to go.” I rise from the tattered couch to make my retreat, and Elliot does the same.
“Okay, Candy, but just know, we will be seeing a lot of each other. I’m going to make sure of it.” He takes my hand, raising it to brush his lips lightly across my knuckles.
My head is giving me mixed signals because the gesture is somehow sweet, even though I am convinced that he is spewing lines that he thinks I would want to hear. I slowly retract my fingers and walk to tab out with Britt with many hours to spare from my usual departure time. I open my clutch, and Britt says, “No, hun, he took care of it,” jerking her head toward Elliot.
I turn back toward him. God, he is a handsome specimen, indeed. I only just now notice his clothing of a fitted black v-neck shirt as he stands with his hands in his pockets of his black slacks. I nod in thanks. He returns the nod with a curve of his lips. I head to the open door confounded. As I turn to the left toward the apartment entrance door, I notice Elliot has followed. However, he stops and leans on the jam of the open doorway of The Hideaway.
“Just making sure you make it home ok.”
I cannot help the chuckle that escapes as I shake my head, unlocking the door. That’s normally Z’s job after all. As I slip through the opening, I yield and quickly glance over my shoulder, “Night, Elliot.”
“Good night, Candy,” his gray eyes twinkle mischievously in the moonlight.