The club pounds with music, lights sporadically blinking to the sexy thrum of the bass, the room pulsating with movement. A sea of people clump together on the dancefloor before the stage, shamelessly grinding against one another, the lack of clothing not at all a bother. The temperature of the room climbs steadily up as the dancing bodies grow in mass, overflowing the atmosphere with toomuchadrenaline and notenoughspace.
The walls are a deep rich red; made of a velvet-like material that prickles under your fingertips. They’re saggy like a curtain and lined in stark gold rope, leaking the scent of sex like it was naturally there. Moans emanate from the row of conjoined rooms, smaller, but still large and similarly decorated to the main club. The carpet that stretches across the primary room in thin and worn from years of vigorous use, trampled flat from the shoes of thousands of sex-driven attendants so sick with their lives that they look to a tacky strip joint for refuge.
There’s a bar to the left of the stage, cheap, but potentially dangerous. The counters once a beautiful mahogany are now edging towards a stained dark red, chipped and dented in certain areas where someone got a little too rough with their bottle; a little too drunk. That’s what the cantankerous staff are there for.
A hunky man dressed in only a leather thong, combat boots and silk waistcoat (buttoned up, for now) treads slowly out onto the stage, eyes dark and alert underneath his thick, black curls that cascade past his shoulders. There’s an air of authority about the way he carries himself, that makes the crowd split, men and few women dropping into the chairs that have been provided, all eager for the show.
These shows are the best in town. They’re raunchy, they’re raw, and they’re arousing. It’s not unusual for a man to leave half-hard and sated, leaving him a pleasant reminder of what was and what could be if he (his money) would only return to the club. It’s like an anchor that draws you in; but deludes you into thinking it’s for your own good. It’s not. People have been known to depart without so much as a dollar to their name, all for the sake of pleasure.
“Who’s ready?” the man bellows, his voice deep and husky, vowels deliciously drawled. He drops onto the lower platform one foot at a time, smirk curling at the ends of his lips, as he earns a series of cheers from his viewers. “I think that’s all of you, huh?”
The man, known as Pete Stardust, introduces show, before the lights dim suddenly. He backs into the shadows, vanished from sight, and then there’s six spotlights on six skimpy dressed figures in a line across the stage. They’re similarly dressed to the presenter, only the three girls among the dancers are wearing tight, leather bras instead, and carry lunging whips in their left hands. Kinky.
***
Ryan Ross is twenty-one years old. He has an office job at a world-famous firm, and he’s well-off. He’s got a girlfriend, naïve and gentle, but she’s not enough for him. Ryan Ross has secrets.
Ryan Ross is sitting amongst the horde of libido-infused humans, and he’s close to the stage, receiving an eyeful of toned ass. It doesn’t belong to a woman. He doesn’t care. The dancer spins gracefully around on his pole, and plants his feet firmly on the ground, tipping his head back as he rolls his hips into the metal cylinder. Ryan’s not jealous in the least.
The dancer is shorter than Ryan, he can tell. He’s got auburn hair that falls just right over his eyes, and just the right amount of muscle. His lips look like they were made to suck dick, and his skin is taut; like he fits just right in his own body. The man catches Ryan looking, and flashes him a quick wink that Ryan almost misses amongst his awe, and if he were in any other setting, he might be embarrassed. This is not the case. Ryan Ross is just fine, right here, as he lays his head on the backrest of the chair, exposing his neck, the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallows, before licking his lips. The dancer laughs, a sexy laugh that Ryan cannot hear so much as see, as he drops to a crouch, becoming just that much more personal.
A bell rings, signalling that the show is up, and the dancers are now free to leave the stage. Ryan can’t say he isn’t expecting it when the young man parades up to him, gorgeous hips that Ryan really just wants to sink his teeth into swaying to the tempo, and grabs him by the tie.
Ryan allows himself to be led to a booth at the far end of the room; lets the man who must be even younger than him gently push him onto a plush couch, and clamber on top of him, feet on either side of his thighs, his hands pressed against the wall behind Ryan, boxing him in place.
“Name?”
Ryan contemplates supplying him with a fake name. He decides against it. He’s too aroused to think of one, anyway. “Ryan.”
“I’m Dick Ryder. It’s a pleasure to have your company.”
Ryan snorts against his will, digs his nails into the torn leather as the stripper presses his ass into Ryan’s crotch. “That’s a unique name.”
“I’m a unique man.”
“Apparently-“ Ryan stifles a moan by biting his lip, hard, as Ryder (which is how he’ll be referring to him as from now on) reels his hips in a delicious circular moment, dick and ass coming in contact with Ryan’s clothed body all at once. He’s more modestly dressed now than he was earlier, and Ryan thinks, fucking tease.
His brain turns into a blur of nothingness when those lips press against his neck, and then there’s teeth latched onto his skin, forming a purple bruise he’ll be unable to explain when he arrives home that evening. Ryder turns around, pressing his back firmly against Ryan’s chest as he grinds down into his lap, moaning like a helpless whore just for his client’s pleasure. Ryan’s been able to resist touching him so far, but when he sees him carefully unbuttoning his shirt, his hands fly to the man’s hips.
Ryder tuts, fingers stilling above the little plastic buttons that adorn the front of his shirt. He flicks his head over his shoulder, smirks, and rises off of Ryan’s lap, turning to face him instead. Ryder graciously kicks his leg up and onto the worn sofa cushion beside Ryan’s thigh, rubbing his clothed dick as the shirt finally slips from his shoulders, landing in a puddle on the floor. Ryan frantically fumbles with his wallet, pulling out a fresh wad of $20 notes, replacing his previously frantic expression with one of coolness, lips tugged into an infamous half-smile. He reaches behind the lapdancer, a few notes in each hand, sneaks his thin hands into the tight, provocative underwear, chancing a squeeze at the man’s firm ass before taking his hands out, and dropping them into his lap. The stripper only winks at him, wrapping his fingers around Ryan’s tie, and leaning in close to whisper, “fifty more and I’ll take you somewhere better. What about that, huh?”
His heated breath washes alluringly over Ryan’s parted lips, and without thinking, he nods, like the desperate, horny teenager he seems to have become, and produces the money from nowhere. Brendon nods his approval, smiles, and pulls Ryan to his feet, barely giving him time to slip his wallet back into his significantly tightened dress pants.
