Stripped
Authors: Allie Juliette Mousseau
STRIPPED
by Allie Juliette Mousseau
Copyright © 2016 by Allie Juliette Mousseau.
All Rights Reserved
Published by Allie Juliette Mousseau
Edited by Nicole Hewitt
Formatted by Mike Mousso
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Emelie
Special Mission: Save the Kitten
“That arrogant…”
“Hot.”
“Cocky…”
“Gorgeous.”
“Unmannered…”
“Wild.”
“Disgusting…”
“Tempting,” she singsongs.
“BASTARD!”
“GOD.”
“What is
wrong
with you, Violet?!” I shout, and everyone loitering in the parking
lot of Foreplay while smoking their cigarettes turns to look over at us. They see I’m the girl who was humiliated inside and begin making sure I’m the juiciest part of tomorrow’s gossip as they press their heads together, laugh, and share the recordings on their cell phones, which no one was supposed to use in the club.
“You’re just mad because he unleashed your inner vixen,” she accuses as we walk through the parking lot and away from the club.
“I don’t have an inner vixen,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
“Of course you do, all women do. It just takes a god like that to free it.” She speaks her words as if they’re part of a glowing sermon then grumbles the next part angrily. “Especially when a certain someone’s ex-boyfriend has kept it caged, hidden, and neglected for three years.”
“You promised…”
“Yeah, yeah, no mentioning Monsieur Erectile Dysfunction.” Vi says the name in her very best fake French croissant-laden accent. I nearly crack a smile.
Until…
A drunk woman in a tight leather mini dress with a wide gold zipper down the front that matches her gold colored Jaguar comes stumbling into us as she teeters on designer Louis Vuitton stilettos.
“OH MY GOD! You’re
her
!!” rich drunk lady coos with admiration and a hint of jealousy. “I would’ve given anything to have been you tonight!”
She presses into us like we’ve been best friends for years, and I suppress the urge to unzip her dress.
Violet smiles, nodding her head in agreement. “Right? That’s what I’ve been telling her.”
Rich drunk lady lowers the volume of her voice—as if we’re sharing a really juicy secret—and holds up her iPhone so I can watch a video of my utter mortification that someone has already posted to YouTube.
“What the…? It only happened like five minutes ago!” My voice raises an octave.
“Yeah,” she muses. “It’ll probably go viral.”
I almost choke. There I am, in full color HD, half-drunk as Stone Wright
carries me
onstage
with my legs wrapped around his waist and commences to weaken me to the point of…
“I’d give my
ovaries
to have a public orgasm as explosive as
that
!” rich drunk lady slurs.
Oh that fucking
… “Royal… PRICK!” I scream.
Emelie
Three hours earlier
“Foreplay? Not a chance. Stop asking.”
“I’m not asking,
I’m pleading
! And plus, you promised—anywhere I chose.”
“And risk seeing someone who knows me?” I shake my head. “No way.”
“No one you know will be there. I’m positive.”
“You’ll be there.”
“Shut up, I’m different.”
She’s right, she is.
“Let me rephrase. No one in your uppity, New York Ballet universe will be there. This is Los Angeles, baby, and anything goes,” Violet sings before examining her face in the mirror. She gazes critically, wrinkles her nose in dissatisfaction, then continues to apply more makeup for the outing she’s trying to talk me into. “Now go to your room, take off your mope-around-the-apartment-’cause-I-don’t-ever-need-to-get-laid-in-this-century granny gray sweats and put on a dress worthy of a body like yours.”
“Ugh… you mean, actually get dressed?” Even the suggestion is exhausting. “Take Tanya with you. Or Raphael,” I say casually while flipping through the pages of
American Ballet Magazine
.
“It’s ladies’ night, sweetheart, or I’d be there in my cock-outlining white leather pants,” Raphael, Violet’s gay roomy says as he strides through the apartment with flair. “I could teach those dancers at Foreplay a few moves.” He stops in his tracks, poses like a runway model, turns his face towards me, and winks. That puts a wide smile on my face.
Raphael is gorgeous. He has the lean, muscular body of an athlete, edible chocolate skin, and long dreadlocks that cascade over his shoulders. But, to every girl’s loss, he swings for the other team.
Both Violet and Raphael are fine arts majors. At the prestigious UCLA.
Vi, obviously satisfied with her face now, stalks towards me. Smile gone.
“You came to warm, sunny and sultry LA to get away from it all, sort out your future, and experience the land of the living
again. You’ve been here almost two weeks now… sulking around the apartment while you pine away over ballet magazines”—she rips the glossy dance rag from between my fingers and flings it across the room so it spins through the air like a flapping paper bird addicted to crack—“will not help you move on.”
She flops herself down on the vacant sofa seat next to me. “Just consider your poor, lost, malnourished kitten.”
“Keep my kitten out of this,” I warn, then ask, “How is a male strip club supposed to help me…
move on
?”
Raphael slides in tight against me from the other side of the sofa, hemming me in between the two of them.
“They have this incredible dancer—”
“You mean, stripper,” I remind him. “There is a difference.”
He ignores me. “Not only does he know how to
take it off
, he knows how to
use
the equipment the good Lord gave.” Raphael’s voice jumps in excitement. “I saw him perform at Colors.”
“Colors is a gay club in Hollywood,” Vi explains.
Raphael pouts. “Mmm! Too bad he’s a straight man, because he has one hell of a—”
“Lucky for us, he is.” Vi nods at me. “Now stop being a couch-whore and get dressed. My sofa is getting tired of being the only one with access to your lady parts.”
“Well, unless you want me to go sporting this fine, faded ensemble of drab-gray poly-cotton blend athletic wear, you’re shit out of luck. I brought nothing that resembles your flashy, red sequined micro-mini dress. Which, where I come from, is the style of choice of streetwalkers on lower 58
th
.”
“Aww… then I’m rocking my intended look,” she gushes. “Hopefully, one of those hard and ready dancers—”
“Strippers,” I rightfully correct.
“…will invite me backstage. See, I take good care of my kitten.” She gently pats the space just above her vadge, before dropping her brow and scolding me. “Shame on you for not.”
I roll my eyes. “All I packed are my favorite, comfy, I’m-not-getting-laid-in-these clothes, so you’re on your own.”
Vi glares at me. She’s bumming. I’m 5’9 and she’s under five feet. I don’t fit in anything she owns.
“You didn’t really come three thousand miles to go from brooding on your own couch to brooding on mine?” she whines. Then an idea sparks through her eyes. “We’re going shopping! But we’ll have to do it tomorrow—we’ll be late to the show if we try to do it now.” She turns her attention to Raphael. “Let’s go dump out her luggage. She has to have
something
. IT’S SPECIAL MISSION: SAVE THE KITTEN!”