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Authors: Jess Gilmore

Tameless

BOOK: Tameless
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TAMELESS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jess Gilmore

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2015 by Jess Gilmore

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written consent of the Author.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One - Dawn

 

 

When I was a teenager, I had a strongly held belief that at some point in everyone’s life something just happens to make it all fall in place. That you do what you’re supposed to do, plod along waiting…waiting…waiting, and then it happens. You are suddenly a new person and your entire future begins.

Don’t get me wrong—I never thought of this as some kind of supernatural occurrence or a gift from the Universe.

While I firmly believed in the Sudden Occurrence, I also knew that it was most likely the result of just being in the right place at the right time, and your future would turn out bright and promising.

Or maybe you’d be in the
wrong
place at the right time, and your future would be harsh and unpredictable.

That’s all it was: coincidence.

And that’s exactly what happened to me on the night of Corrine’s bachelorette party, though I didn’t know that at the time. Our group of friends had held bachelorette parties before, but nothing like this. Maggie and Rachel had organized it. It sounded like a good idea at first, and the closer we got to the actual date, it sounded even better.

Drinks, music, laughs, half-naked hot guys dancing. I mean, come on.

Every Tuesday night, a strip club called Club Bliss transformed from its usual line-up of dancing girls to a ladies only night and an all male group of dancers.

While we were waiting outside to get in, Rachel mentioned that this was the club’s busiest night. At least that’s what she was told when she called and reserved a VIP party room for us. And it looked to be true. The line snaked around the corner of the building, groups of over-excited women just like us, waiting to get in and see the muscular oiled-up bodies writhing onstage.

That’s how I imagined it anyway. It was my first time going to one of these places.

We spend the first ten minutes or so standing near the bar, waiting for one of the hosts to take us to our room.

The beat of the music pounded in my chest. Red, blue, and yellow circular lights swirled around the ceiling, floor, and walls. It was otherwise dark in the club, except for onstage, where a guy wearing a g-string stood in a spotlight, hands on his hips, thrusting to the rhythm of the song.

And, as expected, he was glistening to the point where he looked like he’d fallen into a vat of baby oil.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage, at least until one of my friends nudged me and said, “Dawn, come on,” and she grabbed my hand as we all followed a broad-shouldered man dressed in all black down a dark hallway. He pulled back a black curtain and gave us an “after you” motion with his hand.

The VIP room was covered from floor to ceiling in burgundy colored carpet. Lamps stood in each of the back corners of the room, casting a soft beige light. There were three leather couches arranged in a U-shape.

As we were sitting down, the host told us a waiter would be right with us.

The room wasn’t as loud as it was out in the club, so we were able to talk, most of which consisted of speculation about how hot the guys would be.

Guys. Plural. Not just one.

It turned out that Rachel and Maggie had requested three dancers for our 90-minute VIP room. There were nine of us in the group, and they figured one dancer for every three girls sounded good.

“That one on stage,” Maggie was saying, “you could barely even see anything.”

“They don’t take those off.”

“I know,” Maggie said, “but with that little bit of fabric, you’d think you’d at least see some kind of bulge.”

“Maybe it was tucked between his legs.”

Laughs all around, followed by comments about “ball huggers” and “banana hammocks,” and we dropped the subject when the server came in and took our drink orders. Each of us ordered our favorite beer, and we requested two bottles of liquor, which sounded excessive for only nine people, and probably was, but it was a party so what the hell, right?

Two of the girls got up and started dancing. The rest of us tossed a few two-dollar bills at them. That was another thing Maggie had been told by the manager. It was apparently customary to use two-dollar bills to tip instead of ones, so we had all gone to the bank that day and stocked up.

“Come on, Corrine!” Rachel said, encouraging our bachelorette to get up and dance. Corrine obliged, even mockingly lifting up her shirt as if she were about to strip.

That’s when the server returned, placed our beers in front of us, and opened the bottles of liquor. “Ladies, if you need anything, all you have to do is push this button right here”—he showed us where it was, right next to the curtained door—“and I’ll be back to get whatever you need. More beers, or anything you want to mix with your liquor.” He smiled and told us our entertainment was coming right in.

The lights dimmed even further, and three guys walked in. They each wore black capes and white masks covering most of their faces.

Corrine had once told us a fantasy she had: to have wildly amazing sex with a guy dressed like the Phantom Of The Opera. We all thought it was hilarious, and teased her about it for years, and while she wasn’t exactly going to have sex with any of these guys, it was the closest she would get. So Maggie and Rachel had purchased the costumes online and dropped them off at the club earlier that afternoon.

For what it’s worth, the capes did little to hide their perfect physiques—hard muscled chests, abs that looked more like eight-packs than six, tanned smooth bodies…

I’d never spent much time thinking about male strippers before. Certainly not in any kind of seriously, lustful way, the way I imagine guys might think of female strippers. What little I’d thought about them was usually in a humorous way, including when Maggie and Rachel cooked up this plan to begin with. In fact, we all thought it was hilarious.

And it was, to start out with. Funny and fun. The guys danced in front of us, eventually removing their capes, so all they had on were black boots, black g-strings, and those white masks, their hair slicked back on their heads.

There was no touching. It was one of the rules posted in the lobby where we checked in. “No pictures or video.” (Which seemed impossible to enforce now that everyone had cell phones and so everyone always had a camera and video recorder on hand.) “Proper dress required.” (This one struck me as funny and ironic. Proper dress in a strip club!) “Don’t touch the dancers.” (Like a “Don’t feed the animals” sign at the zoo.)

The guys had a few drinks with us as they danced.

One of the girls made a joke about playing “ring toss.”

At one point they put a chair in the middle of the room and invited the bride-to-be to have a seat in it. Corrine didn’t waste any time hopping in the chair, and for the next two songs, the dancers took turns: one dancing behind her, another on the side, and one in front of her, doing everything from lifting a leg over her shoulder and air-grinding right in front of her face to getting into the wheelbarrow position in front of her with his legs draped over hers.

We clapped, laughed, cheered them on, and then it was Corrine’s turn to dance for one of the guys.

The beer and liquor flowed as easily as the laughter and fun. One of the guys announced that it was time to play spin-the-bottle. If the bottle ended up pointed in your direction, you won a two-song private dance. “Right here, in one of these rooms,” one of the masked dancers said, pointing to a row of actual doors, not curtains.

Corrine had her own private dancer, who showed her to one of the rooms. Two of the remaining eight of us would be the winners. One of the guys placed a bottle in the middle of the table, asked us if we were ready, and gave it a spin.

I found myself getting nervous. Bad nervous? Excited nervous? Curious nervous? I couldn’t quite tell.

“And the red head wins!” the dancer said, reaching out his hand for Krista, who appeared to be blushing, though it was hard to tell from the low lighting.

He led her off to a room and then it was just one dancer left. The guy didn’t speak. He just spun the bottle, which twirled and tumbled off the table onto the floor. He picked it up, spun it again, and as it slowed, I was thinking:
It’s gonna stop on me, here it comes, oh my God…

It stopped on me, to the odd mixture of delight and disappointment of my friends.

Without speaking, the dancer stood and extended his hand toward me.

 

. . . . .

 

The private room was darker than the VIP room, and much smaller, barely big enough for two bodies. Which, I guess, was the point. A private dance was supposed to be more intimate. But intimacy wasn’t what I was feeling when I stepped into the room and the dancer closed the door behind me. What I felt was nervous.

The small room was lit by a single red-orange light from above, enough to make me visible in the mirror on the back wall. A large leather chair was up against the mirror. I sat.

Whatever trepidation I felt immediately dissipated when the next song started. My brain was so intensely focused on my senses that it didn’t have the power to devote to being nervous.

The guy started dancing, slowly, gyrating his hips, his hands above his head, the muscles in his arms flexing impressively. The term “air-fucking” came to mind for some reason, an idea I had never thought of before. I managed to resist laughing at the thought.

Through the speakers, a girl was singing about riding a pony.

The guy’s legs brushed mine. I was wearing a blue dress, the hem just above my knees when I sat. I tried to keep my legs together, but he managed to separate them with his own leg.

I watched his thighs, his abs, his chest, and I noticed a tattoo above his left nipple but couldn’t make out what it was.

He moved closer to me, lowering his head next to mine, his hot breath on my neck. If this was supposed to excite me, get me all worked up, well, then it was working. This was the hottest guy I’d ever seen, and his moves weren’t so much dancing as they were sexual.

I remembered the two-dollar bills. Slid my hand into my purse, grabbed them and held them out.

The guy straightened up and looped his thumb under the g-string at his hip. I slid the twos in and retracted my hand quickly.

“You can touch,” he whispered into my ear.

If he’d been able to see my face, he would have seen my eyes widen more than they probably were supposed to be able to.

I felt his hand wrap around my wrist and place my palm on his stomach. His skin was soft over the hard ab muscles. I kept my palm flat, resisting the growing urge to trace the lines with my fingertips, and then dropped the resistance act and let my fingers wander.

He touched my leg. Not with his leg or arm, but with that g-string, and I could feel that he was slightly hard.

Then, a finger slipped beneath one of the shoulder straps of my dress. Hooked it, tugged it, pulled it down. My hands immediately jerked toward my chest, but I stopped myself. This guy was just performing. They don’t call it a strip “tease” for no reason, and that’s all he was doing. Teasing.

Before I could complete that thought, his hand had slid down the front of my dress, managing to work his fingers inside my bra. I felt his thumb graze my nipple.

I’d moved my hand back to his stomach, and when he touched my nipple I reflexively grabbed onto his side.

The second song had started, and the breathy voice coming out of the speakers was singing about how he wanted to fuck like an animal. Perfect.

The dancer had the entire front of my dress down now, my bra messily pushed down as well. His strong hands were gently squeezing my breasts together, and with one fluid motion he managed to lower his head and take one of my nipples into his mouth.

I gasped, totally unprepared for it. Was this how all private dances were?

When he raised up again, I let my hands explore his chest and I got a closer look at that tattoo on his left peck. I had previously thought it was a flame going sideways, maybe some kind of symbol of something, but now I saw that it was a profile view of a lion’s head.

I was about to slide my hands up his neck with the purpose of trying to remove that mask. I wanted to see the face of the guy who had made my panties wet by sucking on my nipples for just a few seconds.

But his hands covered mine and moved them down his torso. He wanted me to touch his abs again…

No.

He guided my hands right to the front of his g-string, which felt like it was stretched to the max and might tear open at any moment. Did this guy always get hard during his dances? I had no idea, but I figured so. He touched girls, licked them, the girl touched him…so why wouldn’t he be turned on?

He removed his hands. Mine stayed where they were, right on his erection, just a thin piece of fabric separating my skin and his.

I gently squeezed. Rubbed. Stopped.

“Didn’t the rules say no touching?” I’d asked earlier and he’d responded by moving my hands for me. Would he do it again?

“It’s my last night,” he said. “Here’s what I think of the rules.” And with that, he slid his fingers into the g-string and lowered it. My hands hadn’t moved. They were right there. And his quick movement gave me no time to react, so suddenly there I was with his cock in my hands.

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