Tied (20 page)

Steven snaps out of his stupor and yells to the driver, “For the love of God, man, floor it!”

We speed off into the night, howling like Mad Hatters on laughing gas. All of us except Steven. You know that saying “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? I don’t think my brother-in-law is gonna be that lucky.

The name of the strip club is Paradise. The sand-colored, two-story, windowless building is surrounded with lush trees, stone statues, a pond, and several fountains. The oasislike atmosphere stands out in sharp contrast to the barren desert around it. Even though the sign glows a modern neon, I half expect to see girls in togas, carrying big palm leaves and frigging grapes, wandering around the outside.

We get to the front door. You may want to brace yourself. Don’t want anyone keeling over from the shock. Because, you have to understand—men are essentially pigs in human clothing. I readily admit it. There is no end to the perverted high jinks, fetishes, fortes, and fantasies we’re capable of dreaming up.

And this joint caters to every single one of them.

The door is opened by a fortyish-looking redhead in a dark green teddy with matching heels. She has aristocratic features—pale skin, full lips, high cheekbones—nicely accentuated by expensively subtle plastic surgery. “Welcome to Paradise, gentlemen. We’ve been expecting you.”

Cream-colored walls, marble tile, and a burning white-stone fireplace make the foyer feel welcoming and warm. Almost homey. Deep, sexy music pounds from behind a dark mahogany door on the far side of the room. “My name is Carla; I’ll be your hostess this evening. If there is anything I can get for you during your stay—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Warren’s mouth hangs open—like a fish who’s seen the face of God. Matthew and Jack are giggly with anticipation, while Steven still looks dazed from mooning his grandma.

But I bet he’ll forget all about that shortly. We walk into the next room. The lights are low—as they always are in places like this—but the room is huge for a strip club. A main stage sits in
the center, with two smaller stages beside it, each with a standard silver pole. A large glass bar lines one wall, with two bikini-clad dancers swaying on top.

Men of all ages are scattered everywhere—at small tables, corner booths, and bar stools. And every one of them has at least two girls fawning over him. Out of the corner of my eye I see a salt-and-pepper-haired guy motorboating the tits of a blonde with pigtails and a Catholic-schoolgirl uniform. Behind them, a black-haired Asian woman stands naked on a table, sliding a Blow Pop into her twat. Then she leans down and pops it into the mouth of the college-age kid salivating in front of her.

Kind of reminds you of Sodom or Gomorrah, doesn’t it? And we all know how they ended up.

I tried to warn you.

Carla explains, “To the left is our game room. I’ve reserved a poker table for your party as you requested, Matthew. Darts and billiards are also available. Down that hall are the booths for private dances, and upstairs we have fully appointed rooms for even more private interactions, should you desire.”

She leads us to the bar. “First round is on the house. This is Jane.” Carla motions to a dark-haired girl behind the bar, wearing a suit jacket and nothing else. “She’ll be your private server.”

Warren’s eyes follow a long-legged blonde wearing assless leather chaps as she walks by. “I thought it was against the law to have naked girls and alcohol in the same place.”

Matthew shakes his head. “That’s only in New York and Jersey. This is the land of legalized prostitution.”

I hold up a finger. “But all other rules apply. Which means no touching, unless somebody tells you otherwise.”

Warren’s mouth is still hanging open. I close it ungently. “Get a grip, man. Don’t embarrass us or I’ll make you go sit in the car.”

He forces his face to relax. Then he bobs his head and slumps his shoulders. “No, it’s good. I’m cool. I’m . . . holy shit! Do you see that chick with the lollipop?!”

Hopeless.

I turn away. “Jane, I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks, please.”

Service with a smile. “Coming right up, Mr. Evans.”

Carla takes her leave. “I’ll be close by should you need my assistance. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.” As soon as she steps away, five girls converge on us, each more stunning than the next.

I sip my whiskey as one blue-lingerie-clad stripper meets my eyes. “So this is a bachelor party? And you’re the groom?”

I smile. “That’s me.”

“I love grooms.”

Small talk with strippers is not really the norm. Usually it’s more of a transaction: rubbing and gyrating in exchange for a few singles. But this isn’t your typical strip club. And I’m a friendly guy. “How come?”

“They’re always the wildest ones.”

“Not me. Tonight is more for my buddies. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

She giggles and pinches my cheek. “You don’t look innocent.” She gives my face a mini slap. “You look more like the naughty type.”

I wink. “Guilty as charged.”

A curly-haired girl with wide hips, wearing a purple bikini and standing next to Jack, vies for my attention next. “You wanna see a magic trick?”

“Sure.”

Out of nowhere, she holds up a large cucumber. “I’m going to make this cucumber disappear. Watch closely.” She peels off her bikini bottoms, spreads her legs, and inserts the end of the
cucumber into her pussy. Then she holds her hands up over her head. Her abdominal muscles clench, and magically the cucumber slides up, disappearing into her twat.

Now all of our mouths are hanging open like Warren’s.

Then, the cucumber peeks out and slides down. She grabs it and says sweetly, “Ta-da!”

I clap my hands. “You are a very talented girl.”

Yes—I’m going to hell. But at least I’ll be in good company.

Jack holds up his hands, fingers spread. “I give it a ten for creativity.”

Matthew adds, “You’d be a shoo-in for that
X Factor
show.”

She just smirks at me. “How about a private dance and I can show you all of my talents?”

I shrug her off. “Maybe later.”

One hour, a few drinks, and about a hundred $1 bills later, Carla rejoins our little group. “I hope you gentlemen are enjoying yourselves?”

While I pass the time watching two girls tongue-kissing each other at the direction of a middle-aged patron, Matthew answers, “We are, thank you. The service and amenities are impeccable.”

“We aim to please. And now it’s time to give the guest of honor a true Paradise welcome.” She takes my arm. “If you’ll come with me, Drew?”

That takes my attention away from the Female Foreplay Show. “I’m fine right here, thanks.”

She smiles persuasively. “I’m afraid it’s not optional. Your friends insisted.”

I frown at the guys. “What did you douche bags do?”

Matthew laughs sinisterly. “Nothing you weren’t expecting.”

“It’s your last night of freedom, man. Enjoy it,” Jack adds.

Two more girls come up behind me. They and Carla pull me off my stool and guide me onstage as Steven yells out, “It’ll only hurt for a minute!”

I decide to go with the flow. It was too much to hope that the guys didn’t have some sick, twisted event planned. Best to just get it over with now. A lone chair sits empty in the middle of the stage. As three pairs of feminine hands push me down in it, the lights dim even lower. Spotlights dance around the room, and when “One More Night” by Maroon 5 comes on, the crowd cheers.

Two woman bounce out from backstage. They’re wearing black G-strings and sheer, black button-down tops. After a few ass shakes and high kicks for the crowd, they turn toward me. One drops to her knees and crawls around my legs like a submissive—and appealing—kitten.

Her hands slide up my calves to my knees and she pushes—roughly jerking them apart. Then she ties each ankle to the leg of the chair with a surprisingly sturdy ribbon. The girl in back scratches red fingernails down my chest, stopping just above the danger zone. Then she yanks both my arms back and ties my wrists behind me. It’s not exactly enjoyable. Some guys like to be dominated, but as history has shown, I’m much more of the dominator type.

But my interest is piqued. The crowd goes wild as another woman appears front and center—swinging gracefully around the pole, obviously the star of the show. She’s petite, but thigh-high,
leather, black boots with insanely spiked heels make her seem taller. Her hair is tucked under a black leather cap, shocking red gloss covers her lips, and dark sunglasses disguise much of her face. The rest of her body, however, is bared for all to see. A black thong with a scarcely there triangle hangs on her hips. Her tits are adorned with stick-on nipple tassels—and nothing else.

With her back to me, she rips off the cap and throws it to the crowd, revealing a cascade of shiny, brown hair. She takes a few more spins on the pole, then turns toward me and stalks forward.

For a moment, I’d swear on my kid that it was Kate. The face and body dimensions are
that
similar.

Upon closer inspection, I notice the differences, however. Besides the fact that Kate Brooks would never be up on a stage shaking her tits and ass in the faces of strangers—unless she actually
wanted
me to stick ice picks through the eyeballs of every asshole in the place.

And, yes, that would include the assholes I came with.

But also, this girl’s skin is paler than my fiancée’s, her nose thinner, her hair lighter—not quite the same mahogany shade. Other than that, the resemblance is pretty fucking frightening.

She spins and leans against me, her back pressed up against my chest. Her hair falls across my face and tickles my nose. She smells . . . great. Like honeysuckle and jasmine. It’s a musky incense, like the aroma of a closed room after hours of fantastic fucking. She doesn’t smell nearly as incredible as Kate—but her bouquet is what I would’ve probably defined as incredible if I’d never had the pleasure of Kate’s sublime scent.

Her arms snake around my neck and her ass nestles perfectly against my dick. Then she slides down between my open legs and arches forward elegantly, raising her ass tantalizingly toward
my face. She plants her feet on the floor and straightens her legs, while still bent over at the waist. Then she slides the thong down her legs and smacks her right butt cheek hard—in the way I’m sure every guy in the place is chomping at the bit to do.

She stands up and turns to face me again. She kicks one leg slowly up around my head—giving me an unobstructed, detailed display of her bare slit.

I swear I try not to look. Really.

But I do.

Give me a motherfucking break—I’m engaged, not dead.

She climbs onto my lap, facing me. Then she shoves the thong she’d been wearing in my mouth. The crowd roars to a deafening crescendo.

I think the crazy train just jumped the track. I’d like to get off now—and not in the happy way. It’s all fun and games until you have another woman’s bodily fluids on your tongue. Kate would never be okay with this. Remind me to guzzle some Listerine when we get back to the room.

Her red lips smile as she snatches the tie off my neck, and I manage to spit out the thong. Unperturbed, she drapes the open tie around my shoulders and holds each side like a horse’s reins. She wraps the ends around her hands and uses them for leverage. Her hips sway and swivel expertly, the way only an experienced dancer—or expensive hooker—knows how.

To my utter horror—my cock gets hard. He moves quickly into position—rigid and ready.

Since the day Kate let me fuck her, I, and my dick, haven’t given any other women a second glance. No matter how attractive or available, we haven’t been interested. Or aroused.

Not one frigging time.

It feels completely wrong. To use Kate’s words—it’s like a
compass pointing south. If that were to happen, it would mean the universe was off-kilter. The end of the world as we know it. That’s almost what this seems like.

Like a betrayal.

Maybe the priests were right, after all. Maybe penises are evil.

I glare down at my lap.

Traitor.