“You bet we’re together together,” he rumbled, testing my warmth while stretching out the tightness. “You bet your ass we are.”
And I’d giggled again even as I moaned because everything was fair game with Drake now, my cunt, my mouth, my ass, everything had been filled with him many times over, his seed spilled from me everywhere. And the truth was that I loved it. I loved the sensation of hot white dripping down my thighs, swallowing his tangy concoction, smearing it into my breasts as a special type of lotion.
Who knows how long we would have gone on like this? Possibly forever, given how good it was, how satisfying.
But my mom hadn’t forgotten her long-ago promise. On Friday we were at the breakfast table when she turned to me.
“Cleo, I’m looking forward to our girls’ night out tonight,” she remarked with a sly smile.
Drake looked over his paper, immediately suspicious. He had no idea that Mom had invited me to the Donkey Club a week ago.
“What’s going on?” he frowned. “You’ve never shown interest in your daughter before,” he growled at Lorena.
I looked up swiftly. It was unusual for Drake to acknowledge me so openly even though we were getting it on all the time. I was pretty sure that my mom knew I was living in her husband’s quarters now, but there was no need to wave it in her face, no need for Daddy to be overly possessive at the breakfast table.
But my mom wasn’t concerned at all.
“Oh Drake,” trilled Lorena. “Dinner and a show are for old fogeys. Cleo and I have something exciting planned … girls’ secret,” she winked.
My stepdad frowned again. “Okay, well don’t get too crazy. Cleo’s got a lot on her plate,” he said.
My mom smiled and nodded.
“Of course, Cleo’s got college to plan for, applications and essays,” she replied. “We’ll be home before you know it,” she promised. “Cleo,” she reminded me. “Let’s plan our outfits for tonight. The City is special and we don’t want to look passé.”
What a funny comment since my mom has never looked passé in her life. She was all sizzling curves, seductive smiles, oozing the charm of a worldly sophisticate. There was no way my mom would be ever be caught in something last season, much less old-fashioned and outdated.
So I just rolled my eyes, shooting a sweet smile at Drake before leaving with my mom to select an outfit for the night. And it was a good thing because my mom’s idea of appropriate attire was completely different from mine. She’d referred to the Donkey Club as a gentlemen’s establishment, so I figured something elegant, sexy without being revealing was appropriate. I held out a cocktail dress, a royal blue number, the hem coming down to my knees. It was sophisticated without being overly conservative, perfect for some mother/daughter time.
“How about this, Ma?” I asked, holding it up to my chest. “Understated and classy, perfect right?”
My mom glanced over.
“Oh Cleo, you’re so funny,” she said, snatching the dress out of my hands. “The Donkey Club is a gentlemen’s club honey, that dress is totally wrong.”
I was surprised. What was wrong with the blue number?
“Okay Ma, well should I go nicer and worse? I have no idea what would be appropriate,” I said. And we pawed through my whole closet before settling on an outfit. It was the weirdest thing. My mom urged me to wear my sexiest, slinkiest lingerie, a tiny hot pink set where the lace of my bra barely covered my nipples, the dusky outline of my areola visible underneath. But the clothes I wore over them – they were ridiculously countrified. I wore a tiny crop top layered underneath shortie overalls showing off a glimpse of midriff, my legs exposed. Frankly, I was embarrassed to be going into New York City dressed like this. But what the hell – I was happy just to spend time with my mom. So we got into a black car and zoomed off to the City, dusk descending around us, the night slowly dimming, our senses enhanced.
And we pulled up at the curb of a totally anonymous building.
“Are you sure this is a gentlemen’s club?” I asked dubiously, getting out. Absolutely nothing about the establishment gave any indication of what went on inside. The windows were blacked out and there was the dim thumping of music, but that could have been the bar across the street. Only a neon outline of a donkey lit up the sky, indicating that we were at the right place.
“Oh please baby, of course this is the right place,” sang my mom. “I’ve been here a million times. Come on, let’s go.”
And when we stepped into the Donkey Club that night I could see why my mom had suggested the overalls. The place was fucking ridiculous. This wasn’t a gentlemen’s club, this was a countrified trailer-park nickel and dime strip tease. A long, low bar took up half the room with signs overhead flashing Corona, Coors, your choice of cheap beer. Peanut shells littered the floor, sawdust coming up in fumes, and the tables didn’t look so clean either, grimy and smeared with unidentifiable sticky substances.