Electrified(117)

“Welcome home,” she said as she moved her hands up and down her stomach.

He glanced at what she was wearing, and they both burst out laughing at her Superwoman T-shirt stretched out across her huge pregnant belly. Carson smiled on the inside now, remembering Sienna on the pole wearing nothing but hot pants and the Superwoman T-shirt tied in a knot, and what they did afterward. She was a Superwoman, and he wanted her all to himself, whether she was a dancer or not.

He wanted it all, and he got it.



Read on for a Sneak Peek of Asher’s story in Smoldered





Five years ago, Sunday



I BREATHED a sigh of relief. This was exactly what I needed tonight. All it took was one lap through the Pink Leop—or the Leop, as it was known—and I felt like I was transported to some of my dirtier fantasies. By dirty, I meant the gritty, baser shit I tended to think about, but didn’t act on—too frequently, anyway. I was no angel, and never claimed to be one. I’d had a lot of women, and tonight, I really needed to get off hard.

I didn’t do drugs. I did sex, and the not the missionary-style, lovey-dovey stuff.

Snaking my way around the main bar and heading toward a side stage in the back of the club, I set my eyes on where I wanted to land.

The Leop was set up differently from my club. Instead of a main stage there were four small stages, one per corner, each platform featuring a different tantalizing vignette. I couldn’t walk fast enough to the back right. I licked my lips as my feet ate up the floor, my heart pounding as I neared the tiny platform.

At my club, the Electric Tunnel, we had a single main stage looping around the front of the club where we featured either one main act, like my Sienna Flower, or two or three scenes simultaneously at different ends or corners. Our lap dance business was most likely quadruple what the Leop did, by the looks of it. Here the customers—mostly men, but a few women, too— worked their way around the room as they checked out the different stages, which was wasted time, in my opinion.

Not wasting mine right now. That fucking scene playing out is hot, and my dick and I have to get closer.

My club had one main focal point, but not everyone could get close enough, so we brought the act right to their seats with a private lap dance. It was a win/win for everyone. More money for the dancers and me, and a much better view for the customer.

As I neared the end of the bar, the regular head bartender, Ryan, reached over and grabbed my shoulder. “Look what the cat dragged in! None other than Asher Peterson, the guy remaking the stripper biz on the other side of town.”

I laughed, stretched my hand over to shake his, and answered, “You got that right, but no harm in swinging by and checking out the competition. That way I get to catch up with assholes like you.”

Ryan chuckled. “I’m kidding, dude. We all know you got your sights set on something bigger and better over at the Electric Tunnel. Just happy to see you can still slum it over at our fine establishment. We know our market, and you’re it.” He slapped my back in jest and asked what I wanted to drink.

I ordered a shot. I figured it would be quick, and I was practically hopping back and forth on my feet, fighting my desire to get to the action.

Finally, he poured, I lifted the little glass, tossed the burning liquid down my throat, and gave the dude a small chin lift in thanks. “Catch you later, Ryan,” I said and moved like a leopard on the prowl.

Earlier, I told myself I wanted to check out the competition, so I could convince myself I was doing better than them. But it was really something more. I had my limits, and I was nearing them. I needed to get off. Period.

The Pink Leop had been around for a while, and had a reputation for allowing quite a bit of crazy shit to go down. Word on the street was you could get just about anything you wanted done to you, or for you, in the private rooms. And for the right price, you could take a girl back to your place with you for the night. It was exactly what I didn’t want for the Tunnel, but it didn’t mean I was immune to the stench of sex when I walked through its doors, or that I didn’t want to partake a little bit. I did. It was exactly why I was here, pushing a few gross fat and sweaty men out of my way so I could get closer to the action.

So what if the owners lost money in lap dances? They obviously made up for it in their private rooms. Yeah, some of the shit they allowed wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. “Heavy touching” was probably putting it nicely, but hey, what the hell did I care? I didn’t own the place. I was here for a good time like the next guy. If they got into trouble with the law, it wasn’t my problem.

Finally, I sank down into a worn-out red suede chair to the side of the scene that caught my eye. I couldn’t be bothered with how grubby the shitty chair was, pushing out all thoughts of what may have touched its gross fabric over the years. Thank fuck, mine are leather at the Tunnel.