A/N: Here's chapter 2. Hope y'all enjoy. Big hugs to FDM , Birthday Suit's heroine, who betas this silliness. Thanks to AmaZen for helping to give shape to this lemon chiffon, and to Zigs for her betaing skills on Ch 1. Y'all are my best girls.
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CH's characters are hers and hers alone.
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FarDareisMai's (AKA S. Hale Stackhouse) POV:
OK. Admit it. Some of you think that a second year Penn law student getting ready for a summer job at Leclerq & Associates is crazy to risk her reputable career for the "privilege" of dancing topless for horny guys at The Crane's Nest. I guess the short answer is, yes. I'm crazy enough to enjoy the rush, the risk, the power, the control, and the mystery of being FarDareisMai. Although I dance an hour from my home and two hours from Philadelphia, there's always a slight risk that some colleague might enter the champagne room while I'm doing a floor show or giving a lap dance. Believe me; I'm also sane enough to want to find a way to pay my bills and student loans . Hey, I'm a law student, with a blue-collar background. I've learned the value of money the hard way. My professional career is all about words and arguments; I'm not busting my ass at The Crane's Nest for sparkling conversations.
I'm comfortable in my shoes, my costumes, and my makeup. I've cultivated some customers who always buy private dances, and I know how to get along with the other dancers. I try to encourage the customers to buy a neck and shoulder rub from the massage girl, get some shooters, and tip the dancers on stage. Occasionally, I'll even urge a guy to buy a dance from a competitor. All in all, my double life was running along smoothly, until a friend went missing and a guy I loved to hate turned up at The Crane's Nest.
My friend Amelia, an amazing airbrush artist, was busy getting every line and spot in place for last night's performance. She even managed to conceal a black and blue mark I got doing a fireman's drop on the pole with a little too much oomph. Unless you dance for a living, you have no idea how hard those ab muscles have to work to swing and get that rolling motion from your chest all the way through your legs.
I pretended to be interested in Crystal Norris's nasal chatter as she applied her false lashes, "…so I went back to our local Adam & Eve store to use my store credit for the falling apart velvet shorts and corset set. Their quality sucks! Anyway, I bought this little baby doll with marabou trim…. Adam & Eve don't sell it online and its sooo sexy and cute…sure to get better tips…"
Crystal blah-blahed on while Amelia applied the spots to my (now tawny) derriere.
" …and then Claude said that if Tara didn't call him by tomorrow afternoon , she was fired, 'cause there's ten girls just as good as she is waiting for a chance to dance at The Crane's Nest…"
I dropped all pretense of giving a shit about corset sets and ripped crotches.
I caught Amelia's eye. She looked as alarmed as I did. Tara was healthy as a horse. The only time she'd ever missed work was after she'd been beaten within an inch of her life by a retro leaning thug who called himself of "Mick the Knife;" he was a big Harry Connick Jr. fan. I put up my hand in a futile attempt to get Crystal to shut up for a second. "Wait a sec, Crystal. Tara's missed work for two days and didn't call in?" I'd been busy studying and editing an article for the student law journal, and hadn't even thought about Tara or The Crane's Nest since the last time I danced a week ago.
Crystal shrugged. Crystal wasn't Tara's biggest fan, and the feeling was mutual. "Yeah it's sort of weird but that girl's a fool. Little Miss Sunshine's always lookin' for love in all the wrong places."
Crystal turned her back to pick up her carriage whip and Amelia rolled her eyes. Crystal should talk. Her nickname was "Christmas Tree" because of the unwanted ornaments her hidey hole had accumulated on her own hunt for luuuv.
Now, Tara Thornton was basically a sweet girl who carried a lot of guilt. Her father was a fundamentalist minister. She'd grown up in rural Indiana, in a family where girls never cut their hair or wore dresses above mid calf. Philadelphia's in a deep recession. A nineteen year old kid with a high school diploma and zip experience beyond Taco Bell was lucky to find a "hostess" job at the Crane's Nest. It wasn't long before Claude started training her on the pole. That was when Tara had her hair bobbed, dyed blond, and foiled with hot pink streaks. Even in the midst of that liberating rebellion she was a good girl at heart, and donated her foot and a half of soft brown waves to Locks of Love.
Her parents think that she's a nurse's aid. Well, she does wear a nurse costume sometimes.
Amelia raised her eyebrows. Anything we said in front of Crystal would be exaggerated, twisted, and then passed on to anyone dumb enough to listen to what she had to say for more than a nanosecond.
The fact was that Tara would never miss work for one day, let alone two, when she had rent due and end of the month bills to pay. Crystal was right about one thing, naïve, trusting Tara had looked for love and hooked up with a monster in Armani.
I was thinking that Tara's former sugar daddy, Franklin Mott, might have something to do with Tara's disappearance. Franklin was CEO of one of the largest hospitals in Philadelphia. He was also a manipulative, abusive, bastard with a penchant for young, pretty women and very rough sex. He'd gotten off the hook for beating Tara within an inch of her life a year and a half ago, on a technicality. His thug, Mickey, beat her while Franklin watched from a limo with deeply tinted windows. She wouldn't tell us why, though I'm pretty damn sure she knew. Mickey also got off for insufficient evidence. There were no witnesses, only the word of a frightened young stripper against one of the most powerful men in the city of Philadelphia.
She admitted that a part of her still rebelled against her father, but it was months before she acknowledged that she'd trapped herself in a relationship with another dictatorial patriarch. I was dating a lawyer named Bill Compton and doing a little work in a law clinic, when Tara decided that she couldn't take any more. She showed me the bruises and bites on her thighs, ass, and breasts. Franklin was into rough BDSM. Initially, she might have enjoyed playing a little rough.
Then Mickey joined in on the action. Mickey loved pain and Franklin loved to watch the show. Tara had finally had enough. She and Franknin fought. She'd discovered something about Franklin's activities and, even though she was scared, threatened to tell. She's a kid, but life in Phili had taught her that cops are usually not on the side of strippers. So her threat was hollow and Franklin knew it. But he wanted to teach her a lesson anyway. Bill took on her case pro bono as a favor to me, but also because he could be a compassionate guy…sometimes.
I was on the nearest seat to the bench, and Bill's opposing counsel was across from me, when the judge entered the courtroom. Opposing counsel, the very fuckworthy tall, blond, and handsome Eric Northman, was a notoriously stoic litigator from, DeCastro & Madden, one of the largest firms in the city. Ironically, he exuded a 'don't fuck with me if you value your client's life, property and progeny' vibe. Nevertheless, my ex-boyfriend, Bill, could be as tough as a bull-dog, and was not afraid to get balls deep in litigation if that's what it took to win a case. Despite Bill's evidence and arguments, Northman won the case for his bastard of a client.
I can still see the triumphant gleam in his startling blue eyes when the judge announced the verdict. The "assailant" had fractured Tara's right fibula, two ribs, and her nose. If Mott 's goal had been to end Tara's career as an exotic dancer, he hadn't succeeded. She was tougher than Mott had thought. It took a long time, but she healed and went back to work. That took more guts than anyone imagined that Tara had. Backed by the vast resources of DeCastro and Madden, Eric Northman made sure that those bastards walked out of that courtroom free and clear. How can you do that and sleep soundly at night?
Now Tara was missing. If Northman hadn't won, and those bastards had been found guilty, maybe Tara wouldn't be missing. I hadn't seen Tara in over a week, but we texted each other occasionally. It hadn't occurred to me before, but it had been days since I'd heard from her. She had looked up to Franklin--and had thought that his experience, protection, and…yes…dough would solve all of her problems. You might accuse her of being shallow, needy, and of taking foolish risks to make a buck, but who am I to criticize?
In the midst of my solemn musings, Quinn, the big bouncer who's kind of sweet and kind of infatuated with me, stuck his big head in the door.
"The boss says five minutes Far…"
"OK. Thanks John…I'm on my way."
I slipped my wig of wavy chestnut hair over my pinned-up blond hair, and my alias was complete. Before heading for the stage, I checked my disguise one last time in the full length mirror and the feline FarDareisMai stared back at me. Once the makeup and the wig are on, I'm no longer S. Hale Stackhouse graduate student and intern at Lecrerq & Associates Law Firm; I'm the mysterious FarDareisMai burlesque artist extraordinaire. Nobody, not even Claude Crane, the club's owner, knew a whole lot about where I came from. Once he saw me dance, he honestly didn't much care if I popped out of a rabbit hole. I make both of us lots of money and that was the bottom line.
Fully into my role, I prowled out onto the stage as the mysterious, sexy, beautiful, and dangerous FarDareisMai. I crouched with my back to the audience reveling in the knowledge that I was in control--that every man's eyes were focused on the curves of my waist, hips, and ass. The music begans and I started to dance. Grinding my ass and hips slowly at first, taking my time, I made them beg for me to give them more.
Hah!
Using the chair as a prop I turned slowly, straddled it, and arched backward so that my minimal leather thong covered my vajayjay, well, minimally. And the crowd went wild (it always does at that point).
The audience wolf whistled and called out, "Over here baby!" as I kicked my legs backward and rose majestically to my feet. It was a good crowd. I was going to make some bucks tonight. I swept my eyes over the audience-- To the audience of blue balled, cockblocked males I was a huntress on the prowl--their sex goddess.
I heard some poor bastard toward the back yell "Please!" I couldn't quite see his face with the stage lights, but he's well dressed a businessman probably. Those guys tip well.
OK big boy… I think to myself. Make my night.
I made my way off the stage, shimmying my hips and shaking my ass, always making my way toward the big game.
He'd turned his chair to face me, his long legs splayed out. As I got closer, he leaned forward and became still, his stare hot and intense. God! He was beautiful! He was wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hip,handsome and blond as a Viking god, with a huge, stiff peen straining at his Marc Jacob trousers. I'm not usually attracted to customers. I'm not there to find a fuck-buddy--even if they are. But this guy…he glanced at my perky air-brushed nipples and smirked, as I straddled him and began to dance.
Then the ten ton shoe dropped. Shoulder length hair--check. Glacial blue eyes--check. Body like a Greek good--check. Massive, self-confident presence--check. Jesus H. Christ on a fucking pogo stick! I was doing a lap dance for Eric fucking Northman, the wily, hard assed bastard who had gotten Tara's twisted sugar daddy and his goon off the hook they deserved to hang from. But fuccck! The bastard was so hot, so masculine…The girls would all be sashaying over here for their own enjoyment.
If my "center" as the romance novels put it, was moving rapidly from damp to Niagara Falls, Eric Northman had definitely fallen under my alias' spell. It wasn't his ass that was as hard as a brass rod. Oh, I had him, and he wanted what I had to give. I've gone fly fishing many a time and understand the dance of the lure. I'm a very good angler. This bastard was going down…but not on me…at least not right away…and NOT without my getting something out of it, other than the mother of all orgasms. I needed information and Eric wanted very badly to inform me. I thanked whatever devious god had set me on this guy's lap. I caught the eye of a waiter who pushed two chairs closer to Eric.
With agility born of experience, I stepped onto the chairs and proceeded to shake my pussy centimeters from Eric Northman's lips. His tongue darted out, and he white knuckled the edges of his seat. Quinn made a rumbling noise that sounded a whole lot like a tiger's growl... He was just waiting for an excuse to throw Northman out, and I couldn't give him one. I took Eric hands, placed them firmly on my hips, invited him back to my dressing room, and walked away. He hesitated for a second. If he had turned down my invitation, his cock woud have turned vigilante and beaten him senseless. One more shake of my lil old puss and SNAP, the big fish was caught hook, line, and sinker.
Eric's POV:
From the moment I realized who FarDareisMai really was or, at least, might be--my lawyer's senses started tingling. Mr. Mott was a very reputable, respected, citizen. A philanthropist who gave millions to hospices for AIDS victims, homeless shelters, and provided pre and post natal care for teen mothers. The girl who'd accused him didn't have a record, but Victor Madden had dredged up two businessmen willing to testify that Tara Thornton solicited them. There 's a very long history of whores blackmailing their alleged clients. I was sorry that the woman had probably been beaten by her pimp, but that had nothing to do with the defense of my innocent client and his chauffeur.
Red Alert! Red Alert! Incoming torpedoes!
My instincts told me that this gorgeous woman was trouble. The intelligent thing for me to have done would have been to leave a tip and drive back to my hotel room--alone. But my cock had plans of its own, and at the moment The C Man was CEO of the company.
The next dancer had the biggest set of tits I'd ever seen up close and personal. A lot of guys think the larger a woman's breasts are, the less intelligent she is. I don't think it works like that. I think it's the opposite; the larger a woman's breasts are, the less intelligent the men become. While the rest of the crowd had their eyes glued on the new dancer as she rubbed scented oil over her boobs and ass to "Under the Boardwalk," I worked my way toward the "Staff Only" door. A huge, thickly muscled bouncer, with fists like mallets, gave me the once-over. Before my courage unraveled I announced, "FarDareisMai..."
The bouncer, who had Mighty Quinn tattooed across his knuckles, nodded. "Far said you could go back." As he pushed the door open and I squeezed past his wall of solid muscle, he clapped my back, nearly knocking the wind out of me. "Don't know how you did it...but you just won the Golden Ticket buddy. Can't even tell you how many guys have tried to bribe me to get back there. You're the first customer she's ever invited..." He said "customer" like he was saying "douchebag." The liberating effects Grey Goose vodka brought out my inner Viking. My fist clenched. I'm a big guy myself. His big hand tightened on my shoulder; angry purple-black eyes bored into mine.
His smile had nothing behind it but teeth. "I don't know how you got so lucky...You better play nice. You hurt my princess--you answer to me. The name's Quinn, John Quinn."
He had to be fucking kidding! A Bond reference? With his refrigerator physique, he looked more like Oddjob-- Either way, "answering" to him would be bad news for both of us.
I gazed at Quinn with the steely look I saved for opposing counsels and pushed past. First dressing room on the right. Oh God! My dick was functioning as a GPS. It was about to save my hand the bother and knock on the door, when a sweet southern voice called out, "Come on in Mr. Northman…"
When I enter the room my libido went into sensory overload, and crotch rocket took on a new and personal meaning for me. First there was the distinctive fragrance of FDM's very high end perfume, Creed's Love in Black, violets, rose, and just a hint of cloves. That fragrance on her sweet warm, skin…well, my cock twitched with approval. God, the scent alone made me crazy to touch her again, even as the lawyer in me noted that at two-hundred dollars per two ounce bottle it was hardly a working girl's perfume.
More importantly, FarDareisMai was in the shower and the shower door was nearly transparent! I could make out the sweet curves of her beautiful full breasts, hips, & ass. Sweet Jesus. Definitely a natural blond! My crotch rocket started its own little countdown.
Without turning off the shower, she opened the door, turned around to display the most luscious ass in the universe, and said, "I can't quite reach this spot right here above my bon-bon. Care to join me and do the honors?"
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1-13-2010 My handsome son Tom is 21 today. Happy 21st birthday Tom! Woots!
Naughty or Nice Pimpage[remove spaces]: http:// (dot) net/community/ Naughty_or_Nice_One-shot_Contest/ 76327/ 99/ 0/1/ Please read my fic "Luck" and the other great entries.
