Page 1 of Filthy Ruck

Chapter One

Chelsea

My black stilettosclicked on the hard surface of the stage. Music blared, all but drowning out the clinking of glasses and the whistles accompanying my entrance.

I looked out across the eager audience of men. Some regulars, others not. They jostled to get closer, spilling drinks on the floor at their feet. The smell of stale beer and Bundy rum warred with testosterone and sweat.

I scanned the crowd, my gaze falling on one face before sliding away. Keeping the flicker of recognition from my expression. They came here to see, not to be seen.

Still, I couldn't keep from looking back at him. Eyes focused on that one face in the centre of the audience. His indifference a challenge of sorts.

I did love a challenge.

I kept my attention on him. This show was all for him. No one existed in the whole room but us. My smile was all for him. My performance.

My body.

I gripped the pole with two hands and swung around it, letting momentum carry me around a couple of times.

I locked my focus back on the guy in the audience, pulled myself up higher and wrapped my legs around the pole. It was him I wanted to wrap my legs around. His firm torso I wanted to climb, not the cold metal under my hands.

Holding on with my thighs, I leaned back, my arms stretched out behind me. Right on cue, my dress slid down my body, all the way to my chest. Still gripping the pole with my legs, I undid the ties at the front of my dress and let it fall to the stage like it was pooling at his feet.

The audience cheered and whistled.

Someone shouted, “Get the rest of it off!”

A surge of power and adrenaline coursed through me. It took strength and skill to do what I just did. Holding onto a rotating pole while stripping down to my underwear. Making the audience respond to me, to my body. They thought they were here for one thing—to see me take my clothes off. This was so much more than that. They were the moths and I was the flame, burning bright. Enticing.

I spun around the pole a couple more times before grabbing hold with my hands again and pretending to dry hump the metal. That always got a response.

“Fuck me, baby!” an older guy shouted out.

“Show us your tits!” shouted another.

Zero points for originality.

“It's my last night of freedom, how about you make it memorable?” called out another.

I could and I would.

I climbed up the pole and twisted around so my back was to the audience. I teased them by sliding my hands up and down my skin, then unhooking my bra.

Oh so slowly, I let the straps slide down my arms, to my wrists. I pinched the black lace between my thumb and forefinger of one hand and brandished the garment over myhead. A couple of times, I twirled it around beside my head, like I might throw it out into the crowd. With a flourish, I threw it toward the door leading to backstage.

Teasing was one thing, throwing away a perfectly good bra was another. Not to mention Divina, the owner of Flirts, would be pissed if I threw my costume into the crowd and caused the audience to lunge and fight to claim it. As if someone having possession of my garment meant they had possession of me.

I glanced at the audience over my shoulder, taunting them for a couple of minutes before I turned back around.

The guy in the middle of the crowd licked his lips. The first indication I'd broken through his facade. I glanced down to the front of his dark jeans. The telltale bulge in the front spoke louder than the growing desire in his eyes.

I didn't need to look at the rest of the audience; they all were hard. That was what they came here for. To tell themselves I was getting naked for them, to be turned on by it.

They leered at my bare breasts, aching to touch them. I ran my hands up my stomach and over them, pinching my nipples, my eyes half-closed.

I liked turning them on. Being appreciated. Wanted. Needed.

I'd worked hard to sculpt my body, to look the way I did. It didn't hurt that I was blessed with perfect breasts. Why not show them off?

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