Page 7 of Rushed

Keenan

The next morning after my run with the club, I took off in search of an outfit.

I’d been wandering around in the stores up and down the street for hours, and I kind of felt adrift. Once I hit Dirty Duo, the last store on the stretch, I was exhausted, feeling like I wasn’t up to the task. I’d almost walked back to the hotel empty-handed and deflated, but with the assistance of Kiki, I was getting a bit closer to finding what I needed. I was looking for comfort with a bit of slutty, and even though Kiki—who’s at least five years younger than me—shoved everything at me that was two sizes too small, I did as I was told. I tried on outfit after outfit.

If it sparkled she brought it. If it had less than five inches of material she offered it. If it was sequined and see-through, it was her top choice. Everything swung over the top of that changing room door with the exception of a tie. Smirking to myself, I think if given the chance, a good ascot tie could do damage on a naked body.

“Here’s some more things to try on. Let me know if you need shoes to get the full effect,” she says, tossing more clothing over the top of the door.

Here, there are no name brands, and nothing is crazy expensive, but I tear through the pile with a fervor, hoping to find one ensemble. There are sparkly see-through tanks, satiny off the shoulder single strap dresses, pearled halters, blown on pleather pants, and the slinkiest of tight-tight dresses showing a hint of ass.

After a thousand combinations, I pick a spaghetti strap dress that’s a pale, crepe blue halter fan that hangs lightly in all the right places. And it will be short enough to get attention. Possibly too short, but that’s beside the point. It’s fluttery, light, and soft against my skin. It makes me feel beautiful. It’s not overly expensive either, so I don’t feel bad for the dollars spent after my adventure with Jax yesterday.

Of course, the gold tone, six inch heels, which I feel totally at ease in, are not Manolo’s, but they’re pretty. With their slinky silver buckles across the back and a hint of color on my feet from the peep toes, they accent the dress perfectly. I may not be the fattest or skinniest girl out there, but I can surely pull this off with flare. I just hope it’s enough to get the attention of others so I can get lucky.

As I twirl back and forth in front of the mirror, Kiki sticks her head around the corner.

“Are you sure this isn’t a bit…I don’t know…revealing?” I ask her. When I raise my arms, the dress hitches enough to showcase my naked ass cheeks.

“Are you looking to go to the closest nursing home, or the bar that I can’t even get into?” Kiki pushes back the Pepto Bismol colored hair from her face, waiting for my reply. When I don’t answer, she arches her perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Definitely not looking to pick up a geriatric. So, do I need something more?” Turning this way and that in the mirror to get the full effect, I realize that skimpy would be a conservative assumption. This micromini leaves nothing to the imagination.

“You’ll get in the door,” she states dryly, taking the dejected clothes back to the racks.

“Perfect.” I wonder,who is this girl?Will she approve or condemn me for this night of hopeful debauchery? Does it really matter? Fuck no. I pay the pixie her pittance and exit the store to get the last things on my list for the evening.

A few arduous hours later, I’ve primped and prepped, just like every other new age Amazon warrior that goes out hunting for prey. I’m ready to venture out into the jungles of all sorts of man candy. I’ve checked myself in the mirror a thousand times, and finally decided to wear my hair down, letting it flow over my shoulders. After one final look in the mirror, I think,I’d fuck me.

The bar I’m going to is just a short way down the road, and easily somewhere I can walk to on any given day. But in six inch, teetering heels, it’s utterly impossible to do without creating pancake blisters in twenty or so steps. So I request a cab from the front desk, take the fifteen dollars in stride for a five-minute drive, and hop out onto the curb where there are at least a hundred people lined up against the building, waiting anxiously to enter. I do feel a bit out of sorts, butting past the obvious nasty stares, but fuck them. I’m not staying out here when I can go in and not freeze.

As I walk up to the bouncer—who looks like he could pull a Mack truck apart with his bare hands—I feel small. His name tag says Jack, but to me he looks more like a Hondo. His broad shoulders, boulder-sized chest and hands that could wrap around my waist with little effort, scares the crap out of me.

“Name,” Jack clips harshly as I step up to the front as graciously as possible. I really shouldn’t have taken Kiki’s advice on the shoes.

“Keenan,” I reply. He looks me up and down. His eyes shift while peering over his clipboard, and I swear I begin to visibly perspire as I wait for him to find my name.

Looking up, he nods to the other man holding the door, and motions for me to move. With a sneer and slight head nod, he proceeds to tell me I’m free to go ahead. I plaster a look of indifference on my face and venture past the monstrous guard dogs.

As the doors open, I feel excited. Fucking scared, really, but excited. The song playing booms so loud the room shakes, causing my heart to jump. It’s a void of darkness. LED lights creep along the tight hallway, flashing where the wall meets the floor. It’s just enough light to see where you step, guiding you toward debauchery and sin like a beacon to the bowels of hell. It’s so palpable you can taste it…the sex, that is. The sweet and sour vanilla musk that hangs in the room after a night of fucking is dangerously enticing to me, making me edgy, but eager.

Troy gave me a rundown on the establishment’s rules, policies, and a vague list of what to expect. I’m about to enter a world that I’m sure most have never seen. Contact lies just beyond the flimsy black curtain covering the entrance, and my body anticipates the excitement. I can feel my core muscles clenching, causing a dampness in my panties as I cross. The heavy sound of my heels clicking in time to the beat are muffled and drowned out by the thick thud of base. I feel it in every fiber of my body as I step up to the entrance.

Gathering my courage, I gently push back the curtain, revealing the club floor ahead. It’s sensory overload—the sights, the sounds, the orgasmic joy. The pressure of milling bodies, grinding and sweating, all promising sex. Men with women, men with men, women with women, women with women and men; it’s a free for all. No inhibitions.

The name of the club rings true,Dangereux.

The crowd is packed, with barely any space to walk through. It’s three stories of licking, sucking, and touching with wild abandon, and I have a hard time focusing, ornotfocusing on any one thing. I’m trying my damnedest not to look all wide-eyed, with my mouth hanging to the floor. Here it’s sex, pure and simple. Everything is allowed, which is why it’s dangerously exciting. One rule Troy told me about the club was that nothing can be done against someone’s will.

As I’m staring into the crowd, a body ventures close to mine.

“Yer mouth is open. In this club,thatis an invitation.” His voice is low and deep. He’s so close, the stray wisps of my hair dance around my neck from his warm, inviting breath. I don’t dare turn around, afraid to break the spell that the voice has created in my mind. I imagine he’s six foot plus with a build like Dwayne Johnson, and a cock like Ron Jeremy.

Gripping the steel railing for support, I lean back, still gazing into the sensuous crowd below. “A dangerous maneuver, I assume?” I query.

Pressing closer, he places his hands on the railing, blocking me in. His lips brush my ear, and my temperature rises exponentially as his heat envelopes me, all while I continue to watch the antics on the lower level. I take in his hands resting on the railing. They’re enormous. If I thought bouncer boy had mitts, he has nothing on the mouth breather caging me in. I’m tempted to find out what type of scream they could bring out of a girl like me. After all, that’s what I came here for. Brushing the tips of his fingers lightly along the back of my hand, he swirls lazy figure eights, which cause goose bumps to form up my arm. The move isn’t lost on me; it’s meant to tease, and teasing it is.

“Would ya like a drink?” God, his voice. I love it.

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