Page 6 of Brushed and Buried
I smirk. “I’d show them how to prep. Finger work. Breathing. Stretch. Get them used to the sensation.”
Lance licks his lips. “In a very heterosexual, educational way…would you show us?”
George chuckles. I can tell he’s intrigued, approaching this like he would any new skill worth learning.
Trevor watches me over his bottle, his carefree mask completely gone now.
I glance at Vince. His face barely moved, just a faint clench at the hinge of his jaw, the rhythm of his breathing too neat tobe calm. He looks like he’s furious with himself for staying, but even more so at the thought of leaving. His eyes burn with a hunger he’s trying to suppress, judgment and desire warring in equal measure.
And suddenly, I want to perform, not for the group, but for him.
I strut back to the couch, slide onto the armrest, and let my smile sharpen into a blade. “Clear some space, gentlemen. Officer Naughty has declared this a crime scene.”
Trevor cheers, his excitement genuine and unguarded. Lance scrambles to move, his interest winning out over social conditioning. George sighs, resigned but appreciative, like he’s watching a master craftsman at work.
Vince doesn’t move at all, but his eyes darken, storm brewing heavier, that measured breathing becoming more labored.
One night,I think, leaning into the moment, into the fire. If Vince thinks he can stare me down, he’s got another thing coming.
The living room lights are dimmed, chairs pushed back to make space, and someone, probably Lance, has staged a single chair in the middle of the room like it’s a prop in a damn off-Broadway production ofMagic Mike: Bachelor Party Edition.I queue up the songs on my phone after connecting it to the hotel speaker, the opening guitar riff of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasts from the speakers, pureeighties strip-anthem energy. Trevor bursts out laughing, the kind of laugh that says,of coursethis is the song.
“You’re not gonna forget this,” I flash a wicked smile, strutting to the imaginary spotlight like I was born in Vegas.
The boys holler, already a little drunk but wide-eyed with anticipation. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and remind myself of that one time I’d watchedMagic Mike XXLthree times in a row, obsessing over the body rolls and precision. Thank you, Joe Manganiello. Thank you, all the guys who made body rolls an art form.
I start with the plastic badge, unpinned with a flourish and flicked toward George, who catches it with not-so-surprising reflexes.
I straddle the chair backward, facing the boys, and start slow. A sway of the hips. A roll of my spine. The plastic baton becomes my prop, twirling it between my fingers before dragging it slowly down my chest.
Trevor leans forward, mouth parted in a half-smile, his usual composure completely abandoned. Lance lets out a low whistle, curiosity flickering into something darker, more primal. George sips his beer and says, “Oh,” with the appreciation of someone who recognizes skill when he sees it.
The laughter is playful at first. They expected something silly, ridiculous even. I can tell they have the energy of hot-blooded alpha males who think they’re so secure in their masculinity that they can find this nothing more than entertaining.
I give them that. A few air humps with the baton, exaggerated like a parody. I slap my ass once for the drama. The room echoes with playful laughter and genuine amusement.
But then I pivot.
I grip the chair, my thighs planted. I roll my hips in undulating circles, fluid and intentional, like I mean it. My fingers work the cheap buttons of my cop shirt, each one popping open with theatrical precision. I remember what I told them about these buttons being “reinforced plastic,” and I milk every single one for maximum effect. The shirt hangs open now, revealing the thin white tank top underneath that clings to every line of muscle.
They quiet, not completely, but just enough to hear their breathing shift.
I let the cop shirt slide off my shoulders and toss it toward Trevor, who fumbles it like it’s radioactive. Then, I grab the tank top by the neckline, my fingers curling into the thin cotton. With a dramatic tug, I rip it straight down the middle, pretty much how people see strippers do all the time. The sound of tearing fabric cuts through the music, loud and exaggerated, before the shredded pieces fall to the floor. Now my toned chest and abs are fully visible, skin gleaming with oil under the suite lights.
Trevor’s playful persona cracks completely, replaced by something raw. Lance’s composure falters as traces of want take over, pushing reason aside. George watches with thefocused intensity of someone studying technique, his trained self-discipline struggling against genuine desire.
I stand, using the baton to hook the waistband of the police pants and let them slide further down my hips, revealing more skin but keeping things just decent enough.
The music switches, and Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” fills the room, dark and pulsing.
“Jesus,” George mutters, his restrained facade slipping entirely.
I kick off the boots with exaggerated authority, like I’m dismantling my entire law enforcement persona piece by piece. I work the belt of the police pants, letting them hang low on my hips.
I strut toward them, locking eyes with each man. But I’m building to him.
To Vince.
He says nothing, arms folded as he leans back on the edge of the couch like a statue, but I notice his jaw clenching, his hands flexing once, and his breathing growing shallow and labored.
