like we were Joe Man gan iello and they were an extra in the film.
My jingle bells started tingling as the groping increased, the song pounding loud and hard, the technobeat impossible to not respond to.
Chickens in diapers. I had to think about chickens wearing diapers to—
Limp.
Whew.
As I gyrated and pretended I was a stripper in a movie, I watched Trevor leap in the air like the floor was electrified, dodging fingers and hands . We were the only entertainment at this Christmas Eve party. A long time ago, Sam and Liam had said yes to this singular gig. The money was spectacular, and their girlfriends had agreed i t was fine.
Then Trevor convinced us to go to Sushi Puke- o-rama and Sam and Liam happen to love eel.
Bad eel, it turns out.
They’d been barf ing their guts out a few hours ago, and the woman who ran the stripping entertainment company couldn’t find substitutes.
T revor, in his infinite guilt, had offered us up as tribute.
You think tribute is hyperbole? This is The Hunger Games , all right. These women are starving for our flesh. Look at that cougar over there, her palms clenching Trevor’s ass like she’s auditioning his cheeks for a porn movie.
T he surprised look on his face makes me think she slipped him a little something while doing her eval.
And I don’t mean a twenty in his g-string.
Flash!
A blinding white light made my brain hurt for a microsecond, then someone pinched my right nipple. Hard. So hard I gasped, then felt ten thousands hands crawl up and down my body, palms lubed up with the oil Sam and Liam had insisted we use.
Peppermint scented, in honor of the holiday.
Ho ho ho. A hundred of them, all looking at us like they wanted to touch Santa’s sac.
I left off the K for a reason.
I looked down, the song’s lyrics infused in me, and saw the crown of a blonde head, unruly curls falling over her shoulders.
Darla?
I reached down, driven by pure instinct, and tipped the woman’s chin up to meet my eyes.
No. Not Darla. A woman somewhere between my age and my mother’s, wearing heavy eye makeup and glitter across her eyelids, eyes brown and swimming with the unfocused look of someone who’d had more than a few drinks . She took my gesture as an invitation and slid her hands up the backs of my calves, trapping me in place.
A cold line of dread started at the base of my cock and traveled up my spine, settling into my teeth, making me ache for freedom.
This was a bad, bad idea.
Fuck Trevor and his discount sushi.
The blonde’s hands circled around and up between my knees, her actions gaining the attention of the other women.
Flash!
Another picture taken. None of these cougars knew anything about social media, right? I didn’t have to worry about these pics on YouTube or Instagram or Snapchat. They might post it on Facebook, but who cared? No one under forty was on Facebook anymore.
I was safe.
“ You owe me big time for this,” I snapped as Trevor floated by, a woman in his arms, ten more doing a conga line behind him. A conga line to the song “Closer.”
I stilled, freezing in place, and not because the blonde at my knees had her nose in my crotch like she was doing her best golden retriever imitation.
I just stared at Trevor and blinked.
After that week on the island of Eden, I thought I’d really seen it all. Nope. This was new.
Because the woman Trevor was carrying had slipped a dog collar on his neck, and the woman behind him had attached a leash.
Candy cane patterned, of course.
“Closer” ended, and then...
“Here Comes Santa Claus” came on, making the women clap and cheer as Trevor took little bouncy steps. He played up to the crowd and reached into his g-string. How he managed to keep anything in there was a mystery to me, but hey—
Mine was stuffed full. Enough said. No room at the inn for anything more.
He pulled out a tiny set of actual little jingle bells with red ribbons attached to them, and slid them over his balls, on the
My jingle bells started tingling as the groping increased, the song pounding loud and hard, the technobeat impossible to not respond to.
Chickens in diapers. I had to think about chickens wearing diapers to—
Limp.
Whew.
As I gyrated and pretended I was a stripper in a movie, I watched Trevor leap in the air like the floor was electrified, dodging fingers and hands . We were the only entertainment at this Christmas Eve party. A long time ago, Sam and Liam had said yes to this singular gig. The money was spectacular, and their girlfriends had agreed i t was fine.
Then Trevor convinced us to go to Sushi Puke- o-rama and Sam and Liam happen to love eel.
Bad eel, it turns out.
They’d been barf ing their guts out a few hours ago, and the woman who ran the stripping entertainment company couldn’t find substitutes.
T revor, in his infinite guilt, had offered us up as tribute.
You think tribute is hyperbole? This is The Hunger Games , all right. These women are starving for our flesh. Look at that cougar over there, her palms clenching Trevor’s ass like she’s auditioning his cheeks for a porn movie.
T he surprised look on his face makes me think she slipped him a little something while doing her eval.
And I don’t mean a twenty in his g-string.
Flash!
A blinding white light made my brain hurt for a microsecond, then someone pinched my right nipple. Hard. So hard I gasped, then felt ten thousands hands crawl up and down my body, palms lubed up with the oil Sam and Liam had insisted we use.
Peppermint scented, in honor of the holiday.
Ho ho ho. A hundred of them, all looking at us like they wanted to touch Santa’s sac.
I left off the K for a reason.
I looked down, the song’s lyrics infused in me, and saw the crown of a blonde head, unruly curls falling over her shoulders.
Darla?
I reached down, driven by pure instinct, and tipped the woman’s chin up to meet my eyes.
No. Not Darla. A woman somewhere between my age and my mother’s, wearing heavy eye makeup and glitter across her eyelids, eyes brown and swimming with the unfocused look of someone who’d had more than a few drinks . She took my gesture as an invitation and slid her hands up the backs of my calves, trapping me in place.
A cold line of dread started at the base of my cock and traveled up my spine, settling into my teeth, making me ache for freedom.
This was a bad, bad idea.
Fuck Trevor and his discount sushi.
The blonde’s hands circled around and up between my knees, her actions gaining the attention of the other women.
Flash!
Another picture taken. None of these cougars knew anything about social media, right? I didn’t have to worry about these pics on YouTube or Instagram or Snapchat. They might post it on Facebook, but who cared? No one under forty was on Facebook anymore.
I was safe.
“ You owe me big time for this,” I snapped as Trevor floated by, a woman in his arms, ten more doing a conga line behind him. A conga line to the song “Closer.”
I stilled, freezing in place, and not because the blonde at my knees had her nose in my crotch like she was doing her best golden retriever imitation.
I just stared at Trevor and blinked.
After that week on the island of Eden, I thought I’d really seen it all. Nope. This was new.
Because the woman Trevor was carrying had slipped a dog collar on his neck, and the woman behind him had attached a leash.
Candy cane patterned, of course.
“Closer” ended, and then...
“Here Comes Santa Claus” came on, making the women clap and cheer as Trevor took little bouncy steps. He played up to the crowd and reached into his g-string. How he managed to keep anything in there was a mystery to me, but hey—
Mine was stuffed full. Enough said. No room at the inn for anything more.
He pulled out a tiny set of actual little jingle bells with red ribbons attached to them, and slid them over his balls, on the
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