Read Online Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) by Zack Hamric - Free Book Online
Authors: Zack Hamric
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the first girl showed up. Touched the back of my chair and leaned over me flashing a well-rounded set of tits overflowing from the tight lace top.
“I’m Misty,” she said. “We’re having a two for one special-would you like a dance?”
“Thanks Misty, but I just got here. Let me finish my drink and we’ll save the dance for later.”
She was gone with a swish of fabric swirling the smell of cheap perfume through the air. I wouldn’t see her again-in that quick conversation, she had already figured out that I was either broke or wasn’t spending-either one an unforgiveable sin in a strip joint.
I watched the crowd. The usual. Some fairly young guys, early twenties-out for a big night celebrating their newfound freedom to drink legally and have girls shake titties in their face. Older guys usually sitting up at the stage-overweight, looking like they had just been dumped by their third wife. Pulling bills off a wad and stuffing it into the garters of the girls shaking it on the edge of the stage. Supreme confidence in their ability to attract a woman-as long as their supply of cash held out. One guy rolled up a bill long-ways and held it in his teeth. The dancer squeezed it between her tits, snatched it out of his mouth with a wistful pout of a smile and circled to the other side of the stage.
More serious action on the couches off stage. Girls, topless with only dental floss for thongs, leaning over guys and grinding in time with the music. And then there were the guys who looked like they owned the party-a haze of pungent cigar smoke surrounding them and the occasional flash of gold out of the cloud as someone’s expensive watch was reflected in the light.
My reverie was interrupted as a girl glided to a halt beside me and sat down. This one was a looker-tall, sandy blonde, hard-bodied. She understood timing-paused a second. “Mind if I keep you company?” came out in a low, throaty voice with a faint hint of an accent. I nodded and she flowed onto the couch beside me-still not touching, but close enough where I could feel the heat of her thigh next to mine.
I waved at the waitress. Another drink appeared. “I’m Tasha.”
“John,” I said, staying with my newly adopted persona of John Doe until I could figure out something better. A quick tilt to her head, like she almost said something and thought better of it. A conversation that was as unmemorable as it was brief. The usual story about how “I’m here from Europe working for a modeling agency and just have to fill in here a couple of nights a week to make ends meet.” All bullshit of course, but we each had a role to play.
Music started-pulsing, loud. Tasha raised her eyebrows to ask the obvious question. “Sure,” I said gesturing with my hand and smiling encouragingly.
Time for Tasha to go to work. Stood in front of me, unbuttoned her top with a single snap on the back and languidly draped it around my neck. Reached out with her tiny foot encased in a pair of five inch stripper heels and spread my legs apart. She was amazing-tight firm breasts with tiny pink nipples winking from under the cover of the long blonde hair that reached almost to her waist. She moved into me with a catlike stretch starting at my waist, then leaned forward dragging her hair and tits against my body as she worked her way up. Before I knew it, four songs and eighty bucks of the Russian’s money were gone.
She sat beside me and snuggled against my shoulder. “Why don’t we go to the VIP room-I think you might enjoy it,” she said as she dragged her lips across my earlobe.”
Easy choice-spending a dead guy’s money on a beautiful blonde didn’t require much thought. “Let’s go,” I said as she grabbed my hand and led me across the room to a raised platform. At the rear of the platforms were eight by ten rooms hidden behind dark purple velvet drapes. Inside the room, barely visible in the dark light were low couches on the side and back walls.
Tasha
“I’m Misty,” she said. “We’re having a two for one special-would you like a dance?”
“Thanks Misty, but I just got here. Let me finish my drink and we’ll save the dance for later.”
She was gone with a swish of fabric swirling the smell of cheap perfume through the air. I wouldn’t see her again-in that quick conversation, she had already figured out that I was either broke or wasn’t spending-either one an unforgiveable sin in a strip joint.
I watched the crowd. The usual. Some fairly young guys, early twenties-out for a big night celebrating their newfound freedom to drink legally and have girls shake titties in their face. Older guys usually sitting up at the stage-overweight, looking like they had just been dumped by their third wife. Pulling bills off a wad and stuffing it into the garters of the girls shaking it on the edge of the stage. Supreme confidence in their ability to attract a woman-as long as their supply of cash held out. One guy rolled up a bill long-ways and held it in his teeth. The dancer squeezed it between her tits, snatched it out of his mouth with a wistful pout of a smile and circled to the other side of the stage.
More serious action on the couches off stage. Girls, topless with only dental floss for thongs, leaning over guys and grinding in time with the music. And then there were the guys who looked like they owned the party-a haze of pungent cigar smoke surrounding them and the occasional flash of gold out of the cloud as someone’s expensive watch was reflected in the light.
My reverie was interrupted as a girl glided to a halt beside me and sat down. This one was a looker-tall, sandy blonde, hard-bodied. She understood timing-paused a second. “Mind if I keep you company?” came out in a low, throaty voice with a faint hint of an accent. I nodded and she flowed onto the couch beside me-still not touching, but close enough where I could feel the heat of her thigh next to mine.
I waved at the waitress. Another drink appeared. “I’m Tasha.”
“John,” I said, staying with my newly adopted persona of John Doe until I could figure out something better. A quick tilt to her head, like she almost said something and thought better of it. A conversation that was as unmemorable as it was brief. The usual story about how “I’m here from Europe working for a modeling agency and just have to fill in here a couple of nights a week to make ends meet.” All bullshit of course, but we each had a role to play.
Music started-pulsing, loud. Tasha raised her eyebrows to ask the obvious question. “Sure,” I said gesturing with my hand and smiling encouragingly.
Time for Tasha to go to work. Stood in front of me, unbuttoned her top with a single snap on the back and languidly draped it around my neck. Reached out with her tiny foot encased in a pair of five inch stripper heels and spread my legs apart. She was amazing-tight firm breasts with tiny pink nipples winking from under the cover of the long blonde hair that reached almost to her waist. She moved into me with a catlike stretch starting at my waist, then leaned forward dragging her hair and tits against my body as she worked her way up. Before I knew it, four songs and eighty bucks of the Russian’s money were gone.
She sat beside me and snuggled against my shoulder. “Why don’t we go to the VIP room-I think you might enjoy it,” she said as she dragged her lips across my earlobe.”
Easy choice-spending a dead guy’s money on a beautiful blonde didn’t require much thought. “Let’s go,” I said as she grabbed my hand and led me across the room to a raised platform. At the rear of the platforms were eight by ten rooms hidden behind dark purple velvet drapes. Inside the room, barely visible in the dark light were low couches on the side and back walls.
Tasha
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