CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Pax
Holy shit. It was unreal. We’d heard rumors that the Donkey had a new girl, someone who could pulse pussy juice, make it rain in the best of ways, but we hadn’t believed it. I mean, we’ve seen all sorts of depraved acts, but believe me, female squirters are rare and most are holding a little balloon in their hand, pumping when the time is right. It’s generally an optical illusion, guys will believe anything when they’re horny.
So when Dante told us there was a new girl who was the real deal, we were skeptical.
“Right,” I said. “And Jenna Jameson is a virgin.”
My brother chuckled at the reference. Jenna was a porn star who’d made billions showing off her body, she was one of our favorites.
But Dante was insistent.
“No seriously,” he said, whipping off his helmet. “This new chick, she’s got a body to die for and she’s able to shoot like a waterfall, it’s fucking amazing.”
We stopped to consider. Our efforts to seduce our sister hadn’t been repeated since that day at the Four Seasons. We thought for sure we’d won her over, that Stacey was ours now but instead she was vague whenever we called.
“Oh yeah,” she’d mumble. “I miss you too.”
This was new. Most girls cling to us, not letting go, desperate for more of the Jones boys, but Stacey was different. I guess we were still persona non grata. It stung, but what could we do? So with a shrug I turned to my bro.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, and that was it. We were headed to the Donkey to check out this new stripper, the one who had a waterfall between her legs.
And it’s not like we’re new customers. We’re red-blooded dudes and the Donkey is just one of the strip joints we frequent. Granted, we don’t go that often, we’re more into Cream, Lace, or Scores, but every place has its charm and the Donkey was always a possibility when the night was ripe.
“Ready when you are,” Peyton grunted to me later that night. I looked over. Yeah, my brother was dressed right, in jeans and a muscle T. No sense in wearing a suit for this joint.
So we rolled up to the Donkey and Jordi, the bouncer, recognized us right away.
“Hey my man,” he crowed. He raised one massive fist for a fist bump, excited to see two NFL players. “You start spring training soon?” he asked.
“Yeah, in a couple weeks,” grunted my twin in return.
“Oh cool,” wheezed the big man. “You know, I’m hoping to try out this year, get called up from the farm team.”
That’s the thing with a lot of guys. They think that their sheer size makes them eligible for the NFL, and Jordi was a solid three hundred pounds give or take. But it takes more than size or even speed and agility. Football takes brains, it takes intuition, it takes a ton of practice. Believe it or not, we work hard and the NFL isn’t something you can just walk into.
But everyone has their pipe dreams, right? So we nodded, promising him our agent’s number, and strolled into the Donkey.
It was just as terrible as we remembered. I don’t care about interior design, wood furniture and dirtiness doesn’t bug me, but the other customers … man, who would dance for a crowd like this? Because if you wanted to take up a collection for missing teeth, this was the place to be.
More than one guy had gaping holes in their mouths, front teeth knocked out by who knows, hard labor on the farm maybe? Maybe someone should introduce them to helmets and mouthguards, we could provide a hook-up.
I shook my head. Well, the market was about supply and demand, and evidently girls made enough here to make it worth their while. Maybe they just danced here before they moved up to Lace or Mystique, surely they knew that just down the block were upscale joints, no need to establish a career in this pigsty.
Shrugging, we sat down. The night was still young and we ordered a couple beers, reclining, relaxed, psyched for the show.
Stanley the manager came over, dressed in a purple velvet suit.
“Hey, Peyton, Pax, great seeing you guys, long time no see,” he chirped. Yeah, we hadn’t been here in a while, he was probably hoping to make some serious cash this evening. “What can I do for you?”
“You got any new girls?” my bro threw out casually.
“Oh sure!” wheezed Stanley again. He had serious asthma, not helped by the smoky atmosphere in the club. “We got Monica the Monster, Jania Jugs, and Kim-Bimbo.”
Kim-Bimbo? What kind of stage name was that? But Stanley was already rambling on.
“We got whatever you need,” he oozed, his face shiny in the dim light. “Frankly, Jania Jugs is my favorite, she can smash watermelons with her titties, you’ll like it,” he tittered. “Imagine if it were your head!”
I hated stuff like that, girls who were straight out of a circus, freaks almost, enhanced by surgery. But that wasn’t what we were looking for. It was a different kind of attraction that had brought us here tonight.
I decided to go for it.
“You got any squirters?” I threw out casually. “Me and my brother, we’re looking to get wet tonight.”
That caused Stanley to quiet, his expression growing somber.
“A real squirter,” he said breathlessly, “you know those are rare.”
“Yeah,” Peyton grunted. “That’s why we’re here. You’re the great recruiter right? You scope out girls and procure them for clients?” he asked.
“Oh sure, oh sure, that’s me!” exclaimed Stanley. “Sure, sure, let me think. Well, Jania can do some squirting, I can call her up and tell her to come in tonight.”
I frowned. I wasn’t interested in Double H sloppy jugs coupled with a few drips here and there. I wanted the real thing, none of this second rate shit.
“Naw,” I said dismissively. “No worries, if it ain’t here, we’ll go elsewhere.”
That made Stanley jabber all the more.
“Hold on, not so fast,” he squealed, jumping up, filled with nervous energy. “I’m sure I have just the girl for you, let me see if she’ll do a private show.”
“No private show necessary,” growled my twin. “Just have her come on stage.”
Stanley slowly shook his head.
“No can do,” he said, pretend regretful. “This is an extra-special girl and we only loan her out for private shows.”
My brother and I shared a look. Bullshit. Stanley was trying to make a few extra bucks by booking a room in back, but we let him have it. A few thousand wasn’t going to make a difference to us anyways.
“Sure, tell her we’re interested,” I drawled. “Her name?”
“Inga,” cackled Stanley. “She’s backstage now, let me just get the room ready,” he promised.
And sure enough, in fifteen minutes he was back out, sleazy, smiling that shit-eating grin.
“Inga is waiting, kind sirs,” he groveled. “It’ll be five thousand.”
Five thousand? WTF the private room usually only cost three thousand on a busy night. But grunting, I pulled out my wallet and tossed a fistful of cash his way.
“Here,” I snorted.
The manager was practically drooling now, his fingers excitedly scrabbling at the money, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Yesss,” he hissed, hyperventilating, his expression filled with greed. “This way.”
And we followed Gollum into a dark hallway, narrow and twisted, until we came to a door in the back. It was painted black with a picture of two donkeys humping each other on front, spelling out the room’s purpose. Classy, real classy.
Shaking our heads, we opened the door while Stanley peered around our shoulder.
“I think you’ll find everything you need,” he wheezed. “Champagne, strawberries, condoms, lube …” his voice trailed.
“Thanks,” said my brother coldly. “Now beat it.”
And with that, Peyton slammed the door in the skinny dude’s face. We definitely weren’t buying Stanley’s company with five big ones.
The room was even darker inside, shadowed as our eyes adjusted in the dim light. There was a mini-bar, well-stocked with the glint of bottles, plus a plush purple sofa, shag carpeting, and a lamp flickering in the corner.
Plus, there was a female form outlined in shadow, bent over the couch, leaning towards us suggestively, her boobs pressed against the velour, the lush curves obvious even in the dim lighting.
“Welcome to the Donkey Club,” she breathed. “Inga at your service.”
And my brother and I stopped at those words. Because despite the darkness, the aura of mystery, that voice tipped us off immediately. The sound was sensuous, throaty, unmistakable whether on TV or in real life. It was Stacey, our stepsister.