"Let's go," you said to your cousin, who beamed up at you like a kid on Christmas morning, his grin wide and full of teeth as you descended the penthouse steps in your sharp outfit—the ivory blouse hugging just right, slim pants sleek against your legs, low heels clicking with quiet purpose.
"You look good," he said, eyes lighting up.
You nodded, biting back a smile. No way you'd let his charm crack your walls that easy.
"Well, damn, you're strict and difficult," he teased, holding out his hands. "Keys?"
You stared at him, confusion knitting your brows. Keys to what? No way he meant...
"Keys to what?" you asked, your tone sharp, almost a snap.
"Your car, silly," he replied, still all smiles, like it was the most obvious thing.
You hissed under your breath, shooting him a glare that could curdle milk, then shoved past him toward the garage door. The cool air hit you as you stepped into the spacious bay, lined with your sleek rides—the black Audi gleaming under the soft lights, a perk of your banking salary and family trust fund.
You heard him chuckle behind you, his shoes squeaking on the polished tiles as he jogged to catch up. You hit the key fob, the Audi beeping twice, lights flashing. Sliding into the driver's seat, you gripped the leather wheel, the scent of the car and faint vanilla air freshener wrapping around you.
"You can drive?" he asked, buckling into the passenger seat, surprise in his voice.
Your face heated, cheeks burning as reality sank in. You... couldn't. Not really. Lessons never happened . Pride locked your jaw, so you just stared ahead at the garage wall, fingers tightening on the wheel like it owed you money.
After an awkward stretch of silence, he tapped your shoulder—gentle at first, then insistent. You turned, eyes narrowing, all fire and fragile ego.
"You really can't drive, can you?" he said, not mocking, just stating.
You nodded, the truth slipping out like a defeated breath. Pride be damned. You shoved the door open, grabbed your bag from the gear area, and circled the car, heels echoing sharply. By the time you yanked open the passenger door, he was already settled behind the wheel, hands casual on the leather, like he owned the place.
Heat flared in your chest—anger bubbling up, hot and familiar. This was supposed to be your step toward healing, but damn it you really wanted to unload on him. Still, you swallowed it. Not worth the fight. Not yet.
"Where are we going?" you asked, voice tight, buckling in and eyeing the dashboard like it might betray you next.
"A strip club," he said, glancing over with a sly side-eye, clearly fishing for shock.
Your eyes fluttered shut for a beat, processing. Strip club? At this time.? You'd stuck to safe spots classy diners with cloth napkins, pulsing clubs with velvet ropes. Exotic dives like this? Only in late-night movies. A spark of curiosity flickered, cutting through the numbness. Why not? It beat another day staring at spreadsheets and shadows.
You nodded. "Okay, let's go."
He broke into a full grin, a soft giggle escaping as he turned the key. The engine purred to life, smooth and powerful, the car jerking forward with a low rumble as he eased out of the garage. "Didn't know you were freaky. We learn something new every day."
You didn't reply, just watched the city streets unfold—towering glass facades giving way to edgier blocks, your mind already drifting to what lay ahead.
---
It was 9:30 Pm., and you sat in the idling Audi outside the club, a squat brick building tucked in a side street, its faded sign buzzing faintly even in daylight. You angled your compact mirror, gliding fresh lipstick over your lips—deep berry, bold against your skin—touching up the edges with a steady hand. Your cousin had dashed inside for tickets, leaving you to the quiet hum of the AC and the distant thump of bass leaking through the walls.
A knock rattled your window. You jumped, a small gasp escaping as your heart skipped—spooked in the evening gloom . Twisting, you saw him grinning through the glass, waving the tickets like a trophy. You rolled your eyes, thumbing the button to lower the window.
"Come out—I got 'em," he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
You stepped out quick, "accidentally" swinging the door a bit too close to his face. He dodged with a laugh, offering his arm like some old-school escort. You took it, pretending he was just hired muscle—your personal security in this unfamiliar dive—to make him bearable.
At the entrance, two burly guys in black tees loomed, arms crossed like barriers, faces squeezed. "ID and tickets," one grunted, voice low and gravelly.
You fished your ID from your bag—laminated proof of your polished life—and handed it over. Your cousin patted his pockets, hissed in frustration. No ID. He thrust the tickets at them instead, then slipped a wad of crumpled twenties into their palms, the bills whispering like a guilty secret.
They eyed the cash, then him, grunting approval. One nodded, sliding your ID back. "Go on in."
You couldn't believe it—your pulse raced, a thrill buzzing under your skin like static. Your first real dive into the wild side. Exotic. Unscripted. Yours
Stepping inside hit you like a wave: the air thick with dew-kissed sweat, cheap perfume, and something earthier, primal. Deep purple lights pulsed overhead, casting everything in shadows—hard to make out faces, but the dancers glowed under stark white spotlights, bodies twisting like living flames. It was everything you'd imagined from those grainy movie scenes: horny haze, sketchy edges, mysterious pull. Enticing, like a secret you weren't supposed to know. You felt like the lead in your own gritty film, heart thumping in time with the bass.
"There's the male section—for the ladies," your cousin whispered, nodding to the far right. "Enjoy."
You smirked, shrugging off his arm, and catwalked over—hips swaying with borrowed confidence, heels sinking into the sticky carpet. The crowd was a mix: more women than you'd expect, eyes hungry and unapologetic, plus a solid crew of guys adding to the electric vibe. You wove through, claiming a front-row perch at one dancer's stage, the velvet rope brushing your knees.
A quick glance back: your cousin, fingers buried deep in a writhing dancer's slick heat, her moans cutting through the music as he winked at you. Heat flooded your cheeks—you whipped away, zeroing in on the man before you.
God, he was a vision. Dark-skinned perfection, six feet of carved muscle gleaming under the lights—six-pack rippling like shadowed waves, face chiseled sharp with full lips and eyes that smoldered...an uncanny resemblance to your cousin. And lower... that thick, bricked-up length swinging heavy, unashamed, a 10/10 that stole your breath. His gaze locked on yours mid-spin, and you blushed fierce, heat pooling low despite yourself.
Bills rained down—crisp greens fluttering like confetti as he scooped them, tucking the wad along his throbbing shaft. Some slipped free, drifting slow and teasing, painting the air with raw want. The crowd whooped, the energy crackling like a storm about to break.
Then he dropped low, bending right into your space—muscles coiling, sweat-slick skin inches from your face. His hips snapped forward, that massive cock thrusting in brutal rhythm: once, twice, thrust—veins pulsing, the air thick with his musk, hot and salty. Thrust—the tip nearly grazing your lips, demanding, invading your senses with its heat. Thrust—faster now, his grunts low and animal, the crowd's cheers a roaring blur. Your face twisted, the thrill curdling to panic—why was he shoving this in your face, expecting you to play along? Your moment of fantasy shattered, turning sour, a knot of nausea twisting your gut.
His expression shifted—eyes glazing, jaw slack in that tell porno grimace, the one right before release. You knew it too well from the pornos you watched
Stay, and you'd wear his mess—a fresh scar on your fragile night out. No. Clutching your bag like a shield, you twisted to bolt, but his hand shot out—strong fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head steady. "I'm about to cum—hold still," he growled, voice rough as gravel, his body tensing like a bowstring.
The first spurt hit—thick, white ropes arcing hot and sticky toward your cheek, the sharp tang hitting your nose like a slap. Time slowed, horror freezing you as the world narrowed to that invading warmth, the crowd's roar fading to a dull throb...
Then—a firm hand clamped your arm, yanking you back with urgent force. You stumbled free, the dancer's grip snapping loose, his release splattering harmless to the stage floor in pearly strands.