7 comments/ 44994 views/ 44 favorites A Study in Scarlett Ch. 01 By: AMoveableBeast I know about women, which is not to say that I understand them, their inner workings and machinations, because I am unsure any man ever truly can. Nor do I imply that I have mastered them, that I have solved them, that I have them figured, pinned-down, or pigeonholed; to constrain one of them in such a way would be beyond me, let alone the entire species. I cannot add to them, subtract from them, divide them, or, despite my best efforts, multiply them. They are incalculable, unknowable, alien. No, what I am saying is that I know the truth about women. I know that the weaker sex is not, that the fairer gender is a description that applies to complexion alone. I know the true power of women. I know that the battle of the sexes is a myth, the war is over. We lost. We just don't know it yet. I know, in short, a secret. This knowledge did not come to me due to a vast intellect or an empathetic bend, nor did it come from extensive dealings with women, though I have had plenty. Rather, like anything worth knowing, it was hard-won, painful even. Likely, I would have never realized it on my own. If not for a single chance encounter with a particular woman, I could be like any of you men reading this: confident, self-assured, safe in the idea that my gender's physical strength, historical dominance, and the statistically larger paychecks we bring home, prove, if nothing else, that we are equal if not greater. I would still be ignorant of the truth. I know many of you find the things I am saying ridiculous, preposterous even. It was a very hard lesson for me, as well. But then again, I had a very good teacher. *** I met her at a strip club, of all places. Unlikely both because of the nature of such establishments (after all, where else is the dominance of men so clearly visible as in those houses of flesh?) and because I had never been a big frequenter of adult clubs. I mean, sure, I'd spent my fair share of time around them when I was just coming into adulthood, full-nude mostly, but by twenty-one the newness had faded and I had thought of better, less sexually frustrating, ways of emptying my wallet than teasing myself to the point of depression. This particular night, however, I'd had a huge fight with my fiancée, Mandy, who, after a three month engagement and a three year relationship, had become increasingly demanding. An administrative assistant by trade, she had quit her job shortly after I'd popped the question, and now expected me to be our sole provider. Which wouldn't have been a problem--I worked at the local paper as an executive editor and brought home pretty good money, in addition to some fairly lucrative freelance writing--except that her spending habits, never frugal to start with, had also increased after the proposal. Covering her credit card expenditures had me knee-deep in overtime and side projects, and I was quickly burning out. To make matters worse, Mandy had never excelled as a housekeeper and this lone fact had, sadly, not changed after our engagement. The bare mention of my frustrations had, as usual, set off an explosion of emotion from her, complete with tears and screaming unbecoming of any woman over eight years of age. Never one for dealing with her--by my friends' accounts, legendary--temper tantrums, I had fled the house in my truck. Unfortunately, those same tantrums and her increasingly tight leash on me had scared most of those friends away, and after driving around aimlessly with nowhere to go for a couple hours, I ended up at a titty bar by the name of Sparkles, the starting classroom for my lesson on women. The club was fairly standard, with a small, centered stage, surrounded on one side by mirrors. A slightly chubby black girl, whom the DJ referred to several times as Cinnamon, gyrated on stage, shaking her large ass both enthusiastically and with great skill. While she wasn't the prettiest girl I had ever seen, I had to admit, her dancing was impressive, enough so that I gave her several dollars almost immediately upon my arrival. After which, I hung around the edge of the platform checking out the place. There were two sections of tables, both a lower and upper level with a ramp connecting them, easier to deal with in six inch heels or with a few drinks in you, I figured. The upper level had a large bar where two very pretty, fully clothed, girls doled out drinks to patrons. All the while, other women, easily identified as strippers by their exposed breasts and barely-there underwear, seemingly tip-toed through the maze of tables, smiling, sitting on laps, and occasionally leading men to a dark side-room full of couches and dim, flashing lights. Several of them smiled at me. The fight between Mandy I had occurred almost as soon as I got in from work, and I hadn't had time to change. As such, I looked a bit like a business man in my olive suit and salmon shirt. The women were nothing if not astute about their customers, and I looked like easy prey. I was asked about lap dances nearly a dozen times as I wound my way to the bar. I declined each one as politely as I could, and had the sudden sense of being very out of place. As I looked at their stock of bottles, I began to feel very foolish. What was I doing here? Did I expect to find some sort of relief in a place like this? All I would do here was deplete my already stretched cash supply. And what of Mandy? I hated to think of the bitch-fit she would throw if she found out I went to a strip club. She barely let me piss anymore without asking permission. I was just turning to make my way down the ramp and toward the exit when I heard a laughing voice addressing me. "Wow. That has to be some kind of record." I turned to see a tall, curvy redhead smiling warmly at me. Her cobalt eyes were friendly and amused, shaded in a bright powder-blue, though it was hard to meet them for more than a second. She would have been a few inches taller than me without the ridiculous heels she wore, with them, she seemed closer to a foot, which placed her huge breasts right at eye level, making it difficult to look at anything else. They were at least D's and the nipples were hard and seemed to point accusatorily in my direction. A skinny tie, wrapped loosely around her long neck, hung between them. The separation from the fabric made them look even bigger, a tiny checkered boat lost amid an ocean of tits. It was slightly too long, and the tip almost touched her matching panties, which clung tightly to a plump ass and thick legs. Her face was pretty if not beautiful, still soft with youth, with a freckle-dusted nose and pouty lips heavy with an unnaturally powerful shade of red. Combined with her long copper hair, pulled playfully to the sides in pigtails, her outfit made her look like something of an overgrown schoolgirl. Never one for the whole barely legal sort, most of the women I dated tended to be older than my thirty years, I found it sort of garish. Still, there was something about her. "Excuse me?" I said. "A record. You were here what, three minutes? That's almost insulting. Are we that hideous?" She spoke with a sweet sarcasm, telling me she knew she was anything but hideous. "No. Not at all. It's ju-" "Oh, I see. You're afraid of women. That makes sense. We get your type in here sometimes. Just want to have a peek but too afraid to touch." "I love to touch!" I said, perhaps too defensively. "I mean, uhhh, I'm not. Afraid of women, I mean." "So you think women are weak? A women hater, then." "No! I don't think women are weak, either." "But you just said you're not afraid of them." "I'm not afraid of men either!" "Oh...the macho type. Not afraid of anything. Got it. We get plenty of tough guys, too." "I'm not a tough guy!" I not quite shouted. "I'm a writer." "A writer! The sensitive type, then? Too shy to talk to the big scawy strippers." Her tone was chiding but still friendly. "You'd just rather sit at home with your...pen...in your hand, sure that no one could ever understand the unfathomable depths of your enigmatic soul." I was quickly becoming flabbergasted. "I don't always have my pen in my hand. No more than normal, anyway. I don't think, at least. And as for my soul, it's no more unfathomable than anyone else's." "Then it has to be the wife. If you're none of those other sorts, it can only be the wife. Did you get in a fight? Are you not cutting it in the sack? Is there another man? Another woman?" "She's not my wife, yet, not for another six months, and I cut it fine, thank you very much. There is no one else, she's just...a bitch!" I spoke this last part so loudly that several other patrons turned to look in my direction. My cheeks reddened and I spread my hands out wide as if to say, Yeah, I've had a bad day and I'm getting a little loud. So what? Last I checked, this was a strip club, not a fucking library. At least, that's what I hoped my gesture said. With my blushing and the frustrated look on my face, it probably said, Sorry I'm an idiot. I get confused easily when there are titties everywhere. Please ignore. "Vodka and cranberry, I think." "What?" I said, I turned to see the redhead eyeing me with a measuring stare. "You know, the cocktail?" "Yes, I know what it is. Why do you say it?" "You should buy one. It's been a hard day. Look at you; you're all frazzled." She spoke softly, nodding her head as if agreeing with her previous assessment. "Yep, definitely a vodka and cranberry." "No. Absolutely not. I was just leaving. This was a big mista-" I began weakly. "Leaving to go where? Back to your wife, who is not your wife yet--the bitch? Will that make your night better?" "What? You don't even make sense." Even in my tiredness, I could feel the beginning of a smile curling up my lips. In answer, she merely giggled and then shooed me toward the bar with her hand. Without realizing it, I was halfway there when she called out to me again. "Oh, and sweetie, get one for yourself, too." It turned out to be the first round of many. A couple hours later, we were sitting at a secluded table near the back where the music wasn't so loud, a translucent graveyard of empty glasses sent the strobe lights refracting onto our faces. She propped herself up with one arm, elbow on the table and chin in her palm--her already childish cheeks made cherub-esque with the flush of alcohol. I, too, could feel the effects of the liquor; my body seemed to buzz with the bass of the speakers and I now leaned noticeably forward, captivated by this quirky woman. For her part, she had proven a wonderful drinking companion, and had listened intently and with great interest as I had told her pretty much every detail about my, in my own ears, boring life. I had babbled about work and college and she had eaten it up, her beautiful (had I doubted that early?) face full of laughter and, seemingly, genuine concern. Most of all, we had talked about Mandy, about her bad habits, and her moods, how spoiled she had been as a child, even how she only talked dirty when she wanted something. The more we talked, the angrier I became at my fiancée. It mixed with the vodka, reacted chemically within me, frothing and boiling. I began to hate her then, I think. Staring at that young, innocent, beaming woman, Mandy just seemed so spiteful, so sharp and petty. "Is she at least hot?" the stripper enquired. "I just don't understand how she landed someone like you." "Like me..." Why did my words seem so much more slurred than hers? "I'm nothing all that special. And yes, she's hot, I guess. Nice ass. Pretty face. Not hard to fuck, when she'll let me." I didn't mean for my words to sound so vulgar but my mind was too addled to help it. "What about her tits? Does she have nice tits?" "Sure. Smallish, but they got a nice shape to them." God, I sounded drunk. "Like mine?" She asked, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "She wishes," I said, laughing roughly. "No. Nothing like yours." "Would you like to touch mine?" I laughed again, thinking the question was rhetorical. Upon noticing it was not, I stammered. "Of course. Who wouldn't?" She just sat there looking at me, her eyes dancing, her lips turned into an exaggerated frown. "Wwwwell, I AM a stripper." I just sat there looking at her stupidly for a second before it dawned on me. "Christ! You've been sitting here listening to my dumb ass and you could have been making money. I'm so sorry. You've been so nice; I forgot you were at work." She chuckled gently. "Don't be. But, if you like the merchandise, you could take it for a spin." "Yeah, of course. Of course. I love the merchandise. Absolutely love it. It's hard to think about anything else. Wait. You said 'touch'? I can touch?" I suddenly felt very excited. "Well, we're not supposed to, but I sometimes make exceptions for cute, overly-frustrated writers with bitchy fiancées who don't appreciate them," she grinned at me with a mixture of seduction and girlish charm, a combination I was coming to use to define her. "I don't know," I hesitated, a feeling of guilt swelling in me. "Mandy can be awful, but I do love her. I don't know if I should. I mean, a dance maybe, but I don't think I should take it any further." "Just a dance, then. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Her eyes were all honesty. "How much? Money, I mean?" I felt uncomfortable talking about it like a business. Stripper or not, I felt we had somehow passed this, that two hours of me pouring my heart out had pushed us beyond the normal boundaries of seller and purchaser. "Wait until we're done. Then, you can give me whatever you think the dance was worth." She almost skipped, gleefully bounding as she led me by the hand to the dark side-room. The way her fingers interlaced with mine almost seemed sweet and more than once she looked back over her shoulder, a bright, excited smile painted across her face. It was easy to forget she was taller than me. She seemed so little in her movements, not small but young, fresh and full of energy, like a girl on her way to her first day of school. Yet, as I watched her ass shake along with her bouncing steps it was impossible not to notice just how adult she really was. The side-room contained several couches, each wrapped around a small pedestal complete with a metal pole that stretched to the ceiling. Some of the couches were occupied, one by a large, bearded man upon whom a lithe blonde was grinding unenthusiastically and another by a dark-skinned guy in a baseball hat who stared approvingly as an Asian girl did an erotic version of the splits in front of him. My companion was careful to lead me as far away from them as possible. She placed me gently on the sofa, plush and perhaps a little too broken in, removed my jacket and placed it beside me, then stepped onto the platform. In her heels, she nearly reached the ceiling. She tapped her foot nervously, waiting for the next song to begin. I keep my attention on the other couches, feeling once again like perhaps this had all been a bad idea. I was just about to tell her so when the music abruptly changed and a sensual but driving beat filled the club. The redhead caught my eye, gave me a surprisingly shy but dazzling smile, wiggled her pigtails slightly, then, with shocking skill, deftly grabbed the pole with one hand and launched herself upon it. Despite her innocent appearance, the girl clearly knew her craft. Within a second she was completely inverted, her legs wrapped about the metal as securely as arms. She opened her chest then, like a great pale bird, her large breasts on full display, her eyes closed as if in dream. Then, they were open, the little girl sliding back to reveal something else, the focused eyes of an artist, and she moved. I had never seen a woman move so fluidly, her body was a thing of liquid, of oil and curves, and it undulated around the pole as water runs over rock, caressing it, controlling and being controlled by it. The inside of her thighs sucked at the metal, lapped at the shimmering light reflected by it, her body a hungry thing, spinning and pulling, steel disappeared beneath her hands, behind her body, only to remerge a second later, seemingly from her, as if it were a part of her, its hard length passing through her like a needle through honey. No longer did I notice the other couches. They didn't exist. I felt far from myself. Only a growing pressure in my pants kept me at all grounded. I was a snake and she my charmer. My eyes, deeper still, my mind, followed her every movement. Her eyes, intense and confident, seemed to keep mine locked, to never lose me even for a second. No matter the angle, regardless of which acrobatic trick she performed, they seemed to find me, to hunt me down and draw me to them. The first song passed, then, the next. Without pause, she slithered from the pole and was on me. Her body pinned me to the cushion with the slightest of effort, her wet skin, damp with a slight sheen of perspiration, brushed me sparingly at first, then heavily and with consistency. Like she had done with the pole, she now seemed to entangle me, to coat me. Her hair danced upon my skin. Her breath poured into me, filling me until my lungs expanded and contracted in rhythm with hers. She seemed to go on forever, to wrap in all directions until there was no up or down or side to side, just the never ending labyrinth of her skin. My cock ached. My mind, already muddled by the booze, began to fill with a dense fog. Finally, she settled into a position straddling me with her legs, her upper body draped over me, breasts swaying, nipples inches from my mouth. Her skin pressed against me in waves, rising and falling like a curtain of flesh caught in some erotic, hypnotizing dance. Meanwhile, the redhead's hips had taken on a more frantic motion, and she now grinded them against the bulge in my pants, the strained fabric of my work trousers and the barely there wisp of her panties all that kept us from true intercourse. She looked down at me, her eyes once again gaining that warm but amused quality. "Would you like to touch me now?" I meant to say no, to tell her that I wanted to, desperately, but that it just wouldn't be right, by the time my mouth began to move, however, my hands, clawed and eager, had already slid up her body and were now grasping the fullness of her dangling breasts. I looked up at her, feeling their size, licked my lips and started to gently but actively squeeze them, rolling a nipple in each hand softly between my thumb and forefinger. She parted her lips in the quietest of moans, inaudible amid the thumping of the sound system, just the barest of openings, drawing attention to the wetness of her glossy mouth. Pre-cum seeped from my hard dick and I wondered if she could feel the wetness against her thin underwear. She did something unexpected, then. She lowered her face to mine and kissed me, nothing long or aggressive, just the briefest flash of teeth and a taste of her tongue and lipstick. The latter was candied, sweet and strong, flavored like what sucker wrappers tell you strawberry tastes like. I attempted to kiss back but her lips slid away, leaving me disappointedly sucking at the air. I nearly whimpered. Seeing my hunger, she snatched the slender tie from her throat and looped it around my neck and pulled my mouth forward, simultaneously pushing her chest out, bringing one luscious tit to my mouth. The nipple moved in slow-motion, inch by inch it crept closer to my mouth, erect and pink, headed straight for me. I weakly attempted to turn my neck, but the tie held me firm. Once again, I wanted to tell her to stop, to explain that I wasn't this kind of guy, but I didn't. What I did instead was sit quietly until her nipple reached my mouth, the soft skin spongy against my lips. She pushed against my closed mouth, testing the edges of my defenses, gently, questioningly. In answer, I shamefully opened up and sucked the tip of her huge breast into my mouth. A Study in Scarlett Ch. 01 She let out a sharp breath, holding the tie at my neck fiercely, like a lasso, while the fingernails of her other hand dug at my shoulder through my shirt. Her breast smelled of candy, as well, and her nipple was laced with the same faux berry flavor as the stripper's mouth. Sweat and oil also prickled against my tongue, the first salty and acrid, the second, bitter and unpalatable. Uncaring, I drew more and more of her breast into my mouth until my cheeks were sore with it. For her part, she rewarded me with louder moans the harder I sucked. "That's it, Daddy. Taste as much as you can. I love feeling how hungry you are." She spoke sweetly but with great urgency, and seemed every bit the schoolgirl her outfit portrayed her as. I tried to meet her gaze, interested as to what she was on about, but her enormous breast now blocked most of my vision. As if to sate my curiosity, she took the hand from my shoulder, removed her right breast from my mouth and then gently guided me to the left, which I engulfed with a wet sound. In the space between, I could clearly see her face: her eyes were closed now, cheeks even more flushed, and her mouth was open in a tiny "o". Her expression was blissful, almost innocent, so much so that it nearly made me stop. She seemed like a sweet girl, but this adolescent act was starting to make me uncomfortable. "Oh, Daddy!" There was that word again. Why was she saying it? It made me uneasy, but I was also starting to find it strangely arousing. Sensing my reluctance, she moved her mouth to my ear and whispered pleadingly, "It's ok, Daddy. Just relax. Let your baby girl take care of you. You've had a hard day. Let me take it away. Let me appreciate you." Her voice seemed higher now, and it contained a breathless, begging quality. I grabbed one of her hands and tried to sit up, but, as she had done earlier, she seemed to roll away like a liquid, disengaging her hand from my and then slipping it down to my groin. The warmth of her touch felt like fire on my hard-on, and before I could speak, she kissed me again, this time aggressively; her tongue forced the air from my body, held me suspended between thoughts. Faster than I could recover, she had undone the button on my slacks, opened the zipper, pulled my belt to the side, and now had her hand thrust inside, stroking my thick cock under my boxer shorts. I burned for release, and with each jerk of her hand I lost a bit more resistance. "Yes, Daddy. That's it. Just relax. I'll make you feel better." I no longer entertained any thoughts of stopping her. I didn't care any more. All I cared about was the rhythm of her hand on my dick. "Do you want it, Daddy? Do you want your little girl to make you feel better?" Her shrill voice was frantic now and her blue eyes were intense and slightly unstable. I nodded weakly. "Say it." "What?" "Say you want it." I paused only for an instant. "Yes. I want it." "Who wants it?" "I do." "Who?!" I knew what she wanted. "Daddy," I said quietly. "More!" "Daddy wants it," I said louder. "Does Daddy want his baby girl to make him cum?" I was past my reservations. I wasn't concerned about what this chick's deal was. My cock compelled me. I would say anything. "Yes, baby. Make Daddy cum! Give him what he needs! Make him feel better! Make him forget!" "Cum for me, Daddy!" With that, the speed of her strokes quickened and she began to grind her pelvis against my thighs, swirling about, bucking her hips in time with each pull of my dick. It only took a few seconds for me to begin shooting stream after stream of hot cum against the tautness of my boxers. I cried out loudly and continued to do so for the better part of a minute, filling my shorts with enough jizz that it spread through my boxers, leaving an impressive patch of dampness across the crotch of my pants. Still, she didn't stop, careful to squeeze every drop from my shuddering dick, she stroked relentlessly until I lay shaking beneath her. I could hear an embarrassing squishing sound from inside my pants as her hand slid up and down my slippery cum-coated cock. When she finally drew her hand from my slacks, it too was covered in a thick layer of white semen. She teasing held it up to her mouth. "So," she asked coyly. "How much was the dance worth?" I just nodded my appreciation, still lost in the aftermath of my orgasm. "How much?" She repeatedly the question a little less gently. "Oh," I said, finally realizing that she was referring to her payment. I dug in my soiled pants for my wallet, becoming keenly aware once more that the pigtailed woman and I were not alone. The black girl that had been dancing on the stage when I entered was now entertaining a tall lanky man in glasses on one of the other couches. Thankfully, he was laying back, eyes closed, as she bounced her big ass on him from a reverse-cowgirl position. That meant, though, that Cinnamon, as she had been called, had gotten a front row seat to my torrential orgasm. She met my stare and cracked a broad amused smile, revealing a gapped tooth and a tongue ring, which she wiggled at me teasingly before breaking into a giggle that caused her client to briefly open his eyes before leaning back once more into the sofa. My face blushed red and I tried unsuccessfully to cover the stained crotch of my pants. I wondered if she had been able to see everything, specifically, the redheads hand in my pants. If so, was this something the girls here did often? She certainly seemed unconcerned about the whole thing. When I finally managed to free my wallet, made even more difficult by the tightness created by my still semi-erect penis and the fact that I was being straddled, I was grateful to have the distraction of examining it. I searched its folds for a little too long, hoping to regain enough composure where I could again look into the eyes of the woman who had just sent me to one of the most intense orgasms I could remember. I counted the bills twice. I had two-hundred and fifty four dollars. After only a little bit of consideration, I handed the entire amount to redhead on top of me. She took it with her free hand, not the hand with my cum all over it that was still poised in front of her face. She added it up with the skill of a professional, separating the bills with the fingers of one hand and instantly sorting the amounts. She then closed her eyes and brought the cum-drenched hand up to her mouth. Her moist red tongue darted out, flicking quickly across her lips to wet them, then stretched to lap at my sticky load. I could feel my dick growing again and I moaned in anticipation. Just when her tongue was centimeters away, her eyes snapped open and she gave me a teasing pout. 'I don't know...I've never done this before. Maybe for three-hundred?" "I don't have anymore!" My voice sounded hoarse and desperate, surprising even me. The redhead skewed her mouth to one side as a sullen look crossed her features. "Tsk, tsk," she said to me, wagging one creamy finger in front of her. "Maybe next time." And with that, she wiped her hand--first the front, then the back--off on my shirt, leaving a slimy trail from my chest to my stomach. "Hey!" I began, a mixture of outrage and disappointment coloring my tone. She quickly interrupted me, however, by placing a finger, one of the same ones she'd just smeared on my shirt, to my lips. "Do you not feel like you got your money's worth?" Even as she spoke I could taste the bitter, saltiness of my own fluid pressed against my lips. I felt offended by it, disgusted, disturbed, yet my cock stirred despite the protests of my sensibility. "Well?" Her tone was kind, chipper even, like a small girl assuring you of the fairness of the prices at her lemonade stand. That being the case, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was at a disadvantage, that she was in charge and that I was in over my head with this harmless looking girl with the pigtails and magic hips. Still, I had to agree. The dance alone had been worth every penny. The stripper, sensing my agreement by the look on my face, gave me another stunning smile, kissed me on the cheek, untangled her tie from my neck in one swift motion, and, giving me a wink as she slip it back over her head, began to walk away. "Wait!" I called to her, hastily refastening my pants. "Is that it? Are you leaving?" She spun around, giggling as she continued to walk backward away from the couch. "I would love to stay and play. Really, I would, but you just told me you're out of money, and as you said earlier, I am at work. Gotta make that cash, hon! I do really like you though, William. Good luck with Mandy. Come back and see me again. Sorry about your pants." "It's ok. They're washable. Wait. How do you know my name?" "I looked at your driver's license when you were getting the money. I know, naughty, naughty!" She grinned at this and turned away once more. "Ok!" I had to shout now for her to hear me above the music. The lanky man was now looking at me with annoyance and the big-bottomed black stripper was laughing openly. "Hey! That's not fair! You know my name but I don't even know yours!" "I'm Scarlett," she yelled back over her shoulder. With a few more steps she was gone from the Couch Room, her shapely hips disappearing around the corner back into the main area of the club. When I eventually followed--after I had adjusted and readjusted my pants several times--she had already moved on to a new patron, a tall, broad-shouldered middle-aged man in an expensive suit with salt and pepper hair, a thick mustache, and a strong jaw. She sat on his lap laughing while drinking another vodka and cranberry, completely oblivious to my presence. When the man caught me staring at them, his dark eyes clearly told me to move along, and he clutched her tightly about the waist, holding her against him like a treasured possession he was afraid I might make off with. Nevertheless, I watched her the entire way to the door, jacket held in a pitiful attempt to hide my cum-stained clothes, but she never once looked in my direction. She haunted my mind that night as I drove home, the gyrations of her body playing across my windshield like an erotic movie on a projection screen. So intense were these phantom that I almost had to pull the car over to jerk-off at one point. Other things, besides desire, accompanied these thoughts, however: fear and guilt. Slowly, they began to overpower my excitement. They bubbled up quietly, whispers and voices pawing at my consciousness, a misplaced soundtrack to the film of Scarlett dancing. Nearly inaudible at first, just a distant murmuring behind her swaying breasts and spinning legs, they grew steadily louder until they sounded like shouting in my head. What have you done? A hand job? From a stripper? She is going to know! Mandy is going to find out! Then where will you be? All because you let some pigtailed slut give you a handie in the fucking Couch Room! It was all I could hear by the time I pulled into my suburban driveway. The screaming continued, exploding against the inside of my skull with such force that I dropped my keys twice trying to open the door, and rumbled steadily as I made my way up the stairs of our two bedroom ranch,. My breath seemed impossibly loud as I crept my way to the bathroom, terrified to wake my sleeping fiancée. Hands shaking visibly, I did my best to wash the stains from my clothes off in the sink. The voices didn't let up when I scrubbed myself in the shower minutes later, scouring the scent of the redhead from my body. Even when I sank into bed next to Mandy--she kept her back turned to me, likely still angry from our earlier fight--I feared my heart would betray me, pounding too forcefully against the smooth skin of my lover's back. Much to my relief, she did not stir. I lay there for a long time, all bated breath and bunched nerves. When sleep finally found me it wore pigtails and smelled of fake strawberries. *** The next week passed uneventfully. Mandy forgave me for our argument the next morning. Though, I had to tell her a lie about going out with Tim, a friend I still talked to on occasion, and spilling beer all over my best suit to explain the wet clothes hanging in the laundry room. She bought it without reservation, but was unsurprisingly bitchy about it, saying that it was just the sort of irresponsible thing I would do in a confrontational situation, and that if I had simply been "man enough" to admit I was wrong in the first place we wouldn't have had a fight at all. I failed to point out to her that the disagreement had actually been about her overdrawing her checking account by buying yet another jacket, one that seemed ridiculously priced in my opinion, without first checking to see if we had the money in the bank. A mistake I had, of course, covered with my own funds. She seemed to completely forget this, as well, because she informed me shortly afterward that we needed a new TV, as our thirty-two inch was now pitifully small and unacceptable, even though, to my reckoning, it had never changed size. When I told her that this week wasn't really the best one financially for a new television--I certainly didn't volunteer that me spending two-fifty on a hand job probably didn't help--she flipped out on me, snarkily adding that Patty and Ed (a morbidly obese married couple who considered themselves our friends but were actually more just Mandy's friends) had recently bought a huge LED flat-screen. If Ed, she said, who only had a factory position, could afford something like that and I couldn't, then maybe it was time I quit the writing shit and got a real job. I responded by telling her that it was likely because Patty, other than her weekly McDonald's bill, didn't waste Ed's money like Mandy did mine. This earned me a curt "fuck you" and a fork hurled past my ear. All in all, it was a pretty standard breakfast for us. I pushed through the next seven days like I was swimming in Vaseline. Despite my best efforts to focus and forget about that night at Sparkles, the hours seemed to crawl and I found myself thinking again and again about Scarlett's easy laugh and the curves of her body. At work, I struggled to be productive, and more than once an errant sentence slipped beneath my notice as I replayed the memory of her dance. At home, I found myself restless and malcontent, as what had seemed like a sufficient and predictable, if sometimes volatile, relationship with Mandy dulled in my eyes to a boring, listless gray. She didn't help things with her ice queen routine. As was normal for her, she withdrew her affections from me after our fight--she often did this for days or weeks when she was displeased--refusing to kiss me on the mouth, much less let me anywhere near her pussy. Combined with my preoccupation with Scarlett, this behavior caused my sexual frustration to peak at a level just above absolutely unbearable, and I had taken to masturbating incessantly any chance I got; I did it in the shower, next to Mandy's sleeping form, even a couple times hidden in a bathroom stall while at the office. There was a pressure mounting in me, like the stripper had lit a fire under my skin, and the heat was growing inside me, expanding, threatening to cause an explosion. It seemed silly to me then, that this woman, a girl really (she couldn't have been more than 24), with her schoolgirl costume and her sugared kisses had so upset the balance of my life. My cock was constantly hard for her. No sooner would I drain it of cum than it would be there again, throbbing for her lustful touch. I must have been more hard-up than I had imagined. Mandy was a good lover, skillful, with a practiced and effective technique. She was beautiful, too, a short brunette with polished, slightly Mediterranean features, pert tits, and a round, alluring bottom. She was a year older than I, but in fantastic shape, a religious gym routine keeping her thin and well-toned. Still, there was something vaguely unsatisfying about our lovemaking. She sucked and fucked with admirable talent, but she had sex the way that an athlete played a sport: with great focus and intent to win. What she intended to win, I had never figured, but she strove to be a laser in the bedroom, quick and efficient, the first one to the finish line, no frills, no round two, just a streamlined sprint to orgasm leading to a brief, and sometimes forced-feeling, afterglow, after which, she would pursue the rest of her day--or, more often, night, as she hated ruining her hair and makeup for daytime sex--in a way that implied, now that the chores were done she could get down to the really important stuff. Worse than the manner of our sex life, which I was OK, if not entirely pleased with, was the infrequency. She had been aggressively sexual early in our relationship, ready and eager, but had cooled quickly. Mandy now joked that she was an artist in the bedroom, that to create something sublime everything needed to be perfect: her mood, the timing, small circumstances and environmental factors that sometimes boggled my mind. She could be so finicky that once when we were having sex with the radio on she had abruptly stopped riding me upon hearing a song she particularly disliked and refuse to continue. Another time, a graphically violent scene in a movie had turned her off from sex for over four days. Whatever the reason, it amounted to us having overly rehearsed sex once or twice a week at most. If she were an artist, she was not a very prolific one. In my opinion, she was just difficult, difficult to please, difficult to live with, and, though I hated to admit it, at times, difficult to like. She was a woman who wanted everything her way, the things she wanted in the wrapping paper she picked, so to speak, and she hated to be put out or, as it seemed lately, to put-out, either. Regardless, a week without sex mixed with constant thoughts of Scarlett had left me beyond pent up. I came home late on Friday, after working my third straight day of overtime, to find Mandy already asleep in our bed, the bedside lamp left shining weakly. It was a warm night and she had on only our blue satin sheet, pulled halfway up her unconscious form--the thin material clinging to her hips like gossamer webbing in the dim light--and a sheer white nightgown. Sexy and almost see-through, the outfit was one of several tantalizing tidbits that she often wore to sleep in, being one to believe in having something and not needing it, rather than needing and not having it. The lamp-light ricocheted off of the end of her left arm, which was swept above her head in an "L". The light danced across the engagement ring--a chunk of rock that had cost most of my savings but with which she had seemed barely satisfied--I had bought her, giving it a radiant quality. Her small breasts rose and fell as I watched. Her dark hair, usually kept neat and just down to her chin, spilled out like ink against her pillow, her olive skin marble against the glow of the gown. Unable to contain myself, I stripped completely out of my work clothes, my dick already hard and bobbing in the faint illumination. I climbed into bed as gingerly as I could, navigating under the covers as quietly as possible so not to wake her. I hovered above her, held up with one arm. My other hand ran down the shimmering slickness of her slip and circled its way between her legs. I pressed my palm lightly to the lips of her pussy. Her pubic hair, like everything about her--aside from her temper and spending habits--was controlled and tasteful, warm and a bit damp to the touch. Still sleeping, her legs spread involuntarily at my touch. I dropped to my knees, gently positioning myself between her legs as she opened to me, my firm cock pointed directly at her entrance. I wanted so badly to plunge it in, to sink into her up to my balls, but I knew it wasn't time. My fingers rubbed her outer lips in a circular motion, while the heel of my hand applied a slight pressure to her budding clit. She moaned and tossed her head to one side but did not wake. I continued for a couple minutes, slowly and softly working her until I felt what I wanted. Even in her sleep, her body was responding to me and soon my hand was wet with her juices and her thighs splayed fully before me. A Study in Scarlett Ch. 01 I positioned the swollen head of my dick at the edge of her pussy and began slowly sliding it in. My cock was thicker than average under normal circumstances. Pumped with a week's worth of frustration, it looked enormous against her dark folds and her pussy stretched exaggeratedly to accommodate the bulging head and shaft. Mandy's eyes fluttered open before I was halfway in, a blend of sleep and irritation searched my face in confusion. Then, hit suddenly with the force of her arousal, her face softened and her mouth opened in a look of pleasure. "Will," she said, doing her best to sound tough and gasp at the same time. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "Fucking you, dear," I replied simply, thrusting my hips forward and back in an easy, steady rhythm. "I'm tired, Will. I. Ahhh! Fuck you're big. Damn, Will. Oh my God. You know I'm still mad at you, right? Don't think...Jesus Christ! This...mmmm, gets you off the...hook." "Well, baby. Consider this, my apology." With that I shoved myself deeper, hitting her cervix and causing us both a flash of pleasure and pain. Her face turned sour then melted as I continued to fuck her. Sinking into the mattress, she surrendered her body to me, giving me one last warning look before closing her eyes and letting the feeling of me penetrating her wash over her. "F-oh!-Fine, but hurry. Easy! You're so big! I have to go to breakfast with Patty tomorrow and I need my sleep." Typical Mandy, I thought, but with how tight her pussy felt, I didn't care much what she said as long as I could stay inside her. I started to fuck in earnest, sitting up straight, sinking my fingers into her hips and using long, slow strokes that slapped my balls against her ass and caused her to whine in pleasure. I don't know how long I continued like that, just feeling and watching, enjoying the sensation and sight of her pussy as it clung to my cock, elastically holding on as I pulled back, then expanding as the head of my dick dove back into her. When I finally looked back to her face, she was lost to ecstasy, her head lolled to the side, breathing rapidly and making small unintelligible noises. She was so pretty when she wasn't being a bitch. Abruptly, a fantasy of Scarlett spread under me entered my mind. I tried to shake it from my mind, but it was no use. It had entered my psyche like a virus and it spread contagiously. Mandy's hair seemed to grow and curly about, reshaping and reddening, until it formed pigtails. Her skin bleached out, paled as I looked on, freckles appeared from nowhere, coming one at a time at first, then appearing in a rush, like wet spots on concrete in a summer rain. The breasts grew and overflowed from the sheer nightie that had so easily contained Mandy's small tits. The body thickened and lengthened, years melted away, and the muscled thighs and thin waist of my fiancée gave way to the stripper's flesher legs and hips, colored like porcelain and malleable in my hands. I imagined her blue eyes wide in passion, that laughing mouth, all teeth and rapture. She spoke my name, beckoning me to sink further into the illusion. Fuck me instead. You know that's what you really want. My conscience struggled to break free of her grasp; it swam for the surface of the dream, seeking air, seeking Mandy, but the longing in Scarlett's eyes tugged at me, her pigtails wrapped about my will like tendrils and pulled me into her depths. Mandy faded from all thought as I descended into the maelstrom of my lust. I fucked Scarlett with no thought to my fiancée. A depraved smiled drew back my lips and I let the moment have me. There was no guilt, only a feeling of intense relief, a damn breaking somewhere inside me. My balls tightened as I approached orgasm. I was completely lost. "Yes, baby! That's it! You're going to make Daddy cum!" The words tumbled from my mouth. I made no attempt to halt them. The sudden stiffening beneath me should have alerted me that something was wrong but, adrift in my delusion, I noticed nothing. I was so close. Just a few more seconds. "Fuck your Daddy! Give him what he needs!" I shouted. Suddenly, a set of small hands pushed against my ribcage and a pair of feet kicked roughly off my hips with enough force that they sent me careening backward, off the bed and onto my back with a harsh thud. As painful as the fall was, it was my dick that truly ached, fully erect and dripping pre-cum, cheated of release right before the moment of climax. I stayed on the ground for an instant, dumbfounded and agonized, before pulling myself so that my face was just higher than the foot of the bed. Instead of Scarlett, I found an irate looking Mandy sitting up on the sheets, her legs still splayed, wetness glistening on her thighs. Her face was a mismatch of expressions, as if someone had started painting a look of disbelief but had changed his mind halfway through and gone with rage. "What in God's fucking name was that, Will?" The question hung between a snarl and a whine. My fantasy was so complete that I didn't answer at first, still confused by my dream girl's sudden disappearance. "Daddy? What kind of sick shit is that?" "I'm sorry," I managed. "Have you been watching porn again while I'm asleep? I swear, Will, you're such a fucking pervert sometimes." "Mandy," reality had caught up with me, and it tugged on my sleeve anxiously, fully aware of how bad I'd just fucked-up. "God, I'm so sorry. I just wasn't thinking. It's been a long week at work. Please, let's try again." I moved to get back on the bed. She pushed me again. "Are you fucking kidding me? Hell no! That's fucking disgusting! Daddy!? Fucking, ewww! You're so gross sometimes! I'm done tonight." "Baby, please, I j-," I started. "Absolutely not! You expect me to touch you after that? You're sleeping on the fucking couch. Go watch your sick fucking kiddie porn out there or something." With that, she turned over to face the other direction, drawing satin around her like a protective cloak. "Mandy, I didn't mean...I just...got carried away. I won't say it again." I felt gross, standing naked in the artificial light of the lamp, dick still at attention. "Go!" was all she said. Unsure what else to do, I gathered my clothes up in my arms and walked to the door. Just as I turned the knob she spoke again. "Wait." "Thank God, Mandy." I felt uplifted by her words and turned back toward the bed. I hesitated, however, when I saw that she was still turned away, one arm held up in a stop motion. "No," she said, her tone scolding. "You're still not sleeping in this bed tonight. I can't let you lay next to me after that. You have to learn. Still, I know you can't help how you are. You're a guy, and guys are gross. Think about what you said, and why it was inappropriate, and we'll talk about it tomorrow. Have a good night." She made a brushing motion with her outstretched hand to let me know she was finished with me. Speechless, I opened the door and walked through. Just before I closed it she spoke again in the same matter-of-fact tone. "Oh, and Will, we'll be talking about it after we go to the store to look for a new TV." I never even looked at the couch. Within minutes, I was dressed, out the door, and sitting white-knuckled behind the wheel of my car, the interstate flying by to the sides of me at illegal speeds. I wanted to scream, to rip the steering wheel out of the console with my bare hands in an attempt to do...something, anything. I wanted to turn the car around, to drive back to my house, kick the fucking door to the bedroom in and tell her that I didn't need until tomorrow to think about it, that I had already thought about it, and what I thought, was that she was a fucking cunt. I felt shamefully close to crying. How dare she? How fuckin' dare she!? I just drove, fast and unconcerned, feeling the power of the car respond to me. I wove in and out of traffic heedless of the speed limit, of danger. I did it with precision time and again, as if to prove something to myself, that I was in control of something. My brain turned off. Driving became a game, an amusing diversion from the anger boiling in me. I had no direction and no intent. The wheel twirled in my hands. I drove for the better part of three hours, left the highway, hit back-roads, went to familiar spots and searched out places I had never seen, looking for something, not even sure what it looked like, just a sense of rightness. I was shocked when I found it under the pink neon glow of the Sparkles sign. I just stared for a bit, keys idling in the ignition. The sign was tacky and, as the name suggested, covered in gleaming bits of glitter. A silhouette of a woman sat on each "s", legs dangling over the side like they were fishing. Fishing for me? I felt like I was already hooked. When I walked in, the club was less busy than I would have expected from the parking lot; at 2:40 a.m., it was near closing time and many had likely used their last bit of cash to pay for a cab or had gotten a ride home with a friend, intent on recovering their vehicles in the morning. The emptiness suited my purpose fine. It made spotting Scarlett easier and I found her almost immediately. She was sitting in the corner, a favorite area of hers it seemed, dressed exactly as she had been before, except that tonight her panties and tie were pink, the former of which were nestled on the lap of the same middle-aged man--dressed more casually this time in a half-unbuttoned black long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and silver-tipped cowboy boots--I had seen her with when I had come before. A glass of her red-colored poison of choice was in her hand, and she giggled coyly into the man's ear while tracing a lazy pattern in his gray chest hair. I walked up to them with no pretense of politeness. She glanced up at my approach, glanced away, then looked back sharply as she recognized me. "William?" she asked questioningly. "I need to talk to you." I didn't know what else to say. "Sorry, babe, I'm kind of busy here and we close in twenty minutes." "I need to talk to you." I sounded more insistent than I meant to. The other man stood up, gently placing Scarlett on the floor as he did. He was tall, six-foot-five, at least, had broad shoulders and thickly corded forearms. His eyes were fire beneath his bushy black eyebrows. "Listen, pal, I think you'd best leave before you get the shit kicked out of you. The lady and I are occupied. So kindly fuck off!" He took a menacing step forward. Scarlett, seeing the desperation in my eyes, lightly placed a hand on his arm, stopping him cold. "It's OK, Russ. I promised this guy he could buy me a drink before I left." "But, baby..." "I'll be fine. You go home and rest up, save that energy, and I'll see you soon." He gritted his teeth and I thought for a second he might hit me any way, but after a bit, the tension left his body and his shoulders slumped. His gaze, hot enough to cause a sunburn, remained centered on me, though, even when she started talking again. "Thank you, hun. It's almost time to go, anyway. Take that big, thick...wallet...of yours out of here while you still have something in it." With that, she leaned up, almost having to climb on his shoulder despite her height, to kiss his cheek and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. He took one long step toward me and stooped to look me in the eye. I held my ground, with no small amount of fear, and forced myself to stare back. I had the feeling again that he might punch me, but instead his lips unzipped into a brief sneer and he strode for the door like a dark cloud, a large, angry, dark cloud. When he was gone I turned to Scarlett and asked incredulously, "Who the hell was that psycho?" "My father," she said blankly. I stood frozen in surprise. "Really?" "No, not really!" she exploded with no trace of the kindness that had touched her eyes before. "It's none of your damn business, but that, if you must know, was my best customer, you jackass. Who you just scared away! You're the psycho! What's wrong with you? Just coming in here like we're old pals? Just 'cause you grabbed my tits doesn't make us best-fucking-friends!" She crossed her arms and gave me a smoldering look. In some ways, it felt hotter than the one the large man had given me. I tried to open my mouth but only produced sand. I looked away stupidly. "Well?" She tapped her foot in exaggerated impatience. "I'm sorry." I turned to the side, looking at nothing, in the hope that she wouldn't see my embarrassment. "I thought...I guess this sounds pretty dumb, but I felt like we had a connection the other night. I bet you get that all the time, huh? I just have had the worst night, and I didn't know where else to go, and something led me here. I know. I'm an idiot. I just thought that you could...God, how dumb am I? That you could make it better, you know? I'll go if you want, Scarlett... Scarlett?" I turned back to find her halfway across the club, headed for a small door that looked like it led to an office of some sort. She had obviously had enough of me. Feeling like the biggest fool in the world, I stared to despondently shuffle toward the same exit Russ had used. 'Where the fuck are you going!?" Her yelling spun me around. She had stopped in front of the door, hands on her hips. "You want to talk or what!?" She then produced a small pin from her hair, proceeded to stick it into the keyhole, then, after only a moment of fiddling, flung open the door, stepped in, and closed it with a bang. Feeling even more stupid than before, I changed direction and plodded toward the little door with my head down like a kid who had gotten lost on a school field trip and now had to listen to the teasing of the other children. My embarrassment was sufficient enough that upon reaching the door, I wasn't sure what to do next. I waited for a few seconds for her to reemerge. When she didn't, I said her name quizzically into the wood a few times, but received no reply. I even raised my hand up to give a tentative knock but pulled back before my knuckles touched. Finally, I threw open the door, tired of feeling like I was being led by the nose. 'Listen," I started, but was immediately silenced by a quick "shhh" from Scarlett. The room looked to be some sort of office. It had a row of files and a mini-fridge on the back wall, a set of television screens on the left, apparently feeds from various security cameras around the club (I noticed, with a small sense of panic, one of them showed the Couch Room. Had we been watched the other night?), and in the middle of the room, was a large desk, which I deduced, Scarlett had been clearing off when I entered and interrupted her, judging by the half-empty desk and a couple of large bins half-filled with clutter. The desk was flanked by two plush chairs, one in the front and one behind. After the brief pause to hush me, she went back to the task, but not before pointing sternly to the chair on the side of the desk closest to the door. Understanding her intent, I obediently sat down, forgetting in an instant my previous objection to being led about. She took her time sorting the desk, taking first the pictures and larger items then the smaller pieces of office paraphernalia and arranging them into the two bins. She ignored me as she worked. Upon finishing, she walked over to the door, locked it, then flipped the light switch off, so that the only light in the room was the electric glow of the security screens. After which, she came back around the desk, then sat, legs crossed in the chair opposite me. I opened my mouth to speak but she quieted me again, holding one finger to her lips and then pointing it deliberately at the set of monitors. I looked over in bafflement at the collage of moving pictures. It was only after watching for a while that I understood. The screens clearly showed the few remaining patrons meandering out to the parking lot. The DJ, after shutting down his booth, followed. Then the strippers vanished into a different door, only to emerge some time later in street clothes, and then they too walked out into the night. Finally, the bouncer, a weathered man with long greasy blonde hair, walked around checking the doors. I watched as he approached the office, heard his hand against the knob and saw him test it on the screen with a quick twist. It was surreal watching both sides of the door at once, one feed showed him jiggling the handle, another, the stripper and I sitting motionless in the mostly darkened room. A short time later, he left, as well, locking the main door behind him as he went. This all took in the neighborhood of thirty minutes, during which, we both remained silent and still, except for one point where the redhead untied and redid the bands holding one of her pigtails. Scarlett, having waited for the bouncer to exit, got up, turned the lights back on and walked to the front of me, hopped up to sit on the desk, crossed her legs, and lounged before me, leaning back casually on her elbows, her breasts, once again, at eye-level. "This is my boss, Loraine's, office. She's kind of a bitch. She skimps off the top and waters down the booze. Treats a lot of the girls pretty bad, too. Not me, I'm a good earner, but some of the others. Struggle just a bit and she will be all over you with the threats and the insults. I don't know why a few of them stay. Money, I guess. It's hard to turn down. Anyway, like I said, she's pretty much an all-around cunt, so when I get the chance I like to get one over on the spiteful cow." There was no trace of the little girl that had danced for me the other night. This woman was cold, business-like, still clever and playful, but there was a sharp edge to her, like the rubber tip of her school girl act had been removed to reveal a blade underneath. "But how did you pick the lock to this room?" I asked, solidly on my heels from the unexpected shift in her demeanor. "With a bobby pin," she answer, like that explained everything. She continued before I had a chance to question her further. "Did you come barging in her tonight just to interrogate me on my lock-picking technique, or did you have something to say?" Now that I had her in front of me, I had idea what to tell her. What did one say in this situation? I've been fantasizing about you all week. Cool, huh? I was going to attempt some sort of lame explanation, but she just rolled over me, still talking in that same prickly, needle-point tone. "Don't tell me. Women troubles again? Is--what was her name—Mandy, right? Mandy pushing you around again?" She prodded me with her foot as she spoke. "Hey!" My objection had a hurt tone. "What? Did I hurt your feelings? You know, I'm really starting to see why this bitch doesn't respect you. You come in here, acting like Mr. Demanding then you clam up as soon as you get me alone. How spineless can you get?" Her eyes were like slate, unfeeling, and uninterested. "Hold on a minute. I don't have to-" A familiar anger simmer in my chest, but she just kept ranting as if I hadn't said anything at all. "Wow. I hope you're not like this in the bedroom. If so, she's probably getting some dick on the side, too. God knows I'd need something stiff after dealing with this jellyfish routine of yours." "You know what? Go to hell. I came here because I thought you were nice. I thought you were different, that you would listen, but I can see now it was just a waste of time." I sprung from the chair indignantly and made for the door. My hand was turning the handle when she started to laugh. "Is that all it takes to make you turn-tail? No wonder your fiancée loves bullying you. It's so easy! I was just getting started. I hadn't even taken your lunch money yet!" Her laughter was a vile thing, black and heartless. It echoed around the room, hitting me from all sides, leaving me nowhere to hide. I felt the same fusion of embarrassment and rage that had gripped me earlier. Who did this bitch think she was? I spun around on her, my face wild with aggression.