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The woman couldn’t keep her damn hands off Finn’s package. He was afraid if she’d squeeze his nuts any tighter, they’d fucking pop.
He was relieved when Nick and Abby came back out, corralled the wild, and apparently horny as fuck, women and escorted them back to their seats.
During the whole opening routine, a hailstorm of crumpled-up dollar bills bounced off their bodies and landed on the stage.
After dancing for one more song as a group, they all filed off stage, leaving the cash behind. Finn assumed Nick would collect it and the guys would split the tips. Not that he would walk away with any of it for all the effort he was putting into this undercover operation. That sucked, since he’d earned those tips by working up a damn sweat and being manhandled by women not of his choosing.
He was also out of breath since he wasn’t used to doing so much damn cardio. That proved he needed to alter his personal fitness routine. Less bulking up and more heart-pumping exercises. And not just the horizontal exercises he did with a female partner.
Back in the dressing room, he plucked dollar bills from his jock strap. His bulge had grown twice as big since his jock strap was jam-packed with soaked singles. He shuddered when he thought about how fucking dirty money was and how it had been stuck to his dick. He’d be scrubbing himself down in a searing hot shower once he got home.
“Those women are fucking crazy,” he muttered.
From across the dressing room, Apollo said, “That’s nothing, wait until we go out onto the floor. It gets even worse.”
As they were toweling off and peeling off their wet jock straps, Abby appeared again. “Great job, Danny! You kept up and synced perfectly with the other guys. Looks like you made a killing, too. You have a bit before you have to go back on stage since you’re last in the lineup. Take a breather, hydrate, and when you’re ready, I’ll oil you up again before you get into your next outfit.”
Great. He couldn’t fucking wait.
“Apollo, hurry up and get out there. You need to keep those women burning hot.”
Apollo rushed to change into the ten layers he would strip away during his individual dance and ran out the door.
Finn was tempted to yank off the cock ring to give his poor dick a break but then he didn’t want to jack-off again to get it re-inflated.
Keeping a cock ring on for a few hours better not do permanent damage. The fucking government would be paying for a pump or a prosthesis if it did.
“Danny, you’re up next!” he heard from the open doorway to the dressing room. “The rest of you get ready for the closing routine and the meat market.”
The meat market? Did he even want to know what the fuck that was?
As he passed Abby, she said, “Since you’re last, as soon as your done with your individual routine, get back here as quickly as possible and change into the outfit I’ll hang up on your locker.”
Yeah, sure. If he survived getting through the three songs he had picked for his solo dances.
He was now dressed as a business man in a black suit jacket that he bought years ago for a wedding and added a tie and dark sunglasses. He still wore his black boots and had borrowed a pair of black breakaway pants. Underneath his dress shirt, he wore another of the cheap white tanks that Abby had an endless supply of since they were easy to tear simply with your hands.
During the opening act, the women had loved that, so he figured he’d do it again. Since his tips would be shared with the rest of the guys, someone should at least benefit from the blood, sweat and endless tears he was putting into this damn assignment.
He had layered a skimpy pair of shiny break-away briefs over a pair of those “enhancing” underwear with the cock sack. He’d been a little alarmed at the purplish shade of his dick when he tucked it into place, making sure his VPL was distinguishable.
If it fell off because of this, he was killing Crew. Then he was shoving his atrophied cock down his club brother’s throat.
With one last deep breath, he cleared his mind and ran out onto the stage to the pulsing beat of Justin Timberlake’s song SexyBack.
Fuck the screaming women. Fuck the money being thrown. Focus on the routine you put together so you don’t make a complete fool of yourself.
As soon as he hit the middle of the raised stage, he spun in place and imagined an invisible line drawn from where he stood to the very end of the T that extended into the middle of the club. Putting one foot in front of the other and walking heel to toe—as if he was taking a roadside sobriety test—gave him the desired hip swing, especially when he added a slight bounce on his toes to each step.
