Tag Archives: excerpts

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5. And 6. And 7.

“Injustice Can’t Be Stopped By Inaction” (photo by Flickr user Viewminder)

The bouncer man will tell them to step right up, have their $5 entry fee out and unfolded, and will tell them to watch their step, as this freaky dive is actually above ground, and the steps are steep. I guess the idea is that you’re climbing a stairway to Boobie Heaven? (Actually, that would be a great name for a titty bar, come to think of it. “Boobie Heaven? You can’t miss it: that’s the one with the flying jugs out front.”)

We climb the stairs all the way up, up, up and there’s another doorman. He takes our five-spots, and if you offer him another couple of bucks (or 20), he’ll seat you right on Perv Row, front and center, as the ladies go at it onstage. Want to lick the whipped cream off their 24 fabulous titties? You’ll need front-stage access. No tip? You’re back at one of the cheapskate’s mini-stages in the darkest corner, furthest away from the action. You are face-to-crotch with the oldest, skankiest looking strippers in the place; the lifers who could be 30 or 65 from the looks of things. No, my high-roller, you don’t want that! Stop being a cheap chump, and hand over that twenty, for fuck’s sake!

The doorman tips an imaginary hat to you, and motions for us to follow. We perch on Perv Row, and the strippers wink at me as we get settled.

Be a doll and order me a Cosmopolitan, won’t you darling?

You’re a darling, so you do. I wink back at Ms. Sugar Tits, who is squeezing them for all to see, pulling down her bra and layering on the whipped cream.

“Who’ll be the lucky boy this evening?” she’s yelling over the bump and grind of Aerosmith or G’N’R or some other stripping cliché.

And the men are on their feet, cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering. Some are waving their hands in a “Pick me!” gesture. Wolf whistlers are blasting in my ear. I’m the only one calmly seated, a half-smirk upon my face. I’ve seen these dogs do these tricks a million times. It’s half comedy and equal parts tragedy, so Shakespearean as they strut and fret on their own little stages, day in and day out.

Ms. Sugar Tits is licking the cream off her own bouncing bosom, to much more hooting, hollering and cheering from the crowd. She is making to-die-for O-faces, and they are sweating and stammering and yelling “Yeah, baby! Lick them titties!” and then she points at one of them, who jumps up on the stage, only to be pushed away by the fabulous Sugar Tits, who shouts “Not you, HER!”

I’m pulled up onstage again. It happens every time – a classy dame in a place like this? It’s a given. I accept my fate. I pretend to blush, hold a hand over my mouth in an expression of false modesty. Sugar Tits leans her heavenly, creamed bust down to me (she is Amazonian in her high glass heels), the cherries on top poking through the layer of foamy spray, and I slide my tongue slowly out to meet them, eyes closed but peeking, heading closer and closer as the men roar in excitement for this faux lesbian fantasy playing out before them and BAM! Contact. I’m swiping through the mountain of whipping cream with my tongue, clearing a path with my hands, sucking down those taut titties as Ms. Sugar Tits moans with fake delight and slips a hand down her panties. We writhe on the stage in this stunning facsimile of sex as the men’s howling sounds more and more like wolves braying at the moon until finally the spotlight drops and we are plunged into darkness.

Show’s over, fellas. Sugar Tits whispers “Thanks, doll!” huskily into my ear and pats me on the rump. “I’m off at 3 if you want another piece of this.” I can see her wink even in the darkness, and I just smile and wipe my mouth daintily with the back of my hand.

Another day in the life of The Fixer is just beginning.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5.

I’ve never understood the humiliation scene, but for some reason I seem to attract large numbers of wealthy businessmen who’re just dying to be humiliated by women in bustiers and ball-crushing heels. Oh, what a piece of work is man, blah blah blah.

“Purple pvc stiletto boots” by Flickr user stilettobootlover_83

I watch from the front of the room as Lady Evelyn bangs her way through a few scenes of domination, humiliation, genital torture and free-for-all verbal abuse, until the Consultant is sobbing like a child and hog-tied on the floor while Evelyn whacks him with her choice of whips and studded paddles. I inspect my nails, wondering if I’m due for another manicure, while he screams through a ball gag for mercy. I presume he’s read the safe word on our menu. It’s patently obvious, even if he didn’t, as I don’t much care for being coy. All he needs to do is choke out “Mama San!” and Evelyn will stop hiding him with the paddle she’s removed from her pleasure chest. But the tears keep rolling down his fat little cheeks, and I can’t see his eyes from back here, but I figure at this point he must be pleading for her to stop.

Evelyn never stops until the scene is finished, or until the client taps out. The Consultant doesn’t want to prove himself a pussy, despite his tears, so he’s holding still on the floor as she whacks him and kicks him with her pointed boots. It looks like he’s about to freak out completely, so I motion for her to cease pounding his hot-pink ass and end the scene as gracefully as she can.

“Get dressed and get the fuck out of my sight, you sniveling wretch,” she yells, after she’s untied his restraints. She leaves the ball gag on for him to claw off, which he does in a hurry.

His eyes are still leaking steadily, but he doesn’t want to displease his funky priestess of carnal pleasures, so he grabs up his clothes as quick as a filthy little bunny and cottontails it out of here, shedding fifties as he goes.

Once he’s gone, Evelyn throws herself back down into the throne.

“What a head case,” she pronounces.

“Want a drink?” I ask.

“The usual, darling.”

I lean out of the dungeon and signal to Yamamoto for our customary cocktails. He gives me a thumbs up and a wicked smile, before whacking the head off another fish. I slip back into the dungeon and rearrange the black drapes that keep the average schmoes from getting any ideas.

“Anything you want to talk about?” I help her out of the corset, which is digging into her flesh, and offer her a simple black satin robe. She slips into it and ties off the front. She paces the room for a few moments, massaging her left hand. It must be tingling from the effort of smacking the guy around.

Evelyn and I used to work together, back in the old days; I still remember the oddly thrilling feeling of adrenaline and shame that used to course through me after a heavy session with a client. It seemed amazing to me then that men would pay for women like us to dominate them. Some of the men came every week, without fail, wanting the most insane abuse. I was never quite able to dish it out the way Evelyn was, but then again, I suppose we were always coming at it from different angles. To me, work was work. To Evelyn, it was a lifestyle. She was committed to dressing this way at all times, and never seemed to see the point complaining about the psychology of the type of person who’d pay her to do whatever she wanted to his fat, lazy body. Fair enough, I suppose.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.