Tag Archives: serial fiction

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 8

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)

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.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 7

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.

Evelyn doesn’t say anything about the Consultant, instead laying back in the chair, daring her back to crack as she arches across its curved armrests.

My phone buzzes insistently, and it’s another Mister waiting for his Fixer.

Gotta run, darling. Same time tomorrow night?” I ask, kissing Evelyn on both cheeks. She just waves me off as Yamamoto finally arrives with her Cosmo. I give him a wink and a smile before I scurry off to my next date.

"Club Super Sexe" (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

Club Super Sexe” (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

At any given moment in the full 24-hour clock that dictates Montreal’s Eastern Standard Time, you will be able to find:

  • A strip club in full porno-swing
  • An indie porn star performing intimate acts in her home studio
  • A burlesquer burlesquing
  • A bed-wetting actor fucking an aspiring playwright (who’s, incidentally, just using him as fodder to write a tell-all play)
  • A sex columnist trying out the latest in dildo technologies at a woman-friendly, sex-positive sex shop
  • A fabulous tranny entertaining the tourists

And so much more!

Trust me, I’ve seen it all. Sometimes I even give tours of these underground wonders, acting as the Virgil to Dante’s hell-bound wayfarer.

What’s that you say? You want The Works? That’ll cost extra; you’d better pay in full up-front before we take it any further.

Thanks, mister. You won’t regret it.

So first on the list of pornographic wonders in my fair city is Club Super Sexe. The extra E is for “sexeeeeeeeeee,” although I haven’t yet figured out what THOSE extra E’s are for. In any event, Club Super Sexe is populated mainly by strippers of the dirty ho variety. You know, the ones you can find anywhere, whose idea of costuming involves cut-off jeans, midriff-baring tops and a nice hot pink G-string. Classy dames, all.

Not that there’s anything wrong with stripping, mind you. Before I found my niche as a sex tour guide, I did my time on the tops of a few tables. The hand-jobs were fast and furious, the money was shit if you didn’t want to do contact dances (still an option, back in the day), and between splitting your cash with the doorman, the bartender, the busser, the manager and whomever the fuck else (all men, I assure you, making money off our backs), you’d be lucky to walk away with $50 a night.

Not exactly the cash-rolling scenarios most Pretty Women envision for such porno palaces as these.

Anyway, let’s roll up into one of these joints, shall we? See what there is to see.

Out front the bouncer doubles as the guy trying to sweet-talk you big lugs into coming in and shelling out your hard-earned cash on some dames. His line?

12 girls, 24 titties! Yes, that’s TWENTY-FOUR TITTIES!”

Personally, I’d be more intrigued by 12 girls, twenty-three titties (was there a mastectomy in the bunch? Where’d that lone titty go?!), or twenty-five titties (a third nipple? Half a titty? What’s with the extra one?!). But that’s his sales pitch, and I guess it works well enough, because my clients are always intrigued.

24 titties!” they’ll exclaim, slapping each other on the backs. Oh, frat boys. You’re all the same.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 6

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

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.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 5

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!

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

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

The Insulting Consultant goes off on a tangent about how hard he’s going to fuck me, once he gets me back to his place. I’m pretty sure I’ve already explained that I don’t do that sort of thing, that I’m merely the Fixer, and that his escort for the evening will decide whether they will be renting a room or parting ways after the entertainment’s over, but it’s always in one ear and out the other with these types. Hard to believe they’re the ones who run the world when they’ve got the attention spans of gnats – at least wherever folks with tits are concerned.

I finally receive a text from Lady Evelyn announcing her arrival, and swiftly draw our meal to a close as the Consultant inhales the last bits of mungfish left on the plate. I casually gesture for the check, and he signs off on our decadent feast with a look of pure evil in his eyes. I stand up, as if headed for the ladies’ room.

Meet me in back in 5 minutes,” I whisper in his ear.

His eyes widen, and a smirk creeps across his face. Showtime.

"mtuslave" (photo by Flickr user lust4lthr)

mtuslave” (photo by Flickr user lust4lthr)

I slip into the back room, where the Golden Eel becomes the Golden Palace of Porno Pleasures, and spot Lady Evelyn at the far end of the dimly-lit room. Clothed in a tight-laced corset of red silk, panties of black rubber and a pair of thigh-high vinyl boots with pointy toes and absurdly high heels, she is tapping a favorite whip against the side of an enormous throne. To suit the faux Chinese character of the place, there are two Ming-replica vases on either side of her absurdly gothic throne.

Who have we got tonight?” she asks. “Another CEO?”

I think he’s a political consultant, so feel free to leave a mark. Just not on the face; he may be on television in the next few days.”

Oh please, I’ve never purposely hit anyone in the face,” she sniffs. Lady Evelyn hates it when I tell her how to run her shows.

What about that court reporter last week?” I remind her.

That was completely accidental. How could I have known he was standing right behind me with that camera? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

It’s just funny how your hand happened to be curled into a fist when it connected with his jaw,” I muse.

Stranger things have happened,” Evelyn returns icily.

Anyway, I think this guy may have been responsible for Dubya’s campaign, if that makes a difference,” I say, planting the seeds.

Evelyn’s eyes narrow, and I know she’s got what she needs to get through her scene. She raps her whip on the leather seat she’s perched on when the Consultant appears in the doorway.

On your knees, you vomitous mass!” she shouts as he enters the dungeon.

Looking horrified, he drops to his knees, already a quivering wreck. I can’t help but smile. They’re all the same.

Strip, you shit!” she shrieks.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 4

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!

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

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

I check a few of the boxes on the restaurant’s sushi menu as my Catch of the Day pores over my special offerings. The waitress passes by, and I discreetly hand off my tick-marked order page. She doesn’t even blink when she glances over his shoulder at his lusty list.

"Sushi" (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)

Sushi” (photo by Flickr user Tom Allender)

The Golden Eel is a slippery fish, but its atmosphere is just right for snagging the big ones with my simple lures. It probably helps that the restaurant’s owner, Yamamoto, is a bit of an eel himself, electric with desire for yours truly. I’ve got plenty of line to string him along, and my angling continues with just enough bait for his greedy mouth. Every woman in this line of work has her safe spaces, and those cost money. Yamamoto’s restaurant is cheaper than renting a second apartment or outfitting my own dungeon, or even booking hotels by the evening, so I’m here most evenings, baiting my hooks and flaunting my mermaid’s charms.

The Catch of the Day hands me back my menu with several nasty little tricks in store for my associates. I glance over his roster, which begins with golden showers and ends with a bit of spanking and stilettos. What is it with Americans and their ball-busting? I smile, tally up the total, and hand him a bill for $850.

Canadian dollars only,” I remind him. “Cash. No checks, no plastic. I’m an independent businesswoman, you know, and those credit card fees are such a drag.”

He smiles and nods, fishing fifties from his wallet by the fist-full.

My date for tonight, an overstuffed businessman with slicked-back hair in a greasy little ponytail and a vaguely Bostonian accent, is so chuffed to be here with a beautiful woman that he’s practically salivating over my white flesh, my smooth black hair, my pouty red lips. Little does he realize, I’m just the appetizer. The main course is on her way, ready to beat him into submission. She goes by the name Lady Evelyn, but I’ve never seen any evidence of her title’s origins. I keep getting texts from her that say she’s on her way, which usually means she’ll be 15 minutes late. I’ve got to keep the Catch wriggling on the line for a few more minutes, until she shows.

Our order arrives, and the Catch begins scarfing it down, licking the ends of his fingers before I can explain that the concept of Japanese food involves careful balancing acts with chopsticks. There’s nary a morsel left for me, so I just flag the waitress with a discreet flick of my finger, and another plate is fried up special for me by Yamamoto himself. I deign to share it with my date, more in the interest of keeping him busy, as his conversation is proving mostly useless.

What do you do for a living?” I ask.

Don’t bother your pretty little head about that,” he says, “All you need to know is that I’m loaded, and I’ve got plenty of cash to spend on your cute little ass.”

Obviously, or else I wouldn’t be here taking this kind of abuse. I figure he must be in politics a pollster or consultant near the top of the food chain. No one talks shit about their cash flow like these pompous twits. You’ll see their fat faces on FOX News and CNN, spouting off about all manner of corporate greed, sure of their own abilities to make it rain. Come to think of it, he does look familiar. I may have seen him on TV while I was running the treadmill at the gym. What a windbag.

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Naked Montreal: Excerpt 3

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!

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

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

So let’s not beat around this bush any longer, darling. We both know why we’re here. You enjoy the company of a beautiful, charming, sophisticated woman. I enjoy the money that men like you can supply. I’ll show you the charming old-world sights in my Paris of North America, and then I’ll show you exactly why Montreal is known as the Sin City of the North.

"Montreal" (photo by Flickr user francki.photo)

Montreal” (photo by Flickr user francki.photo)

We have a million and one reasons. Have you time enough to experience them all? Perhaps you should extend your stay. Double your pleasure. I’ll call a few friends. Maybe you’d like a little ménage à trois? A little more plotte in your plot?

Top you up, sir?” the waitress intrudes.

He’s not thirsty,” I say, waving her off. She’s waiting on an order. So am I.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Two-hundred an hour, minimum 3 hours, plus extra for every kink you’d like to indulge. I’ll have someone spend the night with you for a thousand, but I’m sorry, it will not be me. Not unless you are terribly charming, attractive, and lucky. I’m just The Fixer, mon ami. You understand?

Whatever you need, or merely want, I can get. Whether that’s a strawberry daiquiri or a strawberry blonde, I’m the girl who can find what you’re looking for, when it comes to all things sexy, dirty, or downright strange. That’s what you pay me for, after all.

I’m not your average, ordinary tour guide in a button-down blouse and no-nonsense pumps. Maybe it’s the stiletto heels that helps you to this realization, or perhaps the leather pants? Maybe it’s just my French accent (which I generally fake, being a dirty Anglophone), or the way you’ve been wondering what might happen if I let my hair down from its careful coif? There are plenty of subtle clues. Some are even less subtle, like my business card, which reads “Sexy Tourism for Canada’s Fetish Capital,” and features a splendidly naked posterior, tightly bound by black fishnet stockings. People always assume the buttocks are mine, but in actuality they belongs to a friend – an infamous stripper by the name of Velma Candyass. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?

Yes, you can meet her if you like. No, she won’t sleep with you, but she can make you feel like a million bucks in a variety of other ways, if you’re interested.

So now that you’ve discovered my true calling, here’s the menu, complete with rates for every imaginable perversion – a check box for all of your favorite kinks. It’s just like sushi. Funny how the Japanese have everything all figured out when it comes to business.

Here are some of the options from my Menu du Jour that won’t land me in jail:

  • Sin City Tour (available during daylight hours only, in 3-hour slots)
  • Karaoke, Chez Mado (be forewarned: Mado is a fabulous drag queen)
  • Naughty Secretary’s Club (ladies-only vibrator shopping @ Joy Toys; does not include purchases at the boutique)
  • Boudoir/Fetish Photography with Ms. Andrea Hausmann (be forewarned: Ms. Hausmann does not suffer fools and will not be posing with you, so bring a friend)
  • Sushi served fresh off a gorgeous nude of your choice (please specify desired hair/eye color and/or race in advance – 24-hour notice required)

Just a taste, you understand. A girl can’t give all her trade secrets away…

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