Chapter 2: Candi's Second Helping
The following week, Todd’s fingers trembled as he pushed open the heavy door to The Pussycat Lounge. The same wall of sound and smell hit him, but it felt different alone. The bouncer’s bored glance, the lurid lights—it was all a test he wasn’t sure he could pass. He’d been thinking about the heat, the pressure, the wild look in Candi’s eyes for seven straight days. His brain, usually a logic-driven machine, had short-circuited, replaying the moments on a corrupted loop.
He stood just inside the doorway, a lost piece of hardware. One of the other dancers, a tall brunette with tired eyes, sauntered over. “Looking for a dance, sweetie?”
“I, uh.” He adjusted his glasses. “Is Candi here?”
The brunette’s expression shifted, a flicker of surprise, then knowing amusement. “Sure is, baby. I’ll get her.”
He waited, trying to shrink into the shadows. Then he saw her, emerging from behind a black curtain. She was in a neon pink bikini set, her hair in a high, messy ponytail. When her eyes landed on him, they ignited. A grin spread across her face, wide and genuine, and she strutted over with a roll of her hips that seemed meant just for him.
“Well, well, well,” she drawled, stopping so close he could smell her vanilla body spray over the club’s musk. “Look what the cat dragged back in.” She reached out and poked his bony chest. “My big dick shy guy. I was hopin’ you’d come see me.”
Her tone was sugary, but it was laced with a kind of street-level reverence that made no sense. She was talking to him like he was some kind of kingpin, not a scrawny sysadmin named Todd.
“You wanna go back?” she asked, already taking his clammy hand in hers. Her grip was firm.
He just nodded.
The VIP room hadn’t changed. The same stained velvet, the same groaning, slick-leather couch. It was their chamber now. She pushed him down onto it and stood before him, hands on her hips.
“You came back alone,” she said, her head tilted. “That’s real. That means you liked it.” She didn’t wait for confirmation. “You wanna taste first, or you wanna dive right in?”
He couldn’t form words. He stared up at her, his heart hammering.
“Okay, okay. We’ll warm up.” Her performative sweetness was thinner now, the desperate hunger from the first night right at the surface. She turned and, with practiced ease, draped herself over the back of the couch, her massive ass presented directly in front of his face. The neon-green scorpion seemed to wiggle. “You just get comfortable, baby. Let mama work.”
She reached back between her own legs, her fingers finding his zipper. He was already hard, a painful throb that had started the moment he saw her. His monstrous cock sprang free, and she gasped again, as if seeing it for the first time. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered.
Then she bent further, lowering her head into his lap.
She was more prepared this time, but only slightly. She took the throbbing head into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing. She worked at it with a furious, slobbering dedication, using both hands to steady the shaft she couldn’t hope to encompass. Gagging sounds echoed in the small room, wet and rhythmic. Salove dripped in thick strands, coating him, her chin, the leather below. She came up for air, coughing, a thin string of bile mixing with the spit.
“Fuck, it’s so big,” she rasped, her voice ruined. She didn’t stop. She dove back down, her nose pressed into his pubic bone, her throat fluttering around the intrusion. Her eyes streamed tears, her mascara starting to run. It was a messy, ugly, and profoundly earnest act of worship.
When she finally pulled off, she was panting, a glistening wreck. She turned around, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, I need it now. I been dreaming about it.”
She pushed him back, her strength surprising. “On your feet, baby. Turn around.”
Meekly, he complied, standing on shaky legs. He felt her hands on his hips, guiding him backwards until his knees hit the couch. Then she was in front of him, on all fours on the leather, looking back over her shoulder. Her ass was up, spread wide, an impossible, jiggling offering.
“C’mon,” she urged, her voice a hoarse command. “Give it to me. Don’t be gentle.”
He fumbled, positioning himself. The moment the broad head pressed against her, she pushed back with a fierce grunt, impaling herself in one savage, smooth motion. The air left his lungs. She was somehow tighter, hotter than he remembered.
“Yes!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “Oh god, yes! Right there! You see that? You see how you fit?”
She began to move, rocking back against him, each thrust a wet, solid slap of flesh. Her dirty talk was a continuous, delirious stream. “You’re a god, you know that? A fuckin’ god. This is what I needed. This is all I need. Nobody else, just this, just you wrecking this pussy.” She was drooling, a steady drip from her mouth onto the leather, her eyes rolled back in ecstatic surrender.
He gripped her hips, his thin fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and a raw, animal sound escaped him. It wasn’t loud, but it was his. He was moving now, meeting her thrusts, overcome by the sheer physical reality of it.
When it was over, they collapsed in a heap on the couch, a tangle of limbs and cooling sweat. She instantly clung to him, her body vibrating. She planted frantic, smacking kisses on his neck, his shoulder, his cheek.
“You gotta keep fucking me,” she said, the words tumbling out. “You hear me? This ain’t a one-time club thing. This is a thing.” She sat up, suddenly energetic, and began to twerk her sore ass against his thigh, a grotesque and playful claim. “This is my dick now. You get it?”
He was too stunned to answer.
“I mean it.” Her expression turned serious, almost shrewd. She shifted, reaching for a small sequined purse she’d tossed on the floor. She rummaged in it and pulled out a black permanent marker.
Before he could process it, she turned, bent over, and produced a single, uncapped Sharpie from between her cheeks. She’d had it tucked there, hidden.
“Give me your arm,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
He extended a trembling forearm. With a concentration usually reserved for surgery, she wrote ten digits in sloppy, bold numbers on his pale skin, circling them like a prized trophy.
“You call that,” she said, capping the marker. “You call me tomorrow. We’ll set something up. My place. No cover charge.” She smiled then, a smile that was all teeth and desperate promise. “We’re just gettin’ started, Todd.”
He looked down at the number, the ink already seeming to seep into his pores. The throbbing bass from the main room faded into a distant hum. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, and all he could see was the phone number, a dark covenant written in the most intimate ink imaginable.