Nick Wilde: Nightclub Stripper (Excerpt)
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Nick Wilde is known for shaking his ass in a tight bikini at the nightclub, but will he keep it on when his favorite tiger dancer and his band of buff guys break the ice?
Thanks to DukeFerret for proofreading and editing!
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Nick Wilde: Nightclub Stripper
It's called a hustle, sweetheart! That what you wanted me to say? Heh. Thought so. Have a seat. I can do a lot more than that.
Welcome to the nightclub, baby, here's a questionnaire: want a drink? Want a dance? Is that wallet as fat as that dick? Only one way to find out. If you're a rough, grabby cowboy, you'd be happy to know I came in my best bikini, and if you're one of the shy boys, I'll do all the work for you. Serve up, flirt, shake my ass a little bit and get paid. That enough? Fuckboy doesn't like it, he can kiss it. I've heard enough of that talk to fill the bathtub he pissed in. 'Cause everybody wanted to be the hero when they were kids, but buddy, I've seen it through, and the best thing I learned is that sometimes it's okay to be the baddie. Come on, now. You have an urge, and you know that somebody can fix it. Sit back. Relax. Take a walk on The Wilde Side.
Lights flashing, cameras shining, red-cheeked huskies screaming; yep, eleven P.M. Purple and green stitch lights, 'cause Friday's the toxic frog theme. And everybody knows who it is when they hear the high heels click. Black bands snug on the fat thighs and biceps, sunglasses in the dark, bulge bouncing in that tiny bikini bottom sinking further in my ass cheeks; that's me! Wilde Thing. I walk like I own the place because I do. They order up, but I'm always the main course.
Cat calls galore, even the otters; not surprising, I mean, look at me! It's hotter than an oven; a gang of wolves at a nearby table start leaning into each other, trading whispers. Ears up, a sweat drop off my brow lands on the bulge of my bikini bottom, big and stiff from more than a few guests copping a feel. Hey, it's okay; they're allowed. Company policy, plus, the "TOUCH ME" tattooed across my ass for the bonus. And if you saw how their faces twist, you'd know that's all they're after. That jitter in the stomach pulls the strings. So does the useless top. So does the choker. So goes the gossip of leaving me in the middle wearing nothing but that. Never gonna happen, but a pipe dream gets the wallets talking, so you tease what you gotta tease and leave 'em drooling on the tablecloth.
Suddenly I feel a flat object slide between my ass cheeks. I turn and see a guy scurrying away while he giggles. Clawhauser. Don't ask. Anyway, it's a special order for the guys at the poker table. Looking at 'em now, it's a little foreboding. They're all three times my size under the harshest spotlight; rugged, stiff and focused like a screenshot of a rugby tournament, and the closest one has his back to me while he overlooks his pocket aces. Not gonna lie, I jumped. I know I've seen that guy before. Has a feeling he'd come by today. You know when that little "what-if'' turns into a hunch? That's what it's like. I just wonder if he's here for more than poker.
I get closer. They've all got the same memo: dark clothing, leather jackets; love the tats, so I know they'll love mine. I count to three...four...paws on the table, I lean over and ask, "May I get you fine gentlemen something to drink?"
Nailed the croon. Nailed the hips. Aces hit the table face up. Buddy picks it up quick and says something I haven't heard in a day or two:
"Some of you."
God damn. That first look. That flashback of me on all fours, stretched, and the walkie-talkie one inch away from my face. I lick my lips. That's Jason, backup tiger dancer for Gazelle, and they come as big as they seem. I remember the taste of his lips in the alley with my paw down his pants. All the night shifts I parked on the curb, 'cause he liked it raw under the streetlight. Guilty pleasure so guilty I don't even talk about it, now. Well, that was two years ago, but a man like that can live rent free in my head a whole lifetime. I'm happy, but I'm nervous: the kind you get when any familiar face sees you like this.
"Least let me read off the menu before you start doin' what you want with me," I say.
Hungry-eyes laughs at that, looks at my ass. "I'm already reading it."
Damn, he's good. My legs are already shaking while the bulge in my bottom swells again, fabric coming with it. A pillow rises in my chest as I realize they see the forbidden parts of my inside thighs, and since he knows me well, he starts to feel 'em up. I do a little gasp, and then give him a hip bump, giving him a good look at that boner in his pants with a wink.
"You like that?" I ask.
"Damn right I do."
Now, he's making me smirk. Fingers touching all the right places. His friends over there watch with awe, a little-lotta jealousy. All I'm thinking is how to show off. Make a man smile, and you've made his whole week. Make a man horny, and I already said the rest.
"Turn that chair around," I say.
He puts the cigar in the ashtray without looking. I'm nervous. Not shaken. Nervous. And I know he can smell that.
My voice is a soft croon:
"This one's on the house."
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Thumbnail: Bikinick by SamurShalem. Also, he writes Zootopia stuff, too! Check him out!