StripperwithSpice, page 1
Stripper with Spice
Afton Locke
Getting back on her feet after unemployment, Janice treats herself to an erotic-romance convention. After winning a two-hour fantasy date with Carlos Aguilar, a young stripper, she decides to have a one-time fantasy fling.
When Carlos entices her back to the bedroom—and a few public places—for more sizzling sex, he unleashes her passions, including a secret desire to be a chef. Janice learns there’s more to this heartthrob than a hot body, but job security comes first.
To convince her he’s more than a fantasy, Carlos teaches her trust with his body. But when that trust is finally tested to the limit, she’ll be torn between clinging to safety and taking a chance on a whole new life.
A Romantica® older woman, younger man erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Stripper with Spice
Afton Locke
Dedication
This story is dedicated to the Ellora’s Cavemen. The gentlemen I’ve met have been handsome, charming, motivated and unique. They’ve inspired me to dance, exercise, sing, write, keep up with social media and have fun.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Taylor Cole and Justin Whitfield for writing Take It Off! The Naked Truth about Male Strippers. This informative, entertaining book was an essential reference as I spun my story.
Author Note
The romance convention portrayed in this novel is fictional and solely the product of the author’s imagination, as the result of attending conventions hosted by a variety of sponsors.
Chapter One
Crave-a-thon—welcome and satisfy your cravings!
The big red sign is the first thing I see as I pull into the hotel parking lot near Cumberland, Maryland. The beautiful autumn-colored mountains in the distance fade in comparison. I wince and park the car. Holy crap. Is it October already? The crisp air tells me it is. Did I really sign up for this romance reader conference? I must have been under the influence of a hormone spike.
I pull my suitcase out of the trunk, glad my aging brown car got me here without breaking down. The click of cooling metal parts and smell of hot tires reminds me how far I drove. This long weekend can’t be over fast enough.
Thanks to the lousy economy, my budget didn’t include vacations for a couple of years. Now that I can afford it, why didn’t I go to the beach down south like I used to? I’d be unfolding my beach towel right now instead of making a fool out of myself. Or why didn’t I buy a bunch of exotic ingredients and create a gourmet meal?
I don’t even know what to expect here besides the partying the brochure promised. I’d wanted to do something self-indulgent. After all, I wouldn’t be young forever and I deserved a treat after everything I’ve been through in the work world lately. Did other forty-three-year-old women get urges to do such crazy things? Hopefully, I’ll soon grow out of it.
The lobby with its heavy jungle decor might as well be another world. I’ve never seen so many potted plants in one place. Smiling women—standing in the check-in line or sitting on the couches chattering away—are even more plentiful than the leopard-print draping.
Why did I come here to act wild with a bunch of women when I should be catching up on all the work I have to do?
And men… I stop in the middle of the lobby, causing a traffic jam, when I spot the first young man. Wearing a snug-fitting tank top, he has a military buzz cut and so much muscle he must get tired carrying it around. The cold draft in here has me shivering in my jacket. He sure doesn’t look cold though.
Ah, yes. This is one of the reasons why I signed up. The website promised four male cover models to dance for us and provide all the eye candy we can eat.
My shoulders droop as I roll my suitcase to the end of one of the lines. What was I thinking? Muscular guys aren’t my type and never have been. I’ve always gone for older, distinguished men—the type who work with me.
Judging by the animated female voices, I’m not the only one who notices the attractive man. At least three women line up to hug him, acting as if they’ve met before. Do people actually do this every year? Thank goodness I brought some books to read. I have a feeling I’m going to spend this entire vacation locked in my hotel room.
As the line inches along and the monotonous sound of the automatic doors nearly puts me to sleep, my gaze travels to the man in front of me. He wears a blue windbreaker and black exercise pants. His hair is so dark and glossy it reflects the overhead lights. When he turns his head to the side, I get a view of his profile.
It doesn’t take more than a glimpse to tell me he’s younger than me. Probably a lot younger. I never used to give age a second thought. Now I classify everyone into two groups, older or younger.
The cool air must have shut off because warmth radiates from my body and hovers under my clothes. And what smells so good? It reminds me of mesquite and smoky sunsets. He must be wearing an exotic new cologne. Careful not to do anything totally embarrassing, such as knocking my suitcase over his feet, I lean a bit closer for a better sniff.
Well, I’m off to a great start. I haven’t even checked into my room yet and I’m already sniffing men as if I’m a dog in heat.
Sooty lashes frame eyes so dark they’re almost black. His skin is kind of dark too. Maybe he’s Hispanic. More importantly, why does he look so serious? Suddenly I have to know his name and his entire life story.
When he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, his restless impatience tickles the length of my back as if it’s a feather. He obviously wants to do something besides wait in this excruciatingly slow line, but what? Work out? Dance? Wrestle with a lover in an unmade bed?
Then he waves at someone across the room, his face breaking into a white-toothed smile and panty-melting dimples. He’s one of them. Of course he is. Because he has a jacket on, it took me a while to realize he’s one of the models.
Looking down, I grimace at my shapeless brown sweater, old jeans and scuffed loafers. To avoid attracting unwanted attention, I travel in dumpy, non-revealing clothes. How was I to know I’d meet such a fine specimen in a hotel line?
He’s next in line. Should I say a few words to him before he goes to the front desk, such as “Hi” or “My name is—”? Uh, what’s my name again? I hope the hotel doesn’t ask me for my license plate number because right now I’m not even sure what year it is. Or should I utter something stupid along the lines of, “Come here often”?
Too late. He’s at the front desk now. He even appears sexy just standing there. His hips tilt and his legs spread a bit, as if he’s just gotten off a horse. And what does he look like without a shirt on? Or pants, for that matter. I watch while he completes his transaction and frown at the disappointment swirling inside me when he finally walks away.
I’ll see him again later, I tell myself, but only from afar. He’ll probably dance on a stage but that’s about it. Sure, he might make small talk with me but only because he’s supposed to be polite to us. Unless…
Don’t even think about it.
A handsome young guy like him surely has two dozen twentysomething knockouts lined up and willing to open their legs for him. What would he want with a boring financial analyst over forty?
While the hotel employee pulls up my reservation, the urge to cancel the whole thing and drive home wraps around my throat. I should never have come. Maybe I should just burrow into bed with a book and stay there for the next three days.
* * * * *
By evening, I’m rested from reading and napping but still uneasy about being here. I can’t complain about the room though. The earth tones harmonize with the rustic mountain view from the window. And everything looks and smells so clean! I could get so used to having a maid.
After eating my delivered pizza, I run my hand across the smooth, bare desk, realizing it looks strange because it doesn’t have work piled all over it. Time to sort through the goodie bag. What do we have here? Hmm…erotic romances, logo pens, colorful condoms and a small pulsating egg.
The first two I can use, the third I can’t and the fourth I’m not even sure where to put or what to do with. Luckily I drove here. I would hate to watch TSA hand-search my luggage and ask me to explain this stuff.
I read the event schedule for what must be the hundredth time. Since it’s too late to cancel, I might as well get at least some of my money’s worth and attend an event or two. In one hour, the Molten Mixer will take place in the hotel lounge. Who thought of the names for these things? Probably someone with overactive hormones, a problem I haven’t had in quite a while.
Maybe that’s why I bought this. Stepping to the luggage rack, I retrieve the glossy pink shopping bag from the bottom of my suitcase. Spreading the ribbon bag handles and pushing aside the matching tissue paper, I lift out the expensive bra-and-panty set. Dangling the push-up bra from my fingers by the straps, I admire the black-and-gold lace. The panties can hardly be called that. I’ve never worn a thong before. It doesn’t look too comfortable.
Had I really spent such hard-earned money on something so impractical? That money should be sitting in my IRA, helping to make up for the long months I went without retirement contributions. After all, who would see me in it besides me?
Maybe you should wear it tonight.
I gnash my teeth. There it is. The same annoying little voice that urged me to sign up for this crave fest thing in the first place. I have to figure out how to shut it up before it causes me to lose everything, something I can’t possibly go through again.
I could wear it tonight…just this one time. Might as well get my money’s worth out of it. Then it can live buried deep in my bureau until I’m too old to wear it. Maybe I already am. Shucking my clothes and then my practical white bra and panties, I put on the naughty undies before I lose my nerve.
The stiff lace—so different from the usual washed-a-million-too-many-times cotton—teases my skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. Stepping to the full-length mirror, I adjust my boobs so they don’t fall out of the plunging bra.
Then I put my hands on my hips and pose. Not bad for over forty. Green eyes, average height, and skin that won’t tan worth a damn. As an afterthought, I attempt to smooth my brown, curly hair, which got more than a little rumpled during my nap. As usual, it’s a lost cause.
I turn to get a view of my butt cheeks, which floods the cheeks on my face with a scalding blush. As expected, I’m all too aware of the black strip of fabric between my buttocks. The elastic moves with me as if it’s alive. To my surprise, it’s more arousing than annoying. In fact it calls to mind other objects that could be lodged there such as a man’s finger…or hard, oiled cock. Heat flares through the triangular lace scrap covering my pussy.
What if I go to the Molten Mixer dressed in this and the pair of black heels I brought? Turning to face the mirror again, I laugh out loud and cover my mouth with my hand. For all I know, the other women will show up in their underwear too. The schedule indicates casual dress, which could mean just about anything.
And what would the mysterious, dark-haired guy in the hotel line think? I trace the exposed swell of one pushed-up breast with my forefinger. Would he gaze here first and be tempted to touch? My other hand drops to the thong and I slide my finger along the waistband. Or would this draw his gaze before anything else?
Dizzied by the pulse leaping to life in my clitoris, I tug down the fabric to reveal a narrow strip of brown pubic hair and bare folds peeking below it. Did I really shave myself for this trip to feel sexy? In a few days, I’ll itch to death from the new hair growth. For now, though, I resemble a heroine in an erotic romance.
Closing my eyes, I picture him here in the room with me, pulling down my panties with strong, bronze fingers and stroking my bare labia until they swell. Planting me against the wall and tasting me from the top down.
Carried away by my fantasy, I press my back to the wall, hissing from the sudden slap of cool, textured wallpaper against my sensitive skin. My nipples harden to rocks inside the lacy bra while my pussy swells, warm and damp. Oh yes. It would be…just…like…this.
Who am I kidding? He probably wouldn’t even look twice at me. Or worse yet, he’d laugh. Arousal and common sense obviously don’t mix. I step away from the wall and reach behind me to unhook the bra.
Fine. I’ll wear it tonight under jeans and a blouse so no one will know but me. If I’m going to be self-indulgent, I might as well do it right so I’ll never have to go through this nonsense again.
With that decided, I put on my best jeans and a gold silk blouse that harmonizes so well with the lingerie it’s as if it was made for it. I haven’t worn it in so long the smell of airless closet clings to it. My fingertips pause on the shiny buttons as I wonder how many to leave undone at the top.
I button and unbutton a couple of them so many times it’s a wonder they don’t fall off. Swallowing hard, I decide to leave the blouse unbuttoned enough to show my cleavage and a potential glimpse of bra if I bend over or stand beside a taller man.
Stuffing my hotel keycard into my back pocket, I race for the door before I lose my nerve.
* * * * *
“I hate cocktail parties,” I whisper under my breath as I enter the lounge. Glasses clink from the bar area while two bartenders in white shirts and red ties scramble to fill drink orders for dozens of women. Animated conversation forms a wall of sound. What a difference from my quiet hotel room.
Amid the jungle decorations and groups of women, I catch glimpses of shirtless men, and women forming clusters around them as if acting out a science experiment on magnetic force. I can’t help wondering if they’re married or single like me.
My nails dig into my palms, making them tingle. It would help to have some friends to hang out with. I visually scan name tags, seeking my favorite authors, but don’t see any yet. Although I’d like to get to know some other readers too, breaking the ice with small talk has never been my talent. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans and check my watch, deciding to stay for one hour and talk to at least somebody during that time.
Thank goodness my job doesn’t depend on this. As I get in the drink line, an awful thought occurs to me. What if someone from work happens to travel this way and find me here? How could I be stupid enough to risk such a hard-won job, one that took no less than a combination of eight phone and in-person interviews to get?
Instead of fancy lingerie, I should be wearing a hat, wig and big sunglasses so no one can recognize me. As if to remind me of its presence, the strange bra holds up my breasts as if it’s a pair of male hands. Not to mention the piece of floss bisecting my butt.
“Hurry up! I need to get drunk.”
I can’t help turning to see who said that. A short Asian girl with blonde highlights taps her toes in her fuchsia slides with impatience. Younger. This girl has to be in her late twenties. Someone I obviously have nothing in common with.
“It is a slow line.” I’m eager to drink something myself. A little inebriation should make the hour of torture I’ve sentenced myself to pass a little more easily.
“No shit,” she replies. “By the time we get something to drink, the men will be gone.”
Before I can think what to reply, she extends her hand. “I’m Zena Wang.”
The name fits her just as mine fits me.
“Janice Sullivan.”
Looking at me, she cocks her head. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
If I’d been holding a drink, I’d have spilled it. “Excuse me?”
She raises her chin and grins. “This is my third Crave-a-thon.”
Wow. These conventions must be addictive.
I step forward. Why did I meet everybody standing in lines? If the mysterious man had been as forthright as this girl, I’d at least know his name. Is he here? Freezing my neck muscles into ironclad cords, I refuse to glance around the room.
“This is my first conference.” And surely my last. I should ask her what to expect but am not sure I really want to know.
Her large dice earrings click as she moves her head. “You’ll love it. I can’t wait until the dancing starts. Say, the DJ is kind of hot.”
I follow her gaze. Dancing? Here? Tonight? In this underwear? My breasts are already sitting on a precarious perch. One dance move would surely send them tumbling out of my blouse. I fiddle with one of the blouse buttons, tempted to button it up.
After we buy our drinks, a glass of chardonnay for me and a cosmopolitan with a cherry for her, I follow Zena through a maze of dark wooden tables, padded stools and occasional love seats lit by subtle colored lights. She heads to a table with one woman sitting at it. Must be a friend of hers. Am I the only person in this whole place who doesn’t know anybody?
“She looks lonely,” Zena explains.
Great. That’s probably why she talked to me. Do I have a big “pathetic” sign plastered to my forehead?
After we ask the woman if we can join her, she looks apprehensive and relieved at the same time. Dorothy is the opposite of Zena. She’s married with children and Older. In contrast to Zena’s tight pink shirt and miniskirt, Dorothy wears wire-rimmed glasses and a blue oxford shirt buttoned all the way up. A mousy-brown pageboy with a dash of gray frames her face.
Making small talk while we drink isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The woodsy, aged flavors of the chardonnay excite my taste buds, reminding me how long it’s been since I treated myself to a glass of wine. To my surprise, Zena and Dorothy are both from other states. Just how far would women travel to celebrate romance?
Now that I’m seated on the high stool with a birds-eye view, it’s hard to ignore the men. Each is shirtless. They talk and pose for snapshots. Cochise, a tall Indian, reclines on a couch while a white-haired woman old enough to be his grandmother pokes his abs as if to test their hardness. Butch, the one with the crew cut, pulls a woman onto his lap for a picture. What’s next, an orgy?
