My Boyfriend and His Friend (The Forbidden Fun)

Of course. I’d never barge into someone’s office unannounced.

“Thanks,” I say with a shy smile before making myself over to the office. God, I look like Inspector Gadget right now with my long trench coat and secretive look. Well, there’s a reason for that.

Hesitantly, I knock on the manager’s door, but there’s no sound. It’s probably because the music is too loud, and grabbing the knob, I test it. Hmm, unlocked. Am I really going to do this? But I have to because my boyfriends are running low on cash, and I don’t want us to lose our home.

With determination, I push the door open but then let out a gasp because there’s a woman bent over the desk facing away from me, her big bottom raised in the air. A man with mud-brown hair kneels in back of her, and his face looks to be buried between her thighs. What in the world?

“Oh sorry!” I apologize quickly, my cheeks burning. “I’ll come back later!”

But the woman merely looks at me over her shoulder, and I see it’s not lust on her face, but boredom.

“Mitch, you almost done?” she yawns. “You have a guest.”

The man sits up straighter, his head swiveling around to look at me, and I realize that he hasn’t been eating the woman out. Instead, she’s clothed and he’s helping pin her costume together in a particularly private place.

“I’ll be right with you,” he mutters, still focusing on the job in front of him. “Let me finish up here.”

Awkwardly, I step in and when the door shuts, the noise from outside is blocked out. Wow. Who knew the insulation was so effective? Meanwhile, Mitch finishes his sewing project and the girl stands up straight before yawning and stretching like a lithe cat. In fact, she’s wearing a tiger outfit of some sort; that is, if tigers wore bikinis.

“Great job, Misty,” Mitch says while slapping her rear end fondly. “Work that tail.”

I see now that Misty’s got a striped tail hanging from her behind, and Mitch likely sewed it in place for her. She swishes it coyly like the real thing and then prances to the door in her high heels.

“Thanks, big guy!” she calls, waving her hand. “I’ll see you out there!”

Then, the woman is gone, leaving the manager and me alone in his office.

“So,” Mitch says, turning to me with mild brown eyes while putting his sewing kit away. “What can I do for you?”

Oh god, this is awkward. But surely, he gets young women in his office daily, looking for a job.

“Um well,” I stammer. “Well …”

“Let me guess,” he says kindly. “You want to be a dancer?”

I laugh a little despite myself. “Was it my trench coat that gave it away?” I ask wryly.

He nods.

“Yes, that and your awkwardness. It’s something that I see on the regular. But do you have any experience?”

I stammer again, my cheeks flushing.

“No, not really, but I enjoy dancing!”

He grimaces a little.

“Can you do the splits?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“How about aerials?”

Holy shit. I wince and shake my head once more. “Unfortunately, no.”

Mitch sighs then, steepling his hands as he leans back in his chair. “Okay, this could be going out on a limb, but you seem to be in a bind, and we had a few girls call out sick today. You’re on.”

“Wait a minute,” I stammer. “What do you mean? Right now?”

His eyebrows raise almost to his forehead.

“Do you have a costume on beneath that trench coat?”

My cheeks flush.

“Not a costume exactly, just some sexy lingerie.”

He nods.

“That’s enough. Our customers aren’t picky, as long as you end up fully nude. You know the Krazy Kat is topless as well as bottomless, right?” he asks, throwing me a sharp look.

I nod numbly. OMG, this is really happening! But sure enough, in ten minutes, I’m standing backstage. Another girl let me borrow a pair of candy apple red platform heels to match my tiny bra and thong get-up, and I smeared some glitter over my curves to enhance my look. Holy shit. Jitters make my hands tremble, but I force myself to stay strong because this is for Chase and Chris, whom I adore. They would sacrifice for me in a heartbeat, and in turn, I want to show them how much I care too.

Suddenly, the voice of the announcer sounds from outside.

“We’ve got some new talent dancing for us tonight,” he rumbles. “Everyone put your hands together for Missy Menage!”

I chose the name, of course, and it seems fitting although I’ll be dancing alone during this set. The opening of my song, “Escape From LA” by The Weeknd, starts and I shimmy out onto the stage, gyrating my hips while running my hands suggestively over my curves. I can’t see much because the lights are so bright, but I’m able to make out the solid, muscular shadows of male patrons who hoot and holler as I begin prancing around. Oh god, can I really do this?