The Nightclub

"All Day Tease"

Chapter 5: The Night Club

1: The Morning -- 2:00am to 1:00pm

2: The College -- 1:00pm to 3:00pm

3: The Mall -- 3:00pm to 6:00pm

4: The Fantasy Club -- 6:00pm to 9:00pm

> 5: The Nightclub -- 9:00pm to 12:00am

6: The Apartment -- 12:00am to 2:00am

Characters in Chapter 5:

Ali, grad student (24)

Stephanie, professional tease (26)

Brittany, the cheerleader (19)

Sasha, the goth (21)

Ashley, the salesgirl (24)

Becca, Nikki's BFF (18)

Nikki, Becca's BFF (19)

Sarah, professional dancer (25)

Aja, the tiny one (20)

Karina, a stranger to the group (23)

Rob, the protagonist (32)

Adrian, gym repairman (52)

Bobby, Dave's brother (25)

Dave, Bobby's brother (24)

Hungryman, a bar patron (45)

Will, Becca's stalker (18)

Francis, Ali's old devotee (29)

Louis, Francis' friend (30)

Brock, Karina's boyfriend (29)

Biff, the Bouncer (28)

Clyde, the Cleaner (45)

Jack, the Barback (24)

Mick, the Mixologist (43)

Hank, the Head of Security (41)

Sam, the Sound guy (27)

DJ Damm Jiffy (30)

********

Chapter 5, Part 1: (Re) Introductions

5-1-1: Biff the Bouncer

Biff the Bouncer slipped his notebook into the pocket of his leather jacket, and closed his locker.

The jacket was part of his work uniform, and he usually left it at the club. It was too heavy to wear during the day, metaphorically speaking — it made him look like too much of a biker.

That wasn't his scene. Not at all. But for his side hustle working as a bouncer at a nightclub, it was perfect. The Sweet Spot got pretty wild on the weekends.

Biff was a big dude, massively tall and wide. Debbie had called him a "bear". He was a sci-fi writer during the day, or was trying to be anyway. Didn't pay much yet, though, so he spent a couple of nights a week standing outside the club doors looking threatening.

But not exactly threatening, more like immovable and implacable. Like a mountain. He was drafting paragraphs in his head, usually. His imagination was galaxies away from this street on this Earth. He kept his notebook handy, and on his breaks he would jot down the stuff he came up with.

The actual bouncing was pretty simple. Checking IDs only took a tiny fraction of his mind. Because of his size, most guys who fronted tough would retreat when he glared at them.

A couple of times he had to get tough, drag a troublemaker out, but usually Hank, the Head of Security did that stuff. Hank got off on it, like the sociopath he was. Biff didn't much care for his superior, but as with most things, he silently dealt with it and didn't cause a stir. And Hank knew better than to fuck with him, even when Biff would roll his eyes at his macho posturing.

The girls were trickier — Biff wasn't exactly good looking, and when the girls pleaded with him, sometimes he let them in even if their IDs looked a little dodgy. These girls were adult enough, damn, by the way they dressed. But they had that youthful exuberance, and those giant expressive eyes that were one of his weak spots.

He could keep his game face up for a while, if he was getting laid at home. But he and Debbie had split up a couple of weeks ago, amiably enough, as friends even, but the benefits were definitely gone.

Biff climbed the back steps to street level and went to the side street doors. Hank would be on the main doors around the corner on Conduit Avenue — he liked the opening rush, watching the line form and making them wait. Lord help the poor sap with the wrong shoes tonight.

The Division street entrance was a lot less known — only people coming from the lot behind the restaurants would come in this way.

Biff pushed the door open. It was starting to get dark outside — almost time to open. He'd be here until 4am. He reached back inside to grab his stool, and settled in for a long shift.

** 5-1-2: Aja

Aja balanced delicately on the stacked banker boxes and reached to the very back of her closet's highest shelf, where her six-inchers were. Her slutty heels — they were black Louboutin platform spikes, with a peep toe.

She was still living in her parents house, even though she was twenty, and her homely mother would NOT approve of those shoes one bit. She wouldn't like the rest of the outfit either.

But Aja was gonna take a risk. She was "in" already, and Mom would be on the couch watching the boob tube till she fell asleep. All Aja had to do was sneak out the kitchen door once she got the text.

Her friends knew to come to the next street over, and Aja was pretty good at sneaking past her neighbor's yard out back. She'd only been busted once, a couple of months ago.

She'd been tiptoeing down the back path in a little blue flared skirt and stretch tight white top, with pigtails and a bow in her hair, and then she accidentally kicked over a watering can, like an idiot.

All of a sudden the lights came on — the exterior first, and then his kitchen window. Aja saw her neighbor in the kitchen, a large man in his sixties in a muscle shirt with hair curling out from underneath it. She was caught in a pool of bright light and he was staring at her. Busted!

She froze, not sure what to do. She was terrified that he'd call her mom, or worse, the police. Then she saw his eyes, moving up and down her figure, and she reassessed the situation.

He was attracted to her, even at 20 she knew that look too well, and she also knew that that gave her a kind of power over him.

As a bonus, he was big too, tall, with a solid torso, and that was her type. In younger men at least.. So far, anyway.

But she knew just how to handle things now. She pressed her legs together and played the innocent card, looking at him with huge eyes. She gave him a little wave with one hand, and then squeezed her arms against her chest, making her cleavage bubble out

He devoured her with his eyes for another hard minute, and then he did something she didn't expect — he tipped his hand to his head, in the cutest little chivalrous greeting, and then he turned off the lights!

A shiver ran all through her and she knew that she'd run into him again — if she had to engineer it herself.

Aja had a thing for big guys. She thought of herself as a "size queen" though not in the traditional sense. Sure a nice dick was a bonus, but for her, it was all about the total package. She was attracted to giant guys — the bigger, the taller, the bulkier, the better. She wanted to be Fay Wray with King Kong, cupped in the huge palms of a mountain of a man.

At 4 foot 9 inches, Aja was a tiny tiny human, and so she had developed a thing for the biggest guys she could find. She got weak and wet undies whenever she was around massive giant men, and she was convinced that those guys had a thing for the littlest of little girls too — even if they didn't know it yet, she'd teach them about themselves — nature respected proportionality.

Her last boyfriend had been a basketball player who was 6 foot 10 inches, two entire feet taller than her. Her eye level was right at his nipples, perfect, and her chest was in just the right position to have maximum effect when she nuzzled him close. But Donald has graduated from college and moved back to Chicago to work for his uncle. She'd been sad but not heartbroken — he wasn't the sharpest tack in the drawer, and in addition to big bodies, Aja craved big minds too.

She had been wondering about her neighbor — he was in his sixties; think of all the things he must have seen! So one of these days, she should connive to put herself smack into those big strong hands.

Maybe she'd fall off her bike right outside of his house — onto the grass of course, no use scratching up her smooth skin. And if that didn't work, there was always the hackneyed "borrowing sugar" stunt — but she could do better than that, with a little creativity. And once she had his undivided attention, they'd have a proper face to face.

But not tonight — tonight she was going out with Sasha and her friends, to the Sweet Spot, hence the slutty heels.

They'd look bomb ass under the silvery sheath dress she had on — it had a zipper running all the way down the right side, with a large silver dangling pull. Classy all-white nail polish and silver eyeshadow completed the look. She had drawn little silver curlicues above her left eye with her finest point brush, and her lips were classic crimson red.

Her father was Colombian and her mother Indian, so she had light brown skin and straight dark hair, and an unplaceable exotic countenance, with pronounced cheekbones and lush, full lips. Her large eyes were a rich caramel brown, and her tiny little nose turned up. Her figure was lithe and trim but curvy in the all right places, with her chest right on the B/C cusp. Her tiny size made them seem plenty big enough.

She pulled down her slut shoes and carefully got down off the banker boxes — at only 95 pounds, the cardboard bore her weight no problem. Up into the heels she went and felt like a giantess, even if she was barely 5 foot 3 now.

She slipped a couple of twenties and a disposable THC vape pen into her bra and checked her look in the mirror. She was a fucking hot bitch tonight! This called for selfies! Something to do while she awaited Sasha's text.

She pursed her lips and grinned into the mirror. Snap! Her feed was gonna be on fire tonight!

** 5-1-3: Karina

Karina made a kissyface and checked her look in the mirror. The deep red lipstick was smooth and evenly applied. She carefully outlined her lips with a fine point applicator in a darker crimson, making them pop out against her pale white skin.

She wanted to look her absolute best tonight, so there would be no more excuses. If Brock so much as glanced at another woman at the club, so help her, she'd kick his ass to the curb. After those texts she found from Sherri, some whore from the sportsbar, he was on thin thin ice.

He had cheated on her once for sure about six months ago, with Theresa, who worked in his office — in HR for fucks sake — and who knows how far he'd gone with Sherri. Two strikes. That she knew of. For his sake, there'd better not be a third.

It wasn't the actual sleeping around that really bothered her. She'd done threesomes before, and more than that once or twice when she was at NYU, so she could totally share. But it was the lying, the emotional betrayal, the cover-up that really got to her.

It also revealed a side to Brock she hadn't seen before they started dating. He hadn't been physically abusive, ever, but sometimes she got a weird sociopathic energy — he could lie right to her face with a smile, like it was nothing. That alone almost convinced her to split with him, but she was giving him yet another chance.

One more.

She looked into the mirror and appraised her face. Smoky eyes, cat-point eyeliner, red lips, bit of blush. The tiny diamond stud sparkled in her nose and her silver hoop earrings swung gently. Her bra and thong panties were deep blue, with thin outlines of black lace.

Her outfit was hanging on a hook behind her, a little black dress with dark blue trim that matched her underwear. She sat down on the closed toilet lid and pulled on her stockings, one leg at a time. Her toenails were blue too, the color muted through her hose.

She had only been to the Sweet Spot once before. That had been a hell of a night. She hadn't cut loose like that for a while. Too much pent up anxiousness with Brock.

She honestly didn't know what she wanted — sometimes he was so polite and chivalrous, picking up every check and bringing her flowers.

But other times his frustrations seemed to be barely held back — she had seen him break a glass once in a fit of anger, slamming it on the table and shattering it. She still hadn't figured out exactly how she felt about that — not good, though.

So tonight was a test, to see they were still, you know, fun, as a couple. She was gonna be honest with herself — she deserved no less.

She finished her stroke with the eyeliner, feathering the black line out to a razor sharp point with a sense of satisfaction.

Her war paint — and the sheath dress & heels were armor. They transformed her into a force to be reckoned with, a soft yet steel sculpture of sex appeal. She was getting ready for battle.

What a strange mindset she was in. It had been a trying few weeks, second guessing Brock, watching him hide shit from her.

But the time, as they say, was up.

Spritz of fragrance on the neck, check.

Check the left, check the right, check the bust, check the butt, check.

Grab the clutch, the scratch, and the Dutch, check.

She stepped into her heels and out of the room.

** 5-1-4: Brittany

Brittany pulled her LuluLemon leggings up that extra inch, ensuring that they were as skintight as they could be. She didn't mind a little wedge, especially for effect.

The sports leggings were grey, with large mesh patches that showed off the smooth tan skin underneath. The "pants" themselves showed off her tight & athletic cheerleader body. There wasn't actually a real cameltoe up front, but in the back, boy was it cheeky.

Above the waistband of the lewd lewd lemon leggings was ten inches of trim toned stomach and above that, clinging around her firm D-cups, was a matching grey sports bra — a fairly hefty one; she needed the support. A mesh patch like on the leggings ran diagonally across the front, revealing a sliver of cleavage where it crossed the middle. Her curly red hair was bound up in a high topknot, which swung and bounced as she moved.

She was slick from a workout, and practically vibrating with energy. The game had been cancelled, something had happened to the other team's bus and they couldn't get there in time.

So the squad had retired to the gym to train for two hours. The first hour had been rehearsing routines, and the last was free-form exercising. Brittany had spent that part doing leg lifts, limbering up for an evening of dancing. Her legs were a little tired by the end, but she knew she could find someone to massage them if she tried.

She didn't leave right away to follow the squad as they walked back to the cheerleader locker room. There had been a repairman fixing a rowing machine in the line behind her and he couldn't keep his eyes off her. His gaze was longing but not predatory.

There was a breed of macho asshole who would only ever think of her as a conquest, as something to brag about. The guys who love themselves more than they ever could anyone else. The kind who suffered from acute generational misogyny and absurd egotistical man-titlement.

It happened with depressing regularity that when one of those men laid their eyes on her irresistible red hair and encountered her sparkling disposition, they lurched into some pathetic machismo routine of caveman alpha-wolf bullshit.

Her pet peeve was the Pick-Up-Artist "negging" technique where a guy insulted you to try and make you like him. What a stupid fucking concept — the psychological bullshit inherent in believing something like that made her laugh and cry at the same time.

She got a perverse delight in kicking those guys right in the ego. Not quite as much as the charge she got from rewarding the proper gentlemen, melting their minds and their pants with the heat of her sensuality, though.

A couple of times she had weaponized her charms to communicate certain lessons about the natural order of the universe to guys who required, lets say, a hands-on approach to tutelage.

But this guy did not seem like one of those guys. Several times during her routine she had turned around, mid leg-lift, to find his eyes not on his work but fixated on her ass. Each time, she kept looking at him until he noticed, with a smile on her face.

Each time, he looked away in embarrassment, and shifted awkwardly from where he was kneeling.

He was in his fifties, with a little paunch and a bad haircut, and he was nervous in a way that made it clear both that he greatly desired her (of course), and that he didn't spend much time around women of her particular variety.

This was too much for her to resist. It turned her on to cause those feelings — the stronger the abject desperate desire she could generate, the wetter she got. Which is why she targeted her teasing towards a more distractible demographic — the phys plant guys, the computer lab workers, the D&D club.

Yes, they were easy targets, but when she worked them they fell so hard, and she couldn't get enough of her stammering smitten admirers. She knew that she was blowing their minds, and she luxuriated in that power.

This was one of the main reasons she cheered, for what are cheerleaders but lust generators, standing beside a field of testosterone in tiny little skirts and shaking their assets.

So when training ended, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to work this guy a little, drive him nuts but also give him a taste of what he yearned for. When she was done he would obsess over his memory of the experience, madly nasturbating over and over for her long after she was gone.

She kept up the exercise just long enough for the rest of the girls to leave, then she stopped. She rose to her feet slowly, making little groaning sounds.

Then she bent slightly at the waist and began to rub her legs. She could practically feel his eyes locked on her ass.

She let him stare for a moment or two, then craned her neck around to look at him, still bent at the waist with her hands on her thighs.

He froze as she locked eyes with him and she hit him with her thousand-watt smile. There was a hiss as he drew his breath in unconsciously.

"Hi! I'm Brittany!"

This was her stock opening — the technique involved positioning herself front and center, close as she could get, in full on perky and peppy cheerleader mode, and then simply introducing herself.

The complete directness combined with proximity usually unnerved her targets, which she found a little silly, but it worked pretty reliably, so she used it all the time.

"Whatch'a doing in here with all us girls?"

"I'm .. uh .. just the draw bar on this rower came off — I, uh - I work for the equipment vendor. The exercise machine company —" he stammered a response.

"Oh thank you!" She cooed excitedly. "I'm on these machines all the time. I'm a cheerleader, you see, it's practically my job to stay fit."

"In fact, I worked myself so hard today,"

She oozed at him, her voice high breathy, "that all my muscles are so sore."

"Oh — they are?" He clearly had no idea what to say to this.

"Today was leg day," she laughed and slapped her thigh. "Never forget leg day."

"No, of course not." He said, "Your legs are —" He trailed to a stop, and caught himself before he finished that sentence.

"My legs are rubber after that workout." She stood and turned to face him, lifting her right leg at the knee and grasping it.

"But I'm going out to the club tonight!" She pouted and put her leg down again.

His eyes followed.

"With all my hot girlfriends." She took a step towards him, reaching up to pull her hair down. It toppled out over her shoulders and in front of her eyes.

"In a tiny shiny little dress." She took another step, closing the gap between them. She swept the hair away from in front of her face.

"And I'm going to wear high heels." Another step. "Very high heels."

She was right in front of him now, and over-enunciated each word. "Platform. Spike. Heels."

She leaned over and put her hands on her thighs again. She towered over him as he knelt on the floor, her hair spilling down in a halo around her head.

"Will you help me?" His head snapped up to look her in the eyes. "Can you massage my legs for just a few minutes, to limber me up?"

The man kneeling at her feet was dumbstruck for a minute, clearly conflicted about what to do. Brittany saw the ring on his finger, but she didn't care — she wasn't going to let him get very far, after all. Today, anyway.