Stripping for Daddy by Gia Blue

Stripping for Daddy
     
    I've been on my own since I hit
thirteen, walking the streets, doing what I could for money (well, not that)
and trying to make my way in the world.
    Alone.
    Course I had parents at some point,
but they died when I was eight. Then there was foster care and I finally ran
away from the last home when one of the other kids tried to touch me. The
"mom" didn't believe me, called me a slut and that had been it .
Time for me to go.  It'd been my fifth placement and something similar had
happened at every one. I'd been over the whole program.
    I've survived, I've thrived, and all
with my virginity intact, thankyouverymuch .
    Now, I'm about to apply for my very
first job as an adult.  Happy birthday to me an all that. I check my watch, a
little theme park mouse just smiling at me.  I hit eighteen fifteen hours ago
and I'm dressed to impress.
    I bought my outfit at the local
lingerie shop. The one that caters to local strippers and bored housewives. 
They take cash and didn't ask questions, which made them the perfect shopping
spot. 
    I've got break-away clothes, a teeny
thong and clear six-inch heels. Cause, clear goes with everything and until I'm
making mad money, one pair is all I can afford.
    I'm standing outside Roxy's, staring
at the darkened sign. The sexy shape of a woman that's usually neon pink taunts
me.  Like I'm not good enough to be a Roxy's girl and never will be. 
    It's only three and the club won't be
hopping, sign shining, until much later this evening.  With any luck I'll be on
stage, shaking, gyrating and earning tips that'll cover rent for the next few
months.
    God, my heart is racing, pulse
pounding and all I'm doing is standing on the street in a trench coat and
stripper heels. I've done the nude thing before, not for strangers, but I've
practiced for some gay friends.  They don't get hard watching me, but they
always promise that if I had a dick between my legs, they'd be all over my
shit.  Though it's hard to keep a straight face or sexy pout when all they do
is squeal about seeing icky girl parts. But, hey, it's close enough to having
guys in a crowd drooling over me…–ish. I probably wouldn't have gotten a better
response from them if I'd worn a strap-on.
    But, yeah, I can do this.
    I check my watch and I'm still five
minutes early. Fuck it.
    I approach the door, gate steady since
I've been practicing walking in these things every day, and knock. It's not
long before a big, burly guy pushes it open, looks me up and down. His frame
practically fills the doorway, broad shoulders and I realize that the term
"barrel chested" would have a picture of him next to the term in the
dictionary.
    Big fucker.
    I tighten the tie of my coat around my
waist. "I've got an appointment with Jack." 
    I smile wide. I've got ID in my purse,
just in case anyone questions my age.  It's real and everything…This time.
     The guy raises a single, bushy
eyebrow but opens the door wider, lets me pass.  I skirt by him, careful not to
touch. I may want to strip for cash, but that doesn't mean I want to get up
close and personal with random people. And until I know his name, he's
random…Roxy's employee or not.
    The interior is dim and it takes a
moment for my eyes to adjust to the lower lighting.
    "Watch your step, sweetheart.
This way." The guy has a gentle voice, deep and smooth and I almost giggle
at the absurdity of such a soft sound coming from such a fierce looking man.
    I follow him through the club, weaving
around tables and chairs, taking in my surroundings.  There're the requisite
raised stages and poles, straight-back chairs without arms for lap dances and
doorways along the other side that probably lead to private rooms,
"champagne" rooms. The space around the stages, perverts row, is
cleared out and ready for the night's group of pleasure seekers.
    Which, it seems, is where I'm headed.
    The big guy stops in front of a door
marked "5" with a single, swirly golden letter, rhinestones