"Ooh, looks like we've got a whale." Candi, one of the more popular strippers at The Dollhouse, surreptitiously peeked out from behind the curtain. The whale in question was sitting alone at the bar, his back to the nearest stage, drinking what looked like his third top-shelf whiskey.
Even from this distance, the cut of his tailored suit and the brand on his loafers screamed 'expensive'. "Don't scare him off," Oliver said firmly, hanging up his coat.
"At least don't go biting his ear like that last guy." Candi threw a glare over her shoulder. At roughly five feet tall with thick honey-wheat curls, she was a hundred pounds of Southern Comfort with big doe eyes; but her cherubic looks didn't fool Olly, who had seen her punch a guy's lights out for getting too handsy.
Candi pouted at her reflection and shook her long hair over her full breasts. "You're late," she said, by way of greeting. "Alison's been coverin' for you for the last half hour." "Don't get your panties in a twist, they'll snap right off," Olly said mildly, pulling off his tee shirt and donning the skintight white tank top with the club's logo emblazoned on the chest.
This, combined with skinny dark jeans, constituted his uniform. The music suddenly quieted, which was Candi's cue—she scowled prettily at the bartender and smacked him on the shoulder none too gently. "You mind your manners," she snapped, and pasted on a pretty dimpled smile as the music blared once more. She flounced out to the raucous cheers and applause, and took a second to blow a kiss towards one of her admirers. Olly shook his head as he used the rear hallway in order to reach the main bar without being accosted by any of the drunken idiots who came to watch the girls perform.
Working in a strip club was probably every young man's dream, but after watching the girls get into catfights over breast implants, waxing strips, and breaking far too many heels, nails, and hearts, the magic had long worn off. Not to mention the music got incredibly loud after a long shift. He slid behind the bar and touched Alison on the shoulder, who promptly gave him a dirty look.
"You're late, bitch," she seethed in his ear. "Your nipple tassel is coming off," he replied pleasantly, and she ground her teeth, slamming out of the bar towards the changing rooms.
He settled into his groove, serving up two vodka shots for a pair of businessmen who were obviously completely plastered already. At the far end of the bar, he quietly observed Candi's whale. Adonis, the podgy and fabulously gay owner of the club, was talking to him and flashing that much too white, thousand-watt lightbulb smile, obviously yukking it up.
Olly shook his head and resumed pouring drinks, trying to erase the mental image of Adonis's recent obsession, neon socks. That didn't last long, however, and in a few seconds he could smell Adonis's cringing amount of cologne wafting near him. "Oliver!" Adonis cried, springing across the bar and practically dragging him over towards the whale.
"This is—" The name was garbled out by the sudden roar of approval from the crowd, and Olly glanced up briefly to see that Candi had tossed her sequined bra out into the crowd. "—and I want you to take good care of him, understand?" Adonis said, patting Olly on the shoulder, pinky extended.
"You bet," Olly agreed, and met the whale's eyes. It was only then that he noticed the wealthy man was almost ridiculously good looking. Oh, not in a typical way. He was tall, broad, with a lowered brow and a three-day rasp of a beard; but power exuded from him, casual, predatory confidence in just the way he sat.
His hair was dark brown but appeared to be graying at the temples, and in this light his eyes looked blacker than sin. Olly's blue eyes noted the expensive gold watch peeking out from beneath his blazer, and the square gold cufflinks which could not have been cheap. If Candi had been there, she would have drooled. Olly felt an odd, almost fearful exhilaration run up his spine. As Adonis floated away on a cloud of his spicy cologne, Olly stood there for a second, feeling rather awkward.
The businessman raised an eyebrow. "Your boss is quite a character," he said gruffly, his voice a deep timbre and lightly accented with a British burr.
"The way he acts, you'd think nobody important ever sets foot in this place." "Typically they don't," Olly couldn't help but answer, and automatically refilled the martini glass of a giggling college girl. "Every now and then we get some people here on business, but not for long." "Oh? What a shame. This place seems almost…" he paused, sipped his whiskey, and looked for the right words.
"…Charming." Olly knew he was supposed to uphold the good image of the club, and not badmouth it in anyway, but he couldn't resist adding, "I think that's the first time anyone's described a stripclub as charming." "You don't think so?" the businessman asked, that intense gaze now seeming slightly less bored and more intrigued.
"The music is loud," Olly said with a shrug. Oh, those eyes were definitely showing intrigue now. "You'd think a young man like yourself would be delighted to work in a place…like this." He gestured towards the stage, where one of the strippers was licking the pole she was grinding on.
"I don't swing that way," Olly said, and turned away with what felt like a coy smile. His heart thumped—was he…was he flirting with this guy? True, that was part of his job, and it wouldn't be the first time he flirted with a guy at a strip club. He would even daresay he enjoyed it more when it was a guy, not a girl, but genuinely gay men didn't often visit The Dollhouse, so it was typically mock-serious.
Not to mention he seldom flirted with older patrons who slightly terrified him. Olly felt the man's gaze on his back, and hoped he wasn't blushing. When Olly was afraid or turned on, he blushed like a girl. It was one of his least favorite attributes. When he felt his face had sufficiently calmed down, he turned back to the older gentleman, who seemed to be chuckling into his drink. "No wonder Adonis hired you." Olly raised an eyebrow.
Adonis didn't hire him because of the team he played for—his boss preferred bears, anyway. He still thought he was a twink even though he was pushing forty. Adonis hired him because bartenders needed to be young, fit, attractive males and the waitresses needed to be slender, scantily dressed women. The Dollhouse, like any good club, was a play putting on a performance. They needed a role to be filled, and Oliver didn't mind being an actor for a little while.
"Can I get you anything else?" Olly asked, not quite sure how to respond to such a statement. The man finished his whiskey. "No. Thank you." When Olly turned around again, there was a crisp hundred dollar bill sitting beneath the empty whisky tumbler.  Two nights later, Oliver was barely awake and trying to serve drinks like nothing was wrong. Working nights typically didn't bother him, but he had spent the majority of last afternoon studying for a midterm and was barely able to stand; not to mention his house was very noisy during the day.
He ran a hand through his hair and hung up his jacket again. Sasha, a sweet, large breasted girl not overburdened with intelligence, came running up to him. "Olly! You have to come quick, Adonis is throwing a fit that you're late again. There's a bunch of big-shots here, and they want you to serve—you have to come quick!" Olly blinked. "What?" "Never mind, just come on!" He was promptly dragged through the back dressing room.
In the act of pulling off his hoodie and unfolding his see-through white tank top, Adonis came bursting into the room. "Oh! Oliver, Oliver, honey, where were you?" Adonis squeaked, his creased eyes squinching. "I've been texting you for ages! Jack Woodford is back and he's requested you as a server!" "Wait, who's back?" Olly asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Adonis snapped his fingers in Oliver's face. "Wake up! Jack Woodford? He was at the club a few nights ago? Or does everyone tip you triple figures?" Oh. Oh.
Oliver was suddenly awake, his hair standing on end. The intimidating presence of the man hadn't left him, and in the past few days Olly hadn't been able to get him out of his mind. Even when he drifted off to sleep at night, he could still feel that powerful gaze watching him from behind. It was unsettling, to say the least.
"I'm on it," Olly said under his breath, and ran a hand through his untidy hair. Leaving the concerned Sascha and the bordering-on-heart-attack Adonis behind, Olly hurried through the club towards the private lounge.
He typically avoided the place unless specifically instructed to serve at a bachelor party or something; the soundproofed room and the soft velvet unsettled him. However, unlike most of the wild bachelor parties which had taken place in The Dollhouse's backroom, this one was rather quiet and sedate.
As soon as he opened the door he could smell the cigar smoke, and it appeared as though the stripped poles installed in each of the four corners weren't in use. Rather, the five men sitting in the room had decided to make use of the large billiard table to play a game of pool. Oliver kept his head down and headed straight for the wet bar in the very back, hoping to avoid any awkward eye contact with Jack Woodford.
So that was his name. Jack. "Bourbon, neat," an overweight blonde man said without looking up. "Right away, sir," Oliver said in the most charming voice he could manage. "Oliver, get him a drink and then come join us," a familiar voice said, and the back of Oliver's neck prickled. He set up behind the bar and tried not to look up, but Jack's presence was like a magnet; sure enough, those dark blue eyes were observing him quietly.
Oliver tried to give himself an escape plan. "I'm actually not allowed to join the guests during their events," he said, silently congratulating himself on his professional tone. Jack leaned back in his chair and exhaled blue smoke. "You are now. I just bought the place." There was an obliging smatter of laughter from the group, all of whom seemed to look up to Jack as their leader.
Stunned, Oliver fixed the bourbon and brought it over. Jack's broad, handsome features were almost smug, as though he'd cleverly whipped the rug out from beneath Oliver's fumbling feet. "Hope you're not firing me, then," Oliver replied, and sat down hesitantly on one of the plush velvet backed chairs.
"Of course not. Are you any good at pool?" Jack asked, almost innocently. Oliver cleared his throat. "Not really. I didn't get the chance for much practice growing up." "We'll have to teach you," Jack said, and there was another, vaguely threatening smatter of laughter from the gathering.
It was like being a lamb sitting at a table full of wolves. Oliver felt a flare of courage fire low in his abdomen—or was that just arousal from the way Jack was looking at him? "I'm better at poker, actually," he said in his sweetest tone. "Oh-hoh!" the pudgy blonde man laughed. "Poker!
Jack's fantastic at poker. Harold lost his wedding ring to him one time, didn'cha Harold?" Harold, a gaunt, bald man dressed entirely in black, nodded somberly.
Jack's beautiful blue eyes narrowed, and he set his pool cue down on the table. "Poker it is." Oliver fixed himself a beer and took a sip. The night passed in a blur. Oddly enough he didn't drink much, but everything happened so quickly it made him feel lightheaded. They played poker for a good hour or two, and true to his word, Jack was a fantastic poker player.
Before too long all of them were broke and Jack was in a rather good mood, sipping his whiskey as though it would be outlawed tomorrow. The men swapped stories of slutty secretaries, paranoid wives, thieving nannies and bratty children—they were all obviously disgustingly wealthy with little time to spend their vast hoard of money, due to their packed schedules. Oliver got the feeling that poker nights like this didn't happen often, and even this could be justified as a "business trip", for Jack's new strip club venture.
One by one, they men began to leave, citing various reasons: wife was expecting them, plane to catch, mistress waiting at a hotel. Soon, it was just Jack. And just Oliver. The room was surprisingly quiet, and Oliver peeled the label off his third beer. Surprisingly he seemed to be one of the few who could still stand and function, aside from Jack of course, who was drinking whiskey like it was water.
Jack's fierce gaze had been muted somewhat, and with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, he looked like a much less frightening individual. "So," Olly began. "What…what was this all about?" Jack leaned back in his chair.
"I like you," he said simply. "I bought this club in order to remodel it, I've wanted to invest in something like this for some time. Adonis introduced us and I thought you would appreciate an evening like this." The younger man tilted his head to one side.
"So…you just thought, 'Hey, look at that kid, I bet he'd love to play poker with a couple of my rich friends'? That's a pretty bizarre thought process." "No," Jack corrected quietly, "I thought perhaps you'd like to have sex." Olly blinked. "Wow.
I mean…wow. I've been asked bluntly before, but—" "You're handsome. You're single. And if you've nothing to do for the evening, why not spend it together?" Jack asked, as though this were a perfectly normal request.
"Look, I don't know what kind of impression you got," Oliver said firmly, "but the whores are in front of the bar. You know, the ones on the poles. The guys behind the bar are just trying to do their job." "I'm not offering you money," Jack said flatly. "It was a request." Olly rubbed his eyes and then sat back.
"I don't do the whole…" he waved his hand ambiguously, "one-night-stand thing. I've never done it before. It's just not that appealing." "Why don't you try it once, and then judge it from experience?" Jack rumbled. He had to admit that Jack was attractive. And rich. And powerful. If Candi or Sasha or any one of the other girls had been in his shoes, they would have spread their legs in a half second. But he wasn't a stripper or a whore or anything of the kind, he was just a bartender, getting a request from a wealthy patron.
There wasn't anything odd or creepy about that, right? "Okay," he said finally.  They ended up on the deep pile rug on the floor, because Olly had an aversion to velvet and wasn't about to get fucked on that material twice in his life. Jack was shirtless, revealing an impressive physique for his age, which Olly was guessing to be close to fifty.
He tried to turn his mind off—the age gap thing would drive him insane if he thought about it too long. The kisses though, they were something else.
Kissing women was all about elegance and strength and respect—kissing men was like fucking with mouths, all teeth and tongue and angry panting breath, with hair pulling and lip-biting.
Jack sucked a harsh bite into the side of his neck and Oliver whimpered. "Your blush," Jack snarled, his voice low and thorny from the alcohol, "How far does it go down?" In response, Olly moaned articulately, and allowed his thin white shirt to be ripped in pieces.
This probably wouldn't have worked if the tank top in question hadn't been roughly the width of paper; honestly, it made him feel sexy. Jack scraped his teeth against Oliver's collarbones and then pressed searing, open-mouthed kissed down his chest and across one pectoral. Olly's breath hitched in his throat and he bit his fist to keep from moaning indecently.
Jack paused, and pulled the hand out of Oliver's mouth. He pressed it hard against the deep pile rug, pinning both wrists above his head.
"I want to hear you," he commanded. The order sent a delicious little shiver up Olly's spine, and he obeyed without a word. The older man rubbed the bulge in Oliver's jeans, teasing the zipper.
"Should these come off?" he asked playfully. "Please," Oliver said, not liking the desperate whine that had crept into his voice. His hips inched upwards into the warm curve of Jack's hand. Either Jack wanted to spare him further begging or simply didn't have the patience. Oliver suspected the latter but held his tongue, and within moments he found himself clad only in his boxer shorts.
The pile of clothes that had been cast aside grew steadily, and before too long Jack was in a similar state of undress. "Up," Jack commanded, and Oliver got on his knees, only to be turned around roughly and planted on all fours.
The quick, dominant movements were turning him on incredibly. His cock had never been this hard before, and he couldn't bite back the moan when Jack reached around and stroked his cock through his boxer shorts.
The curve of Oliver's ass came into view, and Jack swatted it almost affectionately. The slap sent another throb of blood towards Oliver's cock and he had to bite the carpet to keep himself from groaning. There was another slap, this time much harder. "Stop biting the rug," Jack snapped, "I said I want to hear you, you cock hungry little slut." "S-sorry," Oliver stammered, and didn't make any attempt to stop the strangled moan of pleasure when Jack pulled his boxers the rest of the way off and began stroking his uncut cock slowly.
"Better," Jack agreed, and spanked his ass again.
"Do you like having your arse beaten, Oliver?" "Y-yeah," Olly managed, "Didn't know I was into that, honestly." "You evidently are," Jack murmured, studying the arch of his lovely back. He spanked Olly harder, enjoying the little wriggle and the stifled groan from his companion for the night. There was such a thrill in this, something that couldn't be rivaled, and Jack was trying to be slow and considerate.
He was not a patient man. Something warm and slick spread over his ass cheeks, and Oliver arched his back again, bringing his hips higher in the air. The answering, approving smack on his ass cheek sounded filthy with the oil spread all over it, and Olly bit his lower lip, eyes fluttering shut.
He heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper being ripped open and he shuddered in anticipation. "Oh, the things I'd like to do to you," Jack murmured above him. "I'd take you over that billiard table twice until you screamed for mercy. I'd make this arse glow cherry red from my belt and you'd love every minute of it, wouldn't you?" "Yesss," Oliver whimpered, and felt a finger enter his ass.
"Ah! God, yes," he said inarticulately. It had been so long since he'd been fucked, it felt like an eternity. His companion was quiet for a moment, seemingly content with stretching him out with his fingers and smacking his ass alternatively. With each surprise blow, Oliver's asshole clenched around Jack's fingers and he moaned again. Why hadn't any of his previous lovers tried spanking him? Why hadn't anybody told him spanking could feel wonderful?
All the years he'd gone without spanking. He felt deprived. Once Jack added a third finger, there was a not-entirely-pleasant burn from the stretch, and Olly hissed in discomfort. "Breathe," Jack commanded, and stroked the fat, throbbing length of Oliver's cock.
"You'll cum soon enough, but not 'till I'm inside you, understand?" He squeezed the base of Olly's cock, almost painfully. "Understand?" Oliver's head bobbed frantically. "I understand! Of course! Just please—Oh JESUS!" Jack's fingers had twisted and nudged his prostate, and the burst of pleasure had been enough to white out his vision.
He bucked and sobbed into the carpet as Olly did it again mercilessly, and he even heard a dark, rumbling chuckle above him. Oh, god, he was enjoying this. Of course he was—he had a young man on his knees and elbows, spread lewdly and begging to be fucked. Who wouldn't be chuckling? Despite the preparation, the oil, and the stretching, the tip of Jack's cock still burned like hell. From experience Oliver knew that tensing was the worst possible thing to do, so he focused on relaxing his muscles and breathing through his nose.
Of course, this was rather hard to do when a solid eight inches of cock were being slowly pushed into his ass—the stretch and burn was familiar, pleasant, and he wanted more. The need to cum was overwhelming, and Oliver had to sink his teeth into his wrist in order to keep his mind off his cock.
It seemed like an eternity, but before too long Jack was fully sheathed within Oliver. "You're so fucking tight," Jack snarled, nearly breathless.
He bowed his head and rested on Oliver's back, between his shoulder blades. "Ah, Christ…when were you last fucked?" When Oliver didn't immediately answer, Jack pulled on his hair, causing him to rise upwards with a moan and a yelp.
"I said," Jack hissed in his ear, "who was the last person who fucked you?" "I-I don't remember!" Oliver whimpered, "P-probably my ex-boyfriend, Ken, that was a long time ago.
Just please, please fuck me! I need it!" Jack released the grip on his hair and gripped Olly by the hips, slamming into him harshly. It only took three strokes before Oliver came, spurts of white cum decorating his chest and the carpet beneath him. Jack spanked his ass three times in quick succession, and the burn of pain bled beautifully into the afterglow of his orgasm. Now, limp and relaxed, Oliver felt akin to a rag doll as Jack ploughed into him roughly, snapping back and forth and muttering the filthiest things in his rich, accented voice.
It was a whirlwind of ecstasy and pleasure, and the aftershocks were making his head spin. Silver sparks flashed in his vision and he heard himself sobbing out a broken gasp, spreading his legs wider so Jack could ravage him more harshly. He wanted his hair to be pulled.
He wanted his ass to be beaten. He wanted—he wanted— All thought was driven from his head as Jack fucked him savagely, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. He'd never been taken this roughly before and Olly instinctively knew that tomorrow would be torture, that he'd be aching and sore and tired—but that was tomorrow.
Today, he was having fantastic, mind-blowing sex with a rich, powerful man he hardly knew. There was a stutter-step in Jack's strokes, and then he buried himself in Oliver's ass one last time.
Olly wished that the latex wasn't there for a split second, so he could feel the hot, sticky seed fill him up; but after a moment or two Jack withdrew and rolled to the side.
They both lay there, panting, sweaty and exhausted. Clothes were scattered around them and they could scarcely see each other in the low overhead lighting.
The older man sat up, still panting, and looked down at Oliver, who looked blissed out, completely fucked, and nearly asleep already. "Don't sleep on the floor, c'mon," Jack muttered, and pulled Oliver closer to him. They managed to get only a few steps, and collapsed on the soft velvet couch which easily held the two of them. Already Jack could feel the endorphins and adrenaline draining away, and the idea of returning home tomorrow was settling into a lead weight in his belly.
His wedding ring was still in his coat pocket. But he'd deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he could afford an hour or two of sleep before waking early and leaving Oliver behind.  Oliver woke up to the smell of velvet in his nostrils.
The scent and feeling triggered an automatic flood of panic and he sat up instantly. There was a groan next to him, and he pulled away, falling off the couch and onto his sore ass; it was the middle of the night.
Someone had kindly flicked the lights off for them, and the whole lounge was in near darkness. Jack was obviously still asleep. His heart was hammering and there was a sharp taste of bile in his mouth.
Olly pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids and took a few deep, calming breaths. Step one: recognize who you are. He was Oliver Wheeler, bartender and part time student.
Step two: recognize where you are. He was sitting naked in the private lounge of The Dollhouse, after an hour or two of amazing sex with a man he barely knew. Step three: recognize any mistakes. Slowly, he took stock. He'd never had a one night stand before, because relationships were important and not something to be thrown away.
Not to mention that what had happened tonight had been completely new and actually sort of…wonderful. No more worries about the past, no more creeping doubts, just a strong man who could easily overpower him but chose not to. There was a thrill in that. No, he hadn't made a mistake by sleeping with Jack. The only mistake he'd made was sleeping on that stupid couch. Shakily, the man got to his feet and felt around for his clothes. He found his jeans and tugged them on, and found Jack's pants next.
There was an expensive looking phone in his pocket, which was surprisingly unlocked, and Jack swiped through it for a second. Impulsively, he tapped the screen. >> Add New Contact He added his number, and then a note. Call me.
Let's do this again.