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Tales 12

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Michael Alexander Stories

Choose Your Own Destiny - The Club

Foreword:

When I was a child one of my favorite passtimes was reading. I was a bit late to it as well, not developing the skills until well into second grade. Thank goodness for Mrs. Wallace in the Special Education class, who took me in hand. Since then I have been a voracious reader and writing was merely the next step. My favorite books in fifth and sixth grade were the "Choose Your Own Adventure" children's novellas, those wonderful little books that allowed you to pick the options that effected the plot and changed the outcome. I always hated it when I'd make decisions that led to my immediate death.

As an erotica writer, I wanted to capture that same sensation, the ability of the reader to directly interact with the world created by the author. I'm still not positively happy with the results. Like the "Choose Your Own Adventure" novels, "The Club" is in present tense and while written in second person narrative, is uniquely first person in point of view. In fact, it occured to me that my female readers might be highly disappointed with this particular story. Perhaps I need to write a new one, or change "The Club" to ask that important question at the beginning, "are you male or female?" That just opens up Pandora's box however. Should I ask "do you go in the main door, or the one marked 'employees only'?" To many possibilities and this work is already novel size in length and it's complexity is enough to drive my webmaster batty.

So enjoy (as much as you are able) your sojourn in "The Club". Hopefully the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson are true: "Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen."

The Club

It’s late in the evening as you pull up to the large illuminated building.  The lot isn’t packed, but it isn’t empty either.  You make your way to an empty space, parking your car delicately between the lines.  It’s not about preventing damage to your vehicle, but about precision; the idea that competency is not just a word but a lifestyle.  As you get out of the car you pick up your sports coat, throwing it over one arm.  It isn’t cold out.  Your long sleeve shirt certainly handles the cool autumn breeze.  But it’s not about temperature…or perhaps it is.  You can’t just be cool; you have to look it as well.  This is one club that doesn’t make allowances for lower castes.

You make your way to the main entrance and the doorman nods at you, clearly recognizing your face.  You’re no stranger in fact, a frequent guest.  Many of the girls even know you by name.  You certainly know some of them by more than their names.  Your stomach rumbles as you enter the foyer, flashing your VIP membership card at the door, bypassing the need to pay the cover charge.  You are directed toward the VIP staircase, a gesture unneeded, since you are very well aware of where you need to go.  The girl manning the front desk takes a few steps and opens the door, exposing a stairway that leads you upward where no vice officer has ever stepped foot and the services provided are a bit more explicit than your typical lap dance.

You mount the narrow stairway, watching your footing by the small lamps casting red cones of light downward onto the steps.  Eventually the sounds and scents of the VIP gallery, a balcony that overlooks the common room come to you: the heavy beat of the music, the scent of expensive tobacco, a little too much perfume.  You step out onto the balcony.  It is almost deserted, and even though it is never crowded, it’s even quieter than usual.  Your usual table is open, one near the railing.  While you enjoy the regular senior girls, you like looking downward and seeing the new blood.  The club manager is very strict about each of the three stages being filled at all time, and the girls are conditioned to know that the stage isn’t bad: it’s marketing.  The men get to see you, want you, and decide to buy you.

A waitress comes to your table.  She already knows what you want, and asks if you’d like your usual.  You nod, sitting back in the plush chintz chair, feeling the caster wheels roll slightly.  You settle in the chair feeling some of the stress of the work day fade, but you still feel some tension.  Your shoulders hurt.  You stretch, twisting as you settle.  The table is cherry, a matching color to the fine wooden wall panels and overhanging beams.  A small light spills down from the ceiling, directed right at the table, but it does nothing to distract from illuminated beauties below, or the several circulating girls walking the VIP Balcony.

The waitress returns with your drink and you take in a moment to admire her as well.  A silver name tag is clipped to her shirt and you read “Amanda”. While they may not be performers, the wait-staff are encouraged to dress provocatively, and guests are encouraged to tip them well for it.  The green plaid mini-skirt and white blouse are enough to make any man hard, especially knowing that these girls aren’t for sale.  Some men try for them anyway, offering money, drugs, even power. 

Amanda gives you a smile as she deposits your drink in front of you.  She leans over, her cleavage becoming your world view.  Long blonde hair cascades down framing a cherubic face, crystal blue eyes, and a “girl next door” appearance.  She doesn’t exude sexuality as much as embodies it.  There is an innocence present that only an experienced man can detect.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”  She asks politely, her voice sweet.  She is aware that you are a hunter, and that she is prey. 

The rumble in your stomach is too great.  You order dinner, ignoring, at least temporarily, the incredible set of breasts in front of you. (1a)

Everyone has their price.  You want to know Amanda’s.  Generally it’s considered bad form to pursue the waitresses, but for VIP clients it’s overlooked. (1b)

Thank and tip the waitress, but move on toward cheaper prey: girls who want it.  Check out all three of the stages. (1c)

Enquire about the masseuse.  It may be a good idea to get a massage after dinner and work out the tension. (1d)