Caught at the Club

I smiled smugly to myself as I stood in line for the club. I clutched my fake ID in one hand, meticulously crafted by a friend of mine downtown. It looked so believable. Even though I had freshly turned 18, my tight and revealing dress, my high heels, my meticulously applied makeup, and now this little plastic secret I held between my fingers was definitely going to get me inside.

The bouncer - icy grey eyes, dark hair, chiseled cheekbones - turns down the group of 5 stunning girls in front of me. My stomach clenches and my anxiety rises. If they didn't get in...how would I?

I'm next. I roll my shoulders back and walk confidently towards this 30-something, unnervingly handsome man. When he sees me, he does not smile.

"ID," he says gruffly, his voice raspy and low.

I hand him my card. It says I'm twenty-two. It says my name is Bailey. He squints at the card, then looks back at me as if we both know it's all a lie.

He takes a step closer to me. At six foot two, he towers above my small frame. His icy eyes scrape all the way up and down my body without the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Isn't that dress a little short for someone so young?"

I stammer. "I'm - I'm not that young."

"Mmm." He hands me back my card. "What would your daddy say if he knew his little girl was dressed like this?"

I can't look him in the eye anymore. My eyes fall to the ground. The bouncer leans close to my face.

"Now tell me your real name," he demands in a low whisper.

"Please," I whimper.

"If you tell me your real name, I'll let you inside. Our little secret," he replies, still not smiling.

I bashfully look him in the eyes again. "Kana."

"Okay, Kana," murmurs the bouncer. He steps to the side. "Have fun."

I can't believe it. My hands are shaking. I walk inside the club, feeling like I'd just robbed a bank and gotten away with it. The fluorescent lights glint off my dark hair and the loud bass of the music vibrates up my body.

Instantly, someone offers to buy me a drink. He's a little too old for me - pushing forty - but I say yes anyways. We make small talk while I sip some girly martini. I can't believe I'm really here. I'm a teenager, and I'm really here.

One of my favorite songs begins to radiate through the club. I down my drink in one go, say thanks to the older man, and dart onto the dance floor.

I start to sway my hips side to side. I am comfortable with my body, and it shows. The men in the club are like vultures, circling around me, watching my every move. It's intimidating. Maybe I can't handle this after all.

A man comes up behind me, pressing his body against mine. His hand wraps around my neck before I can escape. His other hand digs into my hip, almost leaving a bruise, forcing me to dance on him.

"Kana." My blood chills. It's the bouncer. His hand works my ass up and down on his lap, and I feel his hardness pushing through his black suit pants. His other hand slides up my neck to cover my mouth, silencing me.

"Don't say a word," he whispers gruffly into my ear. "Just listen. I know why you came here, Kana. You came here to feel like a big girl. You came here to get attention, to get drinks bought for you. You came here to feel like an adult for a night. So I'm going to treat you like one."

He pushes my head down, bending me over, working the movement of my hips. I've never danced on someone so filthy before.

He pulls me back up again by my hair, his other rough, calloused hand still covering my mouth. My eyes dart around for help, but no one notices. This is a club. This is the real world. This man could fuck me against a wall here and no one would stop him.

"Clearly," he murmurs into my ear, "whoever your daddy is, he had no idea how to raise you into a respectful young woman, or you wouldn't be here."

I shake my head, begging.

"So I'm gonna be your daddy tonight," murmurs the bouncer. The hand on my hip slides to the front of my dress and slips under it, his palm pressing against my clit. "I'm gonna raise you right."

I struggle against his strong, veiney arms, but I'm small and weak in his grasp. To the rhythm of the music, slow and persistent, he presses the palm of his hand against my clit, over and over. I start to grind back against his hand.

"There we go," the murmurs. "That's how it's done." He slips two thick fingers into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat. "This is what grown men do to grown women."

I feel so overtaken. Several men are watching what the bouncer is doing to me. Seeing their gaze on us, the bouncer raises my dress higher, giving them a view of my lacy white underwear as his hand moves against me.

The men's gazes linger between my legs. I struggle, ashamed. This is not what I wanted. I know the men's cocks are hard, watching me, devouring me with their eyes.

The song changes, and suddenly I'm being dragged through the crowd by the bouncer. Before I can even blink, I'm dragged into the graffiti-strewn bathroom. He lifts me up onto the sink and gets close so one leg of mine is on either side of him. He stares me in the eye.

Tears glisten, smudging my mascara. "Please. Don't."

"Don't you think you should apologize?" The bouncer asks, tilting his head to the side, watching me with a gaze that makes me want his approval.

"I'm sorry, sir. I've never--"

"Don't say sorry to me. Say sorry to your daddy."

I freeze. "What?"

"You heard me." The bouncer undoes his belt. "Tell daddy you're sorry for the way you've acted."

I recoil, but the bouncer forces me right where he wants me with his large hands. He forces my legs apart. I choke on a sob, looking at my feet.

The man grabs my face in one hand, forcing my chin up. "Look at me."

I whimper. He pulls out his thick hardness. I have no idea how it will ever fit.

"No," I whisper.

He pushes me against the wall, lifting me up, pushing my underwear to the side, putting his thick hardness at the entrance of me. Crying, I shake my head. "You won't fit. Please."

He pushes the head of himself into my tightness. I let out a broken cry.

"But you're grown up enough to go to the club, right?" He murmurs. Suddenly, he slaps me across my face. "Answer me."

"No," I whimper. "I'm not. I'm not grown up enough."

He slaps me again, and pushes a little deeper inside of me. He's only barely inside me, but it feels like I'm being ripped in half.

"Tell me what you are."

"I'm just a teenager. I'm just a little girl," I sob. He hits me again, calm, calculated.

"And you never should have come here," he says sternly.

"No," I cry. He pushes into my deeper, halfway now. "No, no, no. Please."

"Tell me what you are," he repeats.

"I'm sorry," I whimper, finally breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He covers my mouth with his hand and pushes all the way into me in one thrust. I feel the dark pubic hair of his abdomen grind against my clit. I scream, muted, against his calloused hand. I feel like his hardness is going to come out my throat. I feel like he's in my stomach.

He starts to move, slowly, in and out of me. "You're sorry to who?"

"I'm sorry daddy," I choke, my words muddled by his hand. His abdomen grinds against my clit, over and over, and I feel an orgasm I refuse to have building between my legs.

He starts to go harder, deeper. "It hurts," I wail against his hand. He slaps me again, staring me in the eye.

"Say it," he commands.

"I'm sorry," I repeat. "God. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, daddy."

An orgasm overtakes me as I feel the man's hot liquid fill my insides. We stay there for a moment, breathing, quiet.

"Don't come back again," he says sternly. "Places like this aren't for you." He steals my ID from my pocket, gives me a long hard stare, and walks from the restroom, disappearing into the crowd.