Club Paradise Ch. 02

Club Paradise

The first chapter of Club Paradise sees Frank, a touring event technician in his forties, arrive in Las Vegas on a Sunday, for a week of work. He goes out in the evening of his travel day to Club Paradise, a new strip club located in an old high school. He meets four dancers there, who make an impression on him: Harmony & Kyler, a pair of nymph spinners who sit on his lap and weave a fantasy about teasing their fathers' friend; Audrey, a nubile strawberry blonde with a red-hot roleplay about submissive cocksucking; and a stacked, pale, gorgeous goth with sapphire eyes and a sneer on her lips, as she turns him down for a dance. Frank doesn't even get her name, but he wants her most of all. During the evening, he discovers that the double doors on the other side of the room lead to the Paradise Brothel, where the club's "Champagne Rooms" are. He sees the goth girl go through the doors with a pair of other men, but doesn't have enough money with him to try it out. As he leaves, Frank makes a plan to return at the end of the week, to find the goth girl and go through those doors.

Chapter 2: The second visit

Frank woke up later than he wanted to on Monday.

He had stopped for a drink in the SLS bar when he got back from Club Paradise before heading up to his room. Once inside, he smoked his other joint out the cracked window and then beat off two times in a row, reliving his memories of the club. The shining eyes and sweeping curves of the pale angel had gotten him over the edge the first time, and a vivid imagining of the forceful facefucking of Audrey's innocent throat resulted in splash number two.

So he was out like a light until after 10:00am. Not a problem -- plenty of time to get a good breakfast before the push.

Frank showered and suited up for work: black polo, black slacks, tool pouch, knife, & sharpie. The vape pens slipped into a corner of the tool pouch, right behind the flashlight.

Forty-five minutes later, he tipped the remnants of his buffet tray into the garbage and poured a last round of hotel coffee into the to-go cup. Despite this late start, he got to the event space before anyone else.

The event room was medium sized, 120 person capacity, with a stage on one end and a bar on a flanking wall. The wall opposite the bar had floor to ceiling windows looking out over Las Vegas Boulevard. A rollicking Art Tatum piano rollercoaster was playing over the speakers.

The house contact was Donovan, a lanky man with curly hair and a laid-back west coast attitude. Frank bonded with him immediately over the music -- they both had a passion for the genre.

"You know," Donovan said, "right after you guys load-out, we're bringing in a 19-piece Jazz Orchestra."

That was a new term to Frank. "What's a Jazz Orchestra?"

"It's like a modern day big band. And this is one of the best: Barton Wayne Hargrove and the Clandestine Conspirators."

"Damn -- nineteen people? That sounds intense."

"They're fucking amazing. If you want to stick around, I'd be glad to get you tickets."

"I've got no gigs coming up this week. Do you think the hotel would extend my room another night at the corporate rate?"

"I got you, man." He tapped his black framed glasses with his index finger and then pointed at Frank.

Awesome, thought Frank. It was always good to have the venue guy on your side, for times like this.

"Thanks, dude!"

Just then, the rest of the crew arrived, and after quick introductions with Donovan, Frank was busy measuring and taping out the space.

The locals got there on time, too, thank goodness, and seemed relatively sober and competent. The crew head was older than usual, and seemed to have his team well under control. Vegas crews were a little hit or miss -- some days you got proper stagehands, other days it was nothing but neck tattoos and attitude.

Everything went according to plan from then on out: the boxes came off the truck, the truss went up, the lights and speakers followed.

They knocked off work at 8:00pm and Frank took it easy -- a burger and beer from the spot inside the SLS, followed by a joint, and then a relaxing bath up in his room.

He closed his eyes in the bathtub, remembering the events of the previous evening -- the salacious scenarios on the posters in the hallway; Harmony kissing Kyler in his lap; his fingers down inside Audrey's throat, as she forced her mouth up against them. And then it was the beautiful, bratty goth girl who sauntered past him with her perfect smooth pale skin and her perfect big round tits.

In his bathtub fantasy, Frank imagined grabbing her by the arm, spinning her around and then kissing her. His hands would grope on her big natural chest, and she would press her body up against him, writhing and wriggling. Then she would take his hard dick in her hot little hands and...

Tuesday started at 10:00am with notes and fixes. The presenters came at noon, rehearsals began at 2:00pm and actual event sessions opened to the public at 6:00pm. Everything was ready -- Frank and the team were a well-oiled machine after a dozen cities.

Four full seatings cycled through without a hitch, and they wrapped at 10:00pm. A toast of scotch when the last consumer was out of the space, and they concluded everything was in good shape for the rest of the week. The call for Wednesday was set at 4:00pm.

Frank had a second shot with Donovan before leaving the venue, and Donovan confirmed that the hotel had extended his corporate rate through Sunday night. He'd have to pay back Flo, the tour manager, when the hotel sent invoices to her, but it was fine -- a semi-common practice amongst the crew.

Frank left the space and wandered lazily through the casino again, burning off the gig energy.

He found himself at a bar down on the gaming floor, and ordered a Boulevardier. He sat and sipped it at a small round table in a roped off area raised three feet, or so, above the casino; and people-watched. It was evening, and the night crowd was coming out. He saw an excellent sampling of high heels, slinky tops, and stretchy dresses.

This one woman was in a little red flared skirt and a tight black top. When her companion won at blackjack, she would jump up and down excitedly, her skirt flying up above her hips. Her tiny thong panties were azure blue.

When he got back to his room, he perched up on the couch with a smoke, and started doing research to see what he could find out.

Nevada had changed the law a few months back, permitting brothels to operate within Paradise County. No casinos had opened an actual brothel, yet -- it was too new, and too much of a can of worms -- but once the liability issues were worked out, they'd be all over it.

The immediate takeaway was -- all those beautiful young tease angels at the Club -- you could actually fuck them.

Well, probably not all of them. And it would take a large amount of money indeed. But gone were the days when Nevada's legal brothel scene was confined to the outskirts of the state. Professional Companionship was now legal everywhere.

It would be a game changer when the big boys got ahold of it. Vegas had a way of blowing everything up to a cartoonish size. Frank was almost afraid of the implications on the hobby scene.

At least he would get to experience it while it was fresh, though. The prospect was so intoxicating, that Frank was touching himself with the Wikipedia entry on the law open on his laptop -- he didn't even need the visuals. He stroked his cock to the fantasy of force-fucking Audrey's willing mouth. Her headband was so straight, holding her hair perfectly back as she stared up at him while sucking down on his dick. Using his hand to stand in for her lips, he thrust himself inside her hot, wet, willing mouth over and over and over again...

Wednesday was a morning off, a reward for successfully opening the event. If they had fucked anything up, they would have had to come in during the day, but this was event number twenty-something on the tour and everything was golden.

Frank woke up early and got his shit together -- he wasn't going to miss this opportunity. Somewhere to the west of the Strip, was what they called the Downtown Container Park -- it was an outdoor shopping plaza constructed entirely of shipping containers. He'd been there on his last Vegas gig, and there was a vintage clothing store in that mall that should serve his purpose.

He took an Uber out that way, stopping first at a coffee shop across the street from the Container Park for a mocha.

When he crossed back and entered the Park proper, the place was pretty crowded, and the balmy Las Vegas weather ensured that all the girls were dressed in tiny outfits. Legs and cleavage everywhere! Sure, New York had a sweet spot of skin exposure, May thru September... but it was like this the entire year, here!

In the main open area of the Container Park, there was a balanced mix of stores and services, including the two Frank had come to visit: a giant marijuana dispensary and that vintage clothing store. He spotted the latter first, and went over.

Groovy Garments was laid out across two containers next to each other, filled with the shirts, pants and jackets of yesteryear.

On the racks he found what he was looking for: an old Slayer concert t-shirt that had been washed to within an inch of its life, a basic red and black flannel, a pair of faded blue jeans, and a wallet chain. When he went back to Club Paradise on Saturday, it was going to be as a "cool kid", not a nerd.

In the back of the Container Park was a huge dispensary, comprising eight containers in two stacks of four. Frank showed his ID and went in, emerging thirty minutes later with two jars of flower, four vape cartridges, a large chocolate bar, and two boxes of pre-rolled joints.

One tin of joints was a set of fourteen little half-gram pinners in a box that looked just like a pack of cigarettes. The other box was quite different -- it looked like a chocolate sampler box, but inside were five fat cones that had been dipped and encrusted with keef. The little crystals sparkled in the light. Each infused joint had also been rolled around a thin string of THC concentrate. Just one of these rollies would be a whole fucking symphony of buzz.

The event that night went as smoothly as the day before, as did the next two, and before Frank knew it, they were wrapping up the SLS engagement on Friday night.

Two Red Bulls sent him roaring out of his hotel room on Saturday morning, ready to attack the load-out head on and knock it out before 5:00pm.

The rest of the tour crew felt the same way, eager to get back to their LA lives, and together they worked as efficiently as they ever had. The set was pulled down and taken apart, and all the lighting and sound gear boxed up for trucking.

Ahead of schedule by lunch break, with the first truck already in the dock, they operated like an assembly line when work recommenced. A train of road cases passed out of the event room, through the cramped kitchen, into the loading dock and onto the truck. The last truck pulled out of the dock at 4:30pm, on the nose.

Once the local hands left, Frank circled up with the rest of the tour crew for a minute or two, discussing their next stop. There was a week off, and then they'd all meet again in Portland to do it all again. Hashtag TourLife, Frank thought. Then the California contingent rushed off to empty their rooms -- they were all on the same puddle-jumper back to LAX, at 7:00pm.

Frank hung back and chatted with Donovan for a few minutes about the events, business in Las Vegas and New York, and on the road -- turned out they had a few people in common. A couple of minutes later, the advance team for the jazz orchestra arrived, and Donovan had to go deal with them.

Frank wandered aimlessly through the SLS one last time, taking a roundabout way back to the tower elevators. It was only 5:00pm, but it was a Saturday, and the early party people were starting to show up.

He hit up the ATM and withdrew a large amount of cash for the evening. He bought a pair of socks from one of the many stores, black with with blue cats and green pot leaves on them, and then sat down for a burger and beer inside the Casino. He ate leisurely and watched people walk by. It was a weekend, so there was good gazing -- heels were high, and so were the hemlines.

When he was done, he went up to his room and lay down for an hour or so, resting up after the push of the morning.

Frank woke again when it was dark, and took a long shower. When he got out, he pulled on the clothes from the vintage store.

Taking stock of his look in the mirror was weird -- he looked like an old dude trying way too hard to fit in. Someone you'd see on Venice Beach, or something like that. But, it was the look the club wanted, so he shelved his dignity temporarily and straightened the torn t-shirt.

After some skin oil and a tooth brushing, it was time to go. Thrilling with anticipation, Frank took a giant hit on his vape, and headed out of the room. Having found a routine that worked last time, Frank saw no reason to change it up. He called up an Uber and twenty minutes later was standing in the neighborhood park.

This time, he pulled out one of the special joints. He held it between his fingers and considered the keef coating, sparkling in the light from the parking lot.

He kicked off the joint with a giant hit, holding it in as long as he could. His brain was bubbling as he tilted his head back to blow the smoke straight up into the air. Tonight was going to be epic. He could feel it. He knew what to expect now at the club, and he had the money to get it. Hopefully.

So, it was about resisting temptation, and waiting for the right dancer to appear: either the unnamed goth girl, or Audrey.

"Discipline, Frank," he thought to himself.

After three headrush hits in the park, he began walking down the quiet street toward the club.

He passed the big sign, a holdover from the high school days, with the club name written in pink neon: "Club Paradise".

Down the long driveway and past the faculty lot, he came up to the front entrance. The same bouncer was there, big and burly, kitted out like a gym teacher in orange shorts and a grey polo, with a lanyarded whistle around his neck.

He was leaning against the wall by the big front door, and straightened up when he saw Frank. He blew a blast on the whistle as Frank approached the doors.

"Fall in, young man. Drop and give me thirty." Then he laughed again, just as before.

"Welcome back to Club Paradise, sir. You must have had a good time last week, if you're here again."

It was a routine that worked -- acknowledging the costume, but putting the customer at ease.

"Last week was an introduction." Frank looked at him intently, and handed over thirty dollars. "I hope to really get to know your fine establishment tonight," he added, and offered another ten to the bouncer.

"Yes sir," replied the man, giving a knowing wink. "Tell Ms. Mandible that Coach Jackson says you're alright."

"Tell who?" Frank asked.

"You'll remember," said Coach Jackson as he reached behind him and pushed the door open. "Have fun in there, son."

Frank winked at him and walked inside. Despite his experience last time, he felt the same rush of nostalgic memories upon entering the old high school. Some things must have a biological trigger.

The posters in the hallway had been changed out. The first one he came to featured a gaggle of girls in marching band uniforms. They were all clustered around a tiny brunette -- Frank recognized her as Harmony -- who was dressed in her uniform, kneeling with her legs spread. She was holding the skirt up, showing the world what was underneath: she was wearing brown panties that matched her uniform, but slipped underneath the panties was a silver flute. It stuck out on both sides, and the outline of its valves was visible through the thin panty fabric. The subtitle read "This one time, at Band Camp..."

A door past that was "Anatomy 101". The poster depicted the front of what Frank assumed was one of the classrooms he was currently walking by. A tall thin boy in coke-bottle glasses was standing in just a pair of bulging tighty-whities before the front row of desks, full of nubile schoolgirls. The girls were all staring at the boy with languorous looks of lust. A female teacher -- Frank recognized her as Miss Marian, the librarian from last week -- stood between the boy and the salivating girls. She had a thin wooden pointing stick and was prodding the boy's package with it. The caption below read: "The Human Male is a Unique Subject".

He started to hear the club sound system, and this time there was no mistaking the song: "One Toke Over the Line''. Frank grinned and relaxed his stride to match the beat -- he had a few more tokes left in him tonight.

Next down the line hung the "Chess Club" poster from last time, with the poor boy about to be queened by his opponent, distracted by a trio of tantalizing teasers on three sides. He recognized the blonde devil on the right side as Kayleigh, the cheerleader he had danced with first on his last visit.

The next poster was of a minivan with its door open. Three hotties in soccer shorts and sports bras grinned at him out of the open backseat. The middle one had a soccer ball up to her lips, and was giving it a big kiss. Standing outside the van with her hands on the door was a striking woman in her thirties, hair done up in a bun. She was dressed in a tight tan skirt suit, with panty hose and nude platforms. The caption below was: "Carpools and Soccer Moms".

Once again, just like before, Assistant Vice Principal Johnson was at the end of the hallway, standing at the inner host stand. His suit this time was grey pinstripes, and he looked every bit the professional.

"Welcome back, sir."

"Thank you, Vice Principal." Frank said glibly.

"You know the way," the man said, as he gave Frank a knowing grin and opened the door wide.

Frank crossed the room to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender was the same as last time, a punk blonde with half her head shaved. This time he got a simple Heineken, and leaned back against the bar to take in the room. It was a little more full than it had been last week.

Up on stage was a tall Latina; bronzed and brassy, and built out with a busty Miami look. Her tiny blue angora sweater was on the floor, and she was holding her unfastened baby pink bra up against her tits as she danced. Her plaid skirt was blue and gold, and her spiked high heels matched, with blue straps atop clear acrylic platforms.

The seats up by the stage were not exactly full, but not far off. There were certainly more people than last time, but tonight was Saturday, instead of a Sunday, so it made sense. The crowd was lively, and the dancer seemed popular -- guys were waving ones over their heads, trying to attract her attention.

He could see into the shadowy edges of the room, and he scanned the couches there on either side for the pale brunette. He didn't see her, but there were many other sights to see.

To his right, at the first table, was a slim girl in a gymnastics leotard. One of her legs was extended up over her head, and was balanced lightly against the wall. Her crotch was grinding into her man's face, making circles across his lips. Her hair was bound up in a tight bun.

Past them, were a pair of perky and pigtailed cheerleaders, writhing all over a grey haired man in his sixties who was wearing an expensive suit. Their cheer skirts were so short that Frank could see tiny white panties underneath. The man had his hand under one pair of panties, presumably with a finger up inside some cheerleader pussy. He couldn't see too much detail past that, and turned to look down the other wall.