Cursed Ch. 01

CONTENT WARNING: This dark story is pure fantasy. Be warned. It contains strong Non-Consent / Reluctance content. There are good reasons I did not post it under the Romance category.

All characters depicted in sexual scenes or referred to in a sexual context are over the age of 18.

***

Tiffany

I could easily hear Tony bellowing over the din in his strip club on a busy Friday night,

"Tiffany, Tiffany, damn it, table nine asked for a lap dance ten minutes ago. Hurry up and for God's sake, and smile for the guys. You look like your dog died."

God, sometimes I hate my name.!

I snapped, "Ok, Ok, Hold your horses."

Tony walked up to me and put his big fat, sweaty hand on my bare shoulder, "Tiffany, you know I'm always here for my girls. If you have a problem, it's my problem."

As if my boss was interested in fixing my messed-up life. OK, to be fair, he had advanced me close to $400 over the last couple of months, but recently he has been pressing me "to step up my game, " and repay him. I knew all too well what he meant by his remark, and I had no intention of going there. Any repayment was going to be in cash.

Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to repay him anytime soon. Yesterday, my sick daughter and I got evicted from our seedy little apartment. Everything I owned was crammed into the back of my decrepit Dodge Dart. Last night, my seven-year-old daughter and I had spent a chilly night sleeping in the car. Tonight, an early November cold front was bringing ice and freezing rain. I was desperate to earn enough money to afford a warm room in a nearby shit hole that had the nerve to call itself a motel.

It had been a slow night for tips, and there was only another hour until closing. A lap dance would at best get me enough money for a night at the motel. Then where were we going to stay? It didn't help that Tony was going to walk me over to table nine to make sure the house got its cut.

I forced my best smile. "Thanks, Tony, I'll be over as soon as I serve these drinks."

Tony owns The Pink Pussycat and treats his staff well except for taking a big cut from our tips. Of course, he also thinks he has the God-given right to grope his female employees anytime they are in reach. He says it helps his customers to think of us as the girl next door. I pity the poor girl who grew up next door to him.

So of course, Tony accompanied his comment with a firm squeeze of my essentially bare ass. My threadbare and skintight yoga pants may as well be bare flesh. Even though I expected to be groped by Tony, I still flinched. Luckily, I didn't drop the tray of drinks because the bastard would have deducted them from my pay.

I hate my job. I hate my life, but most of all, I hate my name!

I had loved my name when I was a little girl. My Mom even bought me a Tiffany lamp. The colorful stained glass portrayed a red-headed princess holding an apple out to a unicorn. At night, my Father would make up stories about Tiffany the Brave. I snuggled warm and safe under the covers as I listened to my Dad's deep voice. Night after night, he told tales of brave Tiffany rescuing some frightened Prince from fire-breathing dragons or sword welding brigands.

I was twelve when Mary Beth cursed my name. She and her loyal followers walked up to my best friend and me at school. The bitch proclaimed girls named Tiffany or Ashley were stupid and destined to become drug addicted strippers and prostitutes. It didn't matter in the slightest that both Ashley and I were better students than Mary Beth or any of her friends. We weren't boy crazy hussies either. Mary Beth was the most popular girl in 7^th grade, so everyone in school believed her declaration to be carved in stone. Mary Beth made that year a living hell. Fortunately, she moved away my freshman year in high school, and her curse faded from my memory.

Without Mary Beth, high school became tolerable and even fun. I was a student-athlete and even had a couple of boyfriends. My test scores were good enough to earn a partial scholarship that made it possible for me to go to a state college with help from my parents. I was doing well in my course work towards my dream career as a registered nurse. Even better, I had a sweet boyfriend who I knew was the one.

I was halfway through my sophomore year when tragedy struck. My parents were killed in an automobile accident on the way to pick me up for Christmas vacation. My Dad and Mom were high school teachers, but they had little in savings beyond what they had put aside for my tuition. Of course, they had a home, insurance, and retirement benefits. It seemed they had borrowed against both the house and their insurance to pay my college expenses. The state teacher's retirement program had been gutted by the fund's bad investments in the housing mortgage market. I was lucky to have enough to bury my parents and pay for the rest of my sophomore year. I moved in with my fiancée to save money. I hoped to stretch my meager savings enough to finish my second year and get an associate degree in nursing. Becoming a registered nurse would have to wait.

Somehow, I got pregnant even though I was on the pill. Birth control pills are advertised as 99% effective. That may be the only time in my life I can claim to be a member of the 1%. Maybe getting really drunk to celebrate midyear finals had something to do with it. Who knows? I was pregnant, and my loving fiancée wanted me to abort our child. He even had the nerve to suggest it wasn't his. When I refused to get an abortion, he disappeared from the face of the Earth. Somehow, I managed to make it through the rest of that year by dropping out of college and living off the money that had been budgeted for my tuition. I ended the year with no associates degree, no fiancée, no money, and a sweet baby girl I named Amber.

I was working as a salesclerk at a grocery store when my best friend, Ashley, mentioned that there was a waitress job at a place called The Pink Pussycat. The club was new, and the owner had remodeled an old, rust belt warehouse down by the river. The club featured scantily clad pole dancers, strippers, watered-down booze, and overpriced bar food. Waitress jobs don't pay well, especially when you must pay for someone to watch your child. It wasn't hard for Tony to convince me that I could earn extra money pole dancing. Still, I tried to be a good girl as my parents taught me. So, I refused to strip. I wouldn't even go topless despite Tony's constant pressure. My pride affected my income and forced me to continue working at the grocery store five days a week. By the time I got off work at The Pink Pussycat, I was always dead on my feet.

I finished serving the drinks and headed to table nine. There were six guys at the table for a bachelor party. Talk about table nine from outer space. They were all dressed like nerds and stood out like a sore thumb in a roomful of red neck construction workers. The future groom was well on his way to being comatose. With any luck, he didn't have a morning wedding. His friends had bought a lap dance for their best bud. I just hoped he didn't puke on me. I'm certain he would never remember my performance.

Tony collected fifty dollars from one of the guys and patted my butt. Tony was tight with his money, and if I were lucky, I'd get twenty dollars out of the fifty. Before walking away, Tony said, "Tiffany, smile, damn it!"

A song started playing for the stripper on the stage, so I began dancing between the groom's spread thighs. I started slow, just swaying my hips. I ran my hands through my long auburn hair and let the music flow from my hips up to my ample breasts. I straddled his hips and began grinding against his crotch. He was so far gone that the poor guy couldn't even focus his eyes.

Nevertheless, his buddies were excited and started snapping pictures on their cell phones. I'm sure his future bride would soon be seeing pictures of his lap dance. It looked a lot worse than it was. I was wearing a skimpy halter top with lots of cleavage and skintight yoga pants that made my long legs look like an artist had spray painted designs on them.

I was preparing to leave after the dance ended when one of the guys yelled, "Wait! I think we should buy a dance for the old man."

The rest of the party agreed and tossed fifty dollars on the table. I looked around. Tony was busy at the bar. I scooped up the cash and looked at a middle-aged guy sitting at the end of the table. Despite his age, he looked muscular and ruggedly handsome.

He put up his hands and said, "That's OK guys, I'm really not interested. Save your money."

The man who had suggested the dance put his hand on the guy's shoulder and quietly said, "Come on, Steve, it would do you good. It's been more than long enough. I think she'd like you to have a little fun."

I don't know who the woman he was referring to was because I sure as hell didn't care if he had a little fun or not. If I got paid, I was happy enough.

The old guy sighed and halfheartedly said, "OK, why not."

I started to feel sorry for the guy. I had no idea what his story was, but he looked depressed. Now depression is something I understand all too well.

I stood in front of him, waiting for the next song to play. I said, "Just relax. I'll do all of the work and remember, no hands."

The guy looked up into my eyes and nodded, "OK, thanks."

I laughed and started dancing as the song started. This old guy certainly didn't need Viagra. As soon as I straddled his lap and started grinding on his crotch, I could feel his muscular legs and an impressive erection forming. The whole time I danced, he stared straight into my eyes, and I got lost in his warm gaze. I didn't even object when he put his strong hands on my hips. It was strange to feel at peace in the middle of the chaos of a Friday night at The Pink Pussycat. I was sorry when the song ended. I gave him a peck on the cheek before springing out of his lap. I never kiss the customers. What was I thinking?

I looked at the young man who suggested the lap dance and said, "You guys need anything else?"

"Nope, we're good. I think it's time to drag the groom across the street to The Doll House."

I wrinkled my nose and walked away. The Doll House made us look respectable. I'd heard stories about dancers lying naked on a table while the customers ate desert off their naked bodies. The thought of some stranger licking chocolate sauce out of my pussy made me shudder.

* * *

Steve

I wasn't excited about accompanying a bunch of drunk young men to another bar. Hell, I hadn't wanted to come out for the bachelor party in the first place. I was willing to bet that my two tours in Afghanistan would prove to be more enjoyable than a night spent embarrassing the poor groom. However, I was their manager, and the groom was my best engineer. I'd given in after refusing for days. I'd had my fill of stag parties as a young man. Somehow the idea of getting the groom blind drunk and posing them for pictures with scantily clad women had lost its appeal years ago.

I remembered when I was a lot younger, getting a phone call from a sobbing bride to be. She was a good friend, so I rushed right over. She showed me a pile of photographs provided by the best man. One photo showed the groom flat on his back. A naked woman was sitting on his bare chest with her shaved pussy near his mouth. It didn't help that the naked lady was drop dead gorgeous.

I let the bride know that the love of her life was barely conscious when the dancer arrived at the bachelor party. A few of the pictures showed the groom's face with his eyes closed. She gave me a hug and asked me to swear I was telling the truth. The wedding went ahead although the groom could barely stand. The first night of the honeymoon was spent with the bride holding her husband's head over a toilet. She never forgave the best man. I'm happy to report that they are still married twelve years later.

So here I was in The Pink Pussycat with a bunch of drunk men who were all at least ten years younger. It had been years since I'd been in a strip club. Once I got married, my wife, Cathy, lovingly, took care of all my needs. Oh sure, like any healthy man, I would stare at women on the street. My wife made sure I got extra attention whenever I gawked at a strange woman. Often, she would work in a little fantasy involving the woman I had ogled. Having two daughters made it somewhat harder to stare at pretty women. Still, it seemed that my wife could read my mind, and I continued to be rewarded for being faithful.

But that was all gone now. My daughters had grown up and moved away. My wife hated the empty nest and turned to community work. We barely had time to adapt when my darling wife came down with cancer. She fought hard. Chemotherapy is horrible. If you survive, perhaps, you can forget and be thankful. In Cathy's case, her cancer went into remission for a time before it came back worse than ever. Near the end, she couldn't endure any more treatments and spent a month in hospice before dying. I would have jumped into the grave with my wife if not for my daughters. My older girl is married and expecting my second grandchild soon. The baby of the family has also moved away. She has a great job and is engaged to a man I respect.

I'd only had a couple of beers when the guys paid for the groom's lap dance. They caught me by surprise when they bought a dance for me. I felt embarrassed for both the young woman and me. She looked no older than my youngest daughter. Luckily, I had showered before going out.

She had a killer body. She was a tall, leggy redhead with an athletic build. The skintight yoga pants showed off her long legs and fantastic butt. Her taut midriff was bare. Her tight halter top swelled with her generous breasts.

Her face was pretty in a Hollywood sort of way. Psychology experiments show that people prefer an average face. Hollywood prefers people with unique faces that you will remember. The more you look at an unusual face, the more you come to accept and even like it. Come on, tell me you thought Julia Roberts was beautiful the first time you saw her. Who has a mouth that large?

Not that the dancer's mouth was too large. It was more like her pale face belonged in a Disney movie with flying fairies. She had auburn hair and a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and chest. When the groom suggested that I needed a lap dance, the dancer's nose wrinkled so cutely I wished I was twenty years younger. As soon as the groom flashed some bills, she was all business.

I was worried that I wouldn't be able to control myself if she danced on my lap. I tried staring into her eyes as she climbed onto my lap, but my worst fears came true. I got a raging hard-on as soon as she started grinding against me. I blushed and focused on deep breathing. She smiled and surprised me with a quick peck on my cheek when she finished. I watched her beautiful ass as she walked away. I didn't know what to think when she looked back over her shoulder and smiled again. Hey, I'm not naive. These girls live on tips. Still, I felt a warm glow I hadn't felt in years.

I begged off going to The Doll House. I said I was tired, which was true. I told them to go ahead, and I would cover the bill. So, I was left sitting by myself, eager to get home and into bed.

Our waitress came by, and I asked for the check. While I was waiting for her to return, the young girl who had given me the lap dance came out on the stage and started dancing to Roberta Flack's "Whenever I Saw Your Face."

"The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave."

Now you probably think that pole dancing to a slow number is easier than to a song with a faster beat. However, you must hold your positions longer in a slow number, and it takes a lot of strength. This girl made her moves look easy. She started with some simple spins around the pole before climbing it with a series of inversions. She locked her legs around the top of the pole and stretched her body horizontally away from the pole. She held the position while she moved her arms in a graceful wave. She lowered her upper body in an arch and grasped the pole below her head. Her arched back thrust her jiggling breasts towards the noisy crowd. She did a body wave before extending one leg out from the pole.

I felt excited in a way I hadn't experienced in years. Her outfit of printed yoga pants and halter top wasn't nearly as revealing as the skimpy thongs the previous topless dancers had worn. However, her conservative outfit displayed her athletic figure wonderfully. I loved watching her muscles ripple under the tight Spandex pants. She was easily the most beautiful woman in a club filled with gorgeous women.

Her eyes were half closed, and she rarely looked at the audience. She appeared to be dancing for herself. Still, she seemed aware she was dancing for a room full of testosterone-fueled men shouting crude proposals. After she had danced for a couple of minutes, I noticed her nipples had hardened and were poking against her tight halter top. I had a tough time looking back and forth between her undulating ass cheeks and her bouncing breasts.

The waitress had returned with my bill before the dancer was finished. I glanced at the bill before returning my gaze to the dancer. The waitress had drawn a smiley face and signed her name.

"Ashley, I've changed my mind. Can I have another beer?"

The waitress laughed. "Sure, just be aware it's the last call. I see you're enjoying watching my best friend, Tiffany. She is an amazing dancer."

"It's been a long time since I've been to a place like this. I've never seen anyone pole dancing outside of a movie. It's a lot more exciting, live."

"Well, you can show your appreciation by giving her a nice tip. Lord knows she needs it. She got evicted from her apartment today, and everything she owns is packed in her beat-up car. Her daughter is sleeping in the dancers' dressing room. I don't know where the two of them will stay tonight."

"I thought you said she had friends. Surely one of them can give her a place to stay."

"Tiffany keeps to herself. Best I know, I am her only close friend. I'd love to take her in, but I have three kids, and my place is packed. Even worse, my old man is a horn dog. She wouldn't be safe around Frankie. He's the loudmouth moron sitting next to the stage. Her best bet is to stay at the Lazy A Motel down the block if she can afford it."

"You mean that dive is open? It looked like it should be condemned."

"I've stayed there when I was broke, and it is a dump. I better get your beer. My boss is giving me the evil eye."

Ashley left to get my beer just as the song finished. Tiffany took a bow and turned to leave the stage. She stopped and looked back at Frankie, who was holding out a bill. She walked over to collect her tip. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but the dancer shook her head and turned to leave again. Frankie wasn't done and doubled his offer. I knew he had hooked her when she turned around and walked back over to the loudmouth. The room had gone dead quiet. Every guy in the room was leaning forward, straining to hear the conversation. She bent down, and he whispered in her ear.

Tiffany jumped back as if she had been tasered. She shook her head, and for emphasis, she shook her finger in his face. Frankie laughed and motioned for her to come closer. This time, she nodded agreement after he made his request. Frankie handed her the two bills, and she walked over to the sound system. She made her selection and pranced back to the pole. Even I recognized Adele singing the slow sexy Bond theme music "Sky Fall."