Pole Dance Read online

  Pole Dance

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  115

  POLE DANCE

  By

  J. A. Hornbuckle

  PUBLISHED BY:

  J. A. Hornbuckle

  Pole Dance

  Copyright © 2012 by J. A. Hornbuckle

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction and is not a reflection or representation of any person living or dead. Any similarity is of pure coincidence.

  Although, if you recognize yourself in any character represented…maybe we need to talk.

  Adult Reading Material

  *.*.*.*.*

  Dedication

  To my darling gal, Jazz. For being there for me during the best of times and the worst of times. I've gotten the better end of the deal between us. Loved you first, therefore, have loved you longer, thereby, I love you more.

  And my alpha male, Jess. Only wished I'd found you in my gene pool when I was looking. Gorgeous, creative and with a wicked sense of humor, you are not just the bag of chips, baby, you're the seasoning, too! Am, as ever, so proud of you.

  For those that have been with me on this journey…Thanks for the memories!

  And those that are still on their way…Where've you been? My heart's has been waiting for you.

  *.*.*.*.*

  Chapter One

  I knew when I had made my decision to interview that it was probably the wrong one.

  But I didn’t feel like I had any choice. I was only half-way through my sophomore year and I was already in debt up to my navel. I couldn’t seem to find a well-paying job that fit my class schedule no matter where I applied. I had to find another job, any job, which could bring in more money and allow me to pay my portion of the way because I didn’t have anyone or anything else that would supply the funds I needed to complete my education and eat at the same time.

  Top ramen cooked on a two-burner, second-hand stove can only sustain a twenty-year-old body for so long. And, since I was determined to graduate in four years with as little debt as possible instead of most of my classmate's parent-funded six, it made for a constantly growling stomach. As a sophomore one year older than most, I had studied the differences and had picked the ramen over the ‘cup of’ whatever because it was half the price and, within the scope of my budget, things were that bad. As in, really bad.

  The best part of my horrible diet was that I never experienced the ‘Freshman Fifteen’, those horrible fifteen pounds that I’d heard students piled on when you start college and are finally out from under your parent’s influence and control. No, my meager diet, which consisted of only lunch and dinner of the $.17 per packet kind, helped not only in terms of money but was key in getting rid of the baby-fat that had warmed my tummy and thighs but kept me hidden and insulated in high school. I was an average looking, tallish though a bit older, college sophomore who was just one of many, one of the multitudes, of other girls on campus.

  What I wasn’t average at, though, was seeking out ways to make money. I was constantly on the look-out, ears ever at the ready, to find ways of bringing in additional cash. Not so good at the computer, I willingly took on jobs that others would scoff at: cleaning toilets at the local chain of mini marts, polishing cars at the local upscale carwash or emptying bedpans at the local Nursing Home. I worked any and all hours as long as it didn’t compete with my class schedule.

  So, when I overheard my lab partner, Renee, on her cell phone talking about pole dancing at the local Fuego Club to her sorority sister, I just had to listen.

  “So, like, you dress in this g-string and pretend the pole is, like, who your partner is--kind of like a rave, right?” Renee explained. “And you, like, really work it on the pole and then turn toward all these, like, pervs sitting at the console which is, like, totally set up next to where you are, like, dancing?” All of Renee’s sentences always ended in a question which, in my opinion, was one of her most endearing qualities. Okay, her only endearing quality because it made her cute. Otherwise, I considered Renee to be a complete and total air-head. But I overlooked this glaring fault because she was very well endowed money-wise, that is. Renee and her ever-at-the-ready credit card had supplied more meals, treats and fun after or during study group than I could count in the couple of months we'd been linked together in the name of science.

  “So, then, like, you just need to dance and shake your tam-tam's and girlie things in these perv’s faces and they will stick money into whatever strap you have on? Honest to God, it’s, like, amazing! I once went home with over $300.00 just from dancing like I do when I’m, like, by myself?” Renee cut her eyes to me and did a quarter-turn to try and block me from overhearing further. Not that I had given my overheard-self away, slumped as I was and over-using my yellow highlighter on any and all sentences containing scientific words in my lab text. If I didn't stop soon, Chapter 18 was going to be a rippling, highlighter drenched, page-soaked mess of yellow making the book unable to be resold.

  Maybe it was the lock-down I had on my body in relation to her words that she was responding to because, I have to admit, it was the $300.00 that got my attention. My full attention.

  At best, I only managed an $150 or $175 during a good week from each of my extra jobs but Renee had managed $300 per dance session. Per session! Not per day, per week but per session! Holy shit! My mind whirled as I tried to do the math thinking how much more cash I could have instead of the shit-for-bucks I currently made working all the crazy hours and trying to decide exactly which of the crap jobs I could quit. I knew that the extra money she earned was only to pay a sizable portion of Daddy's credit card without his knowledge before the statement actually hit. He only yelled, she had confessed during one of her-treat tapas and beer marathons, if her balance was more than a third of the credit line.

  Without thinking, I eyed her up and down through my curtain of hair. Renee wasn’t so much to look at, in my opinion, because the only thing she really had going for her was her waist-length blonde hair. Her body was ’fair-to-middling’ to quote my Grandma Lela, with smallish breasts, a thick waist and bludgeoning hips that threatened, but never quite managed, to spill over the tops of her ever present jeans. Eyeing her alleged ‘assets’, I was immediately convinced that I could do whatever it was that she was doing.

  And I remember thinking cattily to myself at the time, “I could do it, like, better?”

  So it was that I found myself before Jake, the manager of Fuego's, less than three days after overhearing Renee saying something, for once, that was interesting to me.

  As a lab partner, Renee was crap.

  As a career counselor, she might have hope.

  “You’re a full-time student,” Jake rumbled as he looked over my resume.

  We were in one of the offices within the bowels of Fuego's for my interview, a
huge room without windows, the illumination from the small lights centered along the perimeter of the walls. Jake’s only movement was the clicking and unclicking of the ball-point pen that he held next to his ear as he perused my resume. The lights bounced off of his longish, dark brown hair that touched the neck of his faded black t-shirt and bounced off his well-developed and tightly clad shoulders as I nervously settled myself in one of the chairs positioned in front of his monstrously large desk.

  Jake, in the physical sense, didn’t appear to be an unfriendly man although he was, by all definition, smoking hot. His natural state seem to be of calm--calm in his tall walk which had been soundless as he led me to one of the two leather chairs facing his desk, his broad shoulders moving in counter-rhythm to his knees as he crossed the vast expanse to his tucked-into-a-corner office area. The words 'cat-like' and 'sinew-leaden grace' hovered on the edge of my mind as he lowered the length of himself into his oversized, high-backed seat. And, since I had imagined a hairy-ape, middle aged Mafia-kind to be my interviewer, I was more than cowed by Jake's youth, stinging hot looks, casual dress and calm demeanor.

  “No,” I said as I zeroed in on the pen-point going in and out of its casing. “I mean, yes, I’m a full-time student.” Nervously, I re-crossed my legs and watched his shadowed eyes as he followed my attempts to settle myself in the luxuriant tan leather of one of his visitor chairs positioned directly in front of his ocean-sized desk.

  “Have you ever danced professionally before, exotic or otherwise?” he asked. I knew this was a crucial question and felt my stomach tighten as I desperately searched for the right words to say. I stared into the depths of his amber eyes hoping to gain an inkling or a hint of what might be the right answer.

  "How 'bout gymnastics? Been involved in that?" he continued.

  As soon as my brain had accepted the idea of working at the club, I had been doing research on pole dancing. First I spent hours online at the College library flipping through You Tube to see what was involved and making notes on the basic moves. Then I practiced as much as I could, working out the stiffness as I tried to stretch my muscles into the splits and folding my head down to my knees without bending them. While I wasn't sure I could pull off the 'Bamn' (making a wide vee with your legs while holding yourself up on the pole), I had been practicing my 'wiggle' and 'booty clap' moves, though, and felt kind of confident in my abilities with those.

  “Uhm,” I stalled. “Well, no, not exactly professionally,” I hedged. “I took dance and gymnastic lessons as a kid. You know, stuff like tap, ballet and modern dance." I paused, my mind racing on how to give him the 'hook' that would get me the job since his beautiful warm eyes were not giving away any information.

  "But whenever I dance I seem to get a LOT of attention!” I was so hoping he would notice what I consider to be my award-winning smile and perky attitude instead of my woeful lack of experience for the job as evidenced by my resume and responses.

  Jake dropped his eyes to my legs that were presented beneath my scant denim skirt, a skirt I typically wore with leggings or thick tights, before he resumed his study of my painfully short but carefully crafted resume and clicked his pen again. I waited, counting his pen-clicks before his next question, feeling the trickle of nervous sweat rolling down the center of my back at around click thirty-five.

  $300.00 was a LOT of money, especially for only one session’s work, I reminded myself.

  I felt pinpricks on my skin as his eyes again seemed to zero in on my legs and travelled up to the cute, 1960-ish peasant-style, gauze top that I snagged last week for $2.50 at the local charity store. I was guessing he was trying to determine what amount of padding my bra might include and I drew back my shoulders to show him that what he saw is what his customers could expect. But I could feel the tell-tale heat of my blush as I tried to brazen out his perusal, the redness creeping up my chest clear up to my hairline.

  What I hoped he couldn’t see were the pearling of my nipples as he looked at my breasts. I could feel it, or rather what his eyeing had caused. Which was the swelling from his unrelenting gaze, first in my dusky colored nipples and then the hardening of the points themselves. And, as those pink points firmed, I became aware of my heart beat thumping between my legs and my pussy moistened as he continued to contemplate my breasts. I had often imagined being looked at in this way and even had read about how a female’s pink parts will become engorged and the labia dampen to a well-directed gaze of someone one you find attractive or to actual physical stimuli. Okay, so I had highlighted that portion in my high school's junior year 'Sex Ed and You' textbook. I'm a long time highlighter gal, what can I say? I was, however, a little surprised at the direct line between my nipples and the now quivering flesh between my legs.

  Couldn't remember that little tidbit being in the book.

  “While I can appreciate that you could entice the local, untried fraternity boys, I don’t think you are quite what we are looking for in terms of a dancer,” Jake said with a lopsided smile as his eyes seem to hesitantly rise to meet mine. His voice was along the lines of a growl. Honest to goodness, it seemed to rumble and tumble and exited his mouth as a growl. The timbre of his voice was like running your hands over burned out velvet--rough yet almost achingly smooth at the same time.

  Jake looked hotter than hot.

  But his voice was even hotter.

  I was guessing that his half-smile was there to soften the blow of his rejection and my heart plummeted to my knees seeing the dream of only working one job washing away from me like a pail quickly being moved out to sea in the tide. My mind raced to come up with a witty response, something clever to prevent him from turning me away from the opportunity of earning such a large sum of money. But I could think of nothing in response; nothing to sway him toward acceptance, as my eyes darted around the room for inspiration.

  Turning my head, I saw an brass pole on a raised platform tucked among the shadows in the cavern of his office and an idea began to form.

  “What if I showed you that I can do it?” I asked breathlessly. “Would you hire me if I could get you h-hot from just dancing?” I stumbled over my words with this question. A question I had never thought I would ever think, much less utter.

  There were a couple of beats of silence as Jake's eyes held mine, hopefully weighing my suggestion. My heart was thundering heavily as I waited, watching his head tilt in deliberation as if he weighed his verdict, before his honeyed gaze hooked to mine.

  “Okay, Darlin', go for it,” he replied as he flipped switches that I saw were embedded in the top of his large dark wood desk. The rest of the room was plunged in darkness and a beam of bright light was now centered over the shiny, metallic pole.

  “What song is it that you want?” he asked. “I’ve got it all on the iPod.”

  Furiously, I ran through everything I knew in my head. This was my make or break time and this man had probably been everywhere and had probably seen all of that and more. I needed something to really capture his attention and make him sure to hire me. I knew I couldn’t choose something that had been around the block, nothing from anything I’d heard as background in commercials or at the movies I’d seen or even what was popular on the radio. My mind raced with what to pick—a song that would set me apart from other dancers yet show him, the man with my future in his hands, that I was worthy of dancing in his club and making the money I so desperately needed. I thought of and discarded multitudes of songs at a screaming pace as I looked into his shadowed eyes.

  “Moby's Porcelain,” I answered softly knowing without a doubt and with every molecule in my body that it would be the perfect choice of presenting to Jake what I was capable of in art of seductive dance.

  Fumbling with his iPod as he looked over his shoulder in my direction and with his left eyebrow raised in question, I heard him mumble that a girl my age shouldn’t know about Moby's music.

  Lifting myself from the chair with a small frown towards the sky-high platforms I was trying to
control as I stood, I bravely asked, “Appreciating good music has an age limit?".

  What Jake couldn’t see in the darkness that thankfully now surrounded his desk were that my knees shaking hard enough to topple me. I stood slowly, literally peeling my thighs away from the leather of the chair as I attempted to balance myself on my borrowed four-inch strappy silver sandals. Stripper interviews called for stripper shoes and I had borrowed them from one of my neighbors in the hopes that they would help show me to be the 'burgeoning star' that could earn a lot of money per session. Although, I was now having my doubts about their usefulness seeing how they would probably only reveal my inexperience in not just dancing for money, but in wearing heels in general. Low heeled boots or simple flats were more my speed in footwear.

  I finally found my balance and tottered on as I tried to sexily make my way to the stage—a short six strides away from the desk area but it might as well have been six miles. I could hear myself thumping as I moved in the heavy shoes and reminded myself to add more hip-sway in an effort to appear sexier and more worldly.