The Pole Dancer: Gay Fun

By Rebecca Stone

"The dancer on the pole looked too young. That's why Hardesty zeroed in on him. Hardesty was looking for them young. The others were working the crowd. Leering back, throwing dirty words into the crowd in response to what was being called out to them and making suggestive motions with their bodies on the poles. But this one, the small, lithe guy, not more than five foot five, Hardesty estimated, with the blond Mohawk and the fluttering eyelashes, was dancing the pole to the slow music in a shyer, more introspective way. That didn't mean that he didn't have guys zeroing in on him like Hardesty was—but for different reasons, Hardesty told himself.

It's just that he was an enigma."

Read more about the dancer in the full eBook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Stone
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005669508

Rebecca Stone

I love writing and reading erotica. I enjoy publishing my content online and get people's perspective on my writings. I hope my readers enjoy the content I put through. Happy reading!

Book preview

The Pole Dancer: Gay Fun

By Rebecca Stone

Published by

Ecstasy Publications

[e-mail]

Copyright 2022 Ecstasy Publications

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entire coincidental

Authors Note:

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are at least 18 years old or above. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1: Blond Mohawk

Chapter 2: The Mistake

Chapter 3: The Wish

Chapter 4: Just Business

Chapter 5: Busting it

Chapter 6: The Farm

Chapter 1: Blond Mohawk

The dancer on the pole looked too young. That's why Hardesty zeroed in on him. Hardesty was looking for them young. The others were working the crowd. Leering back, throwing dirty words into the crowd in response to what was being called out to them and making suggestive motions with their bodies on the poles. But this one, the small, lithe guy, not more than five foot five, Hardesty estimated, with the blond Mohawk and the fluttering eyelashes, was dancing the pole to the slow music in a shyer, more introspective way. That didn't mean that he didn't have guys zeroing in on him like Hardesty was—but for different reasons, Hardesty told himself.

It's just that he was an enigma.

What was he doing here at all, Hardesty wondered. He kept going back to the guy looking too young, too innocent—wholesome under an attempt to play the part—but sexy at the same time. Really, really sexy. His body was boyishly perfect. The Mohawk wasn't extreme—he didn't look punk. He was a dyed blond. The hair was auburn at the roots, but it looked like he'd let it go that way on purpose, like the hair was just frosted. He had hardware—a small ring in his eyebrow and one in his navel—and a tattoo of a gecko or some lizard or something disappearing down under the waistband of the gold G-string he was wearing. All you could see of the tattoo were a tail and some hind legs in green. He wasn't heavily muscled, but there wasn't any fat on him either. His stomach was flat and his hips thin, but his buttocks flared out into perfect bubbles.

The face was boyish too, almost pretty. His eyes were hazel or blue, Hardesty couldn't really tell which in this light. But he didn't care that much about the eyes—more that he looked young, too young, and that he was dancing within himself. Very sexy, but as if he was too innocent to be in here. Too vulnerable.

Patrons were coming close to the stage and stuffing fives and tens and even a few twenties in the waistbands of the G-strings of the other two dancers, and the dancers, in turn, were blowing kisses and making lurid movements to fit the mood. But none of that was happening with this one dancer. There was some sort of barrier around him that the boisterous men couldn't penetrate. He had more than his share of admirers, but they were worshipping him from a distance, most of them sitting there, lost in watching him, no doubt spinning in their minds what they'd like to do with the small, lithe, vulnerable body. Occasionally they'd come up and put their bills on the surface of the stage below where he was dancing. So he was getting his share of the tips. They just weren't touching him. It was like they were afraid he was too young to touch, not legal. They fully appreciated what he was doing, but they sensed a danger in treating him like the other two dancers.

This is what caught Hardesty's attention more than anything else. He took out his wallet and extracted a fifty-dollar bill and laid it down on the table in front of him. He made sure the young dancer saw him do it, which he did, and then Hardesty pushed the bill a nudge, just a nudge, toward the dancer on the tabletop and gave the dancer a meaningful look.

Putting a ten in a dancer's G-string waistband was showing one form of appreciation in a bar like this. Showing a fifty on top of the table told the dancer something entirely different. And all of the dancers here were on call for those fifties. Hardesty knew it was part of the contract.

Fifteen minutes after the end of the set, the dancer was walking through the beaded curtain at the back of the room and slowly making his way to Hardesty's table. He was managing to perpetuate the enigma. He was wearing low-rise faded jeans—the hind legs and tail of the gecko were still disappearing down into his pants at the crease where the sculpted edge of the under curve of his belly joined the lop of his right leg—but he was wearing an open green plaid flannel shirt and a yellow-gold baseball cap with the word Lions embossed in green above its bill. Some sort of high school team cap was Hardesty's first thought. The kid looked that young; the baseball cap certainly didn't make him look older. It was like there was a basic innocent, boy-next-door aura about the individual pieces of clothing he was wearing. The thing was, though, that the plaid shirt was open in front, showing his perfectly formed, honey-colored torso, and he was wearing thin-strip sandals and no socks. He looked both innocent rural hick and sex on wheels all at the same time. Hardesty wondered what was real and what wasn't with this guy. He'd have to push the envelope to find out.

They were hazel. His eyes were hazel. He was only half smiling when he sat down at the table, across from Hardesty, and he looked half embarrassed too, like this was all new to him. He placed a couple of fingers on the fifty-dollar note and cast his eyes down, on the bill, as if he couldn't say what he did to Hardesty face-to-face.

You want to come into the back?

I have a room—at a motel, Hardesty said with a low growl. There will be more than the fifty. Quite a bit more. That cool with you?

Yeah, that's cool, the young man