Corrupting Her: A Forbidden Romance

By S.E. Law and S.C. Adams

Stone: Tanya’s taken a vow to stay pure for her future husband as part of some religious thing. I don’t get it, but it doesn’t matter because I’m a man who specializes in corrupting sweet girls. Even more, the curvy brunette tries to tell me that things are fine. She tries to placate me by doing a special move called the “Mormon D*ck Soak,” but needless to say, her attempt totally backfires. Soon, Tanya’s screaming “Oh God!” in my arms, but sweetheart, God can’t save you now … only my massive size can.

Holy (or unholy) cow! Tanya’s a religious woman who’s taken a promise vow, but promises are made to be broken, especially when there’s a man like Stone Thompson on the loose. “Corruption” is this alpha male’s middle name and he’s not going to stop until the curvy girl is breathless with pleasure as she gives in to his devilish ways. This is a follow-up to Paying The Rent, and the story takes filth to the next level, I promise! No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always a HEA for my readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.E. Law Romance Author
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022

Book preview

1

TANYA

"A nother night for the books, huh?" Lisa, one of the makeup artists, smiles before letting out a tired sigh. She cracks her back and then her neck, and I try not to wince at the loud pops. How can that possibly be good for you? But I’m careful not to let my skepticism show, especially since we’re both beat.

Yeah, it’s been a long night, I say in a sympathetic voice. Go on, get out of here! I’ll do the clean-up, I offer.

She shoots me another tired smile and nods before getting up.

Thanks, girlfriend. I’m going to head home to grab a long, hot shower. Then, I’m going to fall onto my bed and black out because I have to be back here by 7 a.m. tomorrow morning! she exclaims dramatically. Can you believe it? But before I can answer, my co-worker’s grabbed her cosmetics bag and slung her backpack over one shoulder. Goodnight, Tanya! she exclaims with one last wave.

Goodnight, be safe! I call to my buddy as she departs. Then, the door slams and I’m officially alone. I let out a quiet sigh and smile as I turn to look at the mess of costumes that are piled up on my own cart.

I work as a wardrobe assistant for Thunder Strike—a male revue located at the Corinthian Hotel here in Vegas—so it’s my job to make sure that all the costumes used during the show are put back in their rightful places after we’re done for the night. They need to be cleaned and pressed too, and believe me, it can be all hell on Earth if things aren’t done just so. As a result, I’m here late at night, early in the mornings, and pretty much every weekend too. Yep, if you’re looking for me, then Thunder Strike is the best place to check.

But I like my job, most of the time at least. It can be chaotic at times, but it’s also fun. The guys are hot of course, and I love ogling them. But they’re built like Olympic athletes whereas I’m just me, meek and quiet Tanya Grimes, with twenty extra pounds on my frame and mousy brown hair.

But I enjoy my position, even if the chaotic to-and-fro gets to me sometimes. To be honest, I like it best when it’s quiet, like now, and I’m the only person backstage at the moment. The silence is actually great for my productivity because there are no harried co-workers trying to work under pressure, and no male dancers strutting around half-nude with their thing-a-ma-jigs hanging out. Yes, the guys flaunt them, and they’re not embarrassed about it because at this point, we’ve all seen everything.

But I better get to work otherwise I’ll be stuck here sorting and mending until 6 a.m. if I’m not careful. Slowly, I look over the clothing rack in front of me. Honestly, I’ve seen some of these costumes a million times, but I can never get over just how ridiculous they are. There are male banana hammocks in every color you could imagine, from hot pink to baby blue to neon yellow to checkerboard black and white. Some of them are covered in glitter or sequins, some are fashioned out of a sultry mesh material, and one of them even has a plastic banana jutting out from the front like it’s a fake cock. It sounds cheesy, but trust me, the female audience loves it.

Then there are the props, like the capes, swords, helmets, soldier uniforms, and crown, in addition to the white loincloths for the ‘Majesty of Egypt’ routine. Trust me, those loincloths go flying up when the guys gyrate, and again, the ladies love it because you can see those anacondas swinging during that particular set.

Then, there are my favorite costumes: the look-alike Armani suits for the ‘billionaires’ dance set. It’s inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey, but Christian Grey these men are not because at the end, the dancers rip off their suits so that they’re wearing nothing but bow ties and cuffs. It’s classic Chippendales and trust me, the manly bulges get the women screaming once more. Hell, quite a few ladies have fainted during Thunder Strike shows, so we’ve had to call the paramedics more than once. In fact, sometimes the paramedics just hang out backstage because they know there’s a good chance someone’s going to hyperventilate and require medical assistance at some point during the revue.

But it’s all in good fun, and Thunder Strike’s the most popular male show on the Strip. They say it makes loads of money for the hotel, but I’m just a lowly wardrobe assistant, so I wouldn’t know.

I hum while sifting through the costumes, examining them for damage and sweat stains, marking problem areas with tape and even pulling some items off the rack for additional dry-cleaning if needed. Goodness, this particular banana hammock is torn at the crotch, and I have a feeling I know who it belongs to. It’s this new guy nicknamed Thor, whose package is so huge that his tip literally pokes out and hangs down to his knee. Oh yeah, it’s a challenge for us wardrobe assistants, and trust me, Thor knows how to dance to make it swing like a pendulum too.

But that’s the thing—dancing. I love to dance even though I’m a curvy girl, and sometimes, I wish I could get on-stage myself. Not in a Speedo of course. Instead, I’ve always wanted to be a Vegas showgirl in those slinky, glittery outfits, high heels, and feather crowns. I want to do high-kicks to show off my long legs, and then maybe a little strip tease just for fun. Not a full-on striptease, oh no, because I’d be too embarrassed. But maybe a little shimmy here, and a come-hither smile there.

But who am I kidding? It won’t ever happen because at 5’4, I’m too short for the job. Showgirls generally have to be 5’7 to 5’8" in order to create the right visual when they dance in a line, and let’s be honest. Those girls are lithe and beautiful, whereas I’m pudgy and dumpy with a few extra pounds. I definitely don’t have a showgirl physique, and even if I could diet my way to a smaller size, what’s the point? It’s not like I could grow three inches.

Still, I’ve always loved moving to the beat, and suddenly, inspiration strikes. Everyone’s gone for the night. It’s silent here backstage, and of course, the practice rooms should be empty too. This would be the perfect time to dance by myself without anyone seeing.

I put a silvery tie back on the costume rack and then slink down the empty hallway. The