The Hustler Novels & Stories

My hair was pulled into a messy bun, complemented by sultry night makeup and deep burgundy matte lipstick. "You really don't want any man? You know, for foreplay?" Heather added with a teasing grin. I turned my head, scanning the room, and almost gagged at the lewdness surrounding me. Couples—no, strangers—were pressed against walls, sprawled over chairs and tables, tangled in a feverish mess. Some were already half-naked. Well, it was normal here. These people were regulars. Hustlers. Pleasure seekers. "When will you let someone break your hymen? Are you saving it like some rare artifact?" Heather teased again, nudging me playfully.

He's either surfing the net, hacking the net, or hacking through pussy. I send him the encrypted link, “Track it.” “The Gone Girls invite-only party?” His voice is bubbling with excitement and I stare at him, taking in his six foot six stature, two hundred and forty-nine pounds of solid muscle, and fiery hair. This guy carved up two dealers who were ripping off the Bratva less than seven hours ago with a broken bottle all the while laughing as they screamed their agony like a deranged psychopath the entire time yet here he is, preening a crazed fangirl.

“When they say stripper, they fucking mean it, girl. You dance on stage, spin on the pole, give private dances. Guys get to grab your ass and if they tip big, their fingers slide right over your clit while you’re grinding. The club takes fifty percent of everything you make on the main floor. But anything extra? VIP rooms, dark back corners, or sneaking to a hotel after closing? That’s your pussy. Your rules. Your full cash. No cut for anybody. Last weekend I fucked three regular guys. Bent over, ass high, let them pound me raw with no condom, deep inside till they exploded. Walked out with fifteen grand in clean bills. All mine. No sharing. Just cash and cum dripping down my thighs.” My pul

His phone vibrates and Harvey's message comes. Handsome Hulk: You got a crazy stalker out there, huh. Handsome Hulk: She's sexy though, as a p**n star. Alessandro: I only have my wife set in my mind. Want to know details. Handsome Hulk: Gross! I swear, if you aren't married to my sister, I might have already tortured you. Handsome Hulk: I am currently torturing those bastards who hurt my woman and cutting off their dick. Alessandro: Hays, I wish I could do the same to the bastard who played on my wife.

“Are you in a hurry? Wait and see how it’s gonna unfold, it seems you’re feeling defeated,” Nate said and Derrick Burst into laughter from the other end of the call. “I wonder who you think you’re, you mean I will be defeated by a mere sèx stripper like you? Try again next time, you don’t even know law, did you have licence? I will be coming with my lawyer to the next meeting” Derrick said and Nate scoffed.

she stuttered, her eyes darting up to meet his. He smiled, but it seemed more like a smirk to Mira. "No problem. I'm Max. And you are...?" He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're the girl from the street, aren't you? The one who was staring at me like you'd never seen a guy before?" Mira's face burned with embarrassment, and she felt like she was melting into the floor. "Yeah, that's me," she muttered, trying to play it cool.

I muttered to myself as I reached for my phone, opening up the I*******m app. I brushed my dark hair backwards, starting a live video. “Hi, everyone. It's me, Davis Beckett. Your biggest Benison star. And I'm here to publicly apologize to someone we've all… practically tortured and bullied with our words and actions. I want to confess that I…I was behind the release of Alexandra Moore's diary.”

That the teasing had been his awkward attempt at a language he did not know how to speak. She let the words sink in. They did not erase the image of men laughing at a bet. They did not change the fact that her first instinct had been to be swallowed by humiliation. But there was something else in his eyes now that had not been there before. Notched underneath the arrogance and the sarcasm, there was a rough kind of honesty, and it made a difference.

I was not even sure anymore. A male stripper danced close to me, his junk bouncing up and down right in front of me. He turned around, showing me his detectable ass, making me chuckle slightly. However, I did not play into his hands. I would have if I hadn't been in such a bad mood.

Then he sighed, ran a hand through his dark hair, and muttered something that sounded like “I’m going to regret this.” “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a place you can crash for the night. Somewhere safe.” “I don’t even know your name.” He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something in his dark eyes that made my breath catch. Not pity. Something harder. Something protective. “Enzo,” he said. “Enzo Romano. President of the Giants MC.” My eyes dropped to his leather jacket. I’d been too panicked to notice before, but now I saw them: patches. Insignia. The club’s symbol — a roaring giant.