Chapter 3

All day, Callie had trouble focusing. As she studied, she kept thinking about her ‘fair trade’ with Dirk. How much more could she do? The back of her mind spun with ideas.

Finally, the day ended and she could try the first test. She queued up outside the CMI nightclub, a stone building that took up half a city block. She’d been hearing about it since before she’d moved, but she’d never been able to get inside. Not until tonight. The sun had barely set, and already the line stretched from one street corner to the next.

She waited. Cheating to the line’s head would just be rude, if it even worked in the first place. Besides, it gave her time to watch the bouncer. The broad, burly, black man filled up the doorway, such that he practically didn’t need the velvet rope. He was her first obstacle; he’d rejected her twice before, in different outfits. If she was going to trade her way inside, she needed to offer something he’d want. Watching how he watched the girls ahead of her, she figured it out minutes ahead of time, and rehearsed it in her head.

Finally, her turn was next. He closed the rope just behind the latest couple. “Club’s full,” he said, blocking her way. He looked her up and down, with a critical eye on her sleeveless button shirt, short tennis skirt, and the body beneath.

She stepped in closer. Her heart hammered so loud, she couldn’t hear her own whisper. “If you let me in, you can grab my ass.”

His expression didn’t change. Yet his arm snaked around her, wrapped low about her waist, and planted his hand right onto her rear. At first he just smoothed his fingers over her skirt, but then he slipped under with a full, grasping squeeze.

Her heart leapt into her throat and she held her breath. People were staring. It felt so weird, doing something like that outside work. Yet, she literally couldn’t back down.

After an eternal second, he released her. He undid the rope and nodded her through.

She walked in in a daze, still tingling from her own daring. It worked. The thrill of power prickled across her skin.

As she entered, she felt the music before she heard it. The bass line resonated with her bones and pulled her heart into dancing along, the accelerating pulse flushing her skin. She found her steps falling in time with the heavy beat, even though she didn’t mean to dance just yet.

First, she wanted to get a good look, now she was inside CMI for the first time. The walls and floor were dark, smooth material, with edges lit up blue and purple by the blacklights. An expansive dancefloor took up most of the club’s space, packed with bodies all moving to the beat. Fog machines sent artificial mist out to swirl around their knees, kicked up with every step and coloured by the strobe lights. The room’s corners had small gatherings of couches and lounge chairs for people to rest their legs, while the side wall was occupied entirely by a long, thoroughly-stocked bar.

First things first: she needed a drink. Sneaking herself in for the first time, she still felt too nervous to fully enjoy herself. She got through the press of bodies and into the crowd at the bar. She’d spied her favourite up on the shelf already, and it was just a matter of getting the bartender’s attention.

But then, why should she buy her own drinks? She noticed a scruffy, strong-jawed man sitting at the bar and checking her out. She honestly didn’t even need programming for the next part; it just made her more direct.

She stepped in close and spoke into his ear. “Buy me a shot of Kahlua and I’ll sit in your lap.”

He startled, surprised by her direct approach, but not displeased. A minute later, he had the bartender’s attention, and Callie got her drink. She downed it all at once, taking the shot like a true college girl. The caffeine and alcohol hit together, giving her a combined sense of energy and relaxation.

Payment taken, her feet moved. While she still focused on the taste on her tongue, she found herself backing up and into the man’s lap. She didn’t do it by half either, but scooted back and ground into him. His gasp drew a grin to her lips.

He laid his hands on her sides, feeling her hips pressed so close to him. “You know how to make an impression,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Irrelevant,” she said, leaning her head back into him. His chest felt nice and broad behind her. “Just think of me as a girl out to have some fun.”

“And what’s your choice of fun?” he asked. “Drinking, sitting in strange men’s laps, dancing?”

She grinned and worked her hips against him. Even with all the layers of clothing between them, she could feel the tease awakening his ... desires. Yes, ‘desires’ was a good name for the lump poking against her. “All of those. Though drinking’s a good way to grease the wheels.”

He took a sharp, discomfited gasp. He knew she knew he was getting hard, and it brought a slight flush to his cheeks. No way had he met many women as bold as she was acting. Still, he tried to take control back. “In that case...” He patted her hip, offering a light nudge. “Hop up, and let’s hit the dance floor.”

That pat felt so lacking. She rose, but stayed at the bar, bent slightly. “For another shot, you can do more than tap.” She shimmied her hips, sending a swish through her skirt.

He almost choked at the suggestion, but still signalled the bartender. As the shot slid in front of Callie, she felt an odd peace. Her body found the right bending angle with no more intervention from her. The scruffy stranger’s hand came down. Though her skirt softened the blow, she still felt a sharp sting that turned into smooth warmth, tingling through her body.

That feeling loosened her up as much as the shot itself. She took the man by the hand and pulled him out to the floor. The crowd pressed all around her. It felt like a sea of bodies, buoying her up, with the waves cresting in time with the beat.

The pressure of other dancers gave the scruffy man all the reason he needed to press close behind her. His ‘desires’ bumped into her lower back.

Nightclub dancing was practically a standing lap-dance to begin with. She’d had plenty of recent practice with that, and so she had an easier time finding the beat. Each motion made a grind back against him, setting him throbbing. Though his need was a palpable thing, he remained timid, trying to keep under control. Her sense of thrill called out for more, and she couldn’t let him stay so chaste. She reached up behind herself, fingers curling into his neck, and pulled him down. Once his ear was close enough, she spoke just loud enough for him to hear. “Buy me two more shots, and you can stop holding back.”

He didn’t know what she meant, not completely. But her dance gave him enough of an idea. “Deal.”

She heard the magic word, and her body went into motion. Her hips threw back hard enough to flip up her skirt. He got maybe a split-second to look before she pushed those curves back against him. Only her underwear shielded her from his jeans and the rock-hard heat beneath.

Whatever practice she had, her programming was better. Her body moved with professional levels of skill, working him right there on the dance floor. Her hips banged in time with the music, angled to keep her ass right on that needy bulge. They had a curious kind of privacy. Any one of those dancers could look and see what she was doing, but they wouldn’t. They were all wrapped up in their own worlds, their own fun.

As the song reached climax, so did he. She couldn’t hear his moans over the crescendo, but she could feel it. He trembled in his pants. His shaft jerked wildly – so off-beat – as he spilled his load then and there, caught in his underwear. Or at least, she hoped for his sake he was wearing underwear.

His dance turned sluggish. Soon, he just stood there, his hands on her hips. “Worth every penny,” he said, barely audible.

As the thrill eased and the song ended, she noticed another man looking at her, astonished. Maybe she hadn’t had as much privacy as she’d thought. The crowd had him pinned to her front, sandwiching her with the scruffy man behind her. “That looked like a hell of a dance,” he said. “Can I get the next one?”

She laughed. “Buy me a drink first.” One arm looped the new stranger’s next, while her other hand rested on the shoulder of the man behind her.

“She means it,” the scruffy man said. “And some advice: she likes Kahlua.”

Moments later, the boys had her back at the bar, with three shots lined up. Her first dance partner slipped off to the bathroom; he needed to clean up.

Callie knocked back the first two shots with ease to make a sorority girl proud. While they hit her system, she played with the last shot and levelled her gaze on her new friend. He was a squat man, short and stocky, and he had nice hair. In the club’s lighting, she couldn’t quite tell what colour it was. “So,” she said. “This shot right here. What do you want for it?”

He laughed. “How about a blowjob?” His tone was half-joking. Well, maybe 40-60.

She worried for a second, but no compulsion came over her. She could still negotiate. “That’d take a bit more than a shot. What else are you into?”

“How about opening your shirt?” he asked. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

Callie wondered whether she was drunk enough to strip for such a fee. Her hand was down to the third button before she realised the answer. No bra waited underneath; as the shirt opened, her perky breasts greeted the air. The nightclub’s atmosphere was warm. The perking of her nipples couldn’t have been from cold. “That’s a yes, by the way,” she said, before taking the shot.

“Damn,” he said, openly ogling her. “Hot damn. You’re getting me thirsty, too.” He grinned. “How much to lick a shot off you?”

She didn’t want to drop into normal currency. That would be too much like work. Tonight, she whored herself on her own terms. “How about one for you, one for me?” She giggled. Oh, good; she had enough alcohol in her to feel giggly.

He got the barman’s attention. “Six more shots. Put ‘em on a tray for us, and we’ll get out of your way.”

While she followed him away from the bar, Callie left her shirt hanging open. She wondered how long it would be until she could close it. Without its tightness controlling them, her breasts naturally wobbled with each step and called for the eyes of everyone she passed. Thrill tingled just under her skin. Even in the club’s shadows, they must have known how bare she was. She counted how many second glances she got, and how many of those turned into stares.

Once the tray was on a table, she sat down next to it, presenting herself like the main course. She knocked back a shot to prepare herself. With another giggle, she beckoned to him, one finger crooking. “Come and get me.” She sprawled back, stretching herself across the table.

His body surged forwards. For a split-second, it looked like he would pounce her, take her, would do so much more than use her as a shotglass. But he stopped before he left his seat. She wasn’t sure if he got control over himself again, or if the programming had reminded him of what he’d actually paid for. Instead of grabbing her, he grabbed one of the other glasses.

He ran his gaze slowly along her body – effectively naked from the waist up, obscured by the fog and intermittently lit by the strobe lights. Yes, he gave her chest the look it deserved, but didn’t go straight there for his drink. He had another two shots to go after, and could afford to play it slower.

Instead, he tipped it out onto her belly. The liquor tickled as it ran along her skin and pooled in her navel. She stifled a giggle, then a moan as his tongue reversed the path, lapping up every drop. He stayed there, his face held just below her bust, his breath tickling her chest.

She picked up the next shot. She could down it, take her payment up front ... but instead, she held it out to him. “Go ahead.”

This next shot poured higher but still followed the centre of her body. The trickle along her cleavage made her shiver, and he started licking it before it even reached her breast bone. He only took seconds to get her clean, but he stayed. He turned his head from side to side, tongue working the inner slopes of both breasts. Shudders raced along her spine, her back arching up towards him. Her moan was lost under the club’s music, but he must have felt it as it rumbled in her chest.

A few minutes later, she found freedom returning to her hands. Another minute or two after that, she nudged him back, a palm on the plane of his chest. “Easy, tiger. Need a breather.” Her mouth felt dry. She took the shot she’d earned, but that didn’t help; it just made her dizzy. Quickly scanning the crowd, she found a man who’d stopped all his dancing and just stared. She pointed right at him and called out, “You. Get me some water and I’ll give you a handjob.”

The voyeur stumbled over himself and three other people on his way to the bar. While he was gone, her stocky friend whispered his plans for the last shot. She thanked her luck; with the mood she was in, she probably would have gone for it even without compulsions.

The stocky man laid her fully on her back. He kissed his way down her body – along her neck and clavicle, detouring across one nipple, delaying a little to hang around her navel again – and slipped between her thighs. His first kiss made her gasp, even muted by her panties. They didn’t last long; he just stripped them off and cast them aside. He fumbled, so she passed his shot down to him.

She couldn’t help her hips squirming as he tipped the shot onto her puffy, flushed pussy. Then his tongue drove home and she saw stars. Both hands buried in his lush hair and pulled him closer, but he didn’t need the encouragement. He was just as eager to give that tongue-fucking as she was to receive it. Each lick sent thrills racing up her spine. The alcohol must have disappeared into his mouth in the first few seconds, but that didn’t mean she was clean. Her own nectar flowed, encouraged by his work. The stars in her eyes exploded, but he didn’t stop.

Somewhere in the middle of her third orgasm, she realised one hand had left his hair. It took time for her to bring attention off ecstasy and realise what happened. She felt throbbing, spongy heat between her fingers, twitching on every stroke. The voyeur had come back, and she’d started his reward on autopilot. She hadn’t even noticed while she was opening his pants, and now she already had him writhing.

She took her other hand from the stocky man’s hair, instead embracing his head with both thighs. Her freed hand took the water bottle from the voyeur’s limp hands. She downed half the thing in one long draught. As the hydration refreshed her, she worked her hips more firmly into her other lover. In that moment, neither would have minded if she suffocated him with her pussy.

But then his tongue slowed. He pulled back, his head bumping into the tight grip of her legs. He couldn’t keep it going forever. She cursed human limits – her own too, as her body was getting overwhelmed by so much unending pleasure. As her legs let him up, she slumped and gasped for air.

Without her compulsion, she probably would have stopped the handjob right then. Instead, her programming kept that hand stroking, pumping along the voyeur’s needy length. She’d jerked enough dicks to know what his quivering meant. As his end approached, he stepped closer to her supine body. The thought of his plan was enough to help bring him off. He positioned himself just right for his cum to rush out over her chest. The pearly white stuff sat thickly on her, stickier than the liquor the stocky man had poured on her tits before.

At that point, all three needed to catch their breath. Callie felt like she could happily float for an hour or two, her body still rattling with the aftershocks of pleasure. Yet, she couldn’t escape a nagging sensation of something left unfinished.

She hadn’t drunk her last shot yet. It felt ironic. She’d have gladly paid for a tongue-fucking like that; she knew exactly what those skills were worth. Yet, that counted as the body shot he took off her, the service she did for him. She still had to take her payment. It didn’t seem quite fair. No compulsion drove her, but she knew what fair trade was best.

She sat up, feeling her breasts shift and the thick seed trickle a little farther down them. Holding up that shot, she smiled at the stocky man. “Open your pants. I’m gonna return the favour.”

He scrambled forwards while the voyeur took his seat. Callie wondered if hypnosis caused his hurry. When his pants came open, she had her answer: he’d reached a point of blistering, blue-balled need. Hypnosis couldn’t have made him any faster than he’d want to move already.

Callie kept expecting her programming to kick in, but she couldn’t coast on autopilot this time. Each motion felt sluggish from deliberation. She tipped the shotglass to let the liquor trickle down onto him, and before a single drop dripped off, wrapped her mouth around him. She returned the favour exactly in kind.

Muscle memory helped even if compulsion didn’t. Her tongue knew how to swirl; her head knew how to bob. She just had to drive it more than she was used to. The stocky man definitely appreciated it. She couldn’t hear his voice through the music, but she could feel his hips working, eagerly thrusting back into every motion she made. She had to put a hand on his hip to steady him, to keep his passion from running wild. This blowjob was her show – and more so than most others she gave.

So she could be proud of herself when his thrusts turned into convulsions. Every ripple of his body fired a shotglass’ worth of her favourite treat. She swallowed them down more smoothly and greedily than the liquor; her purrs of bliss made him writhe with more intensity. His legs threatened to give out, but she kept her hand on his thigh, steadying him.

“Holy shit.” Judging by the movement of his mouth, that’s what he said; it came far too quietly for her to hear it. He slumped into a seat, pants still open, and whispered it over and over.

A job well done, even if it hadn’t counted as her job. Callie sat back on the table, smiling like the cat that got the cream. A few more sips of water cleaned her mouth out, but the alcohol remained in her system. It made her feel frisky. She’d just had a mind-numbing, thrashing series of orgasms on the stocky man’s tongue, but she still wanted more. So she looked to the man who’d brought her water, who’d stayed for the show, and still ogled his own cum on her chest. “Enjoy the show?” she asked.

“Not half as much as I’d like to be a part of it,” the voyeur said. The handjob had taken the edge off, but he was already hard again. “Shot for a shot, right?” He gestured to the bar. “I want in on that action.”