My Daughter's a What?

I'm in hell. And they're playing bagpipe music.

"Whoooo!" Bobby Ray yelled, banging his beer bottle down on the table, lost in drunken enthusiasm. Foaming liquid immediately spilled over the top, dripping down on to the table. His friends helped him mop up the mess.

Meanwhile, 'Piper' was going into her routine. Jim had to give the woman credit. She was good, bouncing between the two poles on either side of the stage, her strong, well-muscled legs allowing her to swing around them with an ease that made him wish he spent a little bit more time at the gym. When she wasn't on the poles, she spun in what Jim supposed was some variation of a traditional Scottish dance, her body gradually coming into view as the layers were shed.

Her white thighs flashing in the light, she sauntered over to their table, then stepped off the stage and onto the polished wooden surface itself, looming over the men. Rich and Bobby Ray leaned forward to put bills into her garters, and she rewarded them by kicking high, letting her naked groin flash into full view for a split second. The tight leather vest was removed, her large, full breasts bouncing with the movement as she trailed the edge of the garment over Darryl's red, sweating face. Then she spun and left for another table, the cheeks of her rear jiggling in time with the music.

God, I don't want to be here. The pounding music was making his head ache, and the back of his neck was slick with sweat in the hot, stuffy room. The lights were too bright, the surface of his seat greasy and uncomfortable. All he wanted to do was go back to the hotel, swallow an aspirin and a huge glass of water to fight his impending hangover, and go to bed.

Thirty more minutes. An hour, tops. Then I get the hell out of here. Darryl and the rest can stay, if they want.

Mercifully, the music faded, the harsh spotlights on the stage dimming slightly as Piper moved off the stage, her g-string and garters spangled with creased bills sticking every which way. Scantily clad waitresses circulated, taking orders and delivering drinks. Luckily, Darryl, Bobby Ray, Rich, and Pat were smart enough to keep their hands to themselves. Two tables over, another man, red-faced and beefy, wasn't quite as bright, reaching out a hand to grab a woman's rear. He was unceremoniously ejected, struggling in the grip of a hard-faced bouncer.

He leaned back in the seat, nursing his beer. How soon could he leave without being rude? Darryl (or CloudVision) was picking up the tab tonight. He didn't want to seem ungrateful. But really, this whole thing was making him feel sleazy. Even when he had been single, strip clubs hadn't held any allure for him. He shook his head, remembering the Silver Bullet, back in Springfield, where Missouri State was located. During his junior year, he and a few of his friends had ventured there. At first, it had seemed a joke. But when they walked in the door, there had been the vague if unspoken hope in all of their minds that one of the dancers would decide they were the answer to her prayers and take them home for a night of unimaginable pleasure.

His wandering thoughts were cut off as the music began to grow louder again. This time, instead of the horrible caterwaul of bagpipe-techno, or whatever that monstrosity had been, it was the familiar gunshot that opened Escape Club's "Wild Wild West."

"And here she is," the deejay said, over the pumping bass line. The spotlights illuminated the right-hand side of the stage. "Don't worry, boys. She might not look like it, but she's eighteen and ready for everything! She's no local girl, but we all know that a farmer's daughter from the Midwest can really make you feel all right! Put your hands together...for Cameron Lust! The lust that will make you bust!"

As the petite figure pranced onto the stage, dressed in a parody of a schoolgirl uniform, Jim's stomach turned to ice in his belly. One groping hand reached for the edge of the table, and he half-rose to his feet, then collapsed back in his chair. It couldn't be!

But it was. The young woman, dancing and twirling on the stage, jumping high onto a pole, one leg wrapped around the shining chrome as she slowly slid down, popping the buttons on her sinfully tight blouse to expose the high, firm wonders of her breasts, was unmistakably his own step-daughter. Her black hair spilled like a dark wave down her back, accenting her golden skin. Strutting to one side of the stage, she spun, the hem of her skirt riding up high, exposing the taut curves of her buttocks, then settling again. Turning her back on the crowd, she bent low, and he swallowed, closing his eyes, unwilling to admit, even to himself, how much he wanted to see her. All of her.

It was too much like...Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving.

The holiday had been a grim one. Allison had flown back into Kansas City, getting in just ahead of the first storm of the winter. Jim had picked her up at the airport. Mia had been too busy at work to meet her daughter on her first visit home after three months at college.

Thanksgiving Day itself had been moody and tense. The two adults had prepared a lavish dinner, with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and all the trimmings, but Jim was quiet, Allison withdrawn, and Mia had spent a good part of the meal looking at the financial news on CNBC. When Jim had suggested hesitantly that the economy probably wouldn't crash if they turned off the television, Mia had retorted that most other countries didn't celebrate Thanksgiving, so she should keep an eye on things.

The next day she had gone to the office, despite the fact that her company had given its staff a four-day weekend. Jim had puttered around the house, cleaning up after the meal.

He had been in the den, half-heartedly watching a college football game, when Allie had come into the room. She was dressed, if he could call it that, in a pale blue negligee which barely reached her thighs. Her hair was loose, and a subtle, spicy perfume, smelling faintly of citrus and lavender, tickled his nostrils.

"What's up, Daddy?" she asked, settling in beside him.

"Nothing." Lips tightening, he didn't comment on her outfit.

"Mom's probably not going to be back for a while," she hinted.

"Probably not."

She set one small hand on the inside of his thigh. Its heat seemed to burn right through his jeans, waking a fire in his groin. "I've seen the way she treats you, Jim. It's not right." She hesitated, then finished in a rush. "If you were my husband, my boyfriend, or...or my lover, I wouldn't do that. You deserve something better." Her hand moved upward, cupping his groin. "Something more."

Silence filled he room, broken only the tick of the ancient grandfather clock in the dining room. In that frozen instant of time, Jim made his choice.

"Allie?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"I want you to go upstairs. Right now. And I don't want to see you again until you are dressed decently." Despite the pounding in his groin, he forced the words out from between his clenched teeth. "And we are never going to talk about this. Ever."

"But..." Her sweet, pixielike face was confused. And hurt. "But you want it. I can feel it!" Her hot palm pressed against his cock, which had, indeed, grown hard and stiff under her touch.

He took a deep breath, fighting his own body, striving for some semblance of sanity. Gently, but firmly, he took her wrist, removing her hand. In its absence, his groin throbbed with unfulfilled need. "Listen to me, Allie. That thing there has no conscience. It's just a piece of skin and nerves and mindless, stupid instinct. If I let it have its way, it would screw an alligator, and it wouldn't care if no one had drained the swamp.

"I'm better than that. And so, I think," he continued, letting his voice gentle, "are you."

She removed her hand to swipe it angrily across her cheeks. The remnants of tears glimmered on her skin. "You're an idiot. She doesn't love you the way she should. I can tell. I've watched for the last five years. I know. I can tell." Her voice grew quietly venomous. "All she cares about is money."

She rose, wrapping the tattered remnants of her dignity about herself like a cloak. "You're an idiot, Jim," she repeated.

"She'll break your heart, and not even realize it.

"And when she does, it will be too late.

"For both of you."

*****

On the stage, she felt alive.

Fuck Millie. And fuck the rest of the girls, too. What did she care what they thought? They were just jealous. Washed-up tramps like Millie, willing to blow a guy in the back seat of his car in the parking lot for fifty bucks and a bottle of cheap vodka. Or high-school dropouts, happy in their ignorance, not realizing how quickly their fleeting years of beauty would fade. Even the few women who were friendly on the surface, like Piper, had little in common with her. She had heard the whispered remarks, the catty complaints. They thought she was a dilletante, a poser, only in it for the thrill.

Which was, she was forced to admit, as she stripped off her blouse and threw it in to the hooting crowd, more than a little true in some ways. Performing always turned her on. There was something about the scene, the setting. The pounding, pulsing music, the smell of stale beer and cheap air fresheners, the avid, watching eyes of the men in the crowd. Beneath the plaid skirt, she could feel her pussy-lips growing wet. Her fingertips tingled, and she leaped onto one of the poles, wrapping one leg around it, a hand clamped above, as she slowly twirled down its long, hard length.

She sank to the floor of the stage, one leg flung wide, the other beneath her. Using it for leverage, she sprang up, her arms clasped behind her back, which made her breasts jut forward inside her bra. With a flick of he wrist, she undid the snap which held her skirt closed, letting it fall unheeded to her feet. A kick of her high heels sent it flying to the back of the stage.

And now she was all but nude, her only remaining clothing her stockings, bra, and garter belt. Falling to her hands and knees, she crawled to the edge of the stage, deciding which of the tables she would visit first. By this time, with one song over and the second beginning, it was time to start collecting some cash.

She dropped a seductive look over her face, rising up on her knees to unclasp her bra. With a negligent flick of her fingers, she tossed it aside. Aware of the hot gaze of dozens of men, her breasts tingled, and a hot, fluttery feeling rose in her belly.

There. There's where she would go first. The second of the six tables that ringed the stage, full of older, well-dressed men in their forties and fifties. Someone celebrating a birthday? Or maybe a bachelor party for a friend who was getting hitched for a second time? She neither knew or cared. She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling over. When she left the stage itself and crawled onto the table, she knelt up, running her hands over her breasts and stomach in a shameless display of what she had on offer.

A hand reached forward, tucking a bill into the elastic of her garter. She smiled at the man, batting her eyelashes winsomely. Another gestured to her, waving a money clip, and she rolled onto her back, heedless of the wood digging into her skin, as eager fingers stuffed cash into the waistband of her g-string. She sat up, blowing the man a kiss, then moved forward, letting one hand trail down his chest.

But the instant he tried to respond, she was gone, snapping to her feet and dancing to another table with the spritely, high-stepping skip of a girl who had been let out of school early.

There. Sylvia had strict rules. No more than two table visits in any one set. That way one girl couldn't monopolize all the attention, and it left customers eager for a visit from the next girl on stage.

Her second song was winding down, and she had maybe two minutes left before she had to get off the stage and let the next girl have her turn. She sauntered closer to the table. Five men. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe. The types who came into the strip club for an hour or two before going back home to the wife and kids.

Then her mind froze. Because looking at her, his face rigid with shock, was the last man she ever expected to see in the crowd at Polkatz.

Her stepfather.

For the barest instant, her dance faltered. But routine saved her, keeping her feet on the beat, even as her face went numb, her professional smile feeling as if it were painted on her face.

And then she was overcome as a tidal wave of lust swept through her. Her smile widened, and she looked him dead in the eye, knowing he could not, under any circumstances, acknowledge the relationship between the two of them. If he did, the men with him would be embarrassed and he would be humiliated.

A small, secret smile curved her lips. "Hello, Daddy," she mouthed, the whisper of the words lost in the loud, pumping music.

She stepped onto the table, her heart singing. For once, she held the upper hand. She could do whatever she wanted, and he would be powerless to stop her. She spun on the table, her high heels clicking on the wood, then knelt and turned, until her rear was almost in Jim's face. She looked over her shoulder, pouting winsomely, as she shook her ass-cheeks, the taut flesh jiggling. A quick flip, and she was on her back, her legs spread wide, smiling up at her stepfather as he numbly peeled a bill away and slid it into her garter, refusing to look her in the eye.

Or, for that matter, in the crotch, which was absolutely on fire.

The song swung into the last chorus, and with a start, she remembered where she was and what she was doing. If her set ran long, Sylvia would read her the riot act.

She got to her hands and knees, and then to her feet, blowing a kiss at one last man who pushed a crumpled, sweaty bill into her garter, then stepped back onto the stage. But she couldn't leave without taunting Jim one last time. Turning to look over her shoulder, her body gleaming with sweat, she held up a hand in an old gesture, thumb and pinky extended to resemble an old telephone handset.

"Call me," she mouthed, fluttering her lashes.

And then the song was over.

*****

"Dude!" Darryl slapped his back. "Did you see her? She wants you, man!"

"What?"

"Weren't you paying attention? She didn't take her eyes off you the whole time she was on the table. Christ! My wife didn't look at me like that on our honeymoon!"

He shook his head, leaning back against his chair. His heart was pounding with his reaction to watching Allison. "She was just putting on a show, Darryl. That's her job, remember?" He reached up and loosened his tie. "If I met her on the street tomorrow, she wouldn't even look at me."

"Bullcrap." Despite the beer he had drunk, the younger man's eye was disturbingly keen. "That girl looked like she fell out of the 'I want to rock your world tree' and hit every damn branch on the way down."

He reached out an arm, catching the attention of a passing waitress. "Excuse me, miss?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have an area where someone could get a...private dance?"

The woman smiled professionally. It was, Jim realized, the one who had been onstage right before Allie, dancing to that god-awful bagpipe music. "Of course. The Champagne Room is open for anyone. Of course, it's not free."

"Of course," Darryl repeated. "How much for my friend to get a private dance with...what was her name? Samantha?"

"Cameron," Jim corrected automatically, and then cursed himself. Darryl's grin was smug.

"Fifty dollars. Fifteen minutes." The woman's brows pinched down in a frown as she eyed Jim. "No touching the girl, or Steve over there throws you out on your ass. He enjoys it, too, and might give you a broken finger or two to remind you to mind your manners."

"I will," he promised, then bit his lip. Why was he agreeing to this?

"Awesome." Darryl counted money into the redhead's hand. From one side shouts rose and he glanced aside, then frowned. "I got to get those idiots out of here before they piss someone off. You okay to find your way back to your hotel?

"Rich!" he continued in a loud voice to the younger man, who was giving the next girl a long wolf-whistle, to the discontent of the crowd. "Cut it out!

"Sorry, man." He swiveled back to him. "Can you get back on your own?"

"Of course," he said, relieved. He turned to tell the redhead to forget about it all, but the money was already disappearing into her pocket. "Shit."

"Hey." Darryl snapped his fingers to get his attention. "No bailing on the girl, okay? It wouldn't be polite."

"If you would follow me?" the woman said.

He heaved a sigh as Darryl caught Rich by the arm, stopping him from reaching for the woman on the stage. Beside him, the other two men were getting to their feet.

"Sure."

*****

Oh God I'm so horny.

Allies's fingers flew as she dressed in her waitressing uniform. She wouldn't have another set for nearly two hours, and now she had to get out on the floor and serve some drinks and tease the men into sticking around until her turn on stage came around again.

As she buttoned her blouse and pinned her nametag to the front, she looked longingly at the door which led to the tiny bathroom the girls shared. She would like nothing better to go inside, pull her skirt up and her panties down, and spend some quality time with her clitoris. Even now, she was on the verge of climax, remembering her father's face when she spotted him.

"Cammie!"

She jerked guiltily. "What?"

"One of the stiffs from table five wants a private dance."

Her heart sped. "Who?"

A shoulder lifted. "I'm not sure. I think his friend called him...Rich?"

Her spirits plummeted. But it had been beyond silly to think Jim would want a private dance with her. The only reason she could think that he would want to see her in the Champagne Room would be to give her a chewing-out she would never forget. As it was, she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to him anytime soon.

"Come on, baby girl. Fifty bucks in your pocket, and I already told him yes. So move your ass."

"Fine." At least this way she could avoid going out on the floor, with Jim's accusing eyes following her around as she tried to do her job.

She took the money from Piper and changed her clothes again, this time going for a cheerleader look. Short pleated skirt, soft cashmere sweater, this time with no bra beneath, wickedly soft on the bare skin of her chest, bobby socks and black patent-leather shoes.

Leaving the dressing room, she turned left, rather than right towards the main area, going down a short hallway to a heavy wooden door. Fixing her face in a cheerful smile, she pushed it open.

And stopped, disbelieving.

"Daddy?"

Jim turned, the low light catching his dark hair. His tie was loose, his shirt rumpled, and his face looked tired. A few steps to one side, a large leather chair sat in the middle of the room.

And he was still attractive enough to make Allie's legs turn to water.

"Allison," he said. It was barely more than a whisper. "I-''

She held up a single finger. "Don't say a thing." She walked out of the room, her steps almost a run. Back down the hall and through a narrow, unmarked door. In front of a bank of monitors, a fat man sat in an old easy chair, upholstered in an unattractive yellow.

She pushed the bills in his face. "Turn off the cameras in the Champagne Room. Now."

He smirked at her. "Never thought you'd take after Millie, Cameron. Thinking about branching out? I know a guy who can set you up. Three-fifty an hour, you get half."

Her lips thinned. "Pig. Do it now, or I tell Sylvia about the way you're blackmailing the clients."