Beijing Cherry (Chapter 1) - Sex Stories

Beijing Cherry (Chapter 1)

... cheeky grin. “Dancing.” Obviously she’s not talking about joining the Bolshoi. In downtown Lu’an there’s only one place girls dance for money – and that’s the seedy club in Renmin Park frequented by middle-aged businessmen and government officials. I know because it’s a stone’s throw from my home. That, and my uncle just so happens to be one of those officials. “Dancing?” I splutter. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I’m not a prude – as evidenced by a couple of drunken exploits during my year abroad – but stripping isn’t a path I thought any of my close friends in Lu’an would ever consider. “It’s good money,” she beams. “They’re looking for girls with decent figures and a background in dance.” Dan certainly scores top marks in the first category. Ever since she filled out during the first year of senior middle school, young men have been falling over themselves to admire her curves and engage her in conversation. In that order. She breathes in and out a few times, lost in thought, the grin gone but her eyes full of mischief. Each time she exhales, I notice those substantial breasts stretching the tight cotton of her black and white striped dress. I’m sure I can see her nipples pressing through. She’s not wearing a bra. “So are you coming?” she presses. I’m stunned into silence for a moment. Do I really want to accompany my best friend – the girl I grew up with - to a strip club and watch as she gyrates topless onstage in front of the boss and whoever else happens to be ...

... milling around? I can’t do much, except clap when her routine comes to an end. Then again, my presence would keep her safe from any unwanted attention. I’ve heard about the whole casting couch set-up – and, given her family situation, I’m sure she’s desperate enough to do whatever it takes to secure such a high-paying job. “I’m in,” I blurt out suddenly. “Great. Let’s get going.” Dan jumps up from the stool with a fresh smile curling her lips. I follow with slightly less gusto, and a minute later we’re in a taxi shooting across the city. The driver is on his mobile – he took the call as he pulled over to pick us up. I tune his scratchy voice out and look over at my friend. I’m not sure what to say without sounding patronizing, so I soon turn my gaze to the river and park running beside us instead. A dozen or so elderly women are hunched over at the bank, rubbing clothes with soap in the scummy waters. I’d hate to wear anything that’s been washed (and I use that word loosely) in the treacly Pi River and then bashed dry on the gum-encrusted concrete slabs that line it. The car swerves into Qiupai Road, which skirts the vast circular expanse of Qiupai Park, and zooms past my apartment building. I look out at the six-storey structure, at the chipped and stained white tiles covering its front. It appears to be on the verge of collapse, although it’ll probably outlive me – unless some businessman with the right connections snaps it up for redevelopment and replaces it with a skyscraper ...