Gage:A Bad Boy Military Romance(8)

By: Cordelia Blanc

She just shrugged, so I let the door go.

“My name’s Ashley,” she said. “Ashley King.”

“Gage. You a movie star or something?”

“Or something,” she said.

“You do pornos?”

“What?” Her body tensed up again as her eyes narrowed.

“I dunno. You said ‘or something,’ I figured you meant pornos—seeing as you’re here stripping and all.”

“I’m not here stripping. I’m here promoting the magazine.” Her eyes remained narrowed. I was waiting for her to hit me. Was it wrong to assume she did pornos? I’d never heard of any Playmate movie star before, but I bet tons of them transition over to skin rags.

“What’s Daytona Beach?” I asked.

“It’s a show.” She tightened her arms around her body.

“Is it any good?”

She looked at me with dark eyes, but I couldn’t figure out why. Did I say something mean?

“You cold or what?” I asked.

“No.” Her eyes shied away.

I couldn’t figure out what the hell her deal was. Maybe she was trying to be mysterious, play hard to get… Maybe she was trying to play the victim, some sort of sad puppy act. Whatever it was, I was done playing along. “Alright, whatever,” I said. I handed her the door, turned, and walked away, returning to the outpost’s little outdoor gym. I figured I could get another set in before Major Richards noticed I was gone.


I kind of hoped the asshole would stick around. There was something safe about him—like he was too preoccupied thinking of fucking himself to think of fucking me.

With him gone, and half of the cigarettes I brought with me already smoked, I had to go back inside and face the music. When I got inside, Miss December was just coming off stage and a steady applause roared from the cafeteria-turned-strip-club.

“Alright ladies,” Nancy started. “Put your clothes back on, put on your best smiles, and go mingle. And remember, these men serve and protect our country.” I tried my best not to read into it, but what she was really saying was, “And remember, you’re here to bend over and let these guys fuck you.”

The other girls hurried to touch-up their makeup. They knew what Nancy meant, too, when she said “put on your best smiles.” The girls were dumb, but they weren’t totally naïve. The only difference between me and them was, they were okay with that, okay with being reduced to the role of prostitute. I watched them hurry towards the other room, hoping to beat one another to the more handsome of the soldiers—so they wouldn’t get stuck with the bottom of the barrel.

My strategy was different.

My strategy was to wait and hit the floor once all the horniest men had already chosen their prey. The horny ones are the aggressive ones. The passive ones—the ones that meander—will take “no” for an answer.

The girls all left and I was finally alone. Or so I thought.

“What are you doing?” Nancy said to me as I lingered around the backroom.

I spun around. I’d thought Nancy had gone out with the rest of them, but I was wrong. “Nothing—just fixing my eye shadow.”

“No—what are you wearing?” she asked.

I had changed back into jeans and a tank-top. “What’s wrong with this?”

“You can’t go out like that.”

“This is all I brought.”

Without speaking, she nodded her head towards to my Miss April outfit. It wasn’t much—a pair of black heels, dark pantyhose, and a fur shawl.

“You want me to wear that out on the floor?”

“You’re here as Miss April, not as Ashley King. Those men want Miss April, so give them Miss April.”

The Miss April uniform wasn’t designed to cover my body. It was designed to barely cover my nipples and my pussy, and nothing else. I looked around the room for some double-sided tape, to hold the shawl over my nipples, but I couldn’t find any. The pantyhose were sheer, and didn’t leave anything to the imagination, so I had to slip a pair of black lace panties overtop, which looked ridiculous, like the outfit of some lingerie superhero.

Nancy stood and watched me change. I didn’t mind, she’d seen everything before. She was there when I did the photo-shoot in the very same outfit, and she’d been in the thick of every change room since we started our promotional tour. What bothered me were her eyes—her sad, pitiful, judging eyes. The way she watched me sent shivers crawling down my spine, like a woman watching the sixth player in a game of Russian Roulette press the cold barrel of a six-shooter against her temple.

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