Author's Note: This story is an original work of fiction, the first of a series of stories expected to include several parts. Future additional spin-off stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand. Certain characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.
Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.
This story stars: Adam Cross, and features Tiffany McCullough, Holli Coverton, Trent McCullough, Dave Cartwright, Benjamin Lane, Kara Simms, and Mandy Michaels.
This story contains: male-female erotic coupling, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal, analingus, group sex, strippers, lap dances, two-girl lesbian shows, and sadness, and touches upon some of the larger elements at play in the forthcoming parts of the series, which is not centered around strippers.
This story begins post-prologue on Wednesday, September 28.
* * * * *
It happened on a random Tuesday in February, an ordinary day that become something more in the worst imaginable way. He was working late when he got the call, sitting at his desk in the newsroom, punching away at his keyboard. Looking back, he could not recall what it was he'd been working on, a strange truth for a man with a near-photographic memory.
In fact, he could remember very little at all with clarity; he remembered setting the phone down, rising to his feet, and taking three steps before things get fuzzy. His co-workers have said they remember watching him move, then sway on his feet and crumple to the floor. One of them, thinking he was hurt, called an ambulance.
That was eight months ago.
Chapter One: Reluctant Participant
Tiffany McCullough squealed as her husband pounded her from behind.
The brunette beauty of twenty-eight years was bent over the bathroom counter, her weight supported by her elbows, her supple breasts so close to the marble counter that every so often the shriveled tips of her nipples would graze across the cold surface, strummed by the grout.
They had been fucking for almost half-an-hour at this point and perspiration covered her naked flesh, glistening in the dim light of the room. Trent was really laying into her, so much that when his hips banged against the soft cheeks of her ass, it almost hurt.
Almost, but not quite.
Her husband was an excellent lover and Tiffany was no slouch herself, and already she was two orgasms deep. She did not think she would make a third, which was perfectly fine because it was time for Trent to finally have his. She could tell it was coming when he spanked her ass with a heavy hand and groaned loudly.
Trent pulled out just in time to spew a load of his sticky white sauce all over the small of her back. It was a large load: Tiffany could tell by the way the deposit slid down her skin into the crack of her ass.
"Nice, baby," she cooed as she wiggled her butt.
Trent sighed. "Better clean up before that stuff goes any lower."
She giggled. "I don't mind your cum on my ass. It feels nice and sticky."
"Slut," her husband said with a filthy grin.
"You better believe it," she agreed, "and don't you forget it this weekend."
This little dalliance would be their last for several days: Trent was headed to Vegas for the bachelor party of Benjamin Lane, who was engaged to one of Tiffany's best and oldest friends, Heather James. Tiffany knew the kind of roving eye her husband had; when single, he was a womanizer of the highest order. He had fulfilled his promise to her, however, and remained faithful over the eighteen months of their marriage; there was no need to stray, after all, as Tiffany was hot and had an enormous sex drive.
Simply stated, Tiffany loved to fuck . . . and her husband was always more than happy to oblige.
When Trent did not respond, Tiffany added, "I think it's great that you guys are taking Adam with you. He really needs to get away. He hasn't really been himself lately."
Trent waved a dismissive hand. He was not the kindest nor most compassionate man in the world, nor very emotionally invested in anything, which were significant flaws Tiffany struggled against on a regular basis. "He just needs to fuck someone," the man replied. "He'll be fine."
That response did not make her happy. "It's been less than a year, Trent. We're all still hurting; not an hour goes by that I don't think of Jocelyn. You don't have to be such a prick about it."
Trent shrugged. "What did I do?"
Tiffany shot him a dirty look as she hopped in the shower to clean herself up. The soothing spray calmed her considerably, pulling her back from the edge of tears that threatened suddenly to flow. The painful grief, so heavy at first, had subsided by degrees, but still lay close enough to the surface to surprise her when she least expected it. She fought it off this time, which allowed her to reflect back to happier times.
There had been five of them: five girls growing up on a block full of boys in an affluent suburb of San Diego. Despite four years age difference between Tiffany, who at nine years old had been the oldest and the de facto leader of the group, and Josie Haynes, the youngest at five, the girls forged a friendship so strong it would last for almost twenty years. Not all of the girls went to the same elementary school, nor did all of them go to the same high school, nor the same college, yet all the girls remained very close, the bonds of their friendship extremely tight, and all had ended up eventually in the same place: the city of Los Angeles.
Kelsey had been the first to marry, taking the last name Cartwright two years earlier at age twenty-six, and as the five of them had envisioned and talked about many times over the course of their lives, the wedding ceremony had involved four maids of honor. Tiffany married next, bringing with her down the aisle three maids and one matron of honor.
And now Heather was engaged, but no longer would four others stand beside her at the altar.
Jocelyn had been diagnosed with a rare brain disease twelve months earlier. The night she broke the news to the rest of them was a night Tiffany would never forget, no matter how much she wanted to or how hard she tried: more tears and pain and heartache than any other point in her life. The disease, she told them, was swift-spreading and inoperable, and untreatable, and the doctors had given her six weeks to live. Tiffany remembered the way her heart shriveled when she heard the words.
