The Stripper

The Stripper

The Stripper

Sweat beaded on Colin Farth's forehead, trickling down his temple like a guilty secret. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, the sticky warmth clinging to his skin as he paced the cramped living room of the Delta Sigma Phi frat house. Bass thumped from the speakers bolted to the walls, vibrating the sticky floorboards underfoot. Red Solo cups littered every surface, from the counters, to the couches, to even the worn-out pool table in the corner. Each was half-filled with piss-yellow beer foam that sloshed when anyone bumped too close. The air reeked of stale sweat, cheap cologne, and the sour tang of spilled keg taps, thick enough to choke on.

His brothers dominated the space, a sea of tank tops stretched over beer guts and unchecked stubble. Jake "The Tank" Harlan, the senior pledge master, hulked near the keg, his meaty fist pumping foam into cups for a cluster of sophomores who hollered like hyenas. "Fill 'er up, bro! Make it rain piss-water!" one yelled, his voice slurring as he thrust his cup forward. Laughter erupted, crude and barking, as Jake sloshed beer over the rim, soaking the guy's sneakers. No one cared. This was Delta Sig's "Whore Alone" night, their twisted nod to that kid-trapped-home movie but swapped for something far filthier. No chicks allowed, just bros and booze, building to the main event: the stripper who'd turn the whole shitshow into legend.

Every year, the frat cranked the depravity higher. Two years back, they'd hired a redhead named Candy who stripped down to fishnets and let the pledges motorboat her tits while chugging shots off her navel. Last fall? Shit got nuclear. The girl, Bambi or some stripper-name bullshit, ended up on her knees in the basement, slurping cum from a punch bowl like it was Jell-O shots. Phones captured every gag and swallow; by morning, the clip blasted across Pornhub, racking views from horny alumni worldwide. "Delta Sig's Cum Queen," the comments called her. Bros still jerked to it in the showers.

Tonight, the house pulsed with that same feral energy. Over a hundred guys crammed in, pledges, actives, even some townies who'd heard the rumors and crashed the gate. They shouted over the trap beats, passing joints that glowed like fireflies in the dim light. "Where's the whore at?" a lanky junior named Tyler bellowed from the staircase, his eyes bloodshot as he zipped up after pissing in the corner sink. "My balls are bluer than a Smurf's dick!" The crowd roared, fists pumping. Another voice cut in, gravelly from too many smokes: "Bet she's gonna deepthroat the whole line! Line up, motherfuckers, pledges first!"

Colin swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the three Natty Lights churning in his gut. As the freshman who'd drawn the short straw (or the golden ticket, depending on who you asked) he'd been tasked with booking the talent. First time a frosh got the gig, a rite of passage that had his heart jackhammering for weeks. He'd scraped together the cash from dues and side hustles, wired it to some agency in the city that promised "no limits, full-service entertainment." The stripper's name? Didn't matter. "Exotic dancer, open to requests," the ad read.

But she was late. Over an hour late. His phone buzzed in his pocket, another text from Mom checking if he was "staying safe," but nothing from the agency. He yanked it out, thumb scrolling through the empty message thread. "Come on, you bitch," he muttered under his breath, pacing faster. The party's edge sharpened with every passing minute. Music blared louder, but the cheers felt forced now, guys shifting on their feet, glancing at the door like dogs waiting for scraps.

In the kitchen, a pledge named Mikey Hernandez chugged straight from the keg spout, foam bubbling down his chin onto his bare chest. "This wait's killing my vibe, dude," he slurred to no one in particular, wiping his mouth with a forearm tattooed with a cartoon dick. "I need some prime pussy to rail, not this watered-down shit." His buddy, a beefy lineman called Rocco, slammed a cup down and belched loud enough to rattle the cabinets. "Bet the slut's flaking. Last party I went to, one showed up faded, puking on the futon before we even started. Remember? Fucked her anyway, tight as a nun's asshole."

Laughter rippled through the group, but Colin caught the undercurrent of impatience. He slipped into the hallway, away from the crush, and dialed the agency again. Straight to voicemail: a sultry voice promising "unforgettable nights" before the beep. "Hey, it's Colin from Delta Sig. Where the fuck is she? Party's dying here. Call me back, now." He hung up, palms slick. Ruining Whore Alone? He'd be blackballed faster than a cheating prof. The seniors already rode his ass, literally, during hazing week when they'd pantsed him in the quad. This was his shot to prove he belonged.

Back in the living room, the energy frayed. Jake hoisted a keg onto his shoulder like a barbell, muscles bulging under his sweat-soaked tank. "Alright, fuckers! Chug circle! Loser strips and chugs a warm one!" A dozen guys formed a ring, cups raised, throats working in sloppy unison. Beer sprayed, soaking shirts that came off in clumps, revealing hairy chests and beer bellies marked with Sharpie dicks and "Future Cum Donor" scrawls. Tyler won the first round, crowing as the loser, a scrawny pledge, yanked down his jeans, his half-hard cock flopping out to jeers. "Tiny prick! No wonder you're last!"

Colin forced a grin, clapping along, but his stomach twisted. Where the hell was she? He'd pictured this night a hundred times: her grinding on the makeshift stage, a plywood platform dragged from the garage, her tits bouncing as dollars rained down. Then the real fun: bros circling, hands groping, her on all fours taking turns like a glory hole queen. Last year's vid still got him hard: Bambi's lips stretched around cock after cock, cum glazing her chin like frosting. This year? They'd talked about a glory wall in the basement, anonymous fucks through cutout holes. Or tying her to the beer pong table for a bukkake finale. Dicks throbbed in jeans across the room; he could smell the pre-cum anticipation mixing with the weed haze.

A senior named Brad "Balls Deep" Thompson cornered him by the stairs, breath hot with whiskey. "Yo, Freshie, what's the deal? Bros are getting rowdy. If this slut ghosts, we're raiding the sorority house instead, drag some theta bitch over here." His eyes gleamed, meaty hand clapping Colin's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "You don't want that smoke, do ya? Pledges get hazed hard for fucking up."

Colin nodded too fast, words tumbling out. "She's coming, man. Agency swore. Just traffic or some shit." Lie. No update. But Brad just grunted, turning back to the crowd where Mikey now humped a couch cushion, grinding against the stained fabric to mock cheers. "Practice for the main event! Pound that pussy pillow!"

The clock on the wall ticked past eleven. Partygoers thinned at the edges, guys slipping out to smoke on the porch, muttering about heading to a bar. Colin checked his phone again: 9:47 PM last seen on the agency's profile. Nothing. He imagined her ditching for a better-paying gig, or worse, cops busting the whole op for noise complaints. The house was a tinderbox; one wrong spark and it'd explode into fistfights or worse, a lame-ass night everyone blamed on him.

In the basement, the real die-hards gathered around a flatscreen streaming last year's vid on loop. Bambi's moans echoed up the stairs, tinny and porn-star fake, but enough to stir cocks. "Look at her swallow that load! Straight pro!" Rocco yelled, pausing the clip on a close-up of her cum-drooling mouth. Pledges crowded the couch, hands adjusting crotches, one openly stroking through his sweats. "This year's gotta top it. Make her our cum dumpster for real."

Colin descended the stairs, the air cooler and mustier down here, laced with old pizza and jizz stains from god-knows-when. "She'll be here," he said, voice cracking. They eyed him like fresh meat. Tyler spun around, cup in hand. "Better be a ten with an ass you could bounce quarters off. Tired of these agency skanks looking rode hard."

Upstairs, the music shifted to something slower, grind-worthy: bass drops that mimicked thrusting hips. Jake dimmed the lights further, strobes flickering like a seizure warning. Bodies pressed closer, shoulders bumping, the heat rising. A guy in the corner dry-humped the air, shouting, "Where's my whore? I got blue balls aching for relief!" Laughter, but edged now, frustrated.

Colin's mind raced. Backup plan? Call a cam girl for a virtual show? Lame. Hit up that sketchy strip club downtown? Too late; doors closed at midnight. He scrolled contacts, maybe hit on that slutty girl from psych class who'd flashed him at a tailgate. But nah, Whore Alone was sacred. No randos. This was about the ritual, the shared depravity that bonded ...