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...