The Sentinel
A Gritty, Urban Flash Fiction
I stand to my full six foot four inch height, outside the strip club. My powerful muscles earned by hours in a sweaty shit hole of a gym encased in my black bomber jacket. It’s raining and I’m glad for the shelter that this porch gives me as I look down the long line of poor excuses for the male species, heads bowed, shuffling along the littered street, like lost souls in purgatory.
The queue is made up of guys too old, ugly, poor, or all three to ever dream of going out let alone screwing one of these girls dancing inside. The place is a dump but the girls in there are top shelf.
I eye up the young lad standing in front of me, eight stone when wet, in his late teens if that. He looks up at me a weird look of excitement, fear and hope swimming in his hazel brown eyes.
“ID,” I say in my best intimidating voice.
The boy gives me his driver’s licence with shaking hands. I take it and check his D.O.B.
“Have a good night,” I say but then I give him a stare as hard as flint, “You can look but remember don’t ever touch the girls or I’ll touch you.”
The boy nods and shuffles into the club, thankful from escaping the rain and me.
I’ve been one of the door supervisor’s here in Bethnal Green, for three long years, first job since coming out prison.
I was a fucking war hero in Iraq, got the medals and everything but couldn’t adjust to Civvy Street. I ended up beating the living shit out of some dickhead in a bar. I served my time and managed to bag this job.
I feel a tap on my broad shoulder and turn to see the head door man, time to change posts-good.
Glad to be out of the cold I walk through the main entrance into the warm interior of ‘The Blue Venus,’ strip club.
And there she is on stage dancing around the pole, working it.
I find a position that I can have a good view of both stage and punters, as my dark eyes look up at Destiny. Enhanced tits squeezed into a Victoria Secrets bra as she gyrates her perfectly toned body up on the tiny stage. Red manicured fingers gripping the pole, sliding it up and down the shiny shaft like some long metal cock.
She entwines tanned legs around the pole gripping tightly. Her hands let go seemingly defying the forces of gravity.
Her bright baby blue eyes twinkle as she smiles, revealing perfect white teeth and a dimple in one cheek.
Destiny is the best thing about this place. As I watch her perform, I think back to the nights in my flat, where I often wake up in the night alone, bathed in a cold sweat, as my dreams take me back to Iraq and the hell that I’ve seen.
To release the tension I think of Destiny, as I reach under the sweat coated covers and touch my awakening cock. It responds to my touch and I slowly begin to stroke the long, thick shaft as I close my eyes and think of Destiny.
I think of her toned belly and long blonde hair that cascades over tanned shoulders. A little pink butterfly tattooed on one hip, a wing pointing to Heaven that lies between her thighs, behind a thin veil of golden brown curls.
A small cry of pleasure escapes me as I climax, my strong muscular body shudders as if electrocuted.
I watch on as Destiny leaves the stage, giving a friendly wave and wink to the crowd. If the punters want to see more they have to pay for a private lap dance, in one of the booths that lies in the back.
I sometimes look in on her when she’s with a punter, checking she’s okay, always keeping it professional. I’d never pay for it; I’m not a loser like these punters.
I’ve tried to ask her out but my courage eludes me. Get me to kick down a door in Iraq or beat a man to a pulp then I’m your man but talking to a goddess like Destiny, forget it.
A punter laughing loudly invades my thoughts and I see the man, clearly drunk, dressed in a business suit, grabbing hold of Destiny.
I lumber over to them, anger rising.
“Don’t you remember the rule?” I ask. The business man looks up at me leering.
“These little tarts are up for it, they don’t mind me touching before I buy.”
I don’t want to hear anymore I grab this little shit and march him out the back door. We’re in a dark alleyway; a fat rat scurries away, leaping over junkie needles and a trump’s bed that lies on the ground, no cameras here.
I deliver a punch to the punter’s face and smile inwardly as I feel his nose breaking under my fist. I pound him a few more times and give him a satisfying dig in the ribs with my steel capped DM’s when he’s on the floor. I leave him in a heap on the rain washed cobbles, spitting out his teeth and crying quietly.
As I reach the back door, it opens and the head door man steps out. He looks at me then over to the man on the floor and back to me. He doesn’t say anything but I know he thinks that I’ve gone too far again.
I brush past him without saying a word, back inside.
I see Destiny with another punter, I watch as she takes his money and leads him into a booth. I follow, to make sure she’s safe from him, always keeping it professional.
Jason Duck 2025.
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