Author's Note: Hi! This is my first Samcedes story. It is also my first Glee story! I usually write Harry Potter and Naruto stuff (don't look it up if you don't like slash or if you don't know what slash is, just saying). Now, I don't know about you, but I really identify with Mercedes' character on the show and I also love white boys and I also love strip clubs, so it was kinda inevitable that I was going to write this story. Just because Glee is going to be off for a few weeks doesn't mean that we have to stop fantasizing about our favorite characters, right? –darkmorsmordreheart

Warning: The author is not completely sure if all the characters are in character, so check her on that if OOCness bothers you to the extreme. The one thing the author IS sure of is that there will be explicit sex and a lot of it. She's bored and she hasn't had a boyfriend in awhile, these things are bound to happen. Like for serious. This ain't sex-ed, but you gon learn taday.

I do not own Glee or its characters, nor do I profit from writing this story. Please enjoy.


Chapter One:

Stripping Sam Succeeds in Seducing Da Sista


"I. Hate. Both of you," Mercedes Jones told her dearest best friends as their drinks arrived. "Forever."

"Whatever, Aretha," Santana Lopez snorted as she reached out to slap the half naked waiter's spandex covered behind in lieu of a tip. She took a sip of her fruity, vodka and Hennessy-filled concoction with a cocky smile. And why wouldn't she have a cocky smile? She was the one to orchestrate this entire trip, after all. Mercedes was sure of it. "Just eat your wine-infused fruit and shut the hell up while me and Kurt show you how to have fun. You remember fun, right? It's that thing that crawled up your shapely ass a few months ago and died – remember?"

Mercedes only pouted and fingered an orange slice out of her sangria.

"Coming to the stage," a booming (and extremely cheesy) voice said from the speakers, "Rusty Moses!"

"I'm not sure whether that's a yoga pose or a blasphemous form of transportation," Kurt Hummel mused from Mercedes' left side. She chuckled and shook her head as a "fireman" strolled out onto the stage in front of them and proceeded to flash his… "hose". The room was quickly filling up with drunken sorority sisters and PTA moms, howling and cackling at all the naked men strolling through the lounge and on the stage.

"I can't believe I'm in this place," she groaned into the hands she had buried her face into. Santana only cackled like the witch she was, but Kurt nodded, his smooth, pale features contorting into a frown that would normally make him fret and whine about wrinkle cream investment.

"Don't make that face," laughed Santana. "This was your idea."

"This?" Kurt said, swinging his arm in a grand gesture as if to bring further attention to the hotmessedness that was The Crooked Pony Gentlewoman's Club – as if it needed any further attention than what neon purple lights and animal print brought it so far. "This? This was my idea in the same sense that giving you a perm was my idea – Or! Or how that time we went to Vegas and didn't see Celine Dion was my idea or how the decision to explain the differences between 'there, they're and their' to Brittany was my idea. All my ideas said in alcohol induced flights of fancy, in sarcastic tones or whilst sitting upon the lap of my beloved Blaine. It doesn't count."

"Well, despite all that crap, you were the one who said, 'Let's take Mercedes to a seedy strip club so we can see if she still recognizes what a penis looks like' and that's what we did, Grand Duchess of Sunlight Deprivation."

Kurt only just barely flinched at Mercedes' accusing glare before puffing his chest up and lifting his chin. "Yes. I said it. And I will not deny that it needed to be said." His eyes narrowed at the sound of Mercedes' smacking lips. He side-eyed her before continuing, "You haven't had sex in two years, Diva. This is a major problem."

"I haven't had sex in seventeen months, Kurt, I've been busy and it's a not a problem because in those seventeen months I've gotten a new job, a new car, a new apartment –"

"And no new orgasms. Just the same old battery powered ones after a rerun of Saturday Night Live after another Saturday of not living," Santana said, ignoring the growing tic in her friend's eye. "I don't care how productive you've been in growing up and establishing a career and all that other bitter independent woman shit; you don't go out unless we drag you out and you need some fun in your life. So here we are."

"So here we are," Kurt echoed resolutely.

"Coming to the stage… Bronco Locks!"

The fireman had left the stage only to be replaced by some western-themed Rastafarian. Mercedes downed the rest of her drink and stuck another wine-dyed orange slice into her mouth. No use arguing with the truth, she supposed.

"So here we are."


"Fifty bucks you're going to end up giving the gay guy a dance. Put it on the table right now!" Russell slapped his hand on the bar and Sam rolled his eyes. He glanced at the trio across a room that was just beginning to fill up for the night and shook his head.

"No, just no. Look at how clean he is – Look at the way he's sitting at the edge of his chair! He doesn't want to touch anything in this room, let alone have something that's been in this room for hours on end bouncing in his lap."

Russ just shook his head and scratched under his fireman helmet. "Gay guys are wild, man. You never know. He's just prissy. Two more drinks and you'll be yanking his hand out of your shorts."

"Whatever. Which girl should I approach?" asked Sam, conflicted between the angry soon to be drunk one and the sad soon to be drunk one.

"Well, obviously not the lesbian." His attention snapped back to Russ and the other man just shrugged. "The Latina. I can just feel that shit, don't ask."

"Fine, I won't ask about your very, very specific Spidey sense," he laughed as Russ jumped over the bar and pulled a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge. Sam accepted an offered bottle took a big gulp before asking, "So the black girl?"


"The fuck, man?"

"She don't want your skinny white ass."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I'm going for the black girl." Russ only grunted in reply as Sam adjusted his gold shorts and walked away from the bar. He smiled appealingly at the women he passed, blowing kisses to the ones who complimented his blond hair and occasionally stopping so recent divorcees and the like could rake their press-ons down his sculpted torso.

Eventually he made it to the trio and was subjected to three gazes of glacial judgment.

He was taken aback only for a moment – he was used to women and gay men fawning, gawking and ogling after his body, not rolling their stares up and down him like they could see through his skin – but he recovered as hastily as possible and gave them each a wide smile.

Before he could open his mouth to speak, the gay man lifted a finger to gain his attention and said, "Let me guess: Rocky Road."

"Roscoe Longenthick," the black girl chimed in.

"B.L. 'Big Lips' McGoldShorts," the Latina interjected.

Sam snorted and shook his head. "Wow… No, I'm Sam."

"Just Sam?" The gay guy seemed so disappointed that even the sailor's hat strategically placed on his perfectly coiffed head seemed to droop. "Not even like Sam Hardstone?"

"Sam Dickens?" the black girl asked.

"Sam My Lips Can Be Used As A Flotation Device In Case Of An Emergency?" crooned the Latina.

Sam only shook his head once more. "Nope. They just call me Sam. Sometimes Sam I Am… but I don't like green eggs and ham."

After a moment of communal wincing within the group, the Latina just sighed, "I feel like I should say something, but since you're half naked, I'll just let it slide."

Nodding his appreciation, Sam asked, his gaze on the brown-skinned, brown-eyed beauty in the middle, "Would any one of you like a lap dance?"

"She would!" the soon to be angry drunk and the gay sailor burst out simultaneously as they each used both hands to push their friend's chair towards him. If the look on her face wasn't enough to send Sam into a fit of chuckles, the fact that she fell out of her chair and into his arms was. At least… until the impact of her body hit his. Laughter was the farthest thing from his mind, no matter how flustered and embarrassed the woman in his arms looked.

He could only think about the heat coming from her, seeping through her clothes and into the bare skin of his chest and torso. He could feel the fullness of her chest, the softness of her stomach, the heat of her – heat so intense that the small hands clutching his biceps for support seemed to brand him.

Finally, after three seconds that felt as long as the birth and demise and then rebirth of the universe, the woman had righted herself and was now standing on her own two feet.

Still in his arms.

Still plastered to the front of him.

Still too fucking hot to be funny.

Not entirely sure if he should be relieved, happy or horrified by the gradual panic of realization that he could see rising in her eyes, he pulled his chest, stomach, groin away from her with a quick grin.

And then he pushed her back down on the chair.

Sam's smile faded, licked away as his tongue swiped across first his top and then his bottom lip. Her friends watched, enraptured, as he sauntered closer to her, fanning themselves with their hands as he straddled the chair – with her still in it – careful to hover over her lap. He swiveled his hips a few times, all the while watching her face so he could see the exact moment her mouth either dried out or began to flood with saliva.

The expression on her beautiful face was one he planned to log away into the Male Satisfaction archive in his mind; her lips, plump and juicy, parted so the tiny little gasps that caused the rapid rise and fall of her breasts could escape, her eyes fighting between widening at his every move or growing heavy and hooded with arousal. Said arousal had her hands shaking, even as they clutched the bottom of her chair in an attempt to not touch him.

"I'm not havin' none of that, Missy," he murmured as he pried her fingers from the chair and set her palms flat on his abs.

"Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus," she gasped, her eyes readily eating up the sight of her dark hands against his pale skin. His quick grin was crooked as he guided her hands lower, across his navel, to the edges of his tiny gold shorts. "Oh, Sweet Adult Jesus," she whispered, her eyes lifting up for guidance and only meeting a wicked gaze that twinkled under strobe lights like diamonds would in sunshine.

"Shorts on or off, Missy?" Sam asked, pleasure purring through him, hardening him, as her unsure fingers played along the V of his hips.

"Off!" growled her friends at the same time she managed to mouth, "On."

"Alright," he said, moving her hands to hold him at the waist. He really enjoyed invading her personal space when he reached behind her shoulders to grasp the back of her chair; she smelled like vanilla and something else… He couldn't quite catch it while nuzzling her ear… Maybe her neck…


That skinny white boy was something else, Mercedes decided hours later, once she could piece coherent thoughts together again.

However, when her mind was blissfully blank of anything but aesthetic sensation, all she knew was the basic instinct known as, "getting closer to that big penis rubbing against her stomach".

Never mind that her friends were sitting on either side of her, gaping like guppies at both the stripper's antics and the sight of their normally contained, often sexually deprived Mercedes letting so much of her hair down they could practically see her sew-in thread. Never mind that she was planning on going to church tomorrow with her grandmother and holding a bible without it bursting into flames in her hands. Never mind that she's never done anything like this before; felt up a male stripper while being felt up by a male stripper. Never mind her dignity, her morality, her sanity – this white boy had whispered, "I bet your pussy is sooooooooo juicy," into her ear and that was a wrap. She was done for.

Putty in his arms.

So it was no surprise when Big Lips McGoldShorts stood up, yanked her out of the chair, lifted her bodily from the ground so that she was forced to wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and then turned around and sat down in her chair with her in his lap. Actually, it was pretty surprising, but Mercedes rolled with the reversal of positions as any true diva would: she bounced in his lap.

"Oh my Gaga."

"Ea Diablo."

She found herself surprised again that even while seated, seemingly pinned to the chair by her weight, this man continued with his body rolling, his dancing, his rubbing his dick into the crotch of her jeans… Several involuntary moans later, he was bouncing her up and down in his lap himself in a simulated act of really stimulating sex. His face was buried in her cleavage, his breath wet and teasing, his hands big and roaming, his body long and twisting, pressing against hers, making her sink into him as much as he was sinking into her, absorbing her like osmosis…

"Coming to the stage… Miles Long!"

"That's my cue to go, Missy," he told her breasts and then repeated to her face as whatever song Mercedes and everyone sitting around her wasn't paying attention to ended. He helped her stand, he stood himself, he accepted both fifties Kurt and Santana handed him, he bowed to Mercedes and then he walked away in a literal flash because the strobe lights were bouncing off his shiny gold ass.

The diva sat down in her chair and glanced at the other two. "That was fun."

"I think I lost my virginity again," Santana said as Kurt revealed, "I'm pregnant now."


A/N: So, let's review this hotmessedness I just introduced into this fandom… SMH. I'm sorry. I had just planned on writing freaky, stripper sex. It seems my mind has developed a plot (and plots for two other stories, apparently). Minds are just batshit crazy like that, huh? Let me know what you think. –DMH