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Archive name: wages.txt (Mdom/F, nc)
Authors name: Marlissa (evil@bay.com)
Story title : Wages of Sin
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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The Wages of Sin (Mdom/F, nc)
by Marlissa (evil@bay.com)
***
Greer peeked in and enjoyed the view. Van Kamp was being
lambasted by the Gallery's owner, flanked by several
police detectives. His soon-to-be former boss was in the
process of an interrogation she could never had imagined
herself being a party to. Perspiration had left her
usually sleek blonde helmet in disarray, her pale mien
flushed.
"I tell you I had no idea they were forgeries when I
bought them for the Gallery, Mr. Hotchkiss!" The voice,
so sure of itself when casually cutting him to bits in
his last job review, wavered.
The older man cut through the air, knocking aside the
invisible arguments she was making. "The correspondence
found on your PC clearly indicate you'd been working with
Ertigan's group. It was an inside scheme clearly
coordinated by you!"
The detectives nodded their basic agreement with this
assessment. "There will be charges Ms. Van Kamp," she was
informed by the Inspector.
But Hotchkiss, normally unflappable, shook his head
nervously. "No-- absolutely NOT! It would ruin me-- the
value of every other piece here would be placed in doubt!
No-- Justine will make restitution instead to settle this
affair. Of course she'll be terminated at once!"
Justine Van Kamp shook her head in disbelief. "You must
be joking Harold! I've NEVER done anything illegal in my
entire--"
"You'll pay it back-- forty thousand for that forged
LaTrec you bought from your partners with MY money-- or
you'll go to jail. And that's the end of the discussion--
I'll listen to nothing else you have to say!" The
patrician gallery owner wiped his face with a monogrammed
handkerchief, eager to be done with it.
The Inspector glanced at the Gallery proprietor and,
shrugged. "In a sensitive case such as this, I suppose
that prosecution would do more harm to the victim than
good. If you're prepared to pay the money back to Mr.
Hotchkiss here, I'll request that the DA's office forgo
prosecution. Of course, it would help your case
enormously if you lead us to your accomplice, Ertigan."
His stern glance at Justine indicated that she should be
grateful to have escaped with such lenient treatment.
"I have no idea who or what Ertigan is Inspector!"
The police officer had heard this before from countless
other suspects. "The name was on at least six pieces of
e-mail found on your pc-your password-protected pc, Ms.
Van Kamp. We assume he's left the country by now, but
your cooperation would help us look for a trail. Right
now there's nothing."
She stood up, awkwardly throwing her arms out to her
former boss.
"Look Harold, there's more to this than it appears. If we
could investigate this more closely--"
But Hotchkiss would have none of it. "Greer has already
investigated the matter and done the right thing by
informing me of the situation. You and I have no further
need for discussion, Ms. Van Kamp. From this point on,
you'll deal with Greer. Greer?!?!!"
The young man waited for an additional second to pass,
then responded, walking into the room alertly. "Yes Sir?"
He looked at the police, then Justine with melancholy.
"As you know, Ms. Van Kamp has violated the trust of this
establishment...and myself. Luckily-- for her-- she has
agreed to make good on her sins. I'll leave it to you to
handle her repayment of the amount she stole from this
gallery. Naturally I'd like you to assume her position,
if on a temporary basis initially. I'm only sorry such a
wonderful career opportunity must come on the heels of
such a distasteful episode."
But Greer wasn't sorry in the least. Why should he be? He
was the one who had helped orchestrated the downfall of
his bitchy boss in such a painfully methodical way that
it would be impossible for her to ever untangle the web
surrounding her. And it was only beginning, he reminded
himself. Only just beginning.
"Uh, how do I suggest this?"
"Yes Greer-go on," demanded Hotchkiss.
Almost apologetically he turned to the Inspector. "If I'm
to work out a settlement with Ms. Van Kamp, I'll need to
know she's in town and..."
The Inspector snatched up the train of thought and turned
to address Justine, an iron glare. "Oh, we'll be keeping
an eye on Ms. Van Kamp, don't you worry. If she so much
as thinks about leaving the area, she'll be remanded to
custody immediately."
Justine's normal cadet-like posture slumped. Her head
bobbed doll-like. This wasn't happening. It just couldn't
be!
*
It had been the longest week of her life. Even the
divorce from her ex-husband Phil Evans hadn't been this
miserable. At least she had walked away from that
nastiness with something-the settlement that had paid for
grad school. That had led her...where? Because everywhere
she had turned in the last few crazed days, there were
closed door. As if everyone in town knew somehow about
her disgraceful expulsion from the Gallery.
First the discovery of the forgery ring she was
supposedly involved in, then the abrupt termination, and
finally the bank's notification that it was calling the
loan on her co-op, which meant bankruptcy. Which meant
she was reduced to crawling to this establishment, a
place that hadn't entered her consciousness till an ad
from the newspaper, one she had been looking at for help
wanted ads, leapt off the page at her. It was desperate,
but with the criminal charges against her, it was
realistically the only kind of position she now had a
chance to obtain. Reluctantly, Justine Van Kamp knocked
on the door she had been told was the Manager's office.
"Yeah?" The voice was gruff, impolite.
"Mr. Allegro, I was wondering if you could give me a
moment." It was hard but she kept her voice level. When
there was no response, she added "It's about the ad." The
attempt to hold on to a normal tone was somewhat
successful, though her heart was beating a million times
a minute.
The door swung open to reveal a burrow of an office,
walls papered over with old newspaper ads for Club Vixen,
centerfolds, autographed photos from pornstars and
visiting dancers. Allegro sat hunched over a calculator
and stacks of grimy bills-ten and twenties that Justine
guessed constituted the afternoon take thus far. He
looked up, a bored expression on the sallow face that
looked older than its owner.
"Yeah? What about it?" His narrow brown eyes casually
examined her.
"If you're from city hall or one of those damn women's
rights groups-"
Justine shook her head rapidly. "No, no! Nothing like
that! I'm here because your ad." She pulled the newspaper
clipping from the pocket of her Evan Picone jacket, "said
that you were looking for help."
The manager of Club Vixen re-examined her now, curiosity
replacing hostility. "Yeah, we're always looking. You, ah
represent some talent? The owner isn't in right now and
he handles the big booking-- but if you could leave a
card or number--"
Justine shook her head again. "I, uh, no-you see, I--..."
It was suddenly difficult to look Allegro in the eye
because of the dirty leer that was creeping into his
hard, cynical eyes, but she forced the words out. "uh, I
wanted to apply for one of the positions. Myself."
"As a dancer?" He was amused, but still dubious.
Justine nodded.
"You're a cop, lady. Beat it." Allegro looked back at his
bookkeeping.
"No, no! Really, I'm here because I need a job." She bit
her lower lip. "I really need a job, mister. Please."
It was the desperation in her voice that convinced him
she might be on the level. "Sorry, you just don't look
like one of our usual applicants. Why don't you fill this
out," he pushed a clipboard with a form and pen at her
across the desk, "and we'll talk." He rose, promising to
be back in a minute. She thought he was chuckling to
himself as he left the office but she couldn't be sure.
Justine concentrated on the application form. It was
simple enough and she filled it out within minutes.
Allegro picked it up on his return and began scanning it.
With every line he read, his eyes grew wider and wider.
"Princeton?" His husky cigarette voice was disbelieving.
She nodded, then clarified "Undergraduate. My master's is
from Columbia."
He bowed his head in mock salute. "And your last job was
at this fancy downtown art gallery?"
"Uh, yes. I was the head buyer for the last three years.
Till I left a month ago."
Allegro grinned. "Left? Or can I assume you were fired?"
He didn't know any woman who left a fancy job to strip
because she wanted to. He had seen his share of college
girls trying to pay tuitions-most ended up as high priced
hookers or 'girlfriends' of some of the wealthier
customers of Club Vixens. A few single moms trying to
pick up the pieces. But career women? This was a first.
She didn't immediately respond, but when he tapped the
desk with his pen insistently, she broke down. "Yes. I
was...dismissed."
Satisfied, he continued to read the application. Finally
he looked up with a malicious grin. "Sorry. I'm afraid we
haven't got anything for you."
At first, Justine looked at him as if there was more.
Justine Van Kamp had been one of the most influential
leaders in the gallery community. Ivy League, six figures
and Caribbean-vacationed every six months. She wasn't
being turned down for an exotic dancer job. That was
insane. But his earthy eyes held steady above the evil
grin.
"I don't understand," she mumbled looking down at her
Ferragamo shoes.
"32A."
Justine's face burned hot. Her bra size.
"Who wants to see some flat-chested stripper? Your body's
okay, but you don't have much up top, honey. Not a
surprise to you, I'm sure."
After an eternity that the club manager seemed to enjoy,
she shrugged weakly. "I would work very hard, Mister
Allegro. I-"
"You're kind of a plain, honey. Let's face it-I'm not
saying you're ugly, 'cause you're not. But you're a five,
maybe a six tops if you tricked yourself out. With big
cans, that's not so important. But..." Allegro let it
drift and cocked his head, waiting.
God, he sounded like Phil. Flat-chested. Toward the end,
that's what Phil used in screaming matches in their
horror-show marriage. Her ambition to be the best at what
she did, her talent, her intelligence-it was all knocked
aside when he started to rant on that subject.
It was what had ripped the marriage apart-sex, sex, sex.
And when she refused to give him what he wanted, it only
added fuel to the fire. He would put even more pressure
on her and she would give even him even less satisfaction
in that area. Driving him even crazier, till he began
getting really strange with his requests. Dropping hints
about how he was getting satisfaction from other sources,
about places he was going to get them "taken care of."
And how he had had it with his "flat chested tight-assed
bitch of a wife." Well, she had filed for divorce, eager
to get on with her schooling. Ironically Phil had never
seen any use for her Fine Arts graduate work and refused
to pay for it. Of course he did end up paying for it-with
the large settlement she had received from the
sympathetic female judge after sharing some of Phil's
little rants with the court. He had disappeared after
that-but it was clear his sentiments about her body
weren't his alone. She felt her nails dig angrily,
frustrated, into the palm of her hands.
She wanted to roll up in a corner. Now she was
experiencing feelings she hadn't had since back in high
school, when she had waited out the long Saturday nights
with her books and homework. The nerd girl cursing the
too-thin body and angular features she had inherited from
her Dutch ancestors. The short helmet like corn silk
blonde hair and icy blue Nordic eyes that warned off
lesser mortals, the high aristocratic cheekbones, the
pointy defiant chin-all of it too much for the boys. All
she had wanted to be then was pretty-not some big shot
art buyer, just pretty enough for the boys that didn't
call.
And now eight years of college and five years of a
successful career were reduced to that pathetic desire
again. The desire to be pretty enough to get this job of
nude dancing for the pleasure and amusement of Mister
Allegro's clientele.
Because she needed this job. Desperately.
"A seven."
"Huh?" Allegro craned forward.
"I could be a seven. I could make myself up to be a
seven, Mister Allegro. Really I could," she insisted to
the doubtful strip club manager. "And I could wear things
that might help me with my size problem too, like, push-
up bras." She had always despised them and didn't own a
single one, but if it helped...
Allegro laughed out loud. "You'd need a lot of pushin'
honey!" he cruelly pointed out.
It was hard to keep from crying now, but to her credit
she did just that. "Please. Just...please, Mister
Allegro." Her blue eyes were moist now.
It was a small, pitiful plea from a woman he normally
wouldn't have given a second look. For one thing, she was
thirty-four... not exactly fresh off the farm. None of
the other girls were over the age of thirty. And she
wasn't a knockout by any standard. She was too prissy,
too skinny and too flat. More a plain Kate Moss than
anyone else he could think of. But the way she was acting
made it clear that this was hard for her, probably the
hardest thing she had ever had to do.
This was humiliating-- she was begging him for the
opportunity to strip for strange men. There was none of
the sassiness he was accustom to from the savvier girls
or even the wide-eyed innocence of the teenagers. No,
Justine was desperate and would do what ever it took to
get this position. He liked the thought of her trying to
earn those elusive dollar bills, coaxing them out of the
tight hands of his regulars with bumps and grinds with
her tight little body.
"Okay, I'll give you a chance to audition. If the
customers like you, you get a shot. You get ten minutes
to earn three dollars. You do that, and we'll talk about
a regular thing."
Her thin lip curled into a grateful smile. "Thanks Mister
Allegro! Thank you!" She DID have a nice smile and her
blue eyes were pretty, if aloof. Well, if she earned the
gig, THAT would change in a hurry.
She was surprised that he expected her to audition now.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon and there were only a
handful of customers in the darkened interior of Club
Vixens. He had to be kidding about the three dollars,
didn't he?
"C'mon hon-- let's get you into something cute and pick
out some music. Allegro don't like to be kept waiting."
It was Doreen, a redheaded stripper in a purple body
stocking that Allegro had deposited with her behind the
stage. "Pick out any of the things in here and I'll get
you a play list of the tapes." She left Justine looking
into a battered cardboard box of what constituted the
costume department of the dancers at Club Vixens.
"Hurry up!" Allegro barked. "Doreen, get this bimbo's ass
in gear or you're going over my knee for a session with
my belt!"
"Goddamit!" Doreen hissed into Justine's ear. "If I get
punished because you can't hustle your skinny little ass,
bitch, I'll give you something to remember! Now hurry
up!"
Frightened, Justine snapped up a red bra, push-up? yes!,
and a matching red thong panty. Off went the expensive
designer clothes. Justine kicked them into a neat pile
and slipped on the red heels. She turned to Doreen, who
insisted on running her hands through her blonde hair.
"Don't worry hon-- I'm not doing a lez thing, I mean
later we could talk...." She grimaced at the shocked look
Justine gave her in response. "Never mind. You gotta give
your hair that fresh JBF look. Here, put some of this
on." She pressed a tube of bright red lipstick into her
hand and took the further liberty of spraying her heavily
with Charlie. Funny-- she thought stupidly, "I haven't
used Charlie since I was sixteen."
"JBF?" she asked, running the red tube over her pouting
lips.
Doreen finished her spraying. "Just Been Fucked. Now get
out there. I'm popping on Strut for you. You'll recognize
it when you hear it-the guys love it. Especially in new
girls." Doreen gave her what felt like a too-lingering
push on her backside and she was all of a sudden on
stage.
Goosebumps crept over her like a frost. Several sets of
male eyes zoomed at her from all different corners of the
darkened room. The loud music hit her like a wave, and
she looked around terrified. It was one thing to consider
this, another to do it. Maybe it was all a mistake, an
awful horrible decision. She could leave NOW. Then
Allegro's hard stare from the bar reminded her why she
was here, why she had no choice BUT to be here...at Club
Vixens...auditioning to strip for these men.
A smile. First with the mouth, then gradually the eyes,
then swinging her hips to the music. Her strut was
awkward, but her heart was in it. She had to compensate
for her boyish body with the enthusiasm of a slut. And
when she realized that, she was fine. With slow, stagey
coquettishness, she pranced in her high heels toward her
new best friend. The dance pole.
Pale masculine faces looked up at her and she looked back
with what she hoped they took for hot hopes. Playfully
she tugged and caressed her underdeveloped chest through
the silky red bra with excitement. Some laughs puncture
the illusion, laughs directed at her unusually small
boobs, but she fought back the desire to cut and run and
continued the playful performance, at last cocking her
head reaching back and unclipping her bra. With a
dramatic toss, she flipped the skimpy garment back and
proudly stuck her chest out for the customers'
inspection. She was smart enough to know not to
concentrate on those small assets and immediately began
to play with the pole instead.
Three minutes were up. And there still wasn't a dollar on
the stage. Nor had any of the customers pointed a bill
toward her. She looked up at Allegro who was well aware
of the fact and watched impassively with folded arms. She
had to do something.
She concentrated on an old man to the side. He looked
fairly drunk and maybe she might coax a bill from him.
With a saucy smile she dismounted her pole, pranced
directly before him and teasingly toyed with the elastic
band of her thong panties. Now she pouted at him, giving
him a knowing look as she lowered and yanked up the
panty. Trembling with drink or age or both, he tossed a
bill at her and she snatched it up greedily. With a
grateful smile, she slipped out of the panty at last, her
sex exposed to the crowd.
Five minutes were up. Frantically she fixated on a pimply
boy in the front. She was almost twice his age, but she
drove that thought down and licked her lips. Strutting
before him, she squatted, with legs spread for his
viewing pleasure. Vaguely she made a note that if she was
hired she would need to shave herself bare like the other
strippers. The boy, embarrassed and delighted, looked
away. Time was running out and she could no longer keep
the fear out of her eyes. She dropped to her knees and
looked down.
"Play with your titties again." It was the boy. He wanted
value for his dollar.
With a pretty ladylike smile she obeyed the command
promptly, tweaking her pink nubby nipples and squeezing
what she could out of her meager fruit. She didn't return
his stare-it seemed inappropriate and she didn't want to
jeopardize her dollar. After two long minutes of self-
massage, she looked down in relief at the grimy greenback
that stared up at her. Without a second thought, she
caught it between two fingers, mouthed "thank you" and
stood up again.
Three minutes left and a dollar to earn. There was a
figure moving through the club and she gyrated her hips
toward him, hoping he might be her savior. As he sat
down, she realized it was Greer.
She had always secretly despised a man that allowed
himself to become a male secretary. Chris Greer or
"Chrissy" as she sometimes called him, often to his face.
She hadn't suspected him of possessing enough backbone to
commit the kind of backstabbing.
Greer. Yes, it was his familiar sneer that greeted her.
"Well, Ms. Van Kamp. What a pleasant surprise seeing you
here! Not really a surprise-the police department has
been keeping tabs on you to ensure you don't leave town
unexpectedly and were kind enough to let me know you were
here. Well, it would seem you're good at something after
all!" His bright eyes danced with malicious glee at her
predicament.
But she no longer had the luxury of affording to pretend
pride.
"Listen Greer--"
"Mister Greer to a common little tramp like you,
Justine." His face looked up at hers, radioactive with
triumph.
Of course. She had never respected him at Hotchkiss
Gallery. How could she-he had been a mere secretary? A
male secretary at that. He had started technically as an
assistant, but she had changed that immediately.
"No, Chrissy-you're a secretary now-my personal
secretary," she had explained to the disappointed young
man just graduated from college. "Don't worry-be a good
boy and play your cards right and I'll see you get moved
up." Well, not really. Because she liked having a
secretary pick up her dry cleaning, pay her bills, even
sending him out to purchase cosmetics for her. It was an
inside joke with her female colleagues, a status symbol
she knew they envied. And Chrissy had NOT been promoted,
especially when she had pointed out to Mr. Hotchkiss that
he was obviously gay.
But she wasn't his boss anymore. And he wasn't a
secretary, having assumed her old position. Roles were
reversed and she had to play it carefully.
"Yes, Mister Greer. I'm here to work and I uh-
"Can't talk now because you're...working? Little bit
different than being the queen bitch back in the gallery,
hum?"
Her small chin tipped up as she made herself look at the
dark ceiling, then let it fall gently, agreeing with him.
"Yes, yes it is. Look, if you're here about the money, it
will take me some time to pay it back, but I absolutely
will. It's why I'm here doing...this."
Greer nodded with immense satisfaction. "Well, we'll talk
later. But for the time being, don't you want something?"
He waved a folded bill in front of her face.
"Would you like me to dance for you?" She said it without
looking at him, her pale face flushing crimson. Two
minutes.
He leaned back in the chair. "Oh-why not? Let's see you
do some dirty dancing for me. Who knows...maybe you'll be
so good I'll even toss you this dollar?"
She began bucking for him, bent over teasingly exposing
ass, swinging and scissoring her long thin legs before
him, rolling about like a playful puppy on the cold hard
wooden stage before him. Hands all over her nude body,
touching herself and moaning. And as the music died, her
eyes lit up as he casually tossed a dollar on the stage.
"Stupid slut." Having rendered judgment, he rose. "I'll
be back to collect the first installment for Mister
Hotchkiss soon enough. I'll let him know it may take
awhile though." Chuckling softly, he left the
establishment. As she watched him leave, she began to
realize just how much she had surrendered to earn that
last precious dollar.
"Put these back on. Mister Allegro wants to see you."
Doreen handed her the dainty red items and she did as she
was told. In his office, he considered her with renewed
interest. "You ain't feature material, but I might make a
decent lap dancer out of you. You work the floor while
the real talent performs for the crowd on the big stage."
Lap dancer. Not feature material, but one of the many
girls kept on the sidelines to troll for spare dollars.
The prettiest girls (the busty ones anyway, Justine
admittedly bitterly) earned the right to center stage, to
dance for lots of guys and earn lots of dollars. The flat
or less attractive girls like herself were restricted to
the hard work of coaxing the dollars by letting
individual guys fondle them as they spread their legs and
jiggle for them in skimpy lingerie.
She had seen some working the sidelines as she had
danced-pouting, giggling, hip-swinging their way from
seated man to man in the hopes they'd get the crooked
finger signaling them to come closer. It would be hard
work, very hard. Justine still clutched the three dollar
bills, listening intently and carefully. Like the good
little lap dancer she was expected to be from now on.
"It's minimum wage plus half what you get for your lap
dances. Lap dances are at least a dollar. Plus you can
keep half what you make from getting them to buy you
drinks."
It was something, better than nothing, better than jail
she told herself. It was a new start...not a happy start
but a new one.
"You get side action going, I get half." Her quizzical
look made him laugh. "You think you get to keep all of
it? Oh yeah, the owner-he's a real generous guy, Missy!"
She shook her head in denial. "No, no-I...uh, side
action?"
Doreen's plucked eyebrows rose, lips curled cynically.
"Hon, lap dances are just a start around Club Vixens.
Mister Allegro and the owner are pretty generous letting
us girls keep half." She smiled sweetly at her boss, who
patted her on the ass. His eyes lingered on his newest
lap dancer though. Those haughty blue eyes were humbled
now, the princess's lank blonde hair tousled. She was
beginning to have the proper look for a Club Vixens girl.
"You're expected to give the customers what they want for
a fair price. My girls," he ominously hooked a thumb in
his thick, hard black leather belt, "don't EVER say the
word 'no' to a customer." Doreen's saccharine smile
melted, eyes riveted to that black belt.
Justine guessed she had personally been taught a lesson
by the belt.
"You understand?"
Justine swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes Mister Allegro. I
understand."
Pleased with her attitude he dismissed Doreen. The dancer
was grateful to slip out and closed the door behind her.
"You've nearly completed your audition, Miss Van Kamp."
He noted that her breasts, while small, were perky, the
nipples under the thin red lace bra hard from the cool
air. Nor was she as plain as he initially thought. Not
plain, just bitchy.
With a frightened submissive smile, lots of make-up and a
new attitude towards men, the debutante-type might just
make him some money after all. There were guys who liked
the preppy girl look, even if she was tiny up top. Maybe
he'd put her in a cute little tennis outfit or dress her
up like a Catholic schoolgirl.
All that was left was to teach her to forget those fancy
degrees, her big shot job and all the rest. And focus
Justine Van Kamp on the imperatives of her new position
of lap dancer-to get men horny enough to use her in one
of the small, filthy bedrooms over Club Vixens.
The belt was a wonderful tool for keeping these bimbos
focused. His Boss, the owner, was a tough dude and he
expected the joint to turn a pretty penny. He looked
forward to the first opportunity of reminding her of her
duties at the Club. It would come soon enough-it always
did. Some of the customers wanted some pretty nasty
things.
"Just one last thing, Miss Van Kamp." He liked the effect
using her surname had on her. Lots of times she had been
addressed in formal business settings this way. But now
the formality was ironic. She hated it.
"All the girls are expected to become experts at
pleasuring men. I periodically test the girls to make
sure they are working hard to do so. I'd like to test you
now." He pointed at the unswept floor in front of him.
"Now," he repeated with less patience.
Had it come to this? Of course it had. Justine felt her
knees bend as he knelt before her new employer. With
shaking fingers, she gingerly found the zipper and gently
pulled it down, releasing her boss's sex. Then his hands,
filled with her tousled blonde hair, yanked her face
forward even as she accepted the rigid organ into her
mouth.
As she serviced a man with her mouth for the first time,
her boss admonished her. "More slowly Miss Van Kamp. And
remember-Club Vixens girls swallow every drop."
She thought of the belt. And when her boss did explode in
her mouth, she was careful to do just as she was told,
her tongue scooping up every dollop of his thick cream.
It settled thickly in the pit of her tummy as he yanked
her off her knees.
"Good. Congratulations, Miss Van Kamp-you're a Club
Vixens girl now. Now get your skinny little ass out there
and get to work. Be a nice little lap dancer and
everything will be o.k." He patted her ass, but it wasn't
with the affection of a lover. It was with the ownership
of a slave master. "Screw up and..." he patted his belt
buckle.
She padded off without a look back. No, she wouldn't
screw up.
*
"That the new girl down there?" The two men were peering
at the thin blonde bucking her hips against the chest of
the biker in the back.
"Yep, that's her. Tiny tits but a tight little ass-
exactly like you said, Mr. E." Allegro agreed completely
with his boss, the owner of Club Vixens. Those who didn't
had a nasty way of losing arguments.
"She's a lot cuter than she thinks she is," the other man
continued. "But I'd keep reminding her she's little up
top-it's a good way to keep her in line. Well, that and
your other methods. She's a college girl-she may get a
bit superior now and then," he advised. But there was
nothing to worry about-- Allegro was brutal but
effective. He kept all the Club Vixens girls in line, all
ready, willing and able to give the customers anything
they wanted.
"I got her address and cleaned it out-notice said the
place had been repo'd anyway. Where you want her put?"
his manager asked. Justine didn't know it yet, but many
of the Club Vixens girls remained "on campus" at the
club-it was much easier to control them. The boss had
told him that Justine would also be kept there-
permanently.
"Any suggestions?"
Allegro gave it some thought. "Seems like Doreen's kind
of sweet on her already. You want 'em to be roommates?"
Allegro could tell the owner liked the sound of that a
lot. "Good idea-there's a camera in that room so I can
watch, isn't there?"
Allegro hit a switch and pointed at the video unit.
"Sure. Room 17, Mr. E. You can watch everything, anytime
you like." Both men peered into the room. It was small
and furnished with a single bed. A wonderful place to
begin a cozy lesbian relationship.
"That's fine then. Justine's never made love to another
woman before. It should make for interesting
entertainment, especially the first few times. Did you
take care of my guest?" he asked, changing the topic.
Allegro nodded quickly. "Oh, yeah, just like you said. I
gave him that envelope when he came in."
The club owner nodded. "He'll be coming in for quite a
while. Give him whatever he needs. He'll be coming to see
Justine. I want you to make sure she's available when he
visits-she'll be passing on her wages to him."
"Whatever you say, Mr. E. You, ah, want to see the new
girl now-you know-- give her a test spin?" If he was at
the club, the boss liked to have a little session with
any new girls he had hired.
But today was different. "No. Not now." Phil Evans smiled
in the dark at the camera. His ex-wife was hesitantly
leading her first trick upstairs, the biker she had been
lap-dancing for. The biker was pinching her nipples
through her lace bra, but she had already learned to keep
that whorish smile plastered on her pale face.
"But soon. Very soon," he added to the manager who knew
him only as Mr. Ertigan. "Very soon."
THE END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 20