by Paul Blades
About three months after her formal enslavement, Paula got fired from her job. She had been coming in late almost every day and gotten no work done. The sharpness and the originality of her designs fell way off. When she saw Victor that night, she cried and cried. He comforted her, saying soothing, vague words into her ear and told her that it was okay. She could move in with him.
Paula had hardly seen any of her friends since she had become Victor’s willing slave, so it didn’t matter that he kept her locked in his apartment all the time and forbade her the use of the telephone. Her parents had passed away a long time ago and her only sibling, Michael, was a lifer in the army and they rarely talked anyway.
Paula understood that it was only fair since Victor was now supporting her that she sign over her savings account, her 401k and her mutual funds to him. She had some valuable jewelry and he let her wear it around the apartment sometimes, but mostly he kept it locked up.
She had been disturbed, initially, when he started to order her to fuck his friends. The first time, the man, an older guy with a balding grey head and a pot belly, brought her to the bedroom and fucked her while Victor watched. They had talked about it first, before the man came over, at least Victor did, although she couldn’t remember what he said. After that, there were several every week, sometimes more than one a night. And it wasn’t just when Victor was there. Some nights she would be lying bound on the rug in the living room and she would hear a key in the lock. She would look up happily, thinking it was Victor, except that it would be one of his friends. The guy would say something to her and then lead her into the bedroom where she would fuck him like a tiger. Afterwards, she would cry. But when Victor got home, he would soothe her.
Once, Victor had to go away for a while. He left her in charge of that lady she had met at the munch that time, the one who had asked her if she had ever made love to a woman. She treated Paula horribly, whipping several times every day, making her mouth her pussy for what seemed like hours. She would say something that Paula would not understand and she would be off to the races. The saving grace was that the woman gave as good as she got and Paula spent the three days enthralled in bliss.
It was about two weeks after that that Victor had her dress up one night. It was the middle of October and getting a little chilly outside. He had saved only one or two of her dresses, she hadn’t really needed the others for quite some time. It was the blue flowered dress she had worn the first time he had whipped her. All of her underwear had been gotten rid of long ago. She sat primly on the sofa waiting for something. She had not been allowed on the furniture or permitted anything to wear for a while. Victor hadn’t said what she was waiting for, but he had spoken to her for a long time.
After a while, the door bell rang. Paula recognized the man who came in. It was the fat grey haired man that she had fucked a while ago. He had been back a couple of times since. Victor explained quietly that she was to go with the man and do whatever he asked. Paula couldn’t make out all the time exactly what he was saying, but she understood the important part. She saw the man hand a piece of paper to Victor that looked like a check.
The man escorted her down to the street where his limousine was waiting. They got into the back seat and they drove for what seemed to be a couple of hours. At his request, she gave the man one of her special blow jobs.
They arrived after dark at an immense mansion. A butler met them at the front door. The man escorted Paula into a large sitting room and made her wait. There was a warm fire burning in the fireplace. When he came back, he ordered her to undress. When she was naked, he told her to kneel and threw her dress into the fire. He took out of a box a silver collar like she had worn at Victor’s. He said something that she didn’t understand, but when he closed it around her neck, her pussy gushed.
THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF
What!” Deirdre shouted.
“…………,” the blond girl said.
“What! I can’t hear you!”
“I said……”
“Come a little closer!”
“I said I like your new outfit!”
“Thanks!” Deirdre shouted back.
The music was virtually deafening in Big Al’s Titillation Emporium. That’s what he liked to call it, even though it was just a normal titty bar. There was a big sign in bright yellow, neon letters that you could see for a mile each way on Highway 87. The place was just about 5 miles south of Amarillo, Texas, and it was a favorite way station for the truckers passing by on Interstate 40. There was a motel out back, a strip of by the hour rooms, where some of the girls brought their johns. The bar served tacos, burritos, enchiladas and a right fine chicken fried steak. It was open from 7 a.m. to 3 a.m. 365 days a year.
Deirdre was scheduled to go on next. She was wearing a gold lame g string with red ruffles and two miniscule gold patches trimmed in red over her nipples. She wouldn’t be wearing them long. At Big Al’s the girls got down and dirty.
The blonde was one of Deirdre’s friends. Al had a bunkhouse for the girls to stay at, two to a room, and Sandy was Deirdre’s bunkmate. She had been here longer than Deirdre, maybe 16 weeks or so. Deirdre had been there for four, having come west from Austin. She was working her way to California where she thought she might like to make some films. At 22, she figured she was ripe for the kind of movies she wanted to make. You know, the kind they keep in the back room. Once she got a name for herself, she planned to start her own web site and make a bundle.
Deirdre and Sandy were standing in the chute outside of the girls’ dressing room. When the current song was done, Deirdre would move to the first of ten stations along the huge bar. She would do a song at each station and then get a fifteen minute break. And then she would do ten more. She was on the dead man’s shift, 10 p.m. to 3 a.m. It was a Friday night, so the bar would be hopping right up to closing. If she played her cards right, she might be able to entice one of the good looking drivers to take her back to one of the motel rooms and top off her night with $250 ($50 for the house) for twenty minutes of fucking.
The song ended and the next one came on. It was a rollicking rockabilly song about a cowpoke painting the town. The rednecks just loved it and each time it played, tips went up a 100%.
She came out of the chute shaking her 34’s and jerking her hips. At 5’7” with heels, she towered over the bar. She flung her long, jet black hair back and forth over her shoulders. A cacophony of hoots rang out, barely audible above the deafening music. She swung herself around the pole and went to work.
It didn’t take long for her to cast off her habiliment. The bartender swiftly slid them off of the dancing platform and into a plastic tray from which she could recover them later. She bent over and swung her tits in front of a grinning, good old boy. He flashed a dollar and she swept it out of his hands as deftly as a con man doing three card monte. Although she was naked, all the girls wore elastic bands around their joints and she stuffed the bill in the elastic around her right knee. First one tonight.
The bar was three deep, which wasn’t always good for tips since only the guys with their bellies pressed up against it could stuff their dollar bills into her rubber bands. But the guys in the back, getting into the spirit of the thing, kept tossing rolled up singles at her.
Technically, the guys weren’t supposed to touch the girls, but there were ways around that. Deirdre had rubber bands along the crease of her upper thighs and around her tits. If a guy showed her a five dollar bill, or more, she would crouch down and let him put it wherever he wanted, letting him have a quick, tantalizing feel.
The song ended and she moved on to the next station. This one was one of the doubles. A short little red head with big tits was waiting for her there. They quickly descended to the padded platform and began to intertwine their bodies together in a very close simulation of a sexual act. The dollar bills just rained on them. When the song was done, the bartender scooped them up and dropped them into a bucket so they could be divided up equally
among the girls at the end of the night. This way, even the marginal girls would get a boost. When that song was done, the red head moved on to the next station and Sandy moved up. Diedre loved doing Sandy. She was into girl on girl stuff too. The other night, for $1,000 bucks ($200 to management), they had done an all night three way with a trucker out of Fayetteville, North Carolina.
By 2 a.m., Diedre was pooped. She had a big pile of crumpled up dollars in her tip jar. There was one hour to go till closing and she was on her last break before her last circuit of the night. Big Al liked it when the girls trolled the bar during their breaks. The dodo’s usually bought the girls drinks. The girls were all instructed to order 7 and 7’s so that the bartender could give them a glass of ginger ale. A $2.50 dollar ginger ale was about $2.40 profit.
Deirdre, however, was in dire need for a smoke. There was nowhere to hide a packet of cigarettes in a g-string and bikini top. Deirdre had found a little hiding place downstairs where she could cop a few puffs. Al didn’t like the girls coming down and smoking, but his office was down there and it was usually so filled with cigar smoke that he hardly ever noticed.
She signaled the bartender that she would be back in a few minutes. She tossed back her ginger ale, gave the guy who had bought it for her a peck on the cheek and a stroke of his thigh and went downstairs.
She passed two of the bar boys on their way up, hefting cases of Lone Star long necks. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, there was a long hallway in each direction. To the right led to the cooler and the cage that held the reserve liquor. To the left was Al’s office, and a bathroom.
Deirdre sneaked past Big Al’s door and stepped into the bathroom. Once the door closed, the music from upstairs just became a dull thumping sound. It felt nice to give her ears a rest.
Her cigarettes were behind a pipe near the ceiling. She took out her pack of Marlboro Lights, shook one out and lit up. She breathed the smoke in deep and released a sigh of satisfaction.
There would only be a few minutes to smoke before she had to get back upstairs. Someone would be looking for her sooner or later. And there was this big trucker who had already tipped her $50 who she thought would want to fuck her when the bar closed. She didn’t want him to get away.
There was a vent in the ceiling that connected to Al’s office. She stood on the toilet, just out of curiosity, to see if she could hear what they were saying in there.
There were a couple of heavy voices. The deepest was Al. Al stood about 6’4” tall. He had broad shoulders and a beer belly that went out to here. His grotesque figure was accompanied by a mean, bearded, battered face. He had dark eyes and a long, thick cock. Deirdre knew this because she had to blow him to get the job. Last week, he had brought her to one of the rent by the hour rooms in the middle of her shift and fucked her. He did give her $100 after though.
Big Al was talking. He had a deep, Texas drawl. He was complaining about something. From the other voice she figured it was Ray, Al’s dirt bag buddy. Ray was technically in charge of the bartenders, but he wasn’t really worth a damn at anything. He and Al usually spent the night drinking.
“God damn it!” Al was yelling. “I can’t get this fucking thing closed!” A loud, heavy ‘clang!’ followed his statement. “Fuck!” he yelled.
“Did you try turning the handle again?” Ray asked.
“Of course I did you fucking moron!” Al yelled back. There was another heavy ‘clang!’ and another curse from Al.
“Well, that’s it,” Al said finally. “I’m just going to have to leave the damn thing open until we can get someone in to fix it tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do with all the money?” Ray asked. “There’s gotta be upwards of 30 grand in there.”
“I can count, dickhead,” Al replied. “If the door won’t close, it won’t close. I’ll just lock up the office. One night won’t mean much. I’ll call the safe company first thing in the morning and they’ll have someone come out and fix it.”
“Why don’t you take the money home?” Ray asked.
“Cause I ain’t got nowhere to keep it,” Al replied. “And I don’t want my old lady to see it. I don’t want that old cow knowing nothing about how much money I make.”
“You could have one of the boys baby sit it tonight,” Ray suggested.
“You stupid shit,” Al replied. “If I let one of them sons a bitches that work for me down here with an open safe with $30,000 in it, that’s the last I’ll ever see of ‘em. No, the best thing is to keep our mouths shut and just get back here early tomorrow.”
Deirdre was stunned by the information she just got. $30,000! With that kind of dough she might even be able to set up her own production company. Or live high off the hog for a long time. An open safe! Big Al was just begging to get robbed.
She was about to toss her cigarette butt in the toilet when she thought better of it. What if Al or Ray came in? They would know that someone was here and probably listening. That would blow the whole gig. Instead, she knocked of the ash and kicked it into the corner. She would dump the rest of the butt on the floor when she got upstairs.
Then she thought about it. She had been seen coming down by the bar boys and the bartender. Big Al would know right away that it was her.
“But so what?” she thought. She hadn’t used her real name when she signed on. The only thing that anyone really knew about her was that she was from Florida, which wasn’t really true anyway. Her car was registered under a fake name she got from a guy in Orlando because her license was suspended. There was no way Al could ever trace her. And he might be too afraid to call the cops. She was sure he didn’t report half of the money he made. The IRS would be very interested in him reporting a week’s gross of $30,000. And that didn’t even include tonight’s receipts, which hadn’t been cashed in yet.
There was no question. This was a score that couldn’t be let go.
She thought quickly about how she would do it. The office would be locked. There was no way she could pick it. Her old boyfriend, Frank, could have done it in a minute. She kicked herself for not learning more from him about that kind of stuff before she dumped him.
Then she looked up at the vent. It was large, about 2 feet long and 18 inches wide. There were four screws. She was sure she could get through it. It was a simple matter of getting the screws out. All she needed was a butter knife from the kitchen.
She leaned against the wall. Her heart was pounding. If Al caught her, she would probably end up in a hole in the desert somewhere. No one would really miss her. On the other hand, it was a clean, easy score. And that asshole had fucked her the other day with not so much as a howdy do! He made her take it up the ass and she didn’t do that for anybody, never mind for $100.
Al was a scumbag who deserved to get ripped off. She would do it!
She peaked out of the bathroom to see if Al’s door was still closed. Then she scooted down the hallway.
When she got back upstairs, the bartender didn’t even see her. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember seeing her go down. She worked her way over to the chute and got in line. 3 minutes later, she was up on the stage doing her stuff.
When last call came, she got up on the bar for the finale where all the girls danced at once. When the music quit, she hopped off and headed for the dressing room. She blew by the trucker she had been thinking about fucking. She saw him stop Sandy on her way over from the bar and they began to talk. Good. That meant that Sandy would be occupied while she did Al’s office. She could go get her suitcase afterwards and skedaddle.
The jammed packed dressing room was a cacophony of female voices. “Did you see that guy?....You’re stepping on my foot!...Pick that up for me, will you honey?... Can I borrow your perfume, sweetie? I’ve got a date….” Bare asses and tits were everywhere. They say that women don’t sweat, they glow, but you wouldn’t have known it from the odor in that small room.
Deirdre just minded her own business. She purposely took her time. She had worn a t-shi
rt and a pair of short shorts when she had come over from the bunk house. She hadn’t even bothered with panties since she would be changing into her G-string right away anyhow.
She made like she was fiddling with her makeup until the last girl left. Then she threw her minimalist costume in her bag and crept to the door. Some of the guys were still bringing stock up from the basement. She would have to wait.
It had been a long fucking night. She was really tired. She knew that she would have to get a couple of hundred miles away before morning. The guys would be a while yet. There was a small closet off the dressing room. She grabbed her bag and snuck inside. This way if anyone checked before locking up, they wouldn’t see her.
It was tight. She was able to scrunch down on her ass and pull her legs in and just fit. She pulled the louvered door closed. She decided to take a little nap. The guys would be another hour or so cleaning up anyway. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She was out in a few seconds.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She awoke later with a start. There was no light coming in through the louvered door. Someone had come into the dressing room and turned it out. She reached up and turned the handle and then slowly swung the door open. It was pitch black. She got up and felt her way to the door to the bar. Putting her ear to it, she listened carefully. Silence. She waited a minute or so to make sure and then crept out. She took her bag with her.
The hallway to the dressing room was dark, but there were some lights in the bar from the video machines. It was spooky to be in a place so quiet that had been a roiling sea of noise a short while ago. And no people either. When the bar was hopping you practically had to grease up to slide between the patrons.
