“Why don’t you spend the night?” I said. “I’ve got a little game we could play.”
I led the horny Jack into my bedroom and brought out my handcuffs. Once she was securely fastened to my bedpost I began to dress.
“What are you doing?” she asked, frightened.
“I thought I’d go get dessert,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
I took the keys to her truck and walked out the door. Who knows – maybe I’ll come back someday.
In The Pink
Isabelle Carruthers
She had another name but she called herself Camille, after the hurricane of ’69. “It looks good in neon,” she said. “Besides, I’m just blowin’ through this town anyway.”
Camille was a burlesque dancer who worked the southern coast, from the Texas Gulf as far south as Tampa. She placed herself at the whim of Greyhound, having long ago decided that random destiny had nothing useful to offer.
She dressed only in crimson, her signature colour, and her hair and nails wore the same deep hue of red. When she took the stage she always kept her back to the men until the end of her routine, teasing them with brief glimpses of her generous breasts and rosy nipples. There was an added advantage to this tactic, for by the time they saw her face and realized how old she was, their hands were already stretched out to offer money. Camille had good reflexes and was able to snatch the bills before they had a chance to get away. Sometimes, if the tip was good, she would lean close and press her breast against the man’s cheek, leaving behind a trace of colour from her rouged nipples.
In her youth, Camille was one of the best around, renowned for her beauty and exotic stage presence. She had done well for herself, having stashed away several thousand for the day when she might want to call it quits and buy herself a little trailer and an acre of sandy beach. But she wasn’t ready to retire yet.
Camille was almost forty-three now. Her dancer’s body was still lithe, her skin still soft, but her eyes were careworn and tired, her illusions long ago blown to sea. In the harsh lighting of the dressing rooms, the lines on her face were accentuated by the layers of make-up she wore to look younger. Girls were what the men wanted now, but she did not look like a girl, not even when she stumbled into good lighting.
She was no longer making enough money. Camille needed a new gimmick.
The idea first came to her as she danced the midnight show at The Casbah, a club near the waterfront frequented by dockworkers and merchant marines. The Casbah was a nondescript dive, just a big room with a circular bar and flashing neon signs in the window.
Nightly Floor Show!!!
Topless!!!
Bottomless!!!!
Live Nude Girls!!!
Camille pranced in her crimson stiletto heels on the scarred mahogany surface of the bar, always careful not to squash the bartender’s fingers or topple neglected highballs. With many years of experience, she had developed a flawless sense of balance that aided her in such precarious situations.
On this night, Camille was dancing to a raunchy blues set, her hips gyrating languidly and her arms entwined with the heavy smoke of cigarettes. She had just stripped down to her crimson bra and thong when she felt a hand stretching along the inside of her thigh. Looking down she saw a twenty-dollar bill waving at her, and beneath it a sweaty face that leered from the depths of drink.
She reached for the money but he pulled back with a frown, motioning for her to come lower.
“. . . inside your panties . . .” His hand moved toward her crotch.
Camille shook her head emphatically while she continued to rotate her hips, holding up four fingers. “Forty,” she said. “No one gets to see pussy for less than forty.” In reality, she operated on a sliding scale, but the man held a fat wad of bills in his hand and she knew he could afford to pay more.
Nodding, the man peeled off another twenty, and Camille eased down so that her knees were level with the man’s ears. She opened her thighs and placed her hands on his shoulders for balance. He hooked a finger in the crotch of her panties and gave it a tug, stuffing the bills in the gap with his other hand. Several men stood behind him, craning their necks, hoping for a glimpse of what lay beneath the filmy red satin. The sweaty man’s knuckles pressed deliberately into her flesh.
“You didn’t pay for that,” she scolded, pushing his hand away as she rose. Undaunted, the man smiled broadly and clapped his hands. She continued her slow gyration around the bar stage, picking up the lesser denominations that were her usual fare. Camille rarely got tips bigger than a twenty since most men seemed to hold onto their cash for the younger dancers.
When Camille made her way back around to the sweaty crotch-stuffer, she found him again waving an arm in her path, with many men crowded close behind. He beckoned her closer and Camille leaned down to hear his proposition.
“. . . inside your cunt . . .” he said, his fingers holding a fifty-dollar bill in front of her face. The man rolled the bill into a cylinder and held it out casually, as if merely offering her a cigarette. The other men pressed smaller amounts of money toward her from all directions, hoping to persuade her to agree.
“Oh, what the hell . . .” she said.
Taking the bills from their outstretched hands, Camille squatted and spread her thighs as before, bracing her arm on the man’s shoulder. She pulled the fabric aside, revealing her crimson-furred pubis, and shuddered as rough fingers opened her and pushed the money upwards. Before she could rise, the man quickly shoved in a finger to more firmly lodge his contribution in place. The crowd of onlookers roared their approval, slapping the man on the back enthusiastically as if he had just won the lottery. Camille smirked and got to her feet, annoyed but more than $50 richer for her trouble.
At the end of her dance, Camille returned to the dressing room and found a private corner. She felt gingerly inside and retrieved the bill, still rolled but not as tightly. It was damp and full of the musky scent of her body. As she unrolled the bill and laid it flat she noticed that it smelled vaguely of the strawberry douche she used the day before, but otherwise was no worse for wear.
Camille laughed to herself, pondering how much money she might make in an evening’s work like this, all of it stuffed neatly inside her, like a bank. And the idea suddenly seemed not so very incredible. After all, everyone had their own thing. There were dancers who dressed like schoolgirls and some who dressed like nurses. Some were French maids, and others wore animal skins and prowled the stage like tigresses in heat.
Camille had found a new gimmick of her own.
She quickly gained infamy on the strip circuit as the dancer who let men stuff her with money. Her earnings quadrupled, and although every locale had rules against intimate touching, the club owners almost always looked the other way. Kink was good for business.
The clubs where Camille usually danced were small, limited to crowds no larger than forty or fifty patrons. At best only half would pay to play, so she never made as much money as she would have liked, not more than $800 or so for the night, minus what she had to kick back to the club. Camille dreamed of hitting it big just one last time, making it back to the top before she retired. This was in her mind when she managed to book a three-night engagement at The Pony Club, a working man’s bar on the south Texas coast.
The Pony Club was a huge warehouse, on weekends routinely filled with as many as two hundred oilfield workers with bulging pockets and crotches. They wanted hard liquor and naked women and they weren’t too picky about the quality of either.
Camille took the stage at 11.00 p.m., and the men began to crowd around, many of them having heard the rumors of her risqué floor show. She danced briefly at the smoky edge of the stage while she stripped down to red leather lingerie. She dropped to her knees and then eased into a sitting position with her arms braced behind her on the stage.
Scooting to the edge of the platform, Camille placed one spike-heeled foot on the shoulder of a lanky man to her right and the other foot o
n the shoulder of the man to her left, her long legs stretched wide before the now attentive crowd.
“How would you boys like to make a deposit in my bank?” She lifted her hips suggestively. The lanky man nodded wildly and began to lick his lips, having already heard about Camille. He had carried a crisp new fifty-dollar bill in his wallet just for this purpose. The other man looked stunned and swallowed convulsively, staring at her crotch. As far as the eye could see, hands began digging into pockets.
“I only take deposits in denominations of $50,” she admonished.
“But . . .” She smiled. “You all get to take advantage of my convenient drive-thru . . .”
With a flourish, Camille tugged at the customized crotch of her garment and the fabric gave way, exposing her freshly depilated womanhood. She had taken care to lubricate herself well for this experience and hoped her shiny and fur-free look would be even more enticing.
“Roll ’em up tight now,” she cautioned. “Don’t want the vault to fill up too quickly!” The audience swarmed into disorderly lines, fights breaking out as men jockeyed for position. The waitresses stood gaping in shocked disbelief as the place descended into chaos.
The men filed past with their contributions, rolling their bills into neat cylinders under Camille’s watchful eye. One acne-mangled youth, who appeared considerably under the age limit of 21, positioned his bill hesitantly, leaving it to hang awkwardly from the lips of her femininity.
“Don’t be shy, just push it in!” she crowed. The boy looked at her exposed sex in terror, his hand trembling fiercely.
“Let me help you out there, kid.” Two long fingers dipped forcefully inside her, pushing hard enough to dislodge all obstacles and draw a moan from Camille.
“Oh! Thank you!” she said.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” An attractive man in a dark cowboy hat withdrew his hand from between her thighs and tipped his hat before stepping back to allow the next in line.
Camille lost count of the deposits as she lay on the stage. It seemed fitting somehow that these men were paying into her body since it was, after all, her body they were paying for. When the crowd around her was finally reduced to grinning onlookers who jabbed each other in the ribs and joked about stuffing her cunt with rolls of quarters, Camille pulled her knees together and announced, “This bank is closed, gentlemen. Thank you for your business, and please come again.”
She rose to her feet, feeling as if she had just stuffed herself on a Thanksgiving dinner. The handsome cowboy stood watching and tipped his hat to her again before she disappeared behind the curtain.
The other dancers gave Camille a cold reception when she entered the small dressing room. They were jealous of her stage antics and all the money she had made, far more than any of them could expect unless they engaged in the same undignified behaviour.
A chunky young Latina blocked Camille’s path as she made her way to her small space in the corner. “You’re a disgrace to the profession!” she spat, full of indignation. “Exotic dancing isn’t sitting on the stage with your pussy spread open in front of the whole fucking room. That wasn’t dancing! I’ve studied dance for over ten years and . . .”
Camille laughed and tossed her head.
“Hah! You think these guys come here to see you dance? You’re some kind of ‘dance diva’ or something? Sorry, honey, but they come to see tits and twat. If you can manage to stumble out there in your underwear, then they’ll pay to watch you take it off. There’s no art in that. It’s the pink you show that makes the money flow. Now, I’ll thank you to get your fat ass out of my way.”
Camille’s adversary shrieked a response and stomped from the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. The other dancers quietly resumed their cosmetic endeavours, pretending to be oblivious to the heated exchange. When a knock sounded at the door, no one else got up to answer it, so Camille did. The cowboy who had watched her show stood in the corridor outside the dressing room.
“Yeah? Need something?” she queried.
“It’s about my deposit,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to make one yet.” He lifted his hand to show her four $100 bills.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she retorted, turning to leave. “I’m no hooker.”
“No, wait . . .” the cowboy said, reaching to grab her arm. “That’s not what I want. That’s not what I had in mind. I just thought perhaps I could negotiate something special with you, for a fee.”
“Yeah?” Camille eyed him suspiciously. “Like what?”
“Well. You might need some assistance retrieving all that money,” he offered. “After all, some of it was stuffed in there pretty deep. I should know.”
Her eyebrows raised.
“I was thinking that maybe for the right price, you might let me . . . help you out.”
“You’ll give me four hundred if I let you help me take the money out?”
“Yes, ma’am. Or to watch you do it yourself, whichever you prefer. I’m not too hard to please.”
“Just to watch. No funny business. No fucking, no sucking.”
“Why, no, ma’am, of course not.” He clutched his hat to his chest and seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion.
“Wait here.” She joined him five minutes later.
The man, who said his name was Harry, walked with her to her room at the Capri Arms Motel a couple of blocks away. As they entered her room, he sat down in a chair by the door and waited politely.
Camille ran her hand over her belly with the pride of an expectant mother, plumped up by the fortune tucked inside her.
“Would you like me to lie down on the bed?”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be fine,” Harry nodded, handing over four crisp $100 bills.
“Naked or lingerie?”
“Well, naked, if you don’t mind.”
Camille complied, kicking off her shoes with a sigh. She stopped a moment to rub her feet before stripping bare and lying down on the mattress.
Harry moved his chair to the foot of the bed and motioned her to scoot down, and down further, and then further still. She was reminded of her last trip to the gynaecologist. Finally he grabbed her by the hips and pulled her all the way to the edge of the bed, his hands pressing her knees apart. Even to Camille it seemed an undignified position.
Harry tossed his hat on the bed beside her. “I’m ready when you are.” He grinned.
As he watched, Camille began to extract the bills, one after another, unrolling them and tossing them into Harry’s hat as she did so. The strawberry-scented musk of her body permeated the room.
There was a lot of money.
Soon, it became difficult for Camille to retrieve the bills. She could feel them with her fingertips, but they were too deep to grasp.
“I’ll get them,” Harry assured her. “Turn over and get up on your knees.”
Camille complied, resting her forehead on the mattress and lifting her rump high enough to allow him easy access. Harry rolled up his sleeve.
Camille realized quickly that he was using more than just two or three fingers, and she began to regret her decision to accept his assistance.
She whimpered as his fingers wiggled around blindly, gathering up a few bills. Finally, he withdrew and tossed them into his hat.
“$300 more. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he queried.
“Holy fucking christ!” she moaned. “This is too weird. Just hurry up would ya?” Camille didn’t go in for the kinky stuff, but she knew this was necessary. She didn’t want to end up in an emergency room with some kind of blockage.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Harry pushed his hand inside her again, and Camille yelped at the impact as his fist bumped up against her womb and felt around, as if he was digging for buried treasure without a map. He gathered more dollars and pulled them out, discarding them into the hat. By now Camille was almost in tears and cursing, ready to get this agony over with.
“Just one more time should do it,” he said, sliding
his hand again inside. His fingers roamed freely, moving left and right inside the cavity of her body.
“Okay, all done,” Harry pronounced, finally withdrawing his hand from her with another wad of bills. He had the demeanour of an auto mechanic. She half expected him to present her with an invoice for labour.
“Oh, thank God,” she whimpered.
“My pleasure,” Harry said.
“I wonder how much money that is?” She guessed she might have made as much as $2000 tonight. Adding to that the $400 from Harry, she was positively rich. Camille smiled, exhausted and sore, but happy with her new fortune.
“It does look to be a considerable amount, ma’am,” Harry said, placing a sticky, strawberry-scented hand on her still upturned bottom.
“And I’m sorry to have to be the one to give you bad news, but . . .”
Camille looked back over her shoulder as Harry stood and retrieved a small pistol tucked inside his boot.
“This is a stick-up. Please keep your ass in the air and no one will be hurt.”
Camille did as she was told. Her cooperation was rewarded by a $50 bill, which he tucked carefully between her legs on his way out.
After her self-proclaimed $2000 haul, Camille became something of a legend on the club circuit. She continued to dance for two more years and amassed a tidy sum to see her through her old age, although she never hit it really big again.
On her forty-fifth birthday, Camille moved to a sleepy seaside town in Florida, where she bought an acre of beachfront property with a trailer, and a chihuahua she named “Pink.”
All the townspeople knew about Camille and her risqué past, and some teased good-naturedly that she probably had a few hundred dollars still stuffed inside her. Camille always laughed and tossed back the same response.
“Yeah, but I’m saving that for my dowry. No one gets in my bank without putting a ring on my finger first.”
After a night of heavy drinking, some local thugs decided to see for themselves if there was any truth to the rumour about Camille’s buried treasure. They went to her trailer on a moonless night and pulled her out onto the beach in her pajamas.
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