The next morning, when I awoke around ten, the impact of what had happened the night before hit me the second I opened my eyes. The sun shone brightly through one of the windows, bathing the room in its cheerful brightness as though nothing as sinister as what had happened just a few hours before could have taken place in such an environment.
As much as I was shocked by what we had done, I was at least equally as concerned about how I was going to handle Margot from here on in. What should I say to her? Should I say nothing about it, and go on just as if it hadn't happened? Or should I let her know that it was never going to happen again? Or the third alternative: Should I let Margot know that I was willing to engage in more of the same if she was?
The fact that I even considered the third possibility shook me. Could I have possibly enjoyed engaging in the most vile of sex acts with my own mother? A brutally honest voice in the back of my mind insistently reminded me that, indeed, I had. I couldn't help but recall the excruciating sensation of the hot soapy water filling my ass to the point of bursting, and then the delicious release of a torrent exploding out of my ass while Margot expertly ate my cunt. No amount of moralizing was ever going to erase the intense pleasure of the previous night from my consciousness.
Finally I got out of bed and dressed, still not being sure what I was going to do, how I was going to handle the confrontation with Margot. However, when I emerged from the bedroom I saw that my problem had been temporarily solved because Margot had obviously left the apartment. I soon saw a note propped up on the kitchen table against the salt and pepper shaken. In Margot's handwriting, it read, "You were asleep after last night's strenuous exercise, ha ha, so I didn't wake you. Wish I could have slept in, too, but I'm a working girl. See you tonight. Margot."
So Margot wasn't going to be shy about what had happened. The mere thought of her lewd behavior caused a prickly sensation in my cunt, a sort of erotic apprehension that was not at all unpleasant. I found myself dropping my hand to my pussy and running over it absent-mindedly as I wandered over to the refrigerator, thinking about getting something to eat. The image of food, however, failed to materialize in my mind as it usually would in the morning. Instead, I found myself with pictures of drooling, open cunts racing through my mind, interspersed with a perfectly pink asshole, like Margot's, spewing water.
As the moisture oozed from my cunt, I placed my hand under my skirt and found the crotch of my panties drenched. There was only one thing to do or I'd be out of it all day like this, I thought. I slid my trembling hand down under the elastic band of my panties and began to finger my cunt, rubbing my erect clitoris vigorously. An orgasm came after only a few seconds I was so worked up, and as the spasms moved up and down my body and then gradually faded, I felt a certain amount of clearness coming into my head at last.
Now I was better able to concentrate on the more immediate business at hand. The first item on my agenda was to go out and look for a job. I made myself a quick breakfast, and settled down with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and began to study the classified ads in the morning paper which Margot had left for me.
The job market was tight and the ads weren't promising. I was only too aware that I didn't have an abundance of marketable skills, and was apprehensive about having to use my looks to wrangle my way into a position somewhere.
It was hot in the city that day, and I must have walked my feet off making the rounds to the various banks, insurance companies, offices, and so forth, that had advertised for help. Unfortunately, for me, the help they wanted was always for somebody with experience at operating this machine, or being familiar with that kind bookkeeping system, or any one of a number of different skills I didn't have. I would have been content to go back to work in a warehouse, but none were advertising. By the time it was four o'clock, I could see I was never going to get any place the way I was going, and that I would have to try for something a little less orthodox if I was going to start earning my own way again.
There was a series of ads near the end of the help-wanted section all reading pretty much the same, something like, "Exotic Dancers Wanted. Over Eighteen. No Experience Necessary." I was eighteen, and had identification that said I was much older. I had no illusions about what kind of dancing was wanted, but I was desperately in need of money.
I selected one of the ads that seemed to be for a place within walking distance. After taking a left turn, walking three blocks, and turning right, I saw the place in the middle of the block. The building had a garish facade done up in red and silver with a neon sign that was flashing even in the middle of the day, advertising the name of the place as Count Porno's Lounge. My better judgment warned me against going inside, but the thought of my financial situation propelled me toward the door.
Holding my breath, I pushed open the door and went inside, hearing it swinging behind me, sealing me inside a smoky roam that was so dark I had trouble making out any detail. When I did I saw that it looked like a standard barroom, with a gleaming jukebox, pinball machines, cigarette machine, a bar and booths. The only thing unusual was that there was a raised platform in the middle of the room. I quickly figured out that that was where the dancers performed. There was nothing going on now since, apparently, it was the slow time of the day. Just one man sat at the bar.
I walked over to the barmaid, who was dressed in the briefest of bikinis. "I'm looking for, uh, Count Porno." I felt like a fool actually saying such a ridiculous name.
"Hi ya, sweetie," the man at the bar said, looking up at me, his intent gaze seeming to undress me. "I'm the man you're looking for."
It turned out that Count Porno was a short, fat, bald guy who quickly informed me that his real name was Harry. I was prepared for anything just by virtue of the fact that I was actually inside a place such as this, but it was still a shock when the man said, "Okay, doll, take off your clothes and let's see what you've got." I wasn't going to do it, but when he added, "Look, doll, if I like your body you'll get one twenty-five a week," I reconsidered.
"All right," I whispered, "I'll do it." I began slowly peeling off my outer garments. As each thing came off and a new part of my body was exposed, he made some sort of vulgar comment. When I reluctantly stepped out of my parties he said, "Oh, and you're a real blonde! This is Count Porno's lucky day!"
I turned red all over in both embarrassment and anger, and grabbing at my clothes to hide my body from him, I was just ready to tell him what he could do with his one twenty-five a week when he said, "Say, listen, for that I'll give you one fifty a week, and I don't care if you can dance a step. We don't get many real blondes in here."
I was defeated by my own need, and perhaps greed, and muttered, "Okay."
As I started to put my clothes back on, I got up enough nerve to ask, "When would you like me to start work?"
"Tonight," he said.
"Okay," I replied, "tonight."
"Okay, doll, be here at eight o'clock, and you work until two."
I went out onto the street, and walked down to a phone booth. I put in a dime and dialed Margot's number. She answered after a couple of rings. I instantly made the decision that I would just give her the bare information that I wouldn't be home until late because I had found a job, not mentioning either what kind of job it was, or what had happened between us the night before.
"Margot," I said. "Listen, I've managed to get a job, but I have to start tonight and won't be home until late."
"Oh, how lucky, a job right off the bat," she said. "What is it? Something exotic, I'll bet."
I gulped at her choice of words, and then said, "No, it's just an ordinary job. I have to am now, I'll see you later." "But-" she started to say.
"Goodbye, Margot, see you later," I interrupted, and hung up the phone, breathing a sigh of relief.
I had a few hours to kill before I was supposed to go back to Count Porno's, so I found a restaurant, ate a light dinner, then spent the next two hours strolling up and down the streets, window shopping and thinking about my new job.
At seven-thirty I found myself only a couple of blacks from Count Porno's. As I came upon the garish red and silver building with its winking sign, I stopped to get my breath. As I entered, the atmosphere was quite different than it had been before. The place was now full of noisy men, the buzz of their comments filling the smoky room with a reverberating din that was topped off by a screeching jukebox blasting out rock music. The girl who had been behind the bar during the afternoon was shuffling around on the stage with a bored expression on her face, popping her gum, but this time without her bikini. Despite her obvious lack of enthusiasm and relatively small tits, the crowd seemed to like her. Although I wasn't looking forward to what I was going to be doing, I couldn't help but think to myself that if they liked her, they'd love me.
Then I heard a gravelly voice interrupting my thoughts. It was Harry. "Say, listen," he said, "I'm glad you're here early."
I steeled myself and asked the inevitable question. "What do you want me to do?"
"Oh, that's easy," he said. "Just take it off."
"On stage?"
"Do you mean strip on stage?" he said. "Naw, you don't have to do that. This ain't no strip joint. This here's a bottomless dancing joint. There's a difference. In the one you start off with all your clothes on and tease the customers by taking them off. Here you start off with them all off and give the customers a good look at what you got. You can start off with a pair of panties on, though. What kind you got on?"
"Well… well," I stuttered, "they're those bikini kind, and they're blue with little rose decorations on them."
"Are they clean?"
I was rendered speechless.
"Aw, I'll bet I offended you," he said mockingly. "Well, that's show biz. Anyway, listen. I think it would be a good idea to wear panties when you first come out, sort of tantalize them for a couple of minutes while they wonder if that blonde hair is natural, heh-heh. But, here, I want you to wear these." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of orange panties with black lace on them and tossed them over to me. When I looked at them, I gasped. They were crotchless like the ones I'd found at Margot's.
"I don't think I want to wear these," I summoned up enough courage to say.
"Why not, doll?" he said. "They're gonna see your snatch before you know it anyway. Wearing these'll just make it a little classier. How you do it p is go out there in these things and sort of keep your legs pressed together at first. We'll hold back the music for a few seconds so they can get a good look at you. Then when the music starts, slowly spread your legs apart so they can see what you've got between 'em. Then, while you're dancing, take 'em off."
I stood silently for a moment, contemplating the crotchless panties, and then finally had to give in to reality and agree, "I guess you're right, I guess it doesn't make any difference."
"That's the way I like to hear you talk," he said triumphantly. "Now, listen, here's the schedule. You dance for three records and then you get off and another girl takes your place. There's enough girls so that you only have to dance about once an hour. When you're dancing, do your own thing-just so long as they get plenty of good looks at your pussy, because that's what they're paying for. The dressing room is back there." He pointed toward a white door which had the word "Ladies" stenciled on it.
"But that's the restroom," I protested. "Do I have to change in there? What if someone comes in?"
He laughed. "Come on, use your noodle, kiddo. How much business do you think the ladies' restroom gets in a jackoff joint like this?"
I had to agree with his logic, and nodded my head that I understood.
"Now we're gonna have you go on right after Bertha up there is through," he went on. "The only thing we gotta do now is think up a name for you. What's your name?"
"Honeysuckle," I said.
"Terrific!" he exclaimed. "A name we don't have to change! After these guys see that blonde cunt of yours, that's one pot of honey they're all gonna wanna suck. Terrific!"
I winced at his reference to my name, the blasphemy to Katrina's memory creating a knot in the pit of my stomach. But this was no time to get squeamish. I had already suffered enough humiliation to back out at this point without getting the money. Before I left to change, I asked, "When do I get paid?"
"Oh, yeah, right, a hundred twenty-five on Wednesday."
"A hundred and fifty," I said evenly, my harshness surprising me.
"Right, right," he laughed. "Twenty-five bucks extra for the blonde snatch. But, listen, don't tell the other girls or they'll all be after my ass for more bread."
The ladies' restroom was a dingy cubbyhole with a single forty-watt bulb providing the only light. There was a toilet, a grimy sink, and a shelf for stacking the clothes the dancers didn't wear. I quickly slipped out of mine, folded them, and put them on the shelf. I held the orange crotchless panties in front of me, and before I could think any more negative thoughts and talk myself out of going through with the whole thing, I held my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped into them.
After I had them on I couldn't resist staring down at them to see how they looked. As Harry had said, when my legs were together they looked like an ordinary pair of panties, but when I parted my thighs the opening between my legs spread apart, revealing the hair and ups of my cunt, framed with black lace. The vulgarity of it repelled me on the one hand, but on the other hand I had to acknowledge that there was something definitely erotic about the wispy hair and slippery lips of my cunt emerging through the lacy slit.
Before I could think any more, I heard an amplified voice booming from outside the door: "And now, gentlemen, a real treat. A new superstar at our club! Count Porno proudly presents the blonde bombshell, the fabulous Honeysuckle!" Tightening my fists and sucking in my breath, I emerged through the restroom door and marched toward the stage.
Wolf-whistles and crude remarks greeted me as I climbed up on the stage, which turned out to be covered with linoleum and sprinkled with sawdust. I stood as Harry had suggested with my legs pressed tightly together while the audience ogled me.
Suddenly the music started. It was loud rock from the jukebox, obviously selected for its heavy beat. The only way you could move to it and keep in time was to bump and grind. I began twitching my hips and slowly parted my thighs as Harry had said I should do. As I did so, I couldn't help but look down and notice the sight of my cunt emerging for all these leering men to gawk at. As Harry had predicted, the audience went wild when they saw my blonde cunt hair.
"Oh, wow!" I heard a voice from the back of the room exclaim. "She digs herself, she's looking at her own cunt! Right on, baby!"
I quickly averted my eyes from my crotch and started to concentrate on the business at hand. I listened to the rock music. Its beat was throbbing sensuously, and I made my body move with the music. But seductive as the beat and lyrics of the music were, it was still an effort to move with it. I kept my head up high with my eyes focused on one of those beer signs hanging over the jukebox. I tried not to look at the people seated and standing below me, even though in my mind I could see all of them: dozens of men under an umbrella of smoke, drinking their beer and smacking their lips, sweating in the small, crowded room-and looking straight up between my legs at my cunt.
And most of all I didn't want to look down again because I didn't want to be reminded by the sight of the parted lips of my own pussy what I was doing-which amounted to selling my body for money.
As the music throbbed on, I finally removed the panties and danced around completely nude. The audience seemed to love everything I did. Because I was elevated above them on the stage, there was no chance they could grab me, but I still felt like I was being pawed roughly by their stares, violated by their eyes and lewd comments.
As I continued bumping and grinding, I soon lost all track of time, and even of the differentiation between the records playing on the jukebox. It seemed like I had been up there dancing to one long, endless song forever when Harry jumped on the stage, grabbed the microphone, and said, "That's it! Wasn't she great? Let's give a big hand to the fabulous Honeysuckle!"
The next thing I knew I was back in the restroom putting my clothes back on and listening to the continuing applause, when there was a knock on the door. "I'm not dressed!" I shouted.
"So what?" said Harry as he burst into the room. "I can't see any more than I just did." I started to tell him something, like where he could go, but he went on talking. "Listen, sweetie, you were great, just great. No complaints. They loved you, just loved you. You're a star! How does that make you feel?"
"Pretty crummy," I blurted out.
But as I sat around at a back booth drinking coffee while the other girls danced, I had to admit that as lousy a job as this was, it still was gratifying that people were turned on by me. That seemed to be the one saving grace of this job, however, and as I continued to watch the other dancers I realized that the one positive aspect of Working at Count Porno's would probably be short-lived in its impact. The work was so demeaning, and they had to go to such lengths to win approval. The whole thing was based on how far the dancer would go-the less attractive the dancer was, the farther she had to go to please the audience.
One particularly willowly and beautiful brunette only had to tentatively dance around the stage to win the approving shouts of the crowd. But another girl, with small tits and a plain face, was subjected to their jeers until she finally dropped to the floor of the stage, spreading her lep and holding them above her head so the open hairy gash of her cunt seemed to breathe in the crowd's face. When they screamed, "More, more!" she wriggled on her back with her elbows over to the side of the stage and threw her hand down into the audience. Apparently it was a regular occurrence because someone in a ringside seat immediately handed her a lighted cigarette. She took it and placed it between the open slick lips of her cunt while she sucked in her breath. Then, pulling the cigarette out of her cunt with one hand, she used her other hand to push down on her stomach, causing a cloud of smoke to be exhaled from her cunt. The crowd loved it, but it almost made me sick. I was glad I was attractive enough that I didn't have to resort to anything like that.
The evening progressed, and I wound up dancing five or six more times. Each time it got easier in one respect, but harder in another. My feeling of queasiness about being naked on stage in front of a bunch of half-drunk men subsided, but, at the same time, a sense of irritation started to rise in me. Halfway through the evening the job had ceased to be so frightening, but it was getting to be a chore. As I danced, I started trying to make out some of the people in the audience, but no matter how hard I tried they remained a faceless, babbling mass in a haze of smoke and stale beer stench.
After my final turn of the evening, I walked down off the stage and toward the restroom, anxious to get into my clothes and out of the place, not because I was embarrassed by my nudity any more, but because I was bone tired and wanted to go home and get some rest. When I was almost at the restroom door, I suddenly became aware that someone was following me. Before I could say anything, he came up to me and said, "Could I speak to you, miss?"
He was about forty, as well as I could make out through the gloom, wore glasses, and was about five-three and weighed probably less than a hundred and twenty pounds. But he sort of appealed to me in that at least he wasn't some big gorilla, or one of the motorcycle freaks I'd seen sitting around the stage with their fellow gang members.
"Can I buy you a beer?" he asked timidly.
"Well," I said, "that's nice of you, but I'm off now and I have to get home." Then I said, "Besides, the management lets me drink four gallons a night before I have to pay for any, and I still have two or three glasses to go before I reach my limit."
He laughed, which seemed kind of nice in that place after all the slurping and panting I'd heard. Then there was a pause, and then he moved over to his right a little, into the shadows so I didn't have as good a view of him. Then he said he had a proposition for me.
"Well, what is it?" I asked, straining my eyes to focus on him in the shadows. Forgetting that I was naked, I absent-mindedly bent my knee and lifted a foot so I could brush the gritty sawdust from the bottom of it. I suddenly became aware that I had no clothes on when I heard my cunt squish as I maneuvered my leg, and I dropped it to the floor and defensively crossed my arms in front of me.
"How would you like a hundred dollars?" he asked. All of a sudden I was liking him less.
"How would you like two hundred dollars?" he asked when I didn't answer. "Three hundred?" I
"Hey, hey," he yelled after me, "you ain't mad are you? You gonna be back tomorrow night?"
That was one question I didn't want to answer, and I just kept walking into the cool morning air, not bothering to look back.