Authors: Barbara Palmer
Her life as a professional prostitute began out of need and
after a dare. A college friend who’d made good money as an escort bet Maria she didn’t have the guts to do it. Her first client was a Wall Street player. Uptown boy making money hand over fist, cocaine-flushed cheeks, high sexual appetite. As it turned out, the money shot belonged to her. She worked him over for a couple of hours that night and walked away with triple the fee her friend usually made.
The months following blurred into a parade of men. She turned tricks, often a couple of them a night. She only remembered those experiences now as cum slippery on her thighs, white froth on her lips, groping hands, hazy faces. It was so easy to make cash for what many girls did—what she had done—for free. At first, the money had been sorely needed to finish her studies. A sacrifice, she told herself, for her true career. Then she became accustomed to the perks. Pretty nails, perfect hair, clothes from Bergdorf. A place to live in the hot part of town. After that another place, even larger, more upscale. She wanted to rise above the pack, make a name for herself. She left the escort world behind, knowing if she stayed in it she’d become too well-known and her more ambitious goals would never unfold. The tiny percentage of women in her price league were either film actors, porn stars or Playmates. She’d broken her way in through sheer ingenuity. Now everything was changing. And she knew that in this city your fortune could turn on a dime.
Maria turned over, facedown. Sometimes that helped her sleep. After a few minutes she rolled to her back again in exasperation, the big meal she’d been unused to eating bloating her, making it uncomfortable to lie on her stomach. A saying revolved in her mind: “What most men desire is a virgin who’s a
whore.” Reed wouldn’t go for a virgin—he’d want someone skilled in the bedroom—but neither would a high-class prostitute ever be seen as an appropriate choice for a mate. Disappointment flooded her brain. She fought it off. Fuck the double standard. She’d take whatever she could get from him. He’d get no closer to her than that.
CHAPTER
10
SAN FRANCISCO
San Francisco’s Show World Live! bore little resemblance to the infamous Times Square district Show World club; the original naughty venue was long gone except for a tattered storefront on Eighth Avenue. In contrast, the new Show World Live! was aimed at upscale customers and boasted glitzy lounges with hourly strip shows. Booth babies danced naked amid blue and pink bubbles in Plexiglas boxes. A tranny bar featured top-notch talent from the Bay Area, and the porn cinema was made up to look like a grand old theater with plush upholstered seats and velvet curtains tied on either side of the screen.
Claudine was booked to perform two vignettes at the coveted Saturday night show for ticket holders in the club’s famous Round Room, and after, a private performance for a select client. VIP customers accessed well-appointed and expensive private booths through a short hall leading from one of the lounges. The booths formed a wall around the circumference of the
room save for a large entrance that opened onto a raised stage. Each booth had a screen with a generous viewing area allowing customers to see the show in complete privacy along with bottle service. The worst task in the club belonged to the mop boy whose job it was to clean and disinfect each booth after the VIPs had spent their load.
Matinee performances staged in the Round Room during the week were called box lunches—marketed to businessmen wanting to catch a show between meetings. Happy hour at five
P.M
. was for those taking in a performance before heading home to family dinner. After several warm-up acts, Claudine was scheduled to star in the finale of a full show.
The club put a stretch limousine at her disposal during her stay and footed the bill at one of San Francisco’s luxury hotels. She arrived at the dressing room several hours early. Although she’d practiced her routines beforehand, the second vignette required a partner and she was anxious about working with someone she’d never met before. He turned out to be an affable, good-looking guy in his late thirties named Tyrell with curly bronze hair and warm brown skin. He was muscular and lithe, with great moves, and he quickly caught on to the routines she’d mapped out.
She’d decided on a straight old-time burlesque show for her first act, and Lillian worked wonders transforming her into a likeness of the famous burlesque queen Lili St. Cyr.
The lights dimmed. The performing area, a bare circle of blond hardwood, was illuminated by a spotlight that left the booths in shadow. A pink divan at center stage sat beside a table holding a fan of luxurious black ostrich feathers and an oversized perfume bottle, the old-fashioned kind with a rubber
squeeze top. The master of ceremonies, a short sprite of a man dressed in tails and a white shirt, strode to center stage carrying a gold-topped cane.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, from the white lights of Manhattan, for one night only, the exquisite, the infamous, Claudine.”
For an instant, her stomach pitched in fear. Would her stalker be out there, watching from one of the booths? Would he be bold enough to hurt her in front of everyone, thinking to catch her off guard with a public attack? Andrei was stationed to one side of the entrance with a full view of the booths. As long as he was here she was safe. She calmed herself with that thought and the thrill that always came before a performance began to beat through her veins.
The white-blue beam of the spot swept to the performer’s entrance. She heard the first notes of the music and stepped into the circle of dazzling light. Her platinum hair, styled in an updo, was cinched with a wide ribbon of black chiffon to match the flowing semitransparent fabric of her floor-length dress. It glowed under the lights.
She wore arm-length kid leather gloves that fit like a second skin and flashy high heels. Parading to the music, she shimmied, pivoted, struck various cheesecake poses. She gave her audience a sinful smile, winked and thrust out her boobs in full burlesque mode, running her hands tantalizingly over her cleavage. Turning her back to the viewers, she wiggled her ass and unhooked the skirt of her gown, tossing it aside. The pleasure and playfulness of the dance gave her extra zing and for a moment she felt as though she could vanquish her unseen enemy by the sheer force of her sensuality.
Only the long tail of chiffon and a tiny thong covered the crease of her bottom. She stepped saucily back into the spotlight, unhitched the tail and bent over so that her buttocks were on full display. With her fingers she spread the plump globes. Approving cries, muffled by the Plexiglas windows came from the booths. They sounded like hockey fans.
She kicked off her high heels, unfastened her stockings from her garters and rolled them down, slowly exposing toned thighs and shapely calves. She picked up the fan from the pink divan and, holding it in front of her with one hand, undid the eyelets of the bustier at her back with the other. She tossed the bustier to the floor, and squeezing her naked breasts together, dipped the fan down, revealing generous nipples glittering with rhinestone pasties. The audience went crazy. Smiling demurely, she grasped one pert breast in her hand, raised it to her mouth, and pushed her pink tongue against the pasty. Then, to the delight of the customers, she fanned herself as if she were too overheated to continue. She pranced around a little longer, making sure that each booth occupant got a good look at her full tits and her round tush in the tiny black thong. She returned once more to center stage, where she reclined languorously on the divan, giving herself a spray with the perfume. Every move had a comic edge but she knew the men in the audience weren’t laughing. She felt their breath halt, their eyes on her—and savored every moment of it.
Her act was building up now and she slowed the pace even more to prolong the thrill. She gave a great show of tugging her gloves off with her teeth, one finger at a time. Then rolling on her stomach, breasts grazing the fabric of the divan, she slapped each ass cheek with the gloves. She rolled over onto her back
and into a sitting position, her pussy concealed by only the narrowest slip of material. Slowly, slowly, in time to the crash of cymbals and a thudding drumbeat, she slipped a finger underneath the thong and pulled the material aside to show that which had been hidden. She then pulled it down over her mound, drew her knees up to her chest and kicked her legs like a Rockette, flinging the thong onto the stage floor. Her labia puffed out between her taut thighs; she licked a finger and spread her nether lips, granting a full view of her sex. Applause thundered from the booths. Their adulation emboldened her; a flush of triumph warmed her cheeks. With her legs spread wide, she stroked herself wantonly with one hand and blew kisses to each booth with the other, then delicately hopped to her feet, bowed deeply and disappeared behind the curtain.
Andrei waited for her just out of sight backstage.
“How was I?”
“Fabulous as always.”
“Any psychos out there?”
“Not on my watch.” He grinned.
Lillian waited nearby with a big fluffy white towel. She rubbed her down to remove the sweat beading her skin. “They loved you,” Lillian said proudly. “You were electric.”
“Yeah?” Claudine smiled, took a tissue from a box and wiped her forehead. The lights were so hot. It did seem to her that the club patrons’ approval drew out her more salacious instincts.
Lillian helped her change her costume while Tyrell limbered up in the wings. Many of these vignettes used stock comedy themes—doctor and nurse, naughty schoolgirl and teacher, maid and butler. Tonight she’d chosen ringmaster and tiger cat with a role reversal. The music changed to a circus-themed melody.
She entered the circle of light for the second time in a red frock coat with gold piping, tight white pants, spike-heeled patent leather boots and a tiny top hat perched insolently on her head. She backed into the performance area, slashing her whip. Tyrell, in a tiger-striped leotard, long tail and a cap with tiger ears, followed her, prowling. They circled the perimeter of the room, pausing to smile and wink at the unseen VIPs, who laughed and clapped again. She popped the buttons on her frock coat slowly, revealing the inner curves of her breasts, and then thrust back her shoulders, dropping her coat to the floor, baring her full breasts sans pasties. The tight white pants fit her bottom like a glove, and she tipped her hat jauntily to the audience. At the crack of her whip, the tiger jumped on the circus drum placed in the center of the stage and crouched, muscles bulging. She gave him a lascivious smile, shook her finger and leaned into him, jiggling her breasts. She squeezed them together, and the tiger took both of her nipples into his mouth, sucking them greedily.
Another crack of the whip and the tiger obeyed her order to strip. He peeled off his leotard, revealing a thong suspended by small straps over each shoulder, the kind of getup a 1920s wrestler would wear—or Borat. She could barely hold back a laugh. He looked adorable and ridiculous. Once more the VIPs tittered in their private booths. Claudine pulled back and put a hand to her mouth in mock horror, turned away from her partner, then bowed and doffed her hat to the audience again.
The tiger, seeing his opportunity, lunged for her. He clutched her narrow waist, tumbling with her to the floor. He managed to unzip her tight white pants and pull them off, revealing red satin briefs. He stroked her through the satin until
she slapped her whip on the floor, jumped to her feet and raised her right leg to give him a mock push in the chest with the heel of her big black boot. The tiger pretended to cower and shake. She ordered him to take off his thong.
He obeyed and stood before her, abs flexing with his breath, covered in a sheen of sweat. His cock was hard and fully extended. She patted it as one would a favored pet then pushed him to the floor. She turned to the audience again and slowly bent at the waist, rolling down her panties, swaying her hips as she did so. Someone in a booth whistled; she rewarded the whistler with a smile and a bob of her head.
She stalked around the tiger, naked but for her black boots and tiny top hat, cracking her whip. Then she planted both boots on either side of his head and squatted over his face, teasing him and bouncing her breasts. She straightened up, took two big steps to straddle his hips and lowered her herself onto his erect cock. The tiger roared. Except for a few intakes of breath, the booths went completely silent. Her partner’s hips jerked and she matched him stroke for stroke, her breasts bouncing with his thrusts, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. After a moment or two Claudine stroked herself, simulated her orgasm and with a dramatic wink, doffed her jaunty cap once more to the audience. With a final crack of her whip the music stopped and the lights dimmed. Audience applause was muffled by the Plexiglas screens but she could still hear the cheers. Doors banged as customers exited the booths.
Tyrell flashed a smile. “Amazing, actually getting paid to do that.”
“Thought you’d be used to it by now.” She laughed.
“No. This is my first time . . . in public. Strictly an amateur.” He pulled off the cat ears. “These ears look kind of silly, don’t they?”
She tousled his bronze curls and smiled at him. “Not at all. They’re cute. You’d best be off, though. I have another performance scheduled. It’s a private show. A two on one. The master of ceremonies is bringing them here in just a moment.”
The screen to one of the booths slid back, and before she understood what was happening, Andrei barred the entrance to the stage. But it was a woman who walked out, not a man. A tall, sharp-faced brunette. The woman had pale skin, long lacquered red nails and bright vermillion lipstick that emphasized her wide mouth. Otherwise, she was entirely naked except for a stiff nine-inch strap-on dildo.
“I’m the other half.” She smirked at Andrei. “His better half, I guess you could say,” she said, indicating Tyrell.
Andrei nodded at Claudine and backed away discreetly.
“You’ve probably cooled down by now but we’ll get you heated up in no time.” She gave Claudine a long critical look. “You have a sensational body. The description didn’t do you justice.”