She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 03

"Stop talking so much. Just shut up," I said, experimentally.

She looked up at me, flushing suddenly. "That brings back memories," she giggled.

"It was just something I wanted to say."

"Thas okay, honey," she said. "Wanna know a secret?"

"A secret? Sure." I was penetrating her with long, slow strokes. Not that she seemed to notice.

"Ya wanna turn me on like a lightswitch? Just call me dumb. Call me stupid. Like, 'Shut up ya stupid bitch an' put my cock in yer mouth!'" She shouted that last part. "They had to shout," she explained, "because the parties were so loud."

I let that last part pass. "It turns you on to be called stupid?"

She nodded, a smile on her lips. She was utterly without guile. "Thas my secret. I know it's dumb. But all my life, it's like, 'Dumbass! Here's a cock,' and 'Stupid! Here's a cock,' and 'Shut up, dammit! Here's a cock.' And, 'She's stupid, dude, go ahead an' stick yer cock in her.'"

"They said all that?" I marveled.

"An' more! But you gotta hear about my secret... I worked it out one day at a study group in college. Everybody was yellin' at me because I wasn't keepin' up. An', I was like, 'Sorry!' And they were all like, 'You stupid bitch we're all gonna fail 'cause you're so stupid!' An', I was like, getting turned on. I was like, cummin' when they were yellin' at me. That was weird."

The understatement of the year.

She had a satisfied smile on her lips. "I stayed with that study group to the end."

"You're amazing," I breathed.

I had a girl, trained by some sick, twisted personal history, into getting horney from being insulted. She had a strong fucking Pavlovian response to being demeaned. Could it get any better?

"Tell me," she said, her eyes lasering up at me.

"Tell you?"

"Don' ya wanna turn me on, baby?" her nails glided down my chest. "Don' ya wanna get me off? I can do some crazy shit to you."

I gathered myself. Viagra couldn't have made me more hard.

"You stupid useless cunt," I told her. "You're too stupid to be used for anything but a cock-hole. If you were any dumber, I could pay to have you installed in a bus-station toilet, you're such a mindless cum-pig."

She froze. And I froze. My mind was backpedalling at a zillion miles an hour. She was going to kill me, wasn't she, now? I'd just stabbed this helpless little kitten through the heart.

"Holy shit," she breathed. Her pussy was flooding with moisture. "You're like, apoet."

* * * * *

The next practice, I told the band about the gig at the bar. I didn't tell them how we'd scored it -- the manager staring down at Ali, her helplessly drunk with her clothes askew.

They were suitably impressed. Unlike her other gigs, this was a pretty good bar. Lots of people. Lots of money, comparatively.

"It's in a week," I said, "so we're going to have to get a move on. Raff, I want you in the band. Will you join us? Officially?"

"Yeah," he said. "I know a good thing when I see it. I'm in."

And that was that.

He slapped high fives with Seth the drummer. Ali gave him a big kiss on the lips.

That night, her "stage uniform" was a small little silk dress that buttoned up the front, and featured one strap over each shoulder tied with a bow.

Our set (actually, one and a half sets, now) was pretty firm, even though all the songs were new. They weren't difficult songs -- no instrumental solos to fuck up, no bridges, no key changes -- and the toughest parts were the vocals. That was fine, because, believe it or not, Ali was the best musician among them. She never screwed up the vocals, ever. It was frankly amazing. Somehow in her confused life, she'd found one of the things where she had superlative talent.

When we changed the words, she always remembered. When we approved of a little vocal twist that she improvised, it stayed in the same place. She was a producer's dream. If I asked, every song we repeated would sound identical. The same couldn't be said of the other musicians, and so their parts were simple and repetitive, difficult to screw up.

It also, unfortunately, gave them a lot of time to focus on Ali's work rather than their own.

We used the glass partition with the sound booth (Max lurking silently within, though he wasn't recording anything) as a reflective surface. We picked apart Ali's performance.

"On the power chords, for the refrain, you should stand with your legs further apart," said Seth.

She tried it -- and it looked good. Like she was belting out the words.

"Yeah, the rocking is good," said Andrew (the bassist).

"I like how the strap falls when you do that," said Seth.

"I can't get it to fall every time," reported Ali, after the next run-through.

"Loosen the strap," I said. "Just one, so it's always falling down your arm."

"I'll always be pulling it up," said Ali. "Or should I?"

"Unless you want to flash the audience," Seth sniggered.

I said, "Ali, just work the pull-ups into your routine, for this dress. I want the clothes to seem like they're flying off you. Raff -- re-tie the strap on her left shoulder. So it's slightly looser than the other." Raff didn't need to be told twice. I wanted to do it myself, but I was sitting.

My whole thing was to give orders while sitting in a chair. That was so people would obey me, and I appeared to be more powerful. Good for obedience.

We evaluated the results. The strap slid much more readily off her shoulders.

"I'm not getting a 'wow' from that," said Andrew.

"Maybe I should undo some buttons at the top," said Ali. She plucked them open. The V of her decolletage widened the next time she belted the refrain, rocking. We could see down her chest to the undercurve of her breast.

"You should undo a few at the bottom too," said Andrew. "So it's even."

"Okay," she said.

We watched closely as she bent at the waist and undid the buttons. Her dress ended halfway up her thighs, and the bottom-most buttons started about four inches above that. After the change, the skirt slit stopped at an overstressed button just below her sex. The next time she took a wide stance, the whole magnificent extant of her legs were visible.

"I like how the buttons pull apart when you twist," said Seth.

"I'll work that in," she said.

I gave a little annoyed sigh. We were spending too much time getting Ali to strip for us during practice. The night before, we'd wasted 15 minutes as each of them took turns widening some tears in her t-shirt. Sure, that had been fun to watch, especially as Ali was raising her arms and twisting as she helped. And this button-by-button crap was important, sure, but it was somethingI could do three seconds before a gig. I wanted us to work on our complete stage presence, something more along the lines of a whole band feeling.

"I'm thinking about the audience," I said. They all stopped and listened. "The audience is going to take its queues from the band. About how to look at her. Ali is sexy -- but is she desperately sexy? Comfortably sexy? Casually sexy? The way you guys treat her is going to put the audience at ease."

"How should we treat her?" asked Raff.

I tried to think of the best way to say it. "Like she's fucking you every night, but you're not dating."

"Huh," said Raff. "Like, be casual with her?"

"Exactly," I said. "Like you're casual with her. If you need to touch her, just reach out and touch her. If you want to say something to her, grab her and whisper in her ear. If she hugs you, like between songs, just be comfortable with her. Pat her ass as she goes by. But remember! You're not dating her -- she's not yours. So you still lust after her. Be casual with her, and be in lust with her. Is that clear?"

"What will that make the audience think?" asked Andrew, in all seriousness.

They all waited for my answer, as if I knew anything about audiences.

I said, "It will make her seem casually sexy. Since you guys are so comfortable with her, the audience will be too. Since you guys lust after her, the audience will too. The audience won't be shy about looking at her, which is what we want. Ali isn't sexy, like a stripper up on a platform. She's sexy like your girlfriend's sister, who happens to be a stripper."

I turned to Ali. "Hon, you're going to have to start interacting with the band more. You can't ever notice that they're lusting after you. That will make the audience feel safe that you won't notice them. We're working on something very specific, here."

"What things should I do?" she asked. She was still breathing hard from the last song, and looked very fetching. Her strap was off her shoulder, one leg thrown out. Her chest heaved, and each breath caused the front of the dress to slide incrementally down her breast.

"During the intros, like lean against Raff. Pretend you're giving him instructions, but you're all up against him, whispering in his ear. The audience will imagine you doing that to them. Between songs, talk to Andrew, and flap your dress like you're letting air in. Let the guys pull up your strap sometimes, or pull down your skirt if it gets too high. You must never notice, however, when they are touching you."

"So, we like, act like we own her," said Raff.

"And yet still want her," said Andrew.

"And I get nothing, as the drummer," moaned Seth.

"We'll work something in," I said. "Maybe she can sit in your lap for the start of a song."

"Like she has the hots for me!" he said, excited.

"She has the hots for nobody, while she's on stage. Remember that. You all have the hots for her. She doesn't notice. That's the schtick. Got it?"

*Click.* "Listen to Tyler," said Max suddenly. He was using the microphone to speak into the room. "That's a working schtick. Every band needs one."

"It's like, psychology!" said Ali all at once. "Like stripping naked to get rid of stage fright!"

"That's the idea," I said drily. "Now, do the whole set. From the top. No stops. Ali, say all the words inbetween the songs, like we agreed. I want you guys to look totally different, this time. Like you've been together for like, five years."

Ali nodded studiously as the band got ready. She replaced her strap, smoothed out the silk of her dress over her pneumatic body.

Their next time through, they scored a direct hit. The guys were staring at her as she shimmied around the microphone. They leaned into her as she passed. During an intro, Ali plastered herself against Andrew and pretended to give him in structions, her breasts bobbing against his arm as he plucked his bass. Her between-song words, heavily scripted, were growled with the right carnivorous flare. The V over her breast kept widening and narrowing as the strap fell and was replaced. Her taut thighs, beaded with sweat, slid in and out of the slit of her skirt.

"That's it. That's what we want." I applauded them when they were done. They all had goofy grins. "That's what we try to do for the next week. We should be ready. I think we're done.

* * * * *

Work clothes: Ali had her work outfits for waitressing the diner, carefully orchestrated by me. These were short-shorts, distressed jeans with torn asses, and hip huggers with chopped off beltlines, as well as various weak excuses for tops. I tweaked her waitressing wardrobe over several visits, looking for the most effective combinations. The lower clothes caught people's attention, but it was the tops -- half-shirts, muscle-shirts, torn shirts closed with safety pins, prissy button-ups missing buttons -- it was the tops that raked in the tips. Or it was her smile and her 'perky' demeanour, if you believed her.

Professional clothes: She also had her semi-professional outfits for working at the music studio. These were miniskirts, summer smocks, light dresses that swished up her ass when she walked past. Her tops were airy camisoles, demure white button-ups that would have shown her bra had she still owned any.

During various visits, I saw that Max the manager was keeping her busy. Answering phones, sweeping the floor, setting up take-out dinners on the low coffee table in the lounge (getting ogled by the lusty musicians she was serving). She was also learning more about the control room console, and sitting in on several sessions with different bands. She was applying her perky attitude at the studio, and noticing some success with it. Max, and his clients, were even calling her Perky, and they could have only learned about the nickname from her.

Band clothes: Then, during practice, Ali had her stage clothes. After some discussion, the band had democratically decided that she shouldn't wear tight clothes on stage. If we were emphasizing her sexiness, then the sexiest thing about a woman was thepossibility of seeing her 'stuff.' And tight clothes didn't fit that bill -- women wore tight clothes when they wanted to pretend at being sexy. So: loose, flowing short dresses; strappy, low tops; short mini-skirts; ripped up jeans. We were going for a sex-grunge look, a sort of "I don't care what you see, it's all about the music" look. As for Ali during this discussion, she listened uncritically, taking notes on our suggestions. The next night, she started dressing the part.

All this clothing had to be carried around by Ali in her backpack. She got to be very adept at slipping away to the bathroom, or disappearing around a corner, and returning with a wholly different look and fashion.

At the studio one night, she disappeared into the manager's office wearing a blouse and skirt, and returned wearing a muscle shirt and ultra-mini jeans skirt. I didn't even notice that she'd left -- she certainly hadn't shut the door. She was getting very brave and fast about the changes.

I tried to compliment her, but she just shrugged it off.

"That's nothing. All the clothes are so loose and small, I just flip them off and flip the next one on. It helps, not having to worry about a bra -- I never have to worry that my bra straps are going to show."

"That's interesting," I said. "What about your underwear? Do you have to worry about that showing?"

"Yeah!" she nodded. Here was something she had an opinion about. "So much of my stuff, now, is off the hips. I always have to check to see if the straps are showing, above the belt line. How boring and stupid is that?"

This is what I'd hoped to hear. "Why don't you the same thing to your undies that you did with your bras?"

"I told you, I don't wear any bras. We threw them out, remember?"

"I mean, why don't you go without panties? Wouldn't that be easier?"

The paused for a second, her eyes growing large. "Shit! I didn't think of that!"

"You should try it," I suggested. "It just might work."

"It just might!"

We were in the music studio, waiting for her band to arrive. Max was fiddling around in the control booth, and a small jazz ensemble was breaking down their equipment in the sound stage. Ali was looking around, evaluating.

"Are you going to take them off right now?" I asked, suddenly turned on. "Out here?"

"Well, yes. Why not?" she asked. "Do you think someone will complain?"

"No, honey, I don't think there will be any complaints."

"If you're worried, just stand in front of me for a sec..."

I stepped up next to her, nominally blocking everybody's view, and before I could say anything she was reaching under her miniskirt and pulling down the panties. She held them up, and gave them a disgusted look.

"So long toyou!" She flipped them into the trash can. "I can't say I'll miss them."

I stood for a long, wordless moment. This was a very strange (though sexy) thing I'd seen, and I wanted to savor it. "Ali, you'll still have to wear underwear sometimes, on stage. Some of your outfits were picked to show your panties. Like the short dresses? The ripped jeans?"

"I know," she said. "I'll just have to remember."

"You're good at that," I said, a tinge of sarcasm.

"Thanks!"

"I mean... this mini-skirt you're wearing now. We picked it because it's so short in front. People can look up it while you're singing."

"Oh. I see. Well, I'm not putting my panties back on now, they're in the trash."

She saw my lustful expression, interpreting it as doubt. She squeezed my shoulder. "Don't worry! We're not on stage! It's just the band, Tyler. Jeez. You think they'll care? Naw," she shrugged. "They'll understand if I'm out of uniform forone night. You watch. They won't care. I'll even tell them."

The skirt in question was a narrow band around her lap -- cut off and thready at the top, it hung far below her hips. Cut off and thready at the bottom, it didn't extend much below her ass -- and the buttons up the front featured an inverted V of missing fabric. The band had modified the skirt for use with light-colored panties because, at times, they winked beneath the skirt and contrasted nicely with her ever-tanner legs.

Tonight, if she sat, or crouched, or even walked -- her cunny would flash in and out of sight. She wasn't on show, but the glimpses, in aggregate, would leave none of the band members doubting what they were seeing. The most hilarious (and hot) thing of all was: Ali thought I was worried about her being "out of uniform."

"Okay," I sighed. "If you think it's okay. Maybe you should let the band know, so they can say if they mind. About being out of uniform."

For the past week, we had been so in her business that my request sounded, in fact, entirely rational.

"It's just during practices," she said. "I'll ask them."

"And you should let Harvey know about the underwear decision," I said. "Since he helps you pick your outfits in the morning."

The more people she explained her underwear abstinence to, the more solid the decision would be in her mind. The less likely she would go back on it. I was a spoiled man: I had become too used to her beautiful breasts being just a fold of fabric away, just a glance down her front away. I was digging the whole no-underwear thing.

"I will," she nodded. "I wonder if I should throw them all away. Except for my stage panties, I mean."

"That's your call," I said, hugging her. She was a warm, muscular bundle in my arms. "But I think you should."

She leaned her cheek against my chest. "I like how you trust my judgment."