Amorous Goods: The Music Box

(Author's Foreword: Decades ago (on alt.sex.stories.mod, accessed via a gateway on the BatBoard -- long distance - through anon.penet.fi) I published a story involving the TV program Friday the 13th: The Series. It ran in the late 1980s, and was B-movie TV at its best. I've long since lost the 5 ¼" floppy drive my very different story was stashed on -- and how would I access it, anyway? My thanks to jaF0 on Literotica for giving this world birth. Respecting the original copyrights, he's changed the names of the lead characters and other plot bits. And now, back into retirement. Dotage is vastly underrated.)

/Prologue:

A lifelong collector of goods and objects from far and wide has passed and left the entire collection and the business built around them to his only remaining relative, a distant niece on a career path of her own as an archivist. Vikki has taken on the task of administering the estate and liquidating the business and collection. However, she has come to find out that many of the goods have been cursed or enchanted with amorous powers that affect those who encounter them. These are the stories of some of those encounters with objects found at Amorous Goods./

It'd been the busiest day at Amorous Goods since they'd taken over. The Saturday, a full month before Halloween, had been profitable, but insanely hectic. Dylan's feet ached, his back hurt, and his head still throbbed from last night's hangover. He'd been behind the cash register, without a break, since his tardy arrival at 10:30 that morning to an already jam-packed store. His late appearance had set Vikki off, and she hadn't spoken to her cousin all day. Their only interactions and been her staring daggers at him, and he trying vainly to placate her wrath.

*

Mary Stanley frowned as she placed the brown bakelite object back on the shelf. It wasn't much to look at -- a five-sided vertical cylinder, about four inches tall, with a button on its gabled top, mounted on a slightly larger base. It was adorned only with pinstriped gold panels. The button depressed, like a switch, but nothing happened. She hadn't realized it was a music box until she'd turned it over. On the bottom, a winding key and an inscription engraved in tiny type; "To Gypsy Rose Lee, From Her Darkest Fan." The name sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe somebody famous. She immediately Googled it. "Holy cow," she whispered, "burlesque entertainer . . . stripper! I have to have this, even if it is broken!" She stroked it with slender fingers tipped with chewed nails.

The tag read NFS -- not for sale -- along with what seemed to be an inventory number. She visibly sank into herself. That figures, she thought bitterly. That's the story of my life. Something amazing comes along, and I can't have it. Graduation day: the girl just ahead of her in the class rankings had gotten a full scholarship to the University, she'd gotten the scraps - barely enough for tuition and books at a community college. The wallet she'd seen in the gutter: her so called friend Paul grabbed it before she could, and made himself an instant $427. And on and on and on. Poor girl. Poor life.

She glanced around the, crowded, odd shop, cringing slightly at the sight of some of the disturbing, nearly lewd objects on display. An antique boned corset with an absurdly tiny waist posed on a dress form. A huge hookah with a leering demon-faced bowl lurked beside a counter. The place made her feel nervous, soiled somehow. She wet her dry lips. She just /had/ to have the strange music box. It absolutely /belonged/ in her collection.

No one was watching. Who'd ever noticed the mouse girl, anyway? Mouse brown hair. Mouse brown eyes. Mouse brown personality. Mary gritted her teeth. Not this time.

It was easy -- and thrilling - to surreptitiously slip the tag from the primitive painted wooden buddha and switch it for the one reading NFS on her music box. It's not really stealing, she reasoned. After all, it's broken, and I'm giving them twenty dollars for it. My last twenty dollars, at that. Nothing but ramen for the rest of the month.

Still, it was incredibly nerve-wracking to approach the beleaguered, red-eyed clerk, wait as he scrawled "Music box, $20," into the old-fashioned ledger, and bag up her purchase. He was really good looking, but his blood-shot eyes raked over, then dismissed her. Like someone as hot as he is would ever give her a second glance. He liked bad girls, not girls like herself.

She shivered, a mixture of fear and excitement. In her entire nineteen years, she'd never done anything remotely like this. Like stealing. She'd always been the good girl, doing all the right things for no reward. She marched as innocently as she knew how from the shop. She fought back a giggle and whispered to no one, "He doesn't know how bad I really am."

As she waited for the bus, she returned to her internet search. "Oh, my'" she muttered to herself, as she read the scandalous woman's Wikipedia biography, over and over. "What a wicked woman."

But that just made the strange box more valuable, didn't it? Gypsy had been famous. Controversial. Independent. Successful. A bad girl made good. Pleased with herself, titillated by her own uncharacteristic wickedness, she nearly skipped off the bus to her dingy little off-campus apartment. Well, efficiency apartment, really. Or, most accurately, a bedroom, with tiny sink, hot-plate, microwave, mini-fridge, and a shared bathroom down the hall. It was the best a poor student could do.

*

They'd locked up at 7 pm, and Vikki had grunted approval when Dylan had timidly offered to venture out for pizza while she closed out the till. As he re-entered with the food a half and hour later, she stood from behind the counter, ashen faced. "You idiot," she screamed. "You fucking idiot! You sold the music box!"

He took a half-step back. "The what?"

"The cursed one, fucktard! Gypsy's music box!"

*

There was room for a single bed, a battered vintage waterfall-style vanity, a wobbly kitchen table with chipped ceramic top, and two mis-matched chairs. Stuffed into a corner was a ratty but cozy overstuffed chair. The walls were lined with uncertain shelving bearing text books and an array of music boxes. Twirling ballerinas and skaters and ballroom dancers, small jewelry boxes, even a couple of musical toys -- favorites from her collection brought to college. She gently placed her newest prize on the vanity and propped herself on one elbow on the sagging bed.

"Too bad you don't work," she told it, reaching over to tap the button on top. She nearly shrieked when the device started playing a tinny but catchy tune she thought she'd heard before. The top cylinder rotated and astonishingly began to unfold like an pentagonal plastic flower. All five panels opened and reversed as they re-closed, revealing an empty half-moon shaped pocket on what had been the inside of each. "What in the world?"

Mary sat up and leaned closer, catching a faint, vaguely familiar smell she couldn't quite place. She inhaled with closed eyes. The scent reminded her of her glamorous and scandalous great aunt Hattie. Perfume and . . . smoke. Cigarette smoke. Hattie'd been the black sheep and the only smoker in her family. Mary opened her eyes wide. "A musical cigarette box. How weird." After a ten second pause, the music repeated itself as the box returned to its closed position. Mary giggled and tapped the button again, enthralled, breathing deeply of the faintly pleasant smell.

She flopped onto her back and pulled up her phone, her thumbs tapping out another search. She ended up watching the 1962 version of the movie /Gypsy/ until she fell asleep. When the song "Let Me Entertain You" began, she drowsily recognized it as the tune her new box played. She fell deep into sleep with the ditty running endlessly through her head.

*

"Why was it on the shelf anyway?" Dylan groused. "Everything cursed is supposed to already be in the vault."

"It didn't work, I labeled it NFS, and there no more room in the damned vault," Vikki spat at him. When he cringed, she reined in her anger, ran her fingers through her long red hair. "Sorry I got so upset. It's been a long day."

"Well," Dylan shrugged, "If it's broken, it's probably harmless."

"Let's hope so. No idea who carried it off?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No." He thought for a moment. "Well, maybe. There was this one girl who was acting kinda strange. Guilty, maybe."

"What did she look like?" Vikki smirked. "If it was a female, I know you paid attention."

He tried to look offended. "Just a college kid. Not gorgeous, not ugly. Brown hair, pony tail out the back of a ball cap. Baggy clothes." He hurried on. "But whoever it was paid cash, so we can't track a credit card." He walked to the empty spot where the box had been. "Look. The buddha has an NFS tag now. It's been switched."

Vikki wailed theatrically. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Dylan nodded. "I wish I didn't."

*

Mary awoke groggy. She felt almost hungover, as best as she could imagine, never having consumed alcohol. Her head throbbed. Her throat felt scratchy. Had she slept at all, she wondered? The sun was up. Her bleary eyes informed her that it was too late to make it to her earliest class. Might as well go back to sleep and hope she felt better when she woke up. With a crooked smile, she tapped the top of the music box again, breathed in the comforting, faint scent, and whispered along with the chimes, "Let me entertain you . . ."

It was after noon before she woke up again. She'd been dreaming, she thought. About what? Dancing? She could almost hear faint echoes of the music box. She was laying on her belly. One hand was in her panties, one cupped over a breast. Her vagina was very moist, her nipple very hard. She moaned and humped her hand, squeezing her tit, until she realized what she was doing. She awkwardly rolled onto her back.

"Wow," she groaned, stretching. "What's gotten into me?" The hand that'd been in her panties came near her face, and she smelled herself. "Well," she grinned shyly, "other than that." She wiggled happily, feeling much better, and reached up and tapped the top of her new toy. She hummed along, eyes rapt upon the unfolding box. Her eyes widened as it fell silent. One compartment wasn't empty any longer. A short, slightly yellowed paper cylinder jutted up. A cigarette. "What the . . ." Mary murmured. The box replayed its tuned, and closed.

"No way," Mary breathed. Her fingers hesitated above the switch. "Nah. Too weird. Still dreaming. I need coffee. Got to get to class." But caffeine and a shower didn't seem to affect the daze she was walking around in. Her gaze seemed irresistibly drawn to her vanity. She had to fight the urge to push the button on Gypsy's box. She decided that she didn't want to know if she'd imagined that last pirouette of the doors or not. She almost had to force herself to go to her last class of the day.

By the time she got home, she was a nervous wreck. She been increasingly antsy during her anthropology lecture, hardly able to sit still, much less absorb whatever the prof had been droning on and on about. Slamming and locking her door behind her was a relief. Mary tossed her backpack at the big chair and drifted to her vanity. She depressed the switch, and danced along with the opening bars of her new favorite song. When it fell silent, she hazarded a glance its way. It was still there. The cigarette was really there. The tune re-played as the doors closed.

She crept toward the plain brown box like she was entering a lion's den. Her nostrils flared at the faint left-over of its enticing aroma. She licked her dry lips. She gingerly reached out, barely stroked the button when the device surged to life. The music filled her. Enthralled, she stared down. The stubby cigarette in one compartment. A vintage box of matches in another.

The smell was stronger now. The soundtrack of Natalie Wood singing,

"Let me entertain you

Let me make you smile

Let me do a few tricks

Some old and then some new tricks

I'm very versatile

And if you're real good

I'll make you feel good

I'd want your spirit to climb

So let me entertain you

We'll have a real good time

Yes sir

We'll have

A real good time . . ."

She became dizzy. The room swirled around her as she danced in a way she'd never danced before. Hips rolling and thrusting. Breasts bouncing. She imagined she was on a stage, dancing and peeling her clothes as an invisible audience clapped and cheered. "So naughty," she heard herself groan. She saw her fingers reach for the aged tobacco, lift the box of matches. Lucky Strike, she dimly read as she brought it to her lips. "I don't smoke. I've never smoked anything." she murmured as she struck a match and brought it to the tip of the cigarette, took a hard drag, and inhaled deeply.

"Ah," she breathed, exhaling luxuriously. "Naughty. I'm such a dirty girl."

She erotically, teasingly, peeled out of her sweatshirt, then, pausing to flirt with appreciative fans as she smoked, wriggled out of her jeans. Dropping the spent cigarette in her coffee cup, she tapped the button again, kept dancing as the music played and the doors pivoted open. Every pocket held a Lucky. She nimbly picked out another and torched it with a match. She activated it again. Each panel now held two cigs. Inspired, she swayed to the music in her head as she did another search. There were dozens of gentlemen's clubs listed. She could be bad. She could be rich. She could be famous.

*

Three weeks later, Dylan lifted his third brew off the bar and swung around to gaze at the dancers. It wasn't that he frequented places like this regularly, he thought. But, when times are tough . . . He swilled the amber fluid and admired the slinky, writhing, naked brunette on the center stage, trying to get his mind off Vikki. /Wiggles/ wasn't the classiest club in town, but it wasn't the shabbiest he'd ever seen, either. It was just downscale enough that sometimes the dancers would go the extra mile for a reasonable reward. And, after being around his cousin all week, he felt in need of a reward himself.

Rose had finished her set an hour before, worked the floor, and enticed a well dressed business-type for private, VIP dances. She'd just tucked the wad of twenties into her purse, emerged from the VIP area and lifted a Lucky Strike from her flat sterling silver case when she noticed him at the bar. "No fucking way," she breathed, laughing as she lit up. She dangled the smoke between freshly repainted red lips and fluffed her bleached platinum blonde hair with curving scarlet nails. She stared at him through narrowed, thickly lashed eyes. No doubt about it. He was the guy from the shop where she'd gotten the music box that changed her life.

"I shouldn't. There's a chance he'd might recognize me." She caught a reflection of herself in one of the club's ever-present mirrors. "Nah. This's too good to pass up. No fucking way he'd confuse that mouse who ripped him off with this hot cunt." Her own mother wouldn't recognize her, she knew, and, if she did, she'd run away screaming, calling her Whore of Babylon or some such shit.

She made her way slowly, flirted with several customers, letting herself be groped, teasingly extracting herself from more than one lap, and sidled up to the handsome clerk. "Hey, baby, want a private dance?"

His eyes roved over her swollen nippled breasts, offered as much as hidden in a skimpy black lace bra, down over her tight abdomen. Her navel piercing sported a dangling ballerina. Her shapely hips were cradled in low cut, skin tight black boy shorts and featured a prominent camel-toe. Below tanned thighs were fishnet stockings above towering stiletto heels. His gaze slowly traveled all the way back up to her angular, exotically made up face. She smiled and posed as he inspected her, and blew smoke over his head.

She was stunning, in an obvious way. He cleared his throat. "How much?"

She stepped close enough for him to smell her unique scent, feel the heat radiating from her openly displayed, hard body. She whispered smokily into his ear. "That depends on what you want, baby. Come on. Let me entertain you."

Dylan let himself be led to the VIP area, wondering where he'd seen this ungodly hot stripper before. By the time he staggered out an hour later, sexually sated and dead broke, he didn't care any more.