She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 04

As she turned her head to me, I leaned in and kissed her on the lips. A little tongue. My tongue darted past her lips, and pressed hers. Her tongue pressed back, her jaw automatically working against mine. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, and then open.

"Hey! That's not on the menu..." she saw me. "Tyler!"

She leaned in and gave me a bigger kiss.

"What a surprise! What are you doing here?" She added, in a whisper, "Call me 'Perky', okay?"

"I just wanted to see the most beautiful girl in the world!" I slid my hands across the formica table top, where they innocently brushed against her down-hanging breasts. She knew what I was doing, and gave a wicked little smile as my fingers found her nipples. I pinched and massaged them into hardness.

"Nowthere's a compliment," she smiled, her teeth gleeming. "So much nicer than all these sex addicts."

I whispered, "Spread your legs a little more when you lean over. Go ahead."

"Okay," she said. Her feet went about six inches more apart. Leaned over like that, her ass was as high as her shoulders, the supple arch of her spine swaying like a bridge. The table next to us had three trucker types who were sending startled, hungry glances at her ass.

"I missed you," I said, my fingers playing with her nipples. I'm almost sure nobody noticed me doing it, especially with her ass in the air. "I didn't feel like going to work on time. I want to be your full-time manager. Someday."

"I was thinking about that too!" she said. "I mean, if we ever start making money. You should get a salary first. So you can quit your job -- if you want to."

"Ido," I said. "It's so boring." As I said it, I realized it was true. Ali was spoiling me for a normal 9-5 existence.

"Good. I mean, all the guys in the band have their own jobs. And I'm taken care of. So any money can go to you. And you deserve a raise."

"You're the best," I said, kissing her again. She returned it lustily. "How did your window thing go this morning?"

"The usual," she shrugged. "I'll tell you later. I think I'm ready for phase two, if there is one. What's the next step in getting rid of stage fright?"

She was the sweetest. She had her ass two feet from a table full of truckers; she'd just been groped by a mountainous man named Hal; she'd just had an old guy spurt cum between her legs in front of an open window. She was wondering about how best to get rid of stage fright.

"We'll start soon," I promised. "But it involves the streets of New York, and a photographer."

Her face lit up. She squealed with excitement. "You finally got a photographer? Youare a kick-ass manager!"

The problem of a photographer had loomed into something large in her mind. Expensive, difficult to attain. This was somewhat my fault, since I was taking it so seriously. For the kind of involved image-making I wanted, we would require not just a camera, but a good photographer and the photographer's ongoing effort to make gripping images.

We needed Ali's face and body on posters, flyers, business cards. Head shots to distribute to bars and clubs. Body shots for promoters. Artsy shots for demo CDs. I, personally, also the kind of pictures that would come back to haunt an established young singer. And sell concert tickets.

"How much is it going to cost?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I worked a deal. I found a guy who runs a website. He posts pictures of cute girls on the street in New York. Well, he wants more traffic, and we need pictures. So you're going to do some series. The pictures will belong to you, but he can put them on the website. It's all free!"

She was smiling hugely. "You make it sound too easy!"

"It won't be. I had to tell him you really needed his help." I hadn't beenforced to tell him. I just threw that in to make the proposition more interesting for him. "You can't complain about anything."

"Ido need his help. And when was the last time I complained about anything?"

"I can't remember," I kissed her again. "You're much too serious about this to complain, anyway."

"I sure am!" She looked thoughtful. "What would I complain about?"

This was the tough part. It involved ths sort of pictures the photographer wanted to take. "Let's just say this. If you're lucky, you might get arrested for indecent exposure."

"Oooh!" she said. "That would cause a buzz, right? Career-maker!"

I shook my head in awe. Her enthusiasmwas infectious. Perhaps thatwas the reason for her gigantic income in tips at the diner.

"The first shoot is this weekend," I told her. "I'll pick you up. He'll bring the clothes. Just don't wear anything tight -- he doesn't want strap-lines showing on your skin. It's an 'on the street' shoot. We'll find places for you to switch outfits."

"Okay," she said. "I'm excited about this. Finally we're getting pictures!"

"Me too. Now I have to go. Be a good little waitress."

"I will."

I stood. In a jokey voice, I whispered, "Don't be too hard on the men if they grab your ass. They can't help it. You're to die for."

"More compliments! You're in a good mood today." She gave a sweet smile. "I hardly notice the ass-stuff anymore."

"In that case, don't be too hard on them if they grab your tits," I joked. I patted the side of her breast. Her nipples were achingly hard, pointing through the fabric at the ceiling. She had the attention of every red-blooded man nearby.

"Tyler!" she giggled, shying away. "I already told you. Beingnice gets the tips, the other stuff doesn't matter. People likeme. I'll bet you there's no change at all in the tips."

"I accept that bet," I said. "I want a full report later."

"You'll see," she said. "I won't do anything when people grab my chest. In fact, I'll make it easy for them. There will be no change in what I earn."

"Then you can do it just for fun," I smirked.

Ali finally turned away and dropped her order pad on the table with the truckers. She leaned over into them, her high ass sticking out. With the truckers watching, I brushed past her towards the exit, letting one hand trail over her ass. She really didn't notice.

I left her to her work, and went to my own place of employment. My boring, clean, de-sexed workplace. How I was hating it.

* * * * *

For the next gig, Ali wore the choker, boots, ripped jeans, and a distressed muscle-shirt.

The band went up first, tuned, launched the first song. I held her tightly off to the side, to keep her from running up too early. My arms were crossed over her chest, with my fists pressing into the pillows of her breasts. With my thumb and forefinger, I was surreptitiously pinching her nipples, teasing them to stiffness. I don't think anybody noticed; Ali certainly didn't. She was too nervous and engrossed in the start of the performance.

We were reaching her queue. I whispered in her ear, "You're a star."

Then I released her. She jumped onstage quickly, and started singing. No talking, no hemming and hawing, no explanations. Just her going on stage and performing. Right away, it seemed like she owned the stage.

It was a small, hot bar on a hot New York night. The lights were bright. She was sweating almost immediately. Perspiration glittered on her face, neck, arms and chest. She was also still nervous and largely pale -- a glorious blush rose from her breasts, climbing her neck. Her nipples were hard, dark knots beneath the white fabric. They cast their own shadows; you could see them from the side.

Her voice, however, was rock-solid. She leaned into the mike, and growled: "I got me an itch." Bam! Wah-wah -- the guitar exploded into a deeply distorted riff. "I got me an itch, fuck."

We'd switched from sweet pop-style melodies to harder, grungier, more angsty stuff. The words didn't matter -- just her delivery of them. The message was not the lyrics, it was the messenger.

"I got a twitch, got me an itch / I need a switch."

So it wasn't Milton. But the audience was hushed, staring at her. I remembered the cat-calls and jeers from her earlier gigs, and nodded to myself. This was much better.

She was still plucking at her clothing. She didn't really move with the music yet, so during her downtime she often just stood there, staring into the smoke-obscured audience. I'd warned her not to touch her jeans, and so, according to my nefarious intentions, she futzed exclusively with her top. Her fingers were wrapped in the fabric, pulling it up over her stomach, tightening it over her chest. The more it moved, the more sweat it picked up.

Over the next two songs, we watched as her shirt faded into transparency. Her persona was firm. Here, obviously, was a woman who didn't care about anything except the music. Here was a committed artist who went onstage wearing grungy (but ultimately sexy) clothes, who didn't care about her (sexy) appearance. She could barely be kept from delivering her music.

When she did speak between songs, it was restrained -- andscripted. "Look at all the beautiful people out there. Mmmm!" Her tone was not friendly, but people cheered back. "I'm supposed to ask for some groupies for the band." More cheers. "But I have to say to a few of the ladies: I think I dig your boyfriends." Big cheers.

They launched the next song, Make Me Happy. The band members -- not Raff, but the older ones, from before -- wore baffled and pleased expressions. They weren't used to positive regard from Ali's audiences. Call me cynical, but I was mostly pleased because this would make it easier for me to tell them what to do.

Also new were the people clustered around the stage. The stage was small, and only two feet tall. I'd told her to stick close to the edge. It gave the band more room to jump around, and it made her seem like she was giving herself to the audience more. So she was often only two feet away from a cluster of men and women, who were eye-level with her tits.

People were reaching out to touch her jeans. As the set continued, some of the hands just rested on her calves and boots. The audience was indeed picking up on the vibe that she was there forthem. And when she bent at the waist, to belt out a refrain, they jostled for the commanding view down her front. Ali, concentrating on "projecting to the back of the room," ignored all this.

I liked Ali's top -- who wouldn't? It was tight over the chest and stomach, but with little stress-holes in the seams, like old underwear.

But I was most proud of the jeans. I'd bought them used, and had spent way too much time making them more used with scissors and a wire-haired brush. They were now faded and abused. One of the ass-pockets was missing, leaving a darker square. There were thread-lined holes in the back, at the bottom of her ass, as well as over her knees. Everywhere it was tight, it was threadbare and rife with little holes. I'd cut out both of the front pockets, so the pocket holes were patches of skin on either side of the fly. I'd taken a pair of pliers to the fly, pulling off the zipper lock so she could no longer zip up. There was the button closing the fly at the waistline, but the fly itself yawned like a sideways mouth when she moved. For the observant, she was wearing little flower-print panties, lined with lace -- a jarring and girly change from the rest of her look.

By the end of the set, she had the mike back in the stand. She was twisting the bottom of her shirt, wringing out a stream of sweat. This was a little improvisation from her -- I'd only told her make an issue of the sweat if she perspired. Get people to notice it -- so they'd know she was working hard onstage for them.

But as she twisted the cloth, the droplets fell, glinting the light. Of course it stretched the straps over her shoulders even more. Hands were extended to catch the sweat. She noticed, finally, and gave a surprised, low laugh. It was so sexy I could've died. She bent at the waist to peer over her chest at the small forest of hands on her calves.

"You want my pants, huh?" she asked. "What about the shirt?" She held the hem out to them, causing it to slide up her belly.

The crowd was making a lot of noise. Hands reached up towards her. She gave them her arm, clasping hands, slapping high-fives, people's fingers crawling up her forearm.

"Fuck it's hot in here," she said. "Right?" She flipped the hem of her shirt, a manipulative smile coming to her lips as the crowd yelled. She left the hem of the shirt bunched over her ribs. She swiped her hand across her belly, and flicked the sweat at the crowd. They didn't seem to mind.

The swearing was my invention, the shirt-flip-up was all her.

Someone yelled something to her. She sneered down at the man. "If I take it off, everybody has to take it off."

Big cheers.

"You want it off?" She plucked at the strap of her tank-top. "Really? Really? Would you mind? Will it make you respect me? I'll doanything for you to respect me."

She was, amazingly, uncharacteristically, having fun playing the audience. It was fun to watch. After everything, I hadn't really expected any showmanship from her. Her band was watching her with big, shit-eating grins.

"I'm just kidding," Ali said, the mike at her mouth. "I only strip during rehearsals. Ha. I save it all for my boys."

As she walked the edge of the stage, her free hand playing with the crowd's hands, she gave the names of the band members. "And me, I'm Ali Katz. No joke. Keep an eye out for us in the local bars."

They launched into their last song, the raunch set-closer. It was called 'Naked In A Window'. I'm proud to say I wrote it. It didn't last long in their repetoir, mostly because I'm no musician, but you can still find bootlegs of it online. People still find it shocking. I'd only meant it to help build her stage persona, and so for a while it was the most valuable song she had. I'd cribbed the lyrics from a porn story I'd read once.

Three days in the city,
I feel like a girl who is letting go.
I'm in the window, naked in the window.
Everybody who ever wanted to be inside me
Since I got breasts, since I got my chest
Everybody who ever looked at me:
All ya'll, I'm gonna fuck you,
Gonna suck you, gonna luck you.
You're inside of me
But I'm all around you.
I'm gonna own you.
Or something like that.

Ali shouted, "Thank you!"

She jumped off stage, and tried to head towards me. No luck. She was surrounded, everybody talking to her at once. I motioned for her to stay there, have fun. She deserved adulation. Words couldn't express how relieved and proud I was. For all she'd sucked as a performer before, it was really something to see her do a solid set. She'd aced it. Her and the band. The audience hadbelieved it. My little Ali.

I went to the bar and ordered two shots and a tall dark beer. I felt I'd earnedthat. The manager came up beside me, and waved away my money.

"When is Ali coming back to us?" he asked.

"What is Ali earning tonight?" I returned. I wasn't being a businessman, I'd really forgotten.

"Not much," he confessed. "We'll double it next time around."

Too easy. "If you double it tonight, we can pick some dates right now."

He paused, considering. I didn't know the business. I didn't know if post-show negotiations were common -- I suspected they weren't. After all, he'd promised some money, and received his service. But, in his mind, he was weighing future income against present expense.

"We can do that," he said. "But you have to be flexible on a slow night. Or if she tanks the next one."

"Sounds like we're both gamblers," I said. We shook hands on it. As he peeled bills from his wad of door receipts, he named dates and I wrote them down on a napkin. Truth be told, our schedule was very open at that point.

After settling with the manager and finishing my drinks, I returned to the stage. The band was breaking down the equipment even as the next band was setting up. Ali was nowhere to be found.

"She's not helping," said Raff without malice. "I think she's still working the crowd."

I found Ali still still surrounded in a corner of the bar. Someone had bought her a beer, which she was sipping. Her admirers were all guys -- I would've been surprised if they hadn't been. They were all still talking at the same time.

I came up behind her and slid my hand around her waist, displacing a few hands. She had her beer at her lips, and a small smile. Her other hand was being held, and the arm had no less than three hands on it.

I kissed her cheek, "You were wonderful."

She didn't answer, but only leaned back against me. With my chin on her shoulder, I had her eye-view of the other guys. Hungry, jangled expressions, eyes that danced all over her, from her face to her chest. Her shirt was still pulled high on her stomach, with one strap of the tank-top sliding down her arm.

"You were so hot up there," one guy said.

"Thank you," she answered.

The words came fast, from every direction. "You're such a babe."

"I love your slutty attitude."

"Thank you," she said.

"You have a rack. You werebuilt for see-through shirts."

"I just want to grab your tits right now."

"Thank you," she said again.

I doubted she was even hearing what they were saying.

"Do you really strip for your band?"

"Do you assfuck?"

She giggled, and took a sip of beer. "Thank you."

"You could be a porn star."

"Thank you. I had a lot of fun."

We had to get going. The sweat from Ali's shirt was soaking through to my chest. Her high ass, pressed against my dong, was making things even harder for me.

In a clear voice, I announced, "Sorry guys. We have to get going. Keep an eye out for us next week."

"Shit, don't take her away!" one guy squawked.

Just to fuck with them, I moved my hands to Ali's chest. I grabbed her by her tits, and pulled her backwards out of the clump. Her nipples were two firey points in the palms of my hands. Ali passed her half-drunk beer to one of the guys, and permitted me to walk her out of the bar.

Outside, the guys were loading the van. I was too horny to care about them. I turned her around and pressed her against the van. The sounds of the street hummed in my ears -- the cars, the clatter of heels on the pavement as people passed by.

My hands clawed at her tits -- I'd wanted to do that all night, since I saw her take the stage. My mouth was on hers, pressed hard on her lips. She returned my tonguing with heavy, groaning lust. Her mouth was extremely wet.

I heard the van door close, and noticed that the band had gathered around us. I pulled back, strings of saliva snapping between our mouths. I forced my hands to drop from her chest.

We stood there for a moment before I spoke, watching her. Her mouth was open, her tongue over her bottom teeth. Her eyes were glazed, she was breathing heavily through her mouth. Her chest, beneath the distended and very mussed shirt, heaved at us, the dark brown circles of her aureoles looked brown and not pink in the streetlights.

I gave them their cut of the money.

"Good pay," said Raff.

"You think that's good? You think we're selling her for enough money?" I paused. "Well I don't. And neither did the manager."

I gave them their bonus. Everybody had twice the cash they expected.

"Guys, we're selling dreams," I said. "We're selling sex. Look at her. We're selling Ali. Every night on stage, we're selling her to the crowd."

We looked at her. She was licking her lips, making small "Mnn-mnn-mnn" sounds.

"We made money tonight because she was up there, shaking her tits and ass, and singing her heart out." I looked at them, and they were solemnly looking at Ali. They were taking it seriously. The success of the gig, and the adoring crowd -- it had been a quasi-religious experience for them. They were primed for a sermon. "Does anybody really believe this isnot her band?"