The Girl in the Green Dress

A flash off to the side distracted me, and I gazed over at where Meghan was straightening up with a gloating smile after she'd stuck her butt in a diner's face for his friend to take a pic of. The unwritten rule was that a selfie with an ass should lead to at least an extra ten percent on the tip, especially with an ass as incredible as Meghan's. I glanced at her as she smiled down at her table, my eye looking hard at her belly to see if there were any signs yet.

Poor Meghan. Pregnancy might destroy that amazing body. Certainly, it would be a long time before I saw her again, if ever. I hoped she'd see the writing on the wall and quit before I had to fire her: if anyone from Southside Wellness came in and saw her showing, it would be my ass on the line.

I tapped in a few table assignments, the waiting area at last thinning out, when I noticed a pair of headlights curving around to the rear parking lot. Excellent. Traci had come at last! For the first time all evening, I started to feel good; we'd get the backlog cleared out in a few minutes. I searched around for the manager on the floor. "Brittany! Traci just showed up. Can you get her prepped and out to the floor as soon as you can?"

She turned to me in a beaded top and a pair of Daisy Dukes not even worthy of being called "clothing," her forearms laden with appetizer plates: Chicken Love-Me-Tenders and Firecrotch Jalapeno Poppers, mostly. "Can't, boss, I'm slammed. Can you do it?"

"Fine," I sighed. "You got this, Kelli." It was not a request, but an order. I strode back past the bar and into the service corridor, the fake hardwood flooring giving way to scuffed linoleum with its usual jarring speed as I headed for the employee lounge. Traci, I knew, would be getting her makeup on as soon as she got inside; she was a fast worker. I barged into the lounge and caught sight of her in the corner by the mirror. "Traci! Fuck, you're a lifesaver, girl!"

I stopped short when I saw what she was wearing.

The dress barely reached past her butt, with about two tempting inches of thigh showing between that and the wide lacy elastic at the top of her stockings. It fit her well, flowy while still showing off what she had, an altogether tasteful and sexy-looking dress. And, of course, it was green.

Fuck.

She was hanging her little cardigan on one of the wall hooks. "You're lucky Kelli called when she did, Tony," she smiled over her shoulder. "I was just about to head out to Jimmy J's with Jennae."

Fuck.

"Double base wage, she said?" She was staring at me in the mirror, that pretty face of hers grinning brightly. Traci was one of our most popular waitresses, a nice mix of sass and ass, and reliability. "That right?"

"Uh, yeah." I frowned, seeing it now: that familiar set about her shoulders. Jennae. Clubbing. Lindberg's stash. Fuck. "Can I see you before you leave tonight, Trace?" I asked, my heart sinking.

"Sure thing," she nodded. She had her arms up, braiding her hair loosely with the hem of that tiny dress rising now to show the lower part of her butt. Goddamn, the girl was fine... "Is it about the party account? The crepe paper?" She hesitated, eyes darting around for a hair scrunchie. "Did Ben tell you I said it would just be easier if I could grab the card number and go buy the shit myself?"

"Uh, yeah," I said again. "Sure. Yeah. We'll talk about that too." She smiled, pulling her dress up over her head with the confidence of a woman who knows she's hot. She wore a matching thong and bra underneath, in black. "We had to put Chelsee on the bar, so that fucked us up. You'll take over her section. The high-tops by the patio door."

"Got it." She spun, back arched slightly. "Good enough?"

I cocked my head, inspecting. The Health Department had a lot to say about how my girls dressed. God knew we were pushing the envelope there, but even at a place whose business model was all about nude asscheeks, there were standards. "Sorry. I can see your nipples through the bra. You'll have to find a shirt." Tragic, to cover up any part of her, but rules were rules. The thong had enough lace to cover her pussy.

Barely.

"No worries." We kept a supply of cut-off restaurant shirts in a basket by the door, and she grabbed the smallest one she could find. Though, naturally, they were all S or XS. "Gives me a place to put my nametag, anyway," she laughed, and then she was sauntering past me with that saucy air so many of the girls had. "See ya."

Leaving me to stare at the green trapeze dress she'd left thrown over a chair.

Fuck.

* * *

The knock at my office door surprised me, but it had been a busy night. I barely even knew what day it was anymore. "Yeah?"

"It's Traci. You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah. Sure." I yawned. She had the dress back on, its wide hem fluttering as she came in. "Shut the door and take a seat."

"Yeah?" Technically, it was against company policy for me to be alone with any of the girls in a room with a closed door, but then that policy was written by people who made their living mostly by running a brothel. So I paid it lip service. She shrugged and took her seat, crossing her legs gracefully.

It was almost one in the morning, so I didn't see a point in beating around the bush. I took a deep breath. "Look, Trace, I'll be blunt. You know I was in trouble before? With the law?"

She blinked. "Sorta? I heard you were in jail. But you weren't guilty."

"Yeah." I waved that aside. "What I'm saying is, I know a lot of people in the police department. And a lot of lawyers. And someone came to me with some information I think you should be aware of."

Her eyebrows rose. "Information?"

"It's about you." I watched her eyes, so tastefully made up. "They've had some kind of drug dealer under surveillance. I think they think some of the girls here are involved, and from what I've been hearing? You and Jennae might be on their radar."

Her reaction was cautious: a slight straightening of her back, eyes alert, mouth a straight line. "Is that so." I nodded. "That's interesting information, Tony. Where'd you get it?"

From a detective who makes me work as a rat in between using my tongue to get off. "Guy on the police force. It's definitely you and Jennae that they have their eye on. They saw you outside Typhoon Shotgun sometime last week, I think."

"Yeah. We go there a lot." She tucked an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. "Do you believe them?"

"Cops are liars," I said at once, "but I thought you should know."

"Yeah. Thanks." She looked cold now, and very grown-up. Almost calculating. "Who's your friend on the police force?" she asked, her lip curling on the word friend.

I paused, thinking, not sure why I shouldn't tell her. "Just a guy. Detective. Italian. Last name is DiMaggio." I took a deep breath. "Just... you and Jennae. It would bother me if you guys got in trouble."

"You'd miss our butts," she nodded.

"I'd have trouble hiring replacements for two such incredible and valuable employees," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "I'll tell Jennae tomorrow."

"Who's the dealer? Did they give you a name? I mean, we know a lot of people casually."

"I didn't ask." I hesitated. "This is Fent. We're not talking about your basic pot bust here. They care about this stuff." When she merely stared, I looked away. "I'll ask my cop guy next time I see him. Who the dealer is."

She nodded, her face relaxing again. "Not a problem, Tony. Thanks. Look, anything else?"

"No." I rubbed at my neck. "Thanks for coming in. You saved our asses."

"Sure thing." She swept to her feet, her smile back. "And the crepe paper? Can I just have the card number, or would you rather go shopping for it?"

I laughed tiredly and took out the corporate plastic. "Just take a pic of the card. You can order online." She nodded, pulling her phone out of her bra and snapping a careful picture. "That's all, Traci. You can go on home." I watched the green dress swishing over the back of her thigh as she whirled out of the office.

Fuck.

3: Juggling my schedule is so hard!

I sighed and closed up my laptop as Melanie did the dishes after dinner on Thursday. "Fuck, babe," I muttered, brandishing my phone, "I have to go back in for a few hours."

"This is your night off." My wife never really took me seriously, not anymore, not since jail. "You can't stay home on your night off?"

I gestured helplessly at the phone. "What can I do? Fire inspector is coming in an hour. They need the General Manager to sign off the paperwork." I shrugged helplessly. "What, you think I actually want to go back in?"

"To a restaurant filled with half-naked young women? I can't imagine why." She gave me that look, then, that always made me wonder: how many of my secrets does she know?

What she definitely knew was damning enough: that I'd been arrested for armed robbery along with an ex-girlfriend. That I'd been kept in jail, pretrial, after a dangerousness hearing run by a public defender. That my new lawyer, Leah Pringle, had been unable to get me out because the evidence against Angelina and me had been so overwhelming that I wouldn't let Melanie mortgage the house for my bail, figuring it would turn into time served and get me out sooner. That I'd rotted in County for over two years until, unexpectedly, they'd sent me home because the case against Angelina had fallen apart.

She'd had a mistrial. They could try her again anytime they wanted. And me? My charges had been dismissed without prejudice. So I was in the same boat as her, with the crushing weight of a retrial hanging over my head if they ever got their ducks in a row about Angelina. I'd lost my job and my real estate license. I'd lost my car, my credit. I'd almost lost my wife, who (I figured) thought that I was probably guilty, both of the robbery and of fucking Angelina.

My wife is not an idiot.

The GM job at Cheeks had been the only thing I could get, and it was shitty enough. And now? Now, it was my alibi. "I'll tell the kids I'll be back after they go to sleep."

"Yeah." Melanie shrugged. "I mean, hell, if you've got to go, you've got to go."

"I'll text you when I'm on my way home," I told her, and a few minutes later I was piloting the Mustang along the roads over by the Marsh. Which was nowhere near Cheeks and Co. No, this was where Julie Lindberg had told me to come, to a little safehouse the PD liked to use when staking out the roads into town.

I didn't like it when she dragged me out like this, and I resented myself every time I got into my car in response to her texts. It was bad enough, being her rat; she liked to reinforce her control over me by summoning me to service her every now and then. I don't even think she enjoyed it very much; by now, it was mostly just habit.

I parked a few blocks away, in a quiet neighborhood overlooking miles of soggy grass, and walked quickly along the road in a strange silence. Usually this part of town would be alive with the shrieks of crickets, the whine of mosquitoes, but the bugs had all died with the first frost. I zipped my jacket up all the way and kept doggedly on, checking the house numbers.

Julie opened the door even before I knocked. "About fucking time, Tone," she hissed, dragging me in off the porch. I'd been here before, a drug-seizure condo the state police let the locals use, most of the rooms bare other than a few beds in the rooms so the detectives could get some rack time. "I don't like it when you're late."

"Dinner," I grunted shortly, looking around. Same: same couch, same generic pictures on the walls, same chipped coffee table. She was wearing some yoga pants and a t-shirt. The whole place reeked of ramen noodles. "Hey Dominguez!" she shouted up the stairs, "I'm down here talking to a snitch."

"No problem," a voice called back down. She made a face up there.

"Dominguez," she whispered to me, "smells." I had no idea what the two of them were doing up there: audio surveillance? Video? Was there a sniper team? Were they looking for drugs? Guns? Whores? Bitcoin? Were they killing time by buttfucking each other? No idea. "Come on back," she nodded, ushering me to a different bedroom than we'd used the last time I remembered coming here.

"Yeah." I followed without enthusiasm. "How's it going, Julie?"

"It'll be going a whole lot better," she purred, "once I'm riding your face." We passed into a grotty space reeking with the odors of a dozen cops, a battered queen bed shoved against one wall. "Feeling good, stud?" she gloated, turning toward me and pulling me by the hand.

"So good." I grunted as her hand snaked straight into my jeans, maneuvering around boxers and pubes and sweat, then reaching under to squeeze my balls. "Well. I was."

She laughed as she squeezed, and I couldn't suppress a groan. Or a hard-on, my cock responding as it always did: she was not an unattractive woman. "You feel like you still are," she crooned, manipulating me. "Bring your gun?"

"No." I parted my legs slightly. I hadn't even taken off my jacket; Lindberg usually didn't come on so strong. "Why?" I felt it, the quick surge and lift of my cockhead in the prison of my boxers. I unzipped my jacket and started on my belt; things were becoming uncomfortably tight down there.

"No. Don't take your fucking belt off," she husked. "If I wanted it off, I'd have taken it off." Still gripping my dick, she reached across to my waist and frisked me, one-handed. "Because I want to know how many of your weapons I have to deal with," she giggled.

"Yeah? You going to get me off, Jules?" She almost never did. Sometimes I came while I was with her, and she loved to mock me when I did. Most of the time, I left with a deep soreness in my balls.

"Depends, stud," she whispered, her inspection complete. She pulled her hand out and licked it, watching my eyes the whole time. "Lie down on the bed, jail bitch," she cackled.

Seething, I dropped my jacket on the floor and took off my shirt. I had a date after this, and the last thing I needed on my shirt was the smell of another woman's pussy. Lindberg watched me, her big eyes narrowed in mistrust, then nodded when I laid down on the nasty mattress. I could feel the sag in the springs. "Good."

I didn't like Lindberg. Really, truly, I didn't. But watching her undress was always a red-letter hour in any week. The woman was simply gorgeous, a sleekly muscled predator made for prancing around naked. I cleared my throat as I watched her shimmy out of her sweatpants. "You're waxing again," I observed.

"Yeah. My boyfriend likes me that way," she smirked, kicking her clothes into a contemptible pile in the corner. The room was lit by one single harsh fluorescent, casting the planes of her body into hard shadow. "How about you, Tone? Do you like my pussy bare?" It came out as a croak, almost, her throat closing with lust.

"I do," I managed, cursing the thickness in my own voice. She swaggered over to me, her bare hips swinging in a sexy, oily sway, then stood beside the bed. Her pussy was a raw red gash already leaking liquid down her leg. "Looks nice. Does Aaron DiMaggio like it that way?"

"Probably." She glared pitilessly down at me, unmoving, but I could see the redness flushing down to her firm little tits. "Maybe I'll show him one of these days. Sometimes, assholes make good lovers. Present company included," she snorted. The girl was completely horned up. I didn't know her personally, of course, but I'd spent a lot of time with my tongue in her vagina, and my theory was that she got off on power. The mental aspect of this, not the physical. I reached a hand out and rested it on her hip, feeling her hot flesh. "Did I say you could touch me, snitch?"

"Shut up," I sighed, no longer in the mood for her bullshit. I was under her thumb, yes, and soon to be under her cunt, but that didn't mean I was her slave. So I found a sneer of my own. "You going to stand there and chat? We have work to do?"

Her eyes flashed, but Lindberg's hand went subconsciously to one nipple. "You know, babe? That might be the sexiest thing you've ever said to me." Her face cast in a cynical smirk, she slapped my hand aside and began to mount me. "It's too bad I'm going to have to shut you up."

"All talk, no action," I groused, but my heart sank. When I ate her out, I always preferred to be lying on my stomach between her legs. This shit, when she sat on my face, was always tougher.

Because it made me hornier.

There was something about the act done like that, the closeness, the smell, the urgency of her grinding herself against my face, that made me want to shove her down and hate-fuck her into the mattress. I was sure she knew it, too, which was where the smug smile came from as she scooted her way up my body, leaving a trail in my chest hair. "How's this for action?" She spoke through a burred throat, and this time she did not object when my hands found her hips.

I looked up at a woman overwhelmed by lust and almost halfway to orgasm already, just because she was making me do this. Her nipples jutted far in front of her, trembling above my face as she tweaked them with her fingers. I'd seldom seen a more cynical expression on anyone's face. "No action yet, Julie," I murmured, my hands curving around to push at her ass.

I wanted her on my face, all of a sudden. And my cock knew it, long and hard in my pants.

She nodded, smiling, then relented to the pressure of my hands, extending one palm to brace her against the headboard as she settled that weepy reddened snatch right over my face. My mouth was already open for her, both of us gasping when she laid her swollen lips right on my extended tongue.

No foreplay. No affection. Just raw passion from two filthy people.

At once she began writhing, the taut muscles of her ass shifting in my hands like packed sand under the receding tide, and I clung to her with knuckle-whitening force. She'd told me once that I left bruises on her cheeks sometimes, and I'd taken it as a compliment even as I'd rolled my eyes, but now I gripped her tight and attacked her with fury.

She tasted like sweat and musk, the smooth flesh of her mound grinding over my nose. I felt the twinge in my neck already as I craned upward off the pillow, and knew I was going to pull a muscle. But I hardly cared, my nose digging under her hood at the top of her slit, seeking her clit as my hands held her rigid. "Oh!" she sighed, and when I flicked my eyes up I saw that hers were closed.

Good. I wanted to get this bitch off fast.

I hunched upward, straining, my tongue flickering wildly inside her tight pussy. Vaguely I felt one of her hands grab my head, scalp blazing as she seized my hair. And all the while her hips swung, churning herself desperately against my face until, in a gush of frothy juices, she choked out a cry and lost control as her legs went slack, crushing my head into the pillow.

I didn't even know I'd closed my eyes until I opened them to see her calf across my face, left there twitching when she sprawled on top of me with the force of her orgasm. I threw it rudely off and tried to sit up, my chin and chest soaked.

She stirred. "Jesus, Tony, what got into you?" She fumbled off me and lay sweating on the bed, glaring at me. "Now I'm going to expect that kind of shit from you every time."

"Yeah. Whatever." I went to get up, but she stopped me with a hand to my crotch, her fingers finding the strength to claw my erection.

"Goddamn," she marveled, "you're so hard!"

"Yeah." I watched her through slitted eyes, her taste and smell dominating my world. I reached for her nipple, intrigued by its length. "You could do something about that..."

"Fuck off." Quickly, like a striking snake, she smacked my balls. I groaned loudly as she rolled off the far side of the mattress and got to her feet. "Go see your lawyer, Leah Pringle," she snickered, "I bet she'll do something for you." She was already bending over, the light harsh on her pale body, scooping up her clothes. "You can see yourself out," she said coldly, "and you can do it right now, Blue Balls."