The Headliner and the Housegirl

The showroom of an Ohio strip club was teeming with excitement and horniness. The headlining feature dancer had just teased the fans nearly to the breaking point with her opening number. She'd bounced her enormous implant-enhanced breasts all over the place without unveiling them ... doing some of the naughtiest things you can imagine that might involve putting things into her vast exposed cleavage. Now the men were chanting for her to come back onto the stage.

"Vick-y, Vick-y, Vick-y...!"

A funk number kicked off over the club's sound system. A bleached-blonde bundle of dynamite strode back onto the stage, getting her out-of-proportion breasts to jump mightily to the beat. Flashing a brilliant smile at the audience, she whipped off her pink satin panties and flung them at a patron. When the customer seemed to fumble with them, the dancer reached from the stage to his table and pushed the undergarments playfully into his nose. The other men roared their approval. Now the tantilizing busty dancer whirred her lower body around, waving her exposed genitals at the men. She knew, though, that all eyes were focused on her gigantic — and still-covered — breasts. She pretended to click her tongue and wag her finger at them in disapproval. Then she walked sexily to the short stairway at the front of the stage. Picking out the shyest-looking specimen from the crowd, she invited a mousy young man to unhook her overloaded pink satin bra. Her colossal boobs hit the air and bounced with renewed freedom. The fans went wild. The dancer continued her descent into the audience as the follow-spot tracked her every move. She locked eyes with a burly man waving a twenty-dollar bill. She arranged herself between the legs of the seated man and began writhing sexily. Her oversized casabas brushed the man's unshaven face and moist lips.

The blonde reached for her pink garter belt and plucked out what looked like a satin handkerchief. She danced to one side of the man, never letting her knockers stray far from his grateful face. With a theatrical flourish, she waved the hanky through the air and plunged it downward until it was out of the audience's sight. She did everything possible with her boobs and the man's head — all three of which were roughly the same size. The man delighted in the way the dancer traced his facial features with a hard nipple ... wedged his head into her roomy cleavage ... and raised both breasts into the air and dropped them onto his shoulders like bombs. All the while she kept up her furtive manipulations below the man's waist. Finally, she raised the silky hanky skyward to display it to the audience. It was covered with unmistakable wet evidence of the customer's excitement! The audience clapped and cheered as the dancer sashayed backstage in pride and triumph. An attractive but comparatively flat-chested woman was waiting in the dressing room. Well ... perhaps it's not fair to say flat-chested. It's just that anything, no matter how lovely, would pale by comparison next to those two huge implant-emphasized sacks of sex appeal. The woman handed the dancer her street wardrobe.

"Nice show, Vicky," she said.

"Thanks, Karen," smiled the dancer, peeling off her garter belt and stepping out of her sky-high heels.

"Shake a tit, will ya?" said Karen. "We've got to be in Pennsylvania tonight."

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Victoria Bardenwerper opened her sleepy eyes. She'd fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the van. "Karen..." she croaked drowsily. "Where the hell are we?"

"Somewhere in Pennsylvania," said the Karen, the driver. "We'll be in Wilkes-Barre soon. You can sleep in a motel bed when we get there ... 'stead of in the van."

"Wilkes-Barre?" said Vicky, staring at the road ahead. "Oh, boy. A friend of mine told me that's an armpit. Actually, I think the exact term she used was 'hell-hole'."

"I hope she told you wrong," said Karen. "We're booked there in three weeks. I figured we'd stop there on the way to Boston and stay overnight. Give us a chance to check out the club."

"Okay, whatever," said Vicky. She wasn't crazy about this life on the road. But since Karen — who was now her manager and agent — convinced her that there was a whole lot more money in being a traveling feature dancer, than sticking around one town and one club — life on the road had become Vicky's life.

"I suppose we'll have to go on the radio shows, and have the local imitation of Howard Stern leer at my tits," Vicky said, wearily.

"Yep!" said Karen.

"And I'll have to let any sweaty moron who wants to have a Polaroid taken with me," muttered Vicky.

"Yes," said Karen.

"And I'll actually have to pretend I enjoy this," said the dancer.

"Yes, you will!" snapped the manager, getting a little irritated. "Vicky, nobody forced you to do this! You wanted to make more money!"

"I know," said Vicky.

"And aren't you?" asked Karen.

"Yes. A lot more," she answered.

"Well, then you forfeit your right to complain!" said Karen, hoping that would close the subject.

There was a pause.

Karen decided to smooth over that brief unpleasantness with some more small talk. "I never worked this club in Wilkes-Barre," she said. "Back when I was dancing. I think it's new."

Vicky started to giggle. "What was your billing back then?" she asked.

Karen puffed up her chest — which was now a good deal more modest than it had been in her dancing days. "Karen Kenyon — the grandest cleavage you ever saw!" Both women laughed. "You know — Grand Kenyon? I'm glad I had the implants taken out. I like being behind the scenes better!"

"Well, I'm glad you took me on as a client," sighed Vicky. "Dancing for tips in that penny-ante club in the Midwest was getting me nowhere."

"Right!" agreed Karen. "And with those huge sacks of saline we had put in there, you're making thousands every night! Do you like 'Vicky Syn' for an alias? I thought it was a nice change from all those titty names."

"Yeah, it's good," agreed Vicky. "I was gonna use 'Vicky Voluptous' — but it sounded like some kind of joke. 'Syn' is nice. Kind of elegant."

"We've got to keep working on your table and lap dance technique," said Karen. "Every feature dancer has to have her own little style."

"Well, hey," said Vicky. "I'm just using all those gimmicks you used to use, Karen."

"If you're gonna steal, steal from the best!" laughed Karen. "I think your price will go up now that we got you in some of the titty mags. The video coming out will help, too."

"Yeah, probably," agreed Vicky. "I can just see the guys coming to the club, holding their magazines, to get Vicky Syn herself to autograph them!"

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Do you think he'll come to the club?" asked Karen, finally.

"That guy who's been trying to follow me from town to town? He might," said Vicky softly. "I hope not."

"I've told you before, Vicky, stop chatting with guys on the Web!" scolded Karen. "You're just asking for trouble."

"Maybe you're right," said Vicky. "It was harmless 'I love you, I love you' stuff at first. Lots of guys like to say that kind of thing in the chat rooms. But then it turned to 'I've got to have you, we were meant for each other' kind of stuff. It got a little bit more ominous." Vicky shifted in her seat. Her upper body bulk was still a little new to her. "Oh, let's talk about something else!"

"Okay!" said Karen. "Do your mom and dad know that their precious little girl, Victoria Bardenwerper, is now sex star Vicky Syn?"

Vicky laughed again. "Boy, I sure hope not!"

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Susan was doing a table dance for one of her favorite regular customers at THE SHOWROOM in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. The sweaty laborer smiled up at the lithe, young dancer. She smiled back and was giving him her all. She did pretty well in this town. Sure, there wasn't a lot of money, but being a housegirl in a strip joint had its rewards. The guys were friendly, mostly. They treated her okay. And they didn't seem to mind that Susan didn't have the over-inflated boobies that seemed to be so popular in the magazines. They liked her slim, toned, and flat-chested form just fine.

She collected her tip at the song's end and went back into the dressing room. Some of the other girls were talking.

"Susan, did you hear?" said one girl. "They've booked a feature dancer in a couple weeks."

"Oh, no," said Susan, beginning to get dressed. "A feature dancer? Shit!"

"Stinks, doesn't it?" said another. "They always take my regulars away."

"Mine, too," said Susan. "Is this going to be one of those big-boob girls?"

"They all are," said the first girl, with a sardonic sneer.

Susan sighed. "Which one?"

"Vicky Syn," said the second girl. "Real big fake titties. I seen her in the magazines."

"Shit, you know what that means," said Susan as she stepped into her heels, ready to go into the bar and mingle. "They'll ask me to go on right before her. Because my little bitty tits will make hers look that much bigger."

"That sucks," said the first girl.

"I know, but that's what will happen," said Susan. She headed into the bar to try and sell the guys overpriced champagne. She looked down at the modest swells her breasts made in her tight dress. "I mean, I don't think these things are that bad-looking. But would they make a guy pay forty bucks for a split of champagne?" Susan sashayed out of the dressing room "Probably not!"

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Vicky and Karen arrived at the Howard Johnson's a little after midnight. They could see THE SHOWROOM, the club they were booked at, right across the street. It looked a little sleazy, but not too bad.

"Should we go look at it now?" asked Vicky.

"Nah," said Karen. "Plenty of time in the morning. We don't open in Boston for another couple days, so we can take our time." Karen opened the door to room 204. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"I will," said Vicky, going into room 205, across the hall. Another faceless town, another identical motel room. She stopped. "Karen?"

"Yeah?" Karen said, whirling around.

"Is it worth it?" Vicky asked with a depressed sigh.

Karen smiled. "Check your bank balance. See you in the A-M!" She closed her room door behind her.

Vicky undressed and took a shower, taking extra time for her frontal real estate. After all, it was her livelihood. She crawled into bed, musing about her new life. Sure, the money was amazing, but was she missing something? She thought about what it would be like to have a regular job — like bank teller or waitress. She closed her eyes and smiled. Imagine a bank teller with these big moneybags on her chest! Or a waitress carting around these milk jugs! She almost laughed out loud as she drifted off to sleep.

The silence of Vicky's restful night was shattered by the ringing of her bedside phone. She reached for it, expecting to hear Karen's voice.

"Hello?"

"I know where you are," said a male voice. Vicky snapped awake.

"Who's this?"

"You know," he said, in a voice that sounded like the kind of person who could easily confuse a promise with a threat. "I'm on my way..." There was a click.

Shit, thought Vicky. That might be the guy who'd been following her! To Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania? How would he know? she wondered. Even if he got her touring schedule from her web site, she wasn't supposed to be there for another three weeks!

She shot out of bed and dressed in a hurry. She pulled the plainest sweater she had over her overblown bustline, and tucked her curvy ass into jeans. And even though she was trying her best to be unobtrusive, she just couldn't bring herself to wear flats or sneakers. She stepped into her usual sky high fuck-me pumps.

Worried that the maybe stalker really was on his way to the motel, she ran to the front lobby. She walked up to the first man she saw.

"Hi. Buy me breakfast?" she said to a startled fellow, grabbing his arm and walking him to the coffee shop.

"Uh ... sure!" said an ordinary-looking young man, dressed in plain corduroys and a plaid flannel shirt.

They sat in a corner booth while Vicky ordered two coffees. "Sorry about that," she apologized. "I thought I saw my ex-husband in the lobby, and I didn't want him to see me. Do you mind?"

"No!" said the man. "Not at all. But ... uh ... just who are you?"

"My name's Vic..." she stopped herself. "Victoria. My friends call me Tori."

"I'm Dave," said the man, extending his hand. They shook. Vicky was charmed to see how hard he was working at not staring her in the bust.

"What do you do, Dave?" Vicky asked, now ordering some bacon and eggs for them both.

"I run a video store," he said. "I'm here to attend a seminar. Making Your Small Business Pay. I have a sneaking suspicion that they're going to tell me the only small business that pays is holding seminars about Making Your Small Business Pay!"

Vicky laughed. "Probably. Do you and your wife live here in town?" she asked, fishing for information.

"Oh ... I'm not married," said Dave. "Running the store takes so much of my time, I never get the chance to meet anyone nice."

"That's too bad," mused Vicky, deliberately pulling the fabric of her sweater closer to her bust to emphasize its immense size and shape. She was pleased at the effect all this was having on Dave. He thought he was being calm and cool, but he was sweating and staring something awful.

"It is, isn't it?" said Dave, noticing the way his breakfast companion was pushing her colossal breasts onto the table top, actually sliding the dishes toward the center of the table. He worked at looking her in the eye. "What do you do, Tori?"

"Oh ... I don't want to talk about it," she said, having a forkful of scrambled eggs. "I don't think I want to do it anymore, anyway."

"Was it something directly related to your great beauty?" asked Dave, shyly.

Vicky found herself blushing a little. "You're very sweet, Dave," she said. "Say — how important is this seminar to you? Could you bag it?"

Dave was surprised to hear the way he answered. "I ... I guess so," said Dave. "I haven't sent them the check yet!" He'd been planning on attending this seminar for months. Apparently his business sense wasn't as strong as his loneliness, his desire for female companionship ... and his long-standing love of great big titties.

"You won't learn anything that's not common sense," said Vicky, grabbing Dave's arm and pressing it against her forty-eight inch lovelies as she led Dave out.

Dave tried to be nonchalant about the exquisite sensation of such bouncy, pliant, and gorgeous flesh in such close proximity. "I suppose not," he said, almost in feverish whisper. The couple walked past the front registration desk. Vicky overheard a man asking a question of the clerk.

"Do you have a ... Vicky Syn staying here?" said a familiar male voice.

"No, sir," said the hotel clerk. "No one by that name..."

Vicky realized what was happening. She had to get out, and fast. She just moved Dave along. "I'd like to see your video store, Dave! Let's go."

"Okay," said Dave, confused but happy ... and unspeakably hard and horny. He couldn't wait to see what this unexpected vision of desire had in mind.

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Karen walked into THE SHOWROOM, the club she had Vicky Syn booked at in three weeks. She'd talked to the owner and told him that she needed to see the club to figure out a few details of lighting and presentation. She didn't mention that as of this morning, she didn't know where her client was.

Karen asked the bartender for a cup of coffee, and sat down at one of the tables near the stage. A slim, pretty young girl was dancing for the sparse but appreciative crowd of industrial workers. Karen wondered what the hell she was going to do. It looked like Vicky was gone for good. Apparently, she'd bolted from the motel room without checking out. The clerk said she'd seen Vicky leaving with a guy in a minivan. What was happening here?

The dancer looked at Karen with questioning eyes. Female fans weren't unheard of, but they were a little unusual this early on a weekday. Karen smiled weakly at the undulating dishwater blonde, but the feature dancer's manager found she couldn't get her problem off her mind. Sure, she was concerned about her friend Vicky, but more than that, she was pissed at her walking out on her like that! Who the hell did she think she was? Six months' worth of bookings down the drain! A rising star feature dancer walking off with a guy wearing a flannel shirt in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania! Karen thought about the fact that Vicky had broken her contract ... but realized you can't sue someone you can't find.

Karen was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't realize the set had ended until she heard the dancer's voice at her side.

"Buy a girl a cup of coffee, sweetheart?" asked the trim young stripper.

Karen looked up. "Sure!" she said. "Nice work up there."

"Thanks," said the dancer. "My name's Susan. What brings you around, not that it matters?"

"No, no, that's okay," said Karen. "I'm in the business. I manage the feature dancer who's booked here in a few weeks, and I was checking out the club."

Susan rose, her voice icy. "Then we have nothing to talk about," she said, taking her coffee and heading toward the dressing room.

"No, c'mon! Sit down!" urged Karen. "What's the problem?"

Susan took her seat again. "Feature dancers ruin it for the housegirls," she told Karen. "They take away our regulars ... and they insult us."

"Insult you? How?" Karen asked.

"They always ask me to come on right before the headliner," whined Susan. "To make her breasts look bigger! I hate it!"

Karen smiled. "Sorry about that, Susan," she said. "It's nothing personal. It's just ... well, showmanship, I guess."

"Well, it bugs me!" said the dancer. "Oh, I guess it's not your fault. You don't make the rules. You just rake in the money, don't you? Tell me ... how is the big-titty dancer biz these days?"

"Not so good," mumbled Karen.

"Why?" asked Susan.

Karen looked up. She looked long and hard at Susan's face. "Susan ... I have an idea," she said finally. "I have a problem that you might be able to help me with. Will ... will anyone overhear us out here?"

"Well, we could go to the V-I-P Room," said Susan. "It's private. But people might get the wrong idea."

"I don't give a fuck," said Karen. "Let's go."

"Give me some money, so it looks normal," whispered Susan.

Karen handed over a twenty. Susan made a show of tucking it into the waist of her G-string and started swiveling her hips toward the back room. Karen followed.

They walked into a private room with one table, two chairs, a stereo speaker, and a black light.

"Have a seat," said Susan.

"I just want to talk," explained Karen.

"I know, but I have to give you a lap dance in case the boss comes in," said Susan. "Don't worry, you paid for it."

"Well ... okay," agreed Karen, as Susan began sensually grinding her lower body. "Um ... Susan? My client, Vicky Syn? It seems she's disappeared."

"Disappeared?" sneered Susan. "All that fake tit, she'd be hard to hide."

"Well, she's run away," said Karen, as Susan's ass cheeks bumped her face while she talked. "Walked out on me. Left me high and dry. I went to her room this morning to bring her over here, and she was gone. I don't know why." The wisp Susan was wearing as a G-string draped itself over Karen's left ear.

"So..." asked Susan, peeling off her bra-like top. "What are you going to do?"

Karen laid out her plan. "You look a lot like her ... in the face. Let's dye your hair, give you some new makeup ... and get you a huge boob job. You'll be Vicky Syn. No one will ever know."

Susan laughed out loud. "C'mon! Are you kidding? Her fans would notice that we don't have the same face."