The Death of Dreams

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Stripper's manager watches his favourite girl get nasty.
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Millsy
Millsy
146 Followers

"So what's the score for tonight?" Karen asked, putting the final touches to her make-up in the dressing table mirror.

"Noise abatement raid." I told her, pulling her policewoman uniform out of the closet and laying it neatly on the bed as I got into my own outfit. "Stag night curtain call at the best man's house. They want it video taped so I'll be with you all the time. Basic £150 package, no frills."

"Shit," Karen frowned.

"Sorry." I shrugged. Karen was by far and away my best exotic dancer. Nothing was too much trouble, if you catch my drift. She'd think nothing of taking jobs that the rest of my stable of strippers would run a mile from. If the price was right, of course. She was a born entertainer, too. She could have a bar full of rowdy drunken yobs eating out of the palm of her hand with just a few jokes whereas some of the younger girls that were on my books did little more than strip and run. The college girls were the worst. Sure, they looked the part, with their youthful, slender, toned and tanned bodies, but they carried a lot of inhibitions and nervous clumsiness despite their outward brassiness. Being as naked as the day they were born in front of dozens of loud, lewd and horny pissed up dickheads can be a frightening experience and some of those kids working their way through university just couldn't hack it, Older birds like Karen had a lot more experience and confidence and were able to take it in their stride and her particular creativity brought in a fair bit of repeat business. And it helped, of course, that she still looked the part, too.

I wouldn't have minded getting me a little of that action myself, truth be told. Children were yet to spoil her voluptuous figure with stretch marks or sag. Her thighs were still taut and silky smooth, her slightly bigger than average ass a deliciously alluring curve whether stuffed inside a pair of tight jeans or split by the scarlet thong that she often opted to wear for a short while when working. Her hair was a deep black that shone almost blue beneath stage lighting, reaching down to a point halfway down her back, or to the bottom of her breasts if it was spilling over her shoulders as part of her act. And those breasts were absolutely fantastic. Big, round, firm thirty-eight inch c-cups that stretched to breaking point any lingerie that she wore to cover them.

When made up she also gave those college girls a run for their money, too. If you can visualise a busty, raven haired, green eyed Gwyneth Paltrow then you are well on your way to visualising Karen. As I pulled on my black trousers I glanced into the mirror out of habit, sneaking a peek at the undisputed queen of my harem. She caught my subversive ogling and tipped me a reflected wink. I smiled back as I pulled the trousers up over my growing bulge before it reached the point where my own arousal became evident. I couldn't let myself be seen as unprofessional.

Yep, give me an ex-hooker over a college graduate any day of the week. Sometimes I felt a pang of guilt taking my share of the fee for providing transport and security where Karen was concerned. I was nothing more than a taxi driver when Karen was working. She could handle herself perfectly well. I'd never had to step in to keep things under control. I just ended up watching her act from stage right, trying to ignore my burgeoning erection while at the same time monitoring the excited revellers that she was performing for. Sometimes the college girls panicked when punters got overly familiar and forgot about the 'no-touching' rule, turning to me for help when they thought that things were getting out of hand. I didn't mind - that's what I was there for, but Karen had this alarming habit of kneeing aggressive punters in the balls without warning while their mates laughed hysterically and all I had to do was drag the groaning assholes back to their seats or out the door depending on the severity of their transgressions. Not once had she ever given me the signal to step in and stop the show.

I still remember her audition. She had nailed it first time, without the assistance of music, whereas most girls are red faced, stilted and robotic in their theatrical disrobing, even with modern tunes to choreograph to. Those girls I had to send away, advising them that it was a show they were putting on, not just playacting getting ready for a shower at the gym. Karen had been fluid, nubile, teasingly tasteful initially but increasingly raunchy as the audition progressed. At the end of her ten minute demo, with her bare ass facing me, her body bent over at ninety degrees, those huge tits with hardened nipples hanging down, and a dirty look tossed over her shoulder as she used a pair of fingers to prise apart her clearly moist, freshly shaved pussy lips, I was damn near ready to cream in my own pants. And having run this stripper for hire business for twelve years that really was saying something.

"How far do you let your dancers go?" I recall her asking, a subject that I usually had to raise myself and then negotiate with new recruits, some of whom balked at the thought of even letting a punter within ten feet of them, never mind doing something as tame as a lap dance in their lingerie. Most college girls thought they could get eighty quid for just disrobing and then running off stage to the dressing rooms. One or two of those girls had gotten me into some decidedly dodgy situations when disgruntled punters demanded their money back after seeing no more than a five second flash of teenage pussy with most of the pink flesh hidden behind the embarrassed girl's own hand.

"That's entirely down to you." I had told her. "But the fee is the same. You get eighty quid for a ten to fifteen minute act, but if I have to make a refund then both of us go home with nothing. Neither of us wants that, right?"

"Oh I get that. What I mean is if there's extras on the menu, then what's your cut?"

"Extras?" I'd asked innocently, though I knew, of course, what she was alluding to.

"Hand job, titty fuck, lapdance, blowjob, that kinda stuff." Karen explained, looking at me like I was some sort of imbecile for even having to ask.

"Oh, that's all down to you." I said dismissively. "I don't want a cut of that but every fifteen minutes I stay on providing security or hanging around as a taxi service will cost you another tenner. If you want me to leave then just say the word and I'm gone, but then you'll have to find your own way home. When I leave, I go home for a good drink and I'm not coming back out and risking my driving license after a coupla cans of Carling."

She nodded at that thoughtfully, then shook hands with me, still stark naked and seemingly oblivious of this fact. I had to make a conscious effort not to let my gaze stray from her green eyes to the brown teats that topped her impressive rack, then I spent an age afterward trying to work out if it she had shaken my hand with the one that she'd used to spread open her sex to me, only to feel disappointed when I eventually worked out that it wasn't.

I made good money from Karen and her 'extras', too. She charged a fortune for her 'treats' as she called them, but never went as far as fucking a punter. I'd watched her take spurts of jizz over her tits and face, swallow loads of cum down, and even seen her sit on some lucky bastards face but she didn't allow anybody to put his dick inside her pussy. She'd take a finger, no problem. A sex toy she'd taken as a prop often got a good wetting, and not just with saliva. She'd push her ass back against any tongue on offer without hesitation so long as they pushed a twenty into her hand first, but the furthest I'd seen her go was rubbing one guy's swollen knob over her pussy lips until he blew his load all over his own shirt.

She seemed to have some in built timer that you could almost set your watch by. She'd do her strip, trawl the crowd for offers, and the minute somebody pulled a tenner out of his wallet she'd sit heavily on his lap and grind away for a few minutes before moving on to the next eagerly waved bank note. I'd watched her once and worked out that she made a tenner every two minutes on average, or twenty for a good five minutes of whatever she felt like doing. In an hour, including her routine, she could make another hundred and fifty to two hundred quid on top of the eighty that I paid her just for turning up and getting her kit off. It was getting to the point where punters were ringing me up and asking for Karen by name. It complicated my business, because it meant I had to consult with Karen for availability before confirming a booking, but that was a small price to pay for the extra money she brought in. With minimal overheads - I worked out of my flat and my car - the free money came in handy, though some of the college kids weren't happy that they were being passed over in favour of Karen. Tough shit on them - I had an ex-wife and two kids to pay for.

None of the younger performers wanted to work with Karen, either. If I had to do a gig that specified a two girl show then I had to leave her out because she'd go further than the kids did which put pressure on them to perform more raunchily than they were comfortable doing. They just wanted to do their ten minutes, collect the money and run. The last thing they wanted to be doing was lap dancing the front two rows of a working men's club for an hour and a half with all sorts of drunken, hyped up saddos slobbering all over them and sticking their fingers in places where the sun seldom shone. Karen just didn't give a damn. I'd known her to get dressed after her act and head to the bar for a pint surrounded by hopeful suitors before quickly knocking back the free drinks they had bought her, handing out business cards promoting the 'escort and personal massage' service she ran herself having used me to expand her client base, and then getting me to drop her back home half pissed. Not once had she asked me to leave while she went about earning her bonus, so I got to see it all going down - the hand jobs, the tittyfucks, the face sitting and the occasional blowjobs if a guy happened to have more money than modesty. All she said when we talked about it was that it was 'better than what I used ta do.'

I left it at that. Sometimes she let slip little glimpses of her past life on the drive home after a half hour knocking back free drinks at the bar. There had been cocaine involved, a pimp at one stage, an arrest, all the usual stuff you hear about where big city red light shenanigans were concerned. One of my contacts who ran a similar service in Bristol had told me that he'd heard a rumour that she'd grassed up a Pakistani drug dealer who'd put her pimp in hospital with a kitchen knife and then moved in on his stable of fillies, only for the CPS to put her life in danger by dropping the charges because the cops couldn't find enough evidence to guarantee a conviction. All they had was her statement, and what jury would value her story when the defending barrister exposed her as a prostitute? The police didn't give a shit about pimp wars and whore trading because crimes like that costs taxpayer's money to prosecute while victimising motorists was a veritable money spinner. In an era of triple dip recession and public sector cutbacks speeding, parking fines and middle lane hogging were at the top of police priorities. Being a whore or a pimp puts you lower down the ladder than being a loan shark. No cop gives any sort of a shit about their rights.

So Karen skipped town, hiding in the relative backwoods of South Wales until the Pakistani dealer eventually gets iced by the next ambitious thug wanting to expand his territory and she was forgotten about. Right now she was in exactly the same situation as an escaped slave from Alex Haley's 'Roots', albeit looking over her shoulder for brown skinned slave traders rather than white ones.

I strode to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of coke while Karen squeezed her sumptuous curves into the black trousers, white blouse and old skool chequered cravat of the traditional British policewoman, the plain outfit made absurd by fluffy pink handcuffs dangling from a studded leather belt.

Karen eventually wandered in to join me in the kitchen, tucking her hair up into a thick bun and clipping it in place before finishing my coke without even asking my permission. "Ready when you are." She chirped. I rang the punter and gave him an ETA, checking that his party was where they were supposed to be and that they still wanted to go ahead with their entertainment, then we jumped into my Astra and headed out to the venue - some bloke's house in an affluent area of Llanishen where a group of revellers were crashing out after a stag night in town. It wasn't a big gathering, less than a dozen blokes, I had been told at the initial booking, but sometimes these things ended up going out of control, especially if the drinks cabinet was well stocked.

When we arrived it looked like the place would have a drinks cabinet that would put many a high street wine bar to shame. I left my car blocking the drive and we strode up the path past a Mercedes SLK with personalised plates and a brand new Audi TT. I banged on the front door with my knuckles, the muted sounds of The Kaiser Chiefs thumping away beyond the sturdy oak panelling. I Predict a Riot, I determined. Not a great omen, I considered.

No answer. Karen tutted, rolled her eyes and did a bored pirouette on her high heels while I banged harder on the wooden door. The music abruptly reduced in volume and I hit the crap out of the door once again. Ten seconds later a six foot tall hairy mass of muscle that would look more at home tramping around the Himalayas being hunted by photographers wrenched the door open, peered myopically at us and said "The fuck you want?"

"Police." I said, just in case he was tonight's mark, puffing myself up to match his bulk. I was bigger by an inch and maybe eight pounds, but none of that eight pounds could match the muscle this hirsute jock was carrying. Hairy doesn't even begin to describe him. He reminded me of a character from 'The Life and times of Grizzly Adams', but I couldn't decide if it was Dan Haggerty or the bear that he resembled more.

"There have been some complaints about the noise from your neighbours. Can we talk inside?" I said reasonably, staring him down.

He glared at me insolently, obviously unimpressed with authority figures. Or businessmen pretending to be authority figures. "She can come in, but you can fuck right off." He slurred, grinning at me, then a voice behind him told him to shut the fuck up and let us in. I peered past the drunken hairball, got a thumbs up and a beckoning gesture from a bald guy and pushed my way past. Karen trailed me in then took over while I handed the bald guy a CD containing the music Karen was to perform to.

"What's that smell?" She said loudly, conversation suddenly halting and all eyes in the room, including those of two guys who had been racing split screen on Gran Turismo 5, settled on her as she stood in the middle of the lounge, hands on her hips and sniffing at the air."Is that weed, sergeant?"

You could have heard as pin drop. Until, that is, the virtual race cars on the PlayStation slammed into crash barriers with a shriek of rending rubber, plastic and metal.

I inhaled deeply through my nose and frowned. I could easily make out the distinctive odour of marijuana over the stench of beer and a hint of vomit. Clearly one of them had sailed too close to the wind in town and gotten splattered by his own puke. "Yep, smells like it to me!" I said. "Frisk 'em, constable." Strange word, that. Say it fast enough and it sounds like cunt stubble, which is how I chose to pronounce the word. Between that and the fact that Karen was in shiny silver 'fuck me' heels you'd think somebody would have twigged.

"Right. Up against the wall, the lot of you." Karen shouted. Nobody moved. "Now!" she yelled. The bald guy who had let us in grinned, having returned from his HiFi as Britney Spears' 'Toxic' began to play, and did as she'd told him, setting an example. "And the rest of you!" Karen snarled.

One by one they reluctantly followed the bald man's lead until all nine of them stood facing the wall. "Which one of you gormless wankers is in charge here?" Karen demanded, grabbing asses and roughly squeezing crotches one by one as she pretended to 'frisk' them.

"It's my house, but that guy in the red shirt is the one smoking pot." The bald guy grinned.

"Eh?" A sandy haired guy in a red shirt turned to him and said.

"Right. Face the wall, motherfucker." Karen snarled, striding over to him and pushing him harder against the artex stippled wall. She put her feet between his legs and kicked his heels further apart. "Spread 'em, dirt bag." Then she dropped to her knees behind him and started to pat him down, beginning with his ankles and working her way up to his ass while I told the rest of them to carry on with what they had been doing earlier. The two virtual racers elected to watch the humiliation of the groom to be now that their rides had been totalled. The bald guy could barely contain his laughter.

Karen's hands, meanwhile, were in the back pockets of red shirt's jeans. "''Ello, 'ello , 'ello? What do we have here then?" Her hand emerged clutching a few twenty pound notes that she quietly stuffed into one of her own pockets.

"Hey!"

"Shut it, shithead." Karen told him. "So where have you hidden the weed, asshole? I hope for your fucking sake I don't need to do a bloody cavity search, because by the time I've finished they will be bloody cavities. Literally. You have anything in your front pockets?" She demanded, then reached around him and jammed both hands into his pockets and began rummaging around.

"There's definitely something in here, sarge." She threw over her shoulder. "Whatever it is it's not very fucking big, though." She added, earning herself her first laughs of the night as she roughly rubbed his penis through his pockets.

"Whoa!" The soon to be betrothed complained again, though not quite so loudly this time.

"What, you don't like that?" Karen asked him, feigning offence. "Would you rather one of your homey-ohs here had his big, manly hands in your pockets instead of my dainty ones?" By now the laughter was louder than the music.

"Don't you like girls?" She pouted. "These babies not good enough for ya?" She asked him, leaning into him and pressing her breasts against his back, rubbing her torso in a circular motion as she continued to knead his cock through the pockets of his jeans. After a few moments of fondling the guy's dick she stepped back and pulled on the knot of her necktie. "Turn around." She ordered him, and when he complied, grinning broadly as by this time he'd figured out what was going on, she stepped right up to him, pressed her chest to his, and deftly fastened the necktie behind his head as a makeshift blindfold.

"On your knees, motherfucker." Karen instructed, placing her hands on his shoulders and pushing him down so that when he was kneeling before her his face was level with her crotch. Even over the music you could hear the guy sniff as he inhaled her scent.

"What the fuck, you cheeky bastard!" She exclaimed. "What do you think you're sniffing?"

"Nothing." The guy said defensively.

"Bollocks. You were sniffing my cunt, weren't you, you dirty old man." She asserted. "Smell anything fishy down there?"

"No, nothing!" He repeated, now fearful of offending her as his mates laughed at his predicament.

"Then you need to get your face in fucking closer, you moron." She said to more laughter, rolling her eyes. She lifted up her right leg and hooked it over his shoulder, pressing her groin against his face and rubbing it up and down his nose. "Ooh, I like your nose," she purred. "So much bigger than what's in your trousers. Oh, I forgot....you don't like to play with girls do you. I bet you wish it was my hunky sergeant rubbing his big huge balls over your face instead of my hot, wet pussy yeah?" Before he could answer she grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up and down, making it look like he was nodding.

Millsy
Millsy
146 Followers