Bromfield's Temptations Ch. 12

Hating myself, but hating Steve more for exacting the price I was about to pay, I reluctantly said, "Yes."

"I didn't hear him, did you, Richard?" Carmine's slightly accented voice harshly cut through the quiet.

Carol spoke for the first time. "Tell us again, Jim, and this time speak up so everyone can hear."

I cleared my throat, cursing myself for the nervous croak that emerged, "Yes," I said. "I turned Bette out. Sandy is tricking, too." My instincts told me it wasn't necessary to tell them about Louise.

"That's my boy," Carol beamed at me. "I knew you could do it. All that was needed was motivation. Isn't that right, Carmine?"

The room was suddenly deadly still. Carmine's normally solemn face became even more doleful. He looked reproachfully at Carol. "One of these days, you're going to go too far, bitch." he said quietly.

There was another awkward silence. Steve turned to me, and smiled. "Now tell us about the girl you think ought to be in movies," he said.

I quickly told the group how I had met her, warming to Carol's nod and obvious approval when it became clear to her and the others that it was in the line of duty, so to speak. I told them about her physical condition, and about her husband's disability.

"I wish I had known the girl was pregnant when she called," Carol said. "There's always a call for pregnant whores. And I think we might even have a movie here." She was quiet for a moment. The others respectfully waited while her fertile brain examined the possibilities. Then she smiled at me.

"This is excellent, Jim," she said. "You say you bribed her husband into coming to our next party?" Not waiting for my answer, she continued, "I think that's wonderful."

She looked at me fondly. "You done good, gramps."

There were other matters to discuss before the meeting adjourned. Carol walked me back to my car.

When we were away from the buildings, she said, "You realized we were video taping the meeting, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, here's something you probably don't know. You probably didn't realize why Carmine was so anxious to get you on the tape."

I hadn't thought about it, but now that she pointed it out, it did seem strange. I said as much.

"You remember when Carmine called me a bitch?" Carol asked. "As you probably guessed, he's seen himself on tape, and he didn't like it. But he likes it even less that you saw the tape. Sicilians are like that. Very macho."

I felt a thrill of utter terror course through my body.

"I'm only telling you this for your own good," she went on. "You see, we're safe because we have the tape, and he knows if something unpleasant were to happen to either of us, a copy would go straight to the Gambini family in Cleveland; they are the sworn enemies of Carmine's family in New York, and copies of that tape would go to every newspaper in the New York area.

"Unfortunately, you don't have a copy of the tape, and he knows that, too.

"So be very careful, Jim. For your own sake, don't rock the boat. Oh, by the way," she said, pouring salt into my wounds, "we may have another assignment for you next week." She held her mouth up for a kiss. "Drive carefully," she said.

Numbed by Carol's revelations and scarcely aware of my surroundings, I drove back to town on auto pilot. My mind vacillated between mental pictures of gruesome gangland murders I had read about, usually involving an ice pick, and unhappy speculation regarding Carol's casual reference to possible additional debasement. What more could she possibly ask of me? I wondered unhappily. Suddenly, I broke out of my revery, realizing that I was parked in my familiar stall in the apartment garage.

After shutting off the engine, I continued to sit there for several minutes, thinking. I didn't know that Carmine was a gangster, but neither did I know that he wasn't. It didn't matter. I was sure he had access to one, which, from my point of view, was almost as bad.

The girls were bathed, powdered and almost ready for action when I let myself into the apartment. I knew what I had to do.

"What's the matter, sourpuss?" Bette asked, when she saw my long face.

I attempted a smile that probably resembled a post-mortem rictus. "It's a long drive," I said, "and I'm tired. Nothing a good drink won't fix."

They didn't ask about the meeting. Instead, they told me that Su Lin had called to tell them about another convention. Bette reminded me of an excited puppy, as she preened before the mirror and made a minute adjustment to her makeup. Then she reached into her bodice and pulled a breast a trifle higher in her bra. "Su Lin thinks we each ought to turn at least ten tricks tonight if we try hard enough," she said.

Louise was more restrained. "She'll get all the action," she said sourly, nodding toward Bette.

"What time do you want to leave?" I asked.

"We have plenty of time," Louise said. "There's a meatloaf in the oven, and some baked potatoes. You can open a can of corn or something to go with it."

"Aren't you going to eat?" I asked.

"Su Lin said this was a dinner date," Bette said. "How do we look?"

Louise, again, was dressed in a low-cut cocktail dress that ended midthigh. Louise had fine legs, and the current styles gave her a chance to show them to their best advantage. I smiled at her. "Bend over like you're picking up your lighter," I said. "I'll tell you what I can see."

She laughed. "You're incorrigible; you even like to peek at your own wife." She stooped, then bent forward.

I watched her neckline gape open as she bent toward me. She was not wearing a bra. Her breasts were almost completely exposed, and I distinctly saw -- or thought I saw -- her nipples. "You're going to catch your death of cold going around dressed that way," I said. "Don't you feel a draft around your tits?"

Louise responded by wrinkling her nose at me, while I pondered her unexpected reference to `wife'. It was the first time since her return that she had referred directly to our legal status.

I turned to inspect Bette.

"I decided against the knit," she said, "because I had trouble with the buttons last time. What do you think of this?" She pirouetted, and her short pleated skirt flew high above her stocking tops, revealing not only her shapely bare thighs, but also her bare mons.

"You're not wearing panties," I said sternly.

"I keep losing them," she said. "It's beginning to run into money." Then she asked, "Don't you want to watch me bend over?"

"Sure," I said. There was no doubt at all about the effectiveness of their costumes. I had felt a definite twitch in my pants and the beginning of a lump when Louise had bent over, but when Bette flashed me, the lump became noticeably harder.

"First, I'll bend away from you," she said, as she proceed ed to bend, touching the floor. Her skirt rose three inches above her stocking tops, the hem barely covering the cheeks of her ass.

"Wow," I said. "Don't do that in front of people unless you mean business." I thought for a moment. "I guess you do mean business," I added lamely.

Bette looked quizzically at me, then said, "Now, for my next act . . ." and she repeated the maneuver, only this time bending toward me. I thought her breasts were going to fall out of her dress.

"I thought you were wearing a bra," I said.

"I was, but I took it off. Guys don't want to look at bras, do they?"

"Some guys do," I said.

"Maybe I should go put it back on, then," she said.

"Put some panties on, while you're at it," I said. "Some guys like to look at them, too."

Bette went into the bedroom. Louise looked at me. "Why didn't you tell me to put on a bra?"

"I figure you're old enough to know what you want," I said, "besides, you've never taken my advice before; why would you begin now?"

She smiled slightly. "I guess you're right," she said.

Bette came out of the bedroom. "All set," she announced, "See?" she lifted her skirt, displaying lace trimmed crotchless panties that artistically framed her tiny opening.

Then she leaned forward, so her bodice gaped open. Her nipples were plainly visible, rising above the half bra that lifted her breasts and pushed them forward.

My erection was becoming uncomfortable by this time. For a few moments, I even thought of visiting Su Lin after I dropped the girls off; then I remembered she would be with the girls.

This just wasn't my night.

We drove downtown. The convention was being held in a newly opened hotel. No familiar faces here, tonight. The doorman opened the car door, and the women managed to step from it -- not easily done in a miniskirt -- without giving the doorman a cardiac arrest. I knew I should, but I didn't want to go straight home to an empty house. Feeling more than a little sorry for myself, I decided to stop and have a beer in a topless joint I knew about.

I parked on the street almost directly in front of the place, locked the car, and pushed through the doorway into the dimly lit interior. The place stank of stale beer and cigarette smoke and was almost empty. There weren't more than 10 or 15 men seated at small tables scattered across the floor. A young girl on stage was listlessly swaying to the rousing beat of a fast rock piece. I almost turned around to leave, but the girl caught my eye and gave me a faintly conspiratorial smile, so I decided to stay.

She unfastened her bra while I walked across the floor. Our eyes met again, but she quickly looked away and directed her attention to the middle distance above her customer's heads.

I sat at an empty table near the stage. A waitress wearing a thong bikini bottom, a garter stuffed with several ones and a $5 bill on her right thigh and breasts barely contained within a skimpy tube top, took my order and brought me a Bud.

"Would you like some company?" she asked.

I shook my head, and turned my attention to the stage. The young dancer was now nude to the waist. She had fine perky little breasts. She was a terrible dancer, or maybe she just didn't like her work, but she peeled down to the buff. She had a slender, lithe figure, but little grace as she swayed and bounced to the music.

Her genital hair was trimmed. She performed the obligatory squats, giving her audience a gynecologist's view of her vagina. Then she turned, bent over, and treated us to a clinical view of her rectum. Some eager hands reached up to stuff $1 bills into her garter. Then she gathered her clothes and fled from the stage.

The next dancer was much more interesting. The first girl had had brownish, nondescript hair, but this lady was a flaming redhead. And I mean really flaming. She was a chunky lass, about 10 hard years older than the first performer, but she was much more enthusiastic, and conveyed the distinct impression that she liked her work.

She bounced and strutted around the stage, giving us glimpses of a bare breast, then coyly covering it up. I was beginning to enjoy her performance, when a woman said, "Do you mind if I sit down? I mean you don't have to buy me a drink or anything."

I looked up. It was the young dancer. She was wearing a bikini under a beach coverup. "Sure," I said. "Sit down."

The waitress was at my side in an instant. "I'll have a champagne cocktail," the girl said. When the waitress turned away, the girl pushed three $1 bills under my hand. "I want her to think you're paying for it. OK?"

I was intrigued. I had never before encountered a B-girl who offered to go dutch. "Sure," I said.

The waitress returned with a champagne glass full of a liquid that I'm sure had never seen the inside of a champagne bottle and picked up the $3.

"Thanks," the girl said.

"Before anything else," I said, "tell me what's in that glass? I've bought hundreds of those things over the years, and I've always wondered what they really serve."

She laughed. "People ask all kinds of questions, but this is the first time I've been asked that," she said. She composed her face and looked seriously at me. "It's champagne," she said. Then she laughed again and smiled. "Out of a bottle with a screw top. It's really a white house wine. I think this one is a cheap Chardon- ney, but I'm not sure."

"Your other question? Why am I pestering you, when I'm sure you'd rather be watching Lil up there?"

I glanced up at the stage. Lil was topless. Her large breasts seemed strangely immobile as she strutted through an old fashioned bump and grind routine.

"I've heard of Silicone Valley," I said, "Are those the Silicone Mountains?"

My new friend suppressed a giggle. "Don't let her hear you say that," she said. "I heard they cost her $2,500."

"I'd say she got her money's worth," I said. "In any case, I'd rather talk to you."

"Really?" she said. "Well then, I'm supposed to tell you that if you'll buy me a bottle of wine, we can go into one of the booths where we won't be disturbed. The wine costs $50, but my time is free." She frowned slightly, then added, "But it's only fair to tell you that if we do go into a booth, all you'll get is a quick feel. I don't do hand jobs or blow jobs. I guess I'm what you might call a marginal, unproductive worker."

"That's OK," I said. "Let's go."

She signaled the waitress, and led me back into the dim recesses of the room to a row of booths, heavily screened with what looked like dusty red plush draperies. I heard a woman giggle from a booth near the end of the row. We slipped into one at the opposite end and sat side by side in the semi-dark on a padded bench behind a small table. The waitress was close behind us with a split bottle of wine, a glass and a fresh Bud. "That will be $53," she said.

Feeling foolish and very juvenile, I took a $50 and a $10 from my money clip and handed them to her. "That's OK," I said, waving her away.

She backed out of the booth and closed the drapes.

It took a few moments before my eyes adjusted to the dark. "What's your name?"

"My stage name is Natasha, she said, but my real name is Wilma. Wilma Bates. What's yours?"

"I'm Jim Bromfield," I said. "I'm a small-time lawyer downtown."

"We don't get many lawyers in here," she said.

"I gathered as much, judging by the clientele out there," I said. "I know it's none of my business, and I'm sure every guy who has been in here with you has asked the same question, but watching you on the stage tonight made me wonder if you wouldn't rather empty bed pans for a living. Why are you doing this?"

"I would, if I were doing this for a living," she said. "But I'm not. I'm doing research."

"I don't think I've heard that one before," I said.

"No, really." she said. "I'm doing a master's thesis on the kind of women who dance in places like this, and the men who patronize them."

"Like me."

She laughed again. "Not exactly," she said. "I'd say offhand that you're atypical."

I tried to remember the last time a B-girl had worked the word `atypical' into her conversation.

Meanwhile, Natasha, or Wilma -- I wondered which she preferred -- continued, "There have been many studies of prostitutes and some on go-go dancers, but there is practically nothing in the literature on strip dancers."

More than intrigued, I was becoming fascinated. If `atypical' hadn't been sufficiently convincing, her casual reference to `the literature' clearly established her bona fides.

"And how's the project going?" I asked. I was really interested.

She looked closely at me. "Do you really want to know, or are you just being a wise ass?"

"I'm really curious," I said.

"I've worked out four classifications of dancers," she said. "At one end of a continuum is the prostitute-dancer. She only dances because this is a safe place for her to work. She'll get you in here and either blow you or jerk you off, but the house takes such a heavy cut that she's working for peanuts.

"Then there are women like Lil out there. She lives at home with her husband or boyfriend, I'm not sure which. I think she'll trick now and then under the right circumstances -- I call that opportunistic prostitution.

"Next are women like Sally, she's our waitress. She's representative of the largest group. She's actually a dancer. I'm not sure whether she happens to be married at the moment, but I am sure she doesn't trick. She would rather hustle tips by waiting tables than hustle drinks like I'm hustling you." Wilma put her hand on mine.

"And then there are the cherries like me. These are girls who moonlight as dancers. Many are secretaries, college students, or young housewives; all young, attractive women who have a serious need for extra money. It might be school tuition, a kid who needs braces, a mother in a nursing home, that sort of thing."

By this time, she had my full attention. "Tell me about yourself," I said.

"Hey, that's supposed to be my line," she said with a smile.

"I mean it. I'm really interested," I said.

"There isn't much to tell. I'm 23, never been married, have had three serious relationships that never went anywhere, and I'm taking an advanced program in social psychology leading to an MSW; a master of social work degree. What about you?"

"How much time do I get on a bottle of wine?" I asked.

"Is it that bad?" she asked.

"It's worse," I said. "Really, you don't want to know."

"Look. I'm probably keeping you from some meaningful insights right now," I said.

She laughed. "You're a nut."

"I may be a nut, but I think I'm getting in over my head," I said. I stood up.

"Wait, Jim, don't go yet," she said softly. "I told you that you could cop a quick feel, didn't I?" She put my hand against her bikini covered breast.

"Hell, this is no good," she muttered. She lifted the bikini cup off her breast. "That's better," she said as my fingers brushed her stubborn little nipple, and my hand gently cupped her tender breast.

I sat down. She put her hand on the side of my face, turning my head toward her. Then she put her arm around my neck, and pulled my face down to hers. Our lips met. She worked her mouth against mine, and I felt the tip of her tongue exploring, and then slithering between my lips. She broke the contact, and pulled her head back so she could see my entire face.

I leaned over and touched the tip of her nipple with my tongue.

"Ooooh, that feels good," she said. Then, briskly, she added, "Let's get out of here. Give me five minutes."

She stuffed her breast back into the bikini cup, and hurried out of the booth. Things were happening awfully fast, but I was seriously attracted to her. Evidently, the attraction was mutual.

She was back in less than five minutes, dressed in Levis and a pullover sweater. "Let's go," she said.

She paused briefly at the bar to speak to the manager while I waited by the door. Then she joined me and linked her arm in mine.

"Your car or mine?" I asked.

"I ride the bus to work and take a cab home," she said. "I don't have a car."

I unlocked the passenger side, and held the door open for her. Then I walked around and got in the driver's side. "I'm being very foolish," she said quietly, almost to herself. She put her hand on my sleeve. I looked at her.

"Am I going to be sorry about this?" she asked, her solemn eyes riveted to mine.

"God, I hope not," I said fervently. I reached over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Where would you like to go?" I asked.

"Are you married, Jim?"

"Yes"

"Well, then, we can't go to your place." she said.

"Sure, we can," I said. "Bette isn't home."

"OK, if you think it's all right," she said doubtfully.

She started to giggle.

What the hell?

"I'm sorry, Jim," she said. "But I'm a bit nervous. I was thinking that Tony -- he's the manager -- assumed that I'm tricking you. If he heard us talk, he'd be totally confused."

We pulled into the driveway, and down to the basement garage. I helped Wilma out of the car and we rode the elevator up to my floor. I opened the door and ushered her inside.