"Short-Staffed? Make It Happen!"

Author's note: This one-shot story is fiction, written solely to entertain adult readers. The story features incestuous lesbian thoughts and feelings as well as some profane language and a little explicit sex. Please continue, even if you think you will be offended! I'd like to see if you still feel the same way after you finish reading the story.

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I'm a manager, a coordinator, and a liaison between my small business and our customers. My partner Irin deBrogue is in charge of catering and procuring. I handle the bookings, entertainments, and publicity. It's a fun job most of the time, even though it takes more than 40 hours a week.

Today, however, I was not having fun. I had to write my quarterly employee reviews, which I hate. While I was typing, my phone began to buzz. The number of the incoming call alerted me to a potential problem. One of my best performers was calling me, and I could guess why.

"What is it, Damiesha?" I asked.

"This is Kevoniel, actually, Mrs. Thompson."

Great, her on-again, off-again boyfriend--she obviously wanted me to believe the excuse that was sure to follow. "Okay, Kev; go on," I said impatiently.

"It's Damiesha's appendix. They're telling me she's on her way to surgery."

Dammit! I knew this young man; he wasn't a good liar. Right now, he sounded deadly serious. The talented but flaky Damiesha finally had a good reason not to come to work. "Is she okay?" I asked, trying not to sound unconcerned. I admit that I was mostly thinking about the business. Appendectomies are routine these days; getting someone to fill in for an excellent dancer playing a lucrative gig on short notice is anything but routine.

"They expect her to be fine. They caught the inflammation in time."

I told him to pass along my sympathy and best wishes for a speedy recovery.

Immediately, I pulled up my address book and went through my roster. Katrine was booked. Dreya was booked. Ashlynne was booked. That wasn't good; usually, Katrine took the gigs Damiesha dropped.

J.L. was the only one who had enough free time tomorrow to make the performance. I called her and got her voicemail. I texted her.

"Shit," I muttered, closing my phone. I needed a text back from her ASAP. I turned to my tablet computer while I waited.

I heard the door to my office. "How's it looking for the weekend?"

It was Irin; she was the only one who didn't knock.

"We're short a performer. Damiesha's in the ER, and her gig's tomorrow at 2100. I'm hoping J.L. can cover her. If not...then yes, we do have a problem."

She looked at the comprehensive schedules we had on our white boards. "The drinks are good to go, and so's the food."

"Yeah, and so is the music," I told her. "I'm waiting on J.L. to tell me that she can do the performance."

My partner brushed a hand through her spiky, silvery-brown hair. "If she can't, we'll have to farm out the dancing again?"

"I don't think we can. It's less than a day and a half away. No one has that kind of flexibility."

"Really? This party's going to pay nice--"

My phone started beeping loudly. I picked it up and read the text. "--Dammit!" I said aloud. "J.L. can't do it either. We're screwed."

Irin leaned over my shoulder to look at my tablet. She shook her head. "You know that if we can't deliver the full entertainment package, we're going to lose money because of the 'Unfulfilled Contract' discount."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course I knew that, and she knew that I knew. "I'm not a magician," I said with a sigh. "We'll have to take the shortfall out of my department."

There was the touch of Irin's soft hand on my shoulder. "You aren't a magician...but you are a dancer," she said.

I snickered and set down my tablet. "There you go again. Look, partner, I'm 39 years old, with stretch marks and a wobbly ass. No one's going to want to see me dance at a party, let alone pay me to do it."

"There you go again!" she said, straightening to her full 185 cm. "Are you forgetting that we go to the beach together sometimes? You ain't got a wobbly ass and those stretch marks are visible only to you. And age's nothing but a number."

I smiled a little, in spite of myself.

She kept trying to coax me. "Remember, you'll earn all those lovely tips."

"You have never given our performers enough credit! It takes more than a decent body, some lingerie, and a little prancing while the music plays. Damiesha's our best choreographer. It takes her about two weeks to come up with a good routine. And all our performers practice their cute little asses off. If they don't entertain, we don't get repeat customers. Plus, they don't get tipped much--that's their direct incentive."

"I know that. But you have never given our digital resources enough credit. 'Borrow' a routine from the internet; none of the party kids'll know the difference. Shake your implants at them and they'll have a good time."

I had to laugh. "You can be such a bitch!" I said. She winked at me. "Even if I can get a routine from the net, there's the matter of costume and makeup and hair--and confidence, which I can't emphasize enough."

"You were born confident," said Irin. "And you've been dancing since you could walk: ballet, jazz, salsa, ballroom. And you cheered in junior high and high school. And you can handle crowds and you're athletic; you can play this one gig."

"I don't think--"

"--Hey, this ain't even my department. I'm just generously giving you my input. Performances are your responsibility, Mrs. Thompson." She tugged my ponytail playfully. "Make it happen, okay?"

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I spent almost an hour on the phone, trying to find an independent dancer or a dancer from an entertainment service. No dice. As I talked to person after person who couldn't help me, I kept playing various dance videos on my computer. At last, I set down the phone and groaned.

The loss would probably be a thousand, give or take a hundred. I felt like I was starting to get a headache. Well, the time was 1800. I grabbed my purse and left work.

While I drove, I kicked around Irin's suggestion in my head. No. Producing a professional-quality party performance in 28 hours? It couldn't be done.

But I kept thinking about it. My spirit loves a challenge (otherwise, I wouldn't be an entrepreneur) and was trying to convince my logical mind that I could pull off this dance.

I had found a couple of easy-yet-entertaining performances while I'd searched the internet. The music was already set. Tomorrow was Saturday; I could devote at least six hours to practicing. Makeup was no problem; I was really good at doing my own, thanks to my mother's instruction when I was a teenager and my high school drama club experience. Costume...?

I told myself I hadn't made up my mind, yet I turned my car toward the mall.

"Shit!" I muttered. My spirit had clearly defeated my brain. I was going to take this challenge.

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More than an hour later, I made it home. I was greeted by my son Eddie asking if he could borrow the Toyota and go to the latest action flick with his best friend.

"Don't forget your curfew." I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Get out of here, punk!" I said.

"Thanks, Mom!" he said. He darted past me, toward the garage.

I went to my bedroom to put away my things and change into my dance workout outfit. There wasn't a moment to lose if I was going to give a good performance. I already felt my pulse rising as I wondered whether I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

Downstairs, I put my club mix MP3 on the stereo system and began warming up. I put my tablet on the table in the corner, so I could refer to it when I got hung up on certain parts of the routine. My music was a bit different from the music the girl in the video had used, but the beat was exactly the same, so I thought it would still work. Once I was stretched and limber, I counted and got to work on the steps and motions of the performance.

I'd been working for a while--probably about an hour--when I heard light steps on the stairs. My younger daughter Rowan must have come back from baby-sitting.

It was time for a break anyway. I turned down the music. She appeared on the staircase a moment later.

"Hey, I'm home! Why are you dancing now, Mom?" she asked.

I took a drink of water from my bottle. "Felt like it. Baby-sitting's done for the night, then?"

"Yeah," she said. "Anyway, you never dance at night. Mind if I change and join your workout?"

That was unexpected. "It won't be worth it, honey; I ought only to be another few minutes at this," I fibbed.

"No, that's good! I'm kind of tired, so I only wanted a short--"

Shit, I was going to have to tell her. "--Really, I'd rather you didn't. I need to dance alone so I can concentrate tonight. This is for work," I admitted.

She blinked her wide hazel eyes at me. "What do you mean, 'for work?' Do you mean, like--you're going to dance at a party?" She got an indescribable smirk on her face as she thought about it.

"None of my other performers can make it," I said. "It's only going to be this once."

My daughter's eyebrows rose and she clapped her hands excitedly. "You really are going to work a party!"

I took another drink. "Yes, I am: just 'this once,' as I said. Listen, that doesn't leave this house, okay? In fact, don't tell your brother either."

"What about Dad?"

"I'm going to tell him when he gets back from his meet-and-greet," I explained. "He's a guy, but he's a grown-up guy, so he can handle it. Eddie--I'm not sure he could handle the thought of his mother dancing at a party."

"This is so cool! I'm going to change and I'll be right back down, okay?" She flew away like a comet, before I could say a word.

Cool? What the hell was she saying? I sighed and stretched my legs on the ballet rail.

I rolled my shoulders and turned up the music again. Rowan burst into the room just as I began to tap my feet and pick up the rhythm.

She stood near the corner table; apparently, she wanted to watch me before she joined me. I cleared my mind and concentrated on the music. There was the starting beat. I swung into motion slowly, almost lazily. (The girl in the video had started slowly, and it had really helped her build the drama as she danced; that was part of the reason I was borrowing her choreography.) I shimmied my shoulders a bit, then extended my arms, left, then right. Left hand across face, right hand across face, blow kiss, swing hips left, swing hips right, rock hips forward, spin, swing hips right, thrust out ass, swing hips left, thrust out ass....

Even though I was focused on the dance routine, I noticed that Rowan was dividing her attention. Most of the time, she was watching me, but she often glanced at the video girl.

I was starting to sweat a little, as the performance was probably getting to the five-minute mark. Strut forward, left, then right, left, then right. Swing hip and shoulder, right, then left--

"--Jazz hand needs to be crisper, Mom," said Rowan.

I almost stumbled. She sounded like I did when I instructed students. (She and her sister had been two of them: both learned dance from me as younger girls.) Was she seriously coaching me? At any other time, I would have found this cute. Right now, I found it...helpful. I'm so used to the dance environment, I automatically took her suggestions.

When we got to the next part of the routine, though, Rowan surprised me even more. "Was that supposed to be taking off your shirt?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question; she'd paused the video, and she knew what it was. "Stop, Mom! You know you can't practice that without the costume."

"Honey--" I started to say.

"--You know it," she insisted. "This isn't ballet or ballroom! The costume is really a series of props, when you think about it. You've got to use them when you practice, or you're just begging for something to get screwed up when you do it for real."

She was right; I did know that. My face felt a little flushed when I said, "I don't think I want to practice that part tonight."

"For real?" She shrugged her muscular shoulders. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You should get your costume, put it on over the warm-ups you're wearing now, and do this right."

My daughter was lecturing me. And she had an excellent point. Could this get any weirder?

I went to my room and got the dancing outfit I'd just bought. There was no way that the skimpy neon pink bra I'd chosen would fit over even my thin workout clothes. I took off my workout top and put on the bra, then the white tie-front collared shirt. I put on the tight black micro-skirt over my leggings; it fit, even though it was really snug.

Rowan had kept looking through the video while I was gone. When I came back to our makeshift dance room, she looked at me. "The shoes?" she said, glancing at my sneakers.

"I've danced in heels hundreds of times," I told her. "The difference in shoes won't be a problem."

"If you're sure," she said. I stifled my laugh; I'm certain she sounded more like me than she knew!

She turned the music back up to practice volume. I found the beat again. "Taking it from the top," I said aloud. Rowan nodded and watched me closely.

She had fewer pointers to offer this time, probably because I was taking practice more seriously. That made perfect sense: the presence of a coach always leads to better results. If I ever did this again--

--But I wasn't ever going to do this again. This was just a one-time performance.

"Don't forget to smile," Rowan advised me, and I realized I'd been scowling slightly.

I kept dancing, feeling good about my stamina and flexibility. I got farther into the routine. Time to lose the shirt. Left shoulder. Hip swivel. Right shoulder. Hip roll and shrug. Hip roll, right arm, left arm, shirt catch and toss.

Rowan didn't say anything, just nodded faintly, looked back to the video for a second, then continued to watch me. I grinned for just an instant; I had told her I'd get that part right with no trouble. She was a decent dancer herself, but I had at least a couple thousand hours more experience than she had.

Deeper and deeper into the routine now. Although I was sweating, I still had plenty of energy. Time to lose the skirt. This particular skirt was fastened with three snaps; it was the type of skirt J.L. always wore when she performed. It was no trouble to unsnap, wriggle loose, let it fall, catch it with the right foot, kick it away. The choreography was straightforward and easy to execute. "Higher toe, lower knee next time; it's a snap-kick," Rowan said.

I nodded once to show her I'd heard her. I kept dancing the routine. One more potentially difficult maneuver: I had to remove the bra. Lean forward. Hip shake right, then left. Left hand up, right hand up, pop it open, hold bra cups. Let right slip, put it back up, left slip, back up, both slip, back up, lean forward more, lean back. Right forearm up, toss bra, shimmy shoulders, bring up left hand. Lower hands, hands back up, lower hands, hands on hips, spin, shake ass, spin, shake tits....

The routine kept going and I kept dancing, improvising only a little. My daughter only offered me two or three more corrections. Then I got to the part where the video dancer started to take off her g-string.

My dance diverged with the video. Rowan noticed immediately. "That's not how the routine goes, Mom," she said.

"Our performers only go topless, not fully nude," I told her while I kept sashaying and twisting with the music.

"Oh, I didn't know that," she said. She twirled a lock of her glossy, curly black hair around her finger. "So how long are you going to keep dancing, once you've gotten rid of the bra?"

"About two and a half minutes: the dance should be 20 minutes long."

I kept my body moving and the music kept playing. I twirled dramatically at the finish, knelt on my right knee, bowed my head, and extended my right arm straight into the air. I held the pose for four beats. Rowan clapped.

I bowed. I felt my surgically-enhanced C-cups bounce. It hit me that I'd just danced sexy in front of my daughter wearing nothing but skin-tight workout pants. I told myself that I didn't have anything she didn't.

"That was really good. How many times have you practiced it?" Rowan had gathered my skirt, bra, and shirt, and she handed them to me.

"This was my first practice," I said, feeling a little proud of myself.

"You're kidding. Our cheer squad would take a week to get that good at a routine half that long!"

"Be real with me, honey," I said to her. "Was I--Did I look good? I mean, was I...exciting?"I knew I was blushing, but this performance was about teasing and pleasing an audience, not about executing the perfect recital.

Rowan's eyes narrowed a little as she thought about it. "More or less--it's hard to judge," she said soberly. "Your dance was great, and what I saw of your costume was pretty nice. But your workout pants and sneakers aren't sexy. I can't answer too well if you aren't dressed and made up the way you would be."

My youngest child, barely 15 years old, was evaluating my performance and my overall presentation like she was a judge on a tv show or something. "I'm impressed. You're better at this than I thought you were. You're really helping me," I told her.

"Thanks, Mom," she said cheerfully. "I had a lot of good teachers, and you taught me a ton yourself.

"Anyway, you must be going through this routine again if that was only your first practice."

"One more time, yeah. This performance took a little more out of me than I thought it would." I grabbed my water bottle again and took a long drink.

"I still think you should try it in your show shoes this time," Rowan said. "If they've got significant heels, they'll affect the angles and lines your legs make."

My hands lifted in an exaggerated sign of surrender. "Okay, you're right, I'll wear them!" I told her. "10-minute break."

I went upstairs. Rowan stayed in the dance room.

Rummaging in my closet, I quickly found my bubble-gum pink platforms. The soles themselves were 6 cm thick, and the heels added another 9 cm, so these cute, surprisingly light shoes added 15 cm to my height. It was awkward to move in them at first--it had been months since I'd last worn them--but they still fit great. They gave my spirits a boost too, since I was so much taller in them.

Might as well go all the way. I took off my workout pants and bikini briefs and put on the rest of the lingerie set: the matching neon pink g-string. Rowan had never seen me dressed in something like this, but she'd never seen me jiggling my bare chest either. If I hadn't gone too far already, this wouldn't make the difference. I smiled nervously as I adjusted the tiny performance panties.

Then I made a sour face, noticing short black hairs protruding from around the narrow triangle of fabric. I keep my pubic hair trimmed, but the g-string was way smaller than other panties I wear. I got my razor and gel and sat on the edge of the bathtub and shaved my mound completely. I rinsed and put on the pink thong panties. Much better: no hair to worry about.

When I came back to the practice room, I was wearing the entire performance ensemble. Rowan noticed that I wasn't wearing my workout leggings, but she didn't say anything about that. Instead, she said, "You're as tall as I am now, Mom." (I stand just 151 cm, by far the shortest in the family. Rowan passed my height when she was 13.) "I can't believe you weren't going to practice in those shoes; they have to make a difference!"

"We'll see if they do," I said with a touch of bravada.

She restarted the music and I began the second practice session. I still got suggestions and corrections from Rowan, but maybe only half as many as she'd given me on the first attempt. I did a good job with my high-heeled platform shoes, until it was time to kick out of my skirt. This time, the toe of the shoe was so steeply angled that the skirt just slid off the end of the shoe and flopped anticlimactically to the floor.