Greer peeked in and enjoyed the view. Van Kamp was being lambasted by the Gallery's owner, flanked by several police detectives. His soon-to-be former boss was in the process of an interrogation she could never had imagined herself being a party to. Perspiration had left her usually sleek blonde helmet in disarray, her pale mien flushed.

"I tell you I had no idea they were forgeries when I bought them for the Gallery, Mr. Hotchkiss!" The voice, so sure of itself when casually cutting him to bits in his last job review, wavered.

The older man cut through the air, knocking aside the invisible arguments she was making. "The correspondence found on your PC clearly indicate you'd been working with Ertigan's group. It was an inside scheme clearly coordinated by you!"

The detectives nodded their basic agreement with this assessment. "There will be charges Ms. Van Kamp," she was informed by the Inspector.

But Hotchkiss, normally unflappable, shook his head nervously. "No-- absolutely NOT! It would ruin me-- the value of every other piece here would be placed in doubt! No-- Justine will make restitution instead to settle this affair. Of course she'll be terminated at once!"

Justine Van Kamp shook her head in disbelief. "You must be joking Harold! I've NEVER done anything illegal in my entire--"

"You'll pay it back-- forty thousand for that forged LaTrec you bought from your partners with MY money-- or you'll go to jail. And that's the end of the discussion-- I'll listen to nothing else you have to say!" The patrician gallery owner wiped his face with a monogrammed handkerchief, eager to be done with it.

The Inspector glanced at the Gallery proprietor and, shrugged. "In a sensitive case such as this, I suppose that prosecution would do more harm to the victim than good. If you're prepared to pay the money back to Mr. Hotchkiss here, I'll request that the DA's office forgo prosecution. Of course, it would help your case enormously if you lead us to your accomplice, Ertigan." His stern glance at Justine indicated that she should be grateful to have escaped with such lenient treatment.

"I have no idea who or what Ertigan is Inspector!"

The police officer had heard this before from countless other suspects. "The name was on at least six pieces of e-mail found on your pc-your password-protected pc, Ms. Van Kamp. We assume he's left the country by now, but your cooperation would help us look for a trail. Right now there's nothing."

She stood up, awkwardly throwing her arms out to her former boss.

"Look Harold, there's more to this than it appears. If we could investigate this more closely--"

But Hotchkiss would have none of it. "Greer has already investigated the matter and done the right thing by informing me of the situation. You and I have no further need for discussion, Ms. Van Kamp. From this point on, you'll deal with Greer. Greer?!?!!"

The young man waited for an additional second to pass, then responded, walking into the room alertly. "Yes Sir?" He looked at the police, then Justine with melancholy.

"As you know, Ms. Van Kamp has violated the trust of this establishment...and myself. Luckily-- for her-- she has agreed to make good on her sins. I'll leave it to you to handle her repayment of the amount she stole from this gallery. Naturally I'd like you to assume her position, if on a temporary basis initially. I'm only sorry such a wonderful career opportunity must come on the heels of such a distasteful episode."

But Greer wasn't sorry in the least. Why should he be? He was the one who had helped orchestrated the downfall of his bitchy boss in such a painfully methodical way that it would be impossible for her to ever untangle the web surrounding her. And it was only beginning, he reminded himself. Only just beginning.

"Uh, how do I suggest this?"

"Yes Greer-go on," demanded Hotchkiss.

Almost apologetically he turned to the Inspector. "If I'm to work out a settlement with Ms. Van Kamp, I'll need to know she's in town and..."

The Inspector snatched up the train of thought and turned to address Justine, an iron glare. "Oh, we'll be keeping an eye on Ms. Van Kamp, don't you worry. If she so much as thinks about leaving the area, she'll be remanded to custody immediately."

Justine's normal cadet-like posture slumped. Her head bobbed doll-like. This wasn't happening. It just couldn't be!


It had been the longest week of her life. Even the divorce from her ex-husband Phil Evans hadn't been this miserable. At least she had walked away from that nastiness with something-the settlement that had paid for grad school. That had led her...where? Because everywhere she had turned in the last few crazed days, there were closed door. As if everyone in town knew somehow about her disgraceful expulsion from the Gallery.

First the discovery of the forgery ring she was supposedly involved in, then the abrupt termination, and finally the bank's notification that it was calling the loan on her co-op, which meant bankruptcy. Which meant she was reduced to crawling to this establishment, a place that hadn't entered her consciousness till an ad from the newspaper, one she had been looking at for help wanted ads, leapt off the page at her. It was desperate, but with the criminal charges against her, it was realistically the only kind of position she now had a chance to obtain. Reluctantly, Justine Van Kamp knocked on the door she had been told was the Manager's office.

"Yeah?" The voice was gruff, impolite.

"Mr. Allegro, I was wondering if you could give me a moment." It was hard but she kept her voice level. When there was no response, she added "It's about the ad." The attempt to hold on to a normal tone was somewhat successful, though her heart was beating a million times a minute.

The door swung open to reveal a burrow of an office, walls papered over with old newspaper ads for Club Vixen, centerfolds, autographed photos from pornstars and visiting dancers. Allegro sat hunched over a calculator and stacks of grimy bills-ten and twenties that Justine guessed constituted the afternoon take thus far. He looked up, a bored expression on the sallow face that looked older than its owner.

"Yeah? What about it?" His narrow brown eyes casually examined her.

"If you're from city hall or one of those damn women's rights groups-"

Justine shook her head rapidly. "No, no! Nothing like that! I'm here because your ad." She pulled the newspaper clipping from the pocket of her Evan Picone jacket, "said that you were looking for help."

The manager of Club Vixen re-examined her now, curiosity replacing hostility. "Yeah, we're always looking. You, ah represent some talent? The owner isn't in right now and he handles the big booking-- but if you could leave a card or number--"

Justine shook her head again. "I, uh, no-you see, I--..." It was suddenly difficult to look Allegro in the eye because of the dirty leer that was creeping into his hard, cynical eyes, but she forced the words out. "uh, I wanted to apply for one of the positions. Myself."

"As a dancer?" He was amused, but still dubious.

Justine nodded.

"You're a cop, lady. Beat it." Allegro looked back at his bookkeeping.

"No, no! Really, I'm here because I need a job." She bit her lower lip. "I really need a job, mister. Please."

It was the desperation in her voice that convinced him she might be on the level. "Sorry, you just don't look like one of our usual applicants. Why don't you fill this out," he pushed a clipboard with a form and pen at her across the desk, "and we'll talk." He rose, promising to be back in a minute. She thought he was chuckling to himself as he left the office but she couldn't be sure.

Justine concentrated on the application form. It was simple enough and she filled it out within minutes. Allegro picked it up on his return and began scanning it. With every line he read, his eyes grew wider and wider.

"Princeton?" His husky cigarette voice was disbelieving.

She nodded, then clarified "Undergraduate. My master's is from Columbia."

He bowed his head in mock salute. "And your last job was at this fancy downtown art gallery?"

"Uh, yes. I was the head buyer for the last three years. Till I left a month ago."

Allegro grinned. "Left? Or can I assume you were fired?" He didn't know any woman who left a fancy job to strip because she wanted to. He had seen his share of college girls trying to pay tuitions-most ended up as high priced hookers or 'girlfriends' of some of the wealthier customers of Club Vixens. A few single moms trying to pick up the pieces. But career women? This was a first.

She didn't immediately respond, but when he tapped the desk with his pen insistently, she broke down. "Yes. I was...dismissed."

Satisfied, he continued to read the application. Finally he looked up with a malicious grin. "Sorry. I'm afraid we haven't got anything for you."

At first, Justine looked at him as if there was more. Justine Van Kamp had been one of the most influential leaders in the gallery community. Ivy League, six figures and Caribbean-vacationed every six months. She wasn't being turned down for an exotic dancer job. That was insane. But his earthy eyes held steady above the evil grin.

"I don't understand," she mumbled looking down at her Ferragamo shoes.


Justine's face burned hot. Her bra size.

"Who wants to see some flat-chested stripper? Your body's okay, but you don't have much up top, honey. Not a surprise to you, I'm sure."

After an eternity that the club manager seemed to enjoy, she shrugged weakly. "I would work very hard, Mister Allegro. I-"

"You're kind of a plain, honey. Let's face it-I'm not saying you're ugly, 'cause you're not. But you're a five, maybe a six tops if you tricked yourself out. With big cans, that's not so important. But..." Allegro let it drift and cocked his head, waiting.

God, he sounded like Phil. Flat-chested. Toward the end, that's what Phil used in screaming matches in their horror-show marriage. Her ambition to be the best at what she did, her talent, her intelligence-it was all knocked aside when he started to rant on that subject.

It was what had ripped the marriage apart-sex, sex, sex. And when she refused to give him what he wanted, it only added fuel to the fire. He would put even more pressure on her and she would give even him even less satisfaction in that area. Driving him even crazier, till he began getting really strange with his requests. Dropping hints about how he was getting satisfaction from other sources, about places he was going to get them "taken care of."

And how he had had it with his "flat chested tight-assed bitch of a wife." Well, she had filed for divorce, eager to get on with her schooling. Ironically Phil had never seen any use for her Fine Arts graduate work and refused to pay for it. Of course he did end up paying for it-with the large settlement she had received from the sympathetic female judge after sharing some of Phil's little rants with the court. He had disappeared after that-but it was clear his sentiments about her body weren't his alone. She felt her nails dig angrily, frustrated, into the palm of her hands.

She wanted to roll up in a corner. Now she was experiencing feelings she hadn't had since back in high school, when she had waited out the long Saturday nights with her books and homework. The nerd girl cursing the too-thin body and angular features she had inherited from her Dutch ancestors. The short helmet like corn silk blonde hair and icy blue Nordic eyes that warned off lesser mortals, the high aristocratic cheekbones, the pointy defiant chin-all of it too much for the boys. All she had wanted to be then was pretty-not some big shot art buyer, just pretty enough for the boys that didn't call.

And now eight years of college and five years of a successful career were reduced to that pathetic desire again. The desire to be pretty enough to get this job of nude dancing for the pleasure and amusement of Mister Allegro's clientele.

Because she needed this job. Desperately.

"A seven."

"Huh?" Allegro craned forward.

"I could be a seven. I could make myself up to be a seven, Mister Allegro. Really I could," she insisted to the doubtful strip club manager. "And I could wear things that might help me with my size problem too, like, push- up bras." She had always despised them and didn't own a single one, but if it helped...

Allegro laughed out loud. "You'd need a lot of pushin' honey!" he cruelly pointed out.

It was hard to keep from crying now, but to her credit she did just that. "Please. Just...please, Mister Allegro." Her blue eyes were moist now.

It was a small, pitiful plea from a woman he normally wouldn't have given a second look. For one thing, she was thirty-four... not exactly fresh off the farm. None of the other girls were over the age of thirty. And she wasn't a knockout by any standard. She was too prissy, too skinny and too flat. More a plain Kate Moss than anyone else he could think of. But the way she was acting made it clear that this was hard for her, probably the hardest thing she had ever had to do.

This was humiliating-- she was begging him for the opportunity to strip for strange men. There was none of the sassiness he was accustom to from the savvier girls or even the wide-eyed innocence of the teenagers. No, Justine was desperate and would do what ever it took to get this position. He liked the thought of her trying to earn those elusive dollar bills, coaxing them out of the tight hands of his regulars with bumps and grinds with her tight little body.

"Okay, I'll give you a chance to audition. If the customers like you, you get a shot. You get ten minutes to earn three dollars. You do that, and we'll talk about a regular thing."

Her thin lip curled into a grateful smile. "Thanks Mister Allegro! Thank you!" She DID have a nice smile and her blue eyes were pretty, if aloof. Well, if she earned the gig, THAT would change in a hurry.

She was surprised that he expected her to audition now. It was two o'clock in the afternoon and there were only a handful of customers in the darkened interior of Club Vixens. He had to be kidding about the three dollars, didn't he?

"C'mon hon-- let's get you into something cute and pick out some music. Allegro don't like to be kept waiting." It was Doreen, a redheaded stripper in a purple body stocking that Allegro had deposited with her behind the stage. "Pick out any of the things in here and I'll get you a play list of the tapes." She left Justine looking into a battered cardboard box of what constituted the costume department of the dancers at Club Vixens.

"Hurry up!" Allegro barked. "Doreen, get this bimbo's ass in gear or you're going over my knee for a session with my belt!"

"Goddamit!" Doreen hissed into Justine's ear. "If I get punished because you can't hustle your skinny little ass, bitch, I'll give you something to remember! Now hurry up!"

Frightened, Justine snapped up a red bra, push-up? yes!, and a matching red thong panty. Off went the expensive designer clothes. Justine kicked them into a neat pile and slipped on the red heels. She turned to Doreen, who insisted on running her hands through her blonde hair.

"Don't worry hon-- I'm not doing a lez thing, I mean later we could talk...." She grimaced at the shocked look Justine gave her in response. "Never mind. You gotta give your hair that fresh JBF look. Here, put some of this on." She pressed a tube of bright red lipstick into her hand and took the further liberty of spraying her heavily with Charlie. Funny-- she thought stupidly, "I haven't used Charlie since I was sixteen."

"JBF?" she asked, running the red tube over her pouting lips.

Doreen finished her spraying. "Just Been Fucked. Now get out there. I'm popping on Strut for you. You'll recognize it when you hear it-the guys love it. Especially in new girls." Doreen gave her what felt like a too-lingering push on her backside and she was all of a sudden on stage.

Goosebumps crept over her like a frost. Several sets of male eyes zoomed at her from all different corners of the darkened room. The loud music hit her like a wave, and she looked around terrified. It was one thing to consider this, another to do it. Maybe it was all a mistake, an awful horrible decision. She could leave NOW. Then Allegro's hard stare from the bar reminded her why she was here, why she had no choice BUT to be here...at Club Vixens...auditioning to strip for these men.

A smile. First with the mouth, then gradually the eyes, then swinging her hips to the music. Her strut was awkward, but her heart was in it. She had to compensate for her boyish body with the enthusiasm of a slut. And when she realized that, she was fine. With slow, stagey coquettishness, she pranced in her high heels toward her new best friend. The dance pole.

Pale masculine faces looked up at her and she looked back with what she hoped they took for hot hopes. Playfully she tugged and caressed her underdeveloped chest through the silky red bra with excitement. Some laughs puncture the illusion, laughs directed at her unusually small boobs, but she fought back the desire to cut and run and continued the playful performance, at last cocking her head reaching back and unclipping her bra. With a dramatic toss, she flipped the skimpy garment back and proudly stuck her chest out for the customers' inspection. She was smart enough to know not to concentrate on those small assets and immediately began to play with the pole instead.

Three minutes were up. And there still wasn't a dollar on the stage. Nor had any of the customers pointed a bill toward her. She looked up at Allegro who was well aware of the fact and watched impassively with folded arms. She had to do something.

She concentrated on an old man to the side. He looked fairly drunk and maybe she might coax a bill from him. With a saucy smile she dismounted her pole, pranced directly before him and teasingly toyed with the elastic band of her thong panties. Now she pouted at him, giving him a knowing look as she lowered and yanked up the panty. Trembling with drink or age or both, he tossed a bill at her and she snatched it up greedily. With a grateful smile, she slipped out of the panty at last, her sex exposed to the crowd.

Five minutes were up. Frantically she fixated on a pimply boy in the front. She was almost twice his age, but she drove that thought down and licked her lips. Strutting before him, she squatted, with legs spread for his viewing pleasure. Vaguely she made a note that if she was hired she would need to shave herself bare like the other strippers. The boy, embarrassed and delighted, looked away. Time was running out and she could no longer keep the fear out of her eyes. She dropped to her knees and looked down.

"Play with your titties again." It was the boy. He wanted value for his dollar.

With a pretty ladylike smile she obeyed the command promptly, tweaking her pink nubby nipples and squeezing what she could out of her meager fruit. She didn't return his stare-it seemed inappropriate and she didn't want to jeopardize her dollar. After two long minutes of self- massage, she looked down in relief at the grimy greenback that stared up at her. Without a second thought, she caught it between two fingers, mouthed "thank you" and stood up again.

Three minutes left and a dollar to earn. There was a figure moving through the club and she gyrated her hips toward him, hoping he might be her savior. As he sat down, she realized it was Greer.

She had always secretly despised a man that allowed himself to become a male secretary. Chris Greer or "Chrissy" as she sometimes called him, often to his face. She hadn't suspected him of possessing enough backbone to commit the kind of backstabbing.

Greer. Yes, it was his familiar sneer that greeted her.

"Well, Ms. Van Kamp. What a pleasant surprise seeing you here! Not really a surprise-the police department has been keeping tabs on you to ensure you don't leave town unexpectedly and were kind enough to let me know you were here. Well, it would seem you're good at something after all!" His bright eyes danced with malicious glee at her predicament.

But she no longer had the luxury of affording to pretend pride.

"Listen Greer--"

"Mister Greer to a common little tramp like you, Justine." His face looked up at hers, radioactive with triumph.

Of course. She had never respected him at Hotchkiss Gallery. How could she-he had been a mere secretary? A male secretary at that. He had started technically as an assistant, but she had changed that immediately.

"No, Chrissy-you're a secretary now-my personal secretary," she had explained to the disappointed young man just graduated from college. "Don't worry-be a good boy and play your cards right and I'll see you get moved up." Well, not really. Because she liked having a secretary pick up her dry cleaning, pay her bills, even sending him out to purchase cosmetics for her. It was an inside joke with her female colleagues, a status symbol she knew they envied. And Chrissy had NOT been promoted, especially when she had pointed out to Mr. Hotchkiss that he was obviously gay.

But she wasn't his boss anymore. And he wasn't a secretary, having assumed her old position. Roles were reversed and she had to play it carefully.

"Yes, Mister Greer. I'm here to work and I uh-

"Can't talk now because you're...working? Little bit different than being the queen bitch back in the gallery, hum?"

Her small chin tipped up as she made herself look at the dark ceiling, then let it fall gently, agreeing with him. "Yes, yes it is. Look, if you're here about the money, it will take me some time to pay it back, but I absolutely will. It's why I'm here doing...this."

Greer nodded with immense satisfaction. "Well, we'll talk later. But for the time being, don't you want something?" He waved a folded bill in front of her face.

"Would you like me to dance for you?" She said it without looking at him, her pale face flushing crimson. Two minutes.

He leaned back in the chair. "Oh-why not? Let's see you do some dirty dancing for me. Who knows...maybe you'll be so good I'll even toss you this dollar?"

She began bucking for him, bent over teasingly exposing ass, swinging and scissoring her long thin legs before him, rolling about like a playful puppy on the cold hard wooden stage before him. Hands all over her nude body, touching herself and moaning. And as the music died, her eyes lit up as he casually tossed a dollar on the stage.

"Stupid slut." Having rendered judgment, he rose. "I'll be back to collect the first installment for Mister Hotchkiss soon enough. I'll let him know it may take awhile though." Chuckling softly, he left the establishment. As she watched him leave, she began to realize just how much she had surrendered to earn that last precious dollar.

"Put these back on. Mister Allegro wants to see you." Doreen handed her the dainty red items and she did as she was told. In his office, he considered her with renewed interest. "You ain't feature material, but I might make a decent lap dancer out of you. You work the floor while the real talent performs for the crowd on the big stage."

Lap dancer. Not feature material, but one of the many girls kept on the sidelines to troll for spare dollars. The prettiest girls (the busty ones anyway, Justine admittedly bitterly) earned the right to center stage, to dance for lots of guys and earn lots of dollars. The flat or less attractive girls like herself were restricted to the hard work of coaxing the dollars by letting individual guys fondle them as they spread their legs and jiggle for them in skimpy lingerie.

She had seen some working the sidelines as she had danced-pouting, giggling, hip-swinging their way from seated man to man in the hopes they'd get the crooked finger signaling them to come closer. It would be hard work, very hard. Justine still clutched the three dollar bills, listening intently and carefully. Like the good little lap dancer she was expected to be from now on.

"It's minimum wage plus half what you get for your lap dances. Lap dances are at least a dollar. Plus you can keep half what you make from getting them to buy you drinks."

It was something, better than nothing, better than jail she told herself. It was a new start...not a happy start but a new one.

"You get side action going, I get half." Her quizzical look made him laugh. "You think you get to keep all of it? Oh yeah, the owner-he's a real generous guy, Missy!"

She shook her head in denial. "No, no-I...uh, side action?"

Doreen's plucked eyebrows rose, lips curled cynically. "Hon, lap dances are just a start around Club Vixens. Mister Allegro and the owner are pretty generous letting us girls keep half." She smiled sweetly at her boss, who patted her on the ass. His eyes lingered on his newest lap dancer though. Those haughty blue eyes were humbled now, the princess's lank blonde hair tousled. She was beginning to have the proper look for a Club Vixens girl.

"You're expected to give the customers what they want for a fair price. My girls," he ominously hooked a thumb in his thick, hard black leather belt, "don't EVER say the word 'no' to a customer." Doreen's saccharine smile melted, eyes riveted to that black belt.

Justine guessed she had personally been taught a lesson by the belt.

"You understand?"

Justine swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes Mister Allegro. I understand."

Pleased with her attitude he dismissed Doreen. The dancer was grateful to slip out and closed the door behind her.

"You've nearly completed your audition, Miss Van Kamp." He noted that her breasts, while small, were perky, the nipples under the thin red lace bra hard from the cool air. Nor was she as plain as he initially thought. Not plain, just bitchy.

With a frightened submissive smile, lots of make-up and a new attitude towards men, the debutante-type might just make him some money after all. There were guys who liked the preppy girl look, even if she was tiny up top. Maybe he'd put her in a cute little tennis outfit or dress her up like a Catholic schoolgirl.

All that was left was to teach her to forget those fancy degrees, her big shot job and all the rest. And focus Justine Van Kamp on the imperatives of her new position of lap dancer-to get men horny enough to use her in one of the small, filthy bedrooms over Club Vixens.

The belt was a wonderful tool for keeping these bimbos focused. His Boss, the owner, was a tough dude and he expected the joint to turn a pretty penny. He looked forward to the first opportunity of reminding her of her duties at the Club. It would come soon enough-it always did. Some of the customers wanted some pretty nasty things.

"Just one last thing, Miss Van Kamp." He liked the effect using her surname had on her. Lots of times she had been addressed in formal business settings this way. But now the formality was ironic. She hated it.

"All the girls are expected to become experts at pleasuring men. I periodically test the girls to make sure they are working hard to do so. I'd like to test you now." He pointed at the unswept floor in front of him. "Now," he repeated with less patience.

Had it come to this? Of course it had. Justine felt her knees bend as he knelt before her new employer. With shaking fingers, she gingerly found the zipper and gently pulled it down, releasing her boss's sex. Then his hands, filled with her tousled blonde hair, yanked her face forward even as she accepted the rigid organ into her mouth.

As she serviced a man with her mouth for the first time, her boss admonished her. "More slowly Miss Van Kamp. And remember-Club Vixens girls swallow every drop."

She thought of the belt. And when her boss did explode in her mouth, she was careful to do just as she was told, her tongue scooping up every dollop of his thick cream. It settled thickly in the pit of her tummy as he yanked her off her knees.

"Good. Congratulations, Miss Van Kamp-you're a Club Vixens girl now. Now get your skinny little ass out there and get to work. Be a nice little lap dancer and everything will be o.k." He patted her ass, but it wasn't with the affection of a lover. It was with the ownership of a slave master. "Screw up and..." he patted his belt buckle.

She padded off without a look back. No, she wouldn't screw up.


"That the new girl down there?" The two men were peering at the thin blonde bucking her hips against the chest of the biker in the back.

"Yep, that's her. Tiny tits but a tight little ass- exactly like you said, Mr. E." Allegro agreed completely with his boss, the owner of Club Vixens. Those who didn't had a nasty way of losing arguments.

"She's a lot cuter than she thinks she is," the other man continued. "But I'd keep reminding her she's little up top-it's a good way to keep her in line. Well, that and your other methods. She's a college girl-she may get a bit superior now and then," he advised. But there was nothing to worry about-- Allegro was brutal but effective. He kept all the Club Vixens girls in line, all ready, willing and able to give the customers anything they wanted.

"I got her address and cleaned it out-notice said the place had been repo'd anyway. Where you want her put?" his manager asked. Justine didn't know it yet, but many of the Club Vixens girls remained "on campus" at the club-it was much easier to control them. The boss had told him that Justine would also be kept there- permanently.

"Any suggestions?"

Allegro gave it some thought. "Seems like Doreen's kind of sweet on her already. You want 'em to be roommates?"

Allegro could tell the owner liked the sound of that a lot. "Good idea-there's a camera in that room so I can watch, isn't there?"

Allegro hit a switch and pointed at the video unit. "Sure. Room 17, Mr. E. You can watch everything, anytime you like." Both men peered into the room. It was small and furnished with a single bed. A wonderful place to begin a cozy lesbian relationship.

"That's fine then. Justine's never made love to another woman before. It should make for interesting entertainment, especially the first few times. Did you take care of my guest?" he asked, changing the topic.

Allegro nodded quickly. "Oh, yeah, just like you said. I gave him that envelope when he came in."

The club owner nodded. "He'll be coming in for quite a while. Give him whatever he needs. He'll be coming to see Justine. I want you to make sure she's available when he visits-she'll be passing on her wages to him."

"Whatever you say, Mr. E. You, ah, want to see the new girl now-you know-- give her a test spin?" If he was at the club, the boss liked to have a little session with any new girls he had hired.

But today was different. "No. Not now." Phil Evans smiled in the dark at the camera. His ex-wife was hesitantly leading her first trick upstairs, the biker she had been lap-dancing for. The biker was pinching her nipples through her lace bra, but she had already learned to keep that whorish smile plastered on her pale face.

"But soon. Very soon," he added to the manager who knew him only as Mr. Ertigan. "Very soon."


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