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Seeing his recently nipped and tucked face light up acts as my cue to sashay away towards the female approaching who indeed will exchange a variety of mouth hugs for money.
Nothing wrong with that.
No judgments.
In fact, I actually appreciate her honesty in the department where most women – especially around here – pretend they are “too high class” to even consider something like that.
Right.
That’s why those same “too high class” ladies are almost always the first to be found on their knees in one of the exclusive VIP rooms that cost five grand just to occupy for an hour and another two for service.
Again, I’m not judging.
I’m simply saying be fucking honest.
Like Vanessa.
Vanessa Setta and I casually cross paths at which time I whisper, “Baldy tips like his son won the Stanley this year and grabby wants to tip if you’re willing to take the tip.”
She winks to acknowledge she heard me, flips her black hair over her shoulder, and struts towards the pair in full lioness mode.
Honest and fearless.
The two qualities I wish more people had the balls to display.
She says they were two things of the three most important things she learned hanging around rinks with her brother when she lived in Vlasta, Wisconsin with the other of course being never bang hockey players.
Especially not ones that label themselves “gods”.
I rhythmically stroll from the center of the posh decorated room towards the employee’s only area near the back bar making sure to sway my hips to the jazz music from the house band every step of the way to guarantee I’m minding the “always on display” rule.
The instant I’m no longer in view of the patrons, I quickly hustle past the employees’ dressing room to the main office to check out for the night. To no surprise, inside the unlocked space is Ricky Rigsby, our slimy, always trying to pass for six feet, ferret faced boss – that I’m ninety percent sure was given this gig as debt owed to his father – and the newest, youngest hire.
Krall only knows what bullshit he’s trying to spew to con another chick into fucking him for favoritism.
He’s clearly learned nothing from the last three that no longer work here.
Well, maybe not nothing.
He at least remembered to close the door this time.
“If you do this for me, baby, I swear I’ll give you first pick of private parties,” he tempts, hand sliding up the back of her ivory skinned thigh. “And we’ve got soooo…” his fingertips continue inching towards her ass, “many…” another two centimeters is covered, “coming…”
The last line is attached to him diving forward to shove his tongue in her mouth prompting me the perfect time to interrupt, “Time for me to check out.”
Callie Hardy loudly giggles, gives her bleached blonde hair a less than innocent ruffle, and creates space between her and the boss causing him to grump, “Fuck, Brynley.” He gives his crotch a small adjustment. “Can you give us a few? We’re kind of in the middle of negotiating.”
“You’re in the middle of a porn fantasy come true.”
More redness coats the young girl’s face, but the comment doesn’t send her running like it should.
Meaning she likely knows exactly what she’s doing.
And she likely plans on getting exactly what she wants out of him.
Kudos to the kid.
“Chop, chop, Ricky. The sooner you let me go for the night, the sooner you can get her on her knees and your nine-inch cock in her mouth.”
