Dan Webster - Forced into damnation

The dark-haired girl at the bar watched with interest as Connie sipped her drink. Connie hadn't recognized her – probably because she wasn't wearing her blonde wig or her star-shaped beauty mark. But Sheri recognized the policewoman, all right! She wasn't likely to forget that face or the way that it had distorted with undisguised hatred when she had arrested the young prostitute in Manhattan the previous month. Looks like she's strayed out of her precinct, Sheri thought. But then we all get around, don't we? Sheri wouldn't have traveled all the way to. Queens herself if not for the fact that she needed money desperately. Street hustling wasn't as lucrative as it used to be now that Blumenthal's raiders had started making life miserable for the girls of Eighth Avenue. So when she heard that the people who operated this club were looking for a female performer, she had jumped at the chance.

The bartender had told her that the manager wouldn't be available for a couple of hours, but that she could wait at the bar if she wanted to. His offer of a drink "on the house" had been enough to ease the boredom of waiting, at first. But now it looked like something interesting might happen, after all. She glanced over the rim of her glass at the undercover policewoman who sipped her own drink unsuspectingly.

Connie glanced at her wrist watch, wondering whether Mr. Walker would keep her waiting long. The waiter, misinterpreting the gesture appeared solicitously at her side. "The show will be starting in a few minutes, Miss. May I get you another drink?"

"By all means. Get Miss Dresden another and put it on my tab." The voice was deep and resonant, but soft and gentle at the same time.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Walker," the waiter said, pulling out a chair for the tall muscular Black man who had spoken. "The usual for you, sir?"

Johnny Walker nodded, sending the waiter on his way. "Good evening, Miss Dresden," he said. His voice was cultured and genteel, contrasting sharply with the vicious-looking pink scar which broke the smooth clean line of his right cheek. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Johnny Walker."

"How do you do, Mr. Walker," Connie answered politely. Something about the Black man's manner – gentle yet supremely confident – was putting her at her ease. He was nothing like the brutal animal that she had met in the warehouse. Johnny Walker was dressed impeccably in a gray-and-white pin-striped double-breasted suit. Under it he wore a shirt striped in muted tones of blue and purple with a white silk tie. When he smiled, Connie glimpsed a flash of gold surrounding a gleaming heart-shaped cutout on one of his upper central teeth. Although it contrasted with his otherwise relatively conservative attire, it seemed distinctive rather than gaudy.

"I'm sorry it I kept you waiting," he said. "I usually try to be prompt, but was unavoidably detained by a pressing business detail." So soft and cultured was his voice that Connie never would have believed that the pressing business detail involved the physical punishment of one of Johnny's stable of whores.

A moment later the waiter reappeared with their drinks – another gin and tonic for Connie and a tall glass of straight Johnny Walker Black Label for her companion. "To your health," Johnny said, lifting the glass to his lips. "And to a miraculous recovery for your unfortunate sister."

Connie was startled, having momentarily forgotten the story about her dying sister. Then, adopting an appropriately unhappy look, she raised her glass and sipped. The cool tangy liquid felt good going down, refreshing her on the hot muggy New York summer night.

"Did you bring me a sample of the merchandise, Mr. Walker?" she asked, suddenly anxious to transact her business and get away from there.

"Slow down, Miss Dresden," he said. "Or may I call you Connie?" Connie nodded. "There will be plenty of time for business later. Let's just enjoy our drinks for a while. The show will be beginning any moment now. I'm sure you'll like it. It's rather unusual, although not for our little club. You see, we specialize in the unusual. May I order you another drink?"

"No, thanks," she said, determined not to allow herself to become intoxicated as she bad the week before. "I'm still fine." She indicated her glass, still half full.

"You won't mind if I do, then, will you?" he asked, signaling the waiter with a nod of his head. Just as the waiter placed another glass iii front of him, the lights dimmed and a bright-red spotlight illuminated the stage. An announcer, dressed in a gold dinner jacket and red trousers, stepped into the spotlight and waited for quiet.

In a moment the room was hushed. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "I know you're all anxious to see the show so I won't bore you with longwinded introductions. Tonight, for the first time anywhere, the management is pleased to present George and Martha." He stepped quickly off the stage.

Johnny Walker took a long swallow of his drink and then looked up at Connie, a friendly smile lighting up his coal-black face. "The manager tells me that they're very good," he said, indicating to the stage with a gesture of his head. Connie looked up to see a tall shapely woman standing alone in the middle of the elevated stage.

As the color of the spotlight changed from red to white, Connie was surprised to see that the woman was totally nude. She was swaying sensuously, moving her body in rhythm to the notes of an imaginary melody – a tune heard by her and her alone. Her eyes were half-closed and she was licking her lips sensuously. Connie was embarrassed by the shocking display of uncovered pulchritude and sought an excuse to turn away. But Johnny Walker was looking directly at her, taking silent note of her every gesture. She felt instinctively that this was some kind of test and that it would be wise for her to pretend enjoyment of the lewd exhibition.

She forced a smile and redirected her gaze at the naked woman on the stage. She was running her hands sensuously up and down her nude body, caressing her breasts and stroking her flat white belly. The girl was of medium height and build. But her tits were huge. They hung pendulously down in front of her, swinging obscenely from side to side as she swayed to the imaginary music. Her hair was bright red and very long. It was tied back into a single pony tail which hung almost to her full round ass. The furry triangle that surrounded her pussy was red as the hair of her head. She tangled her fingers in it as she rubbed her belly.

Connie was shocked to see so prurient a display being presented on the familiar stage of the Glass Onion. Up until now, the only performers that she had seen there had been wearing faded Levi's and flannel shirts and bad plucked the strings of battered guitars.

The redheaded girl was cupping her long luscious tits now, rolling them about in her hands and bringing the huge walnut-sized nipples to quivering erection. The aureoles were brown, but the pointy caps were rosy pink. Connie wondered whether the girl had applied a bit of makeup be fore going on stage.

She was moaning softly now as her own fingers tweaked and petted her nipples, rolling them lovingly between thumb and forefinger. Connie remembered how good it had felt when Lionel had stroked her nipples that way and wondered whether self-stimulation produced the same sensation. The girl on stage was apparently enjoying it. Her face was distorted into a mask of sheer pleasure and she was licking her full red lips lewdly as she stroked and petted her mammoth tits before the crowd of hushed onlookers.

"Oh, feels so good," she moaned, her voice soft and sexy. While she continued petting her own tits with her left hand, moving it slowly from one swaying mound to the other, she moved her right hand caressingly over the silky plane of her taut white belly. She fluttered her fingers as she did so, moving them like the wings of a butterfly and stimulating herself even more. Then, bending her knees to separate her smoothly curving thighs, the girl began to rub her own sizzling pussy with the flat of her hand. Connie was shocked at the lewd sight. Rubbing her breasts had been bad enough, but this shameful display of public masturbation was awful. How satisfying it would be, she thought, to stand up suddenly, flash my badge, and place the entire room under arrest. But remembering the importance of her mission, she put all such thoughts out of her mind, forcing herself to watch the shameful spectacle taking place on the stage of the Glass Onion.