Austin Williams - Widespread whore

By the time Lance was naked, his cock was as hard as it had ever been, and there was a droplet of jizm spilling out the end. He was ready to be chewed on.

Five minutes later, the neighborhood was shocked by a loud, piercing scream which rang out from Lance's apartment; followed by the violent slamming of a door. Neighbors who peered out to see the source of the disturbance, saw Rick walking swiftly down the front walk, and running toward the Whispering Pines.

Tuesday heard his knock, and rushed breathlessly to the door. Oh, she needed him so much. When she opened the door, she recoiled in horror. Bick was drenched in blood from the neck of his shirt to the waist, and there was blood on his face as well.

"God, Bick, what's happened to you? My God. Come in! I'll call a doctor or an ambulance!"

"Never mind," he said wearily. "It's not my blood. It's Lance's

"Lance's? How… what…"

"He'll never bother you again. I just bit his cock off right at the base. It was hard and he'll bleed to death before anybody can help him. Your troubles are over."

"But you know," Tuesday said to Freda, a little misty, "they snatched Bick up and tried him for

murder, and it was all so bad and embarrassing that he killed himself in his jail cell. So, I was a widow… more for Bick than Lance, but after it was all aver, Freda, I was out on my ass and broke as a. convict. What the hell could I do? I didn't know how to make a living. The only thing I had to sell was pussy. But I didn't want to be a whore. So I tried like hell, I really did!"

"God, you really had some bad breaks," Freda told Tuesday, shaking her head. "After all that, what did you do?"

After Lance was buried (his dick was carefully wrapped and placed in the inside of his coat when they laid him out), and he was sent off, Tuesday surveyed the situation, and concluded that marriage was out forever.

No more Lances, and she would not allow herself to love anybody else. Losing Rick had been a near mortal blow to her. But she faced the immediate necessity of eating.

All told, when it was over, she found less than two dollars in her pocketbook. Eating being the acute problem that it was, Tuesday naturally sought employment where there was food.

"You a dancer?" the manager of the Flaming Poon asked suspiciously. "Where you been dancing before?"

"Well, I haven't danced professionally," Tuesday confessed, "but I'm good at it. Hell, give me a chance, and if I don't cut it, I mean right off, fire me and you don't owe me anything. Just feed me while I try it."

"That sounds okay," he said, "but for a topless go-go gal, you sure ain't holding any heavy tits. Our customers like big-tittied girls."

"They like those freaks with bazooms down to their navels because that's all they get," Tuesday argued boldly. "My tits aren't so big, but by God, they're firm. Hell, some of these pigs you got pictures of out front, would have bugs crawl out from under their boobs if they could lift 'em up. Mine stand straight out. Your customers will like 'em. Just give it a try."

"Okay," he agreed, "but if you don't wow 'em tonight don't come back tomorrow."

"I'll wow 'em," she promised.

And she did. Goddamn! The silly bastards, pitiful shit heads trying to escape their dumb-dumb wives, went right up the wall as soon as they saw Tuesday's body. They whistled and stomped, and demanded to see more of her.

Ha! Maybe, she was a good dancer. Maybe she could go to Hollywood or New York. Hell, guys were the same everywhere. If they went ape shit in one place, they'd be the same elsewhere.

"Okay, okay," the manager said after closing. "You ain't done bad. So we hire you on for say seventy a week and your meals."

"Seventy a week?" she complained. "That won't keep a roof over my head. Hell, man, I got to make

more than that!"

"So make a million," he said. "Goddamn! What we pay you is just to keep you from working for nothing while you're here. If a girl in this joint can't make three, four hunnert a week, she just ain't trying."

"How can I?"

"Don't be a fucking dumb-dumb!" he snapped. "If these guys will pay to see you switch around, hell, they'll pay to see you later. Jesus Christ! You ought to know that a guy who'll pay to see a clumsy ox like you stagger around with those boobs will sure as shit lay out a bundle to take you home with him."

"Clumsy ox?"

"Goddamn, there ain't one of you that can dance a fuckin' lick! Thank God the johns are so stupid! But you can switch your ass around in private, and make all the dough you want. What I'm doing, I ought to charge you to be here. Hell, I'm settin' you up in business, and you ain't got to invest a dime. Now, how can you beat that?"

Tuesday would have blown her stack on two counts, but the mention of three to four hundred dollars a week had a calming influence on her. She resented the hell out of his calling her an "ox" and she was trying not to be a whore, but, well shit, that much money…

"All right," she said, "we'll see, but let me have twenty-five to keep me going 'til the flood gates open and all the big money starts rolling in."

He pulled two tens and a five off a greasy roll which he kept in his pocket. "You've fucked up

tonight. You never sat with the customers when you wasn't dancing. And you been standing here jawing at me. Tomorrow, get out there and be sociable. You'll see how the money floods in."

Tuesday's reception the following night was even more enthusiastic than it had been the first night, but she did not mingle with the crowd. As soon as her set ended, she beat it to hell into the kitchen, and waited 'til the next time.

She still had most of the twenty-five left, and she was not yet certain whether she wanted to sell anything besides her dancing. In fact, her uncertainty prevailed for nearly ten days, and it had a tremendous effect on her popularity. All the regulars had tried her and failed to get even a conversation.

The word was spread. She was young, with a great body, and by God, she was untouchable. The smart cunt hounds swarmed around, each one certain he could put the make on Tuesday, and each certain that she was nothing more than a sheeney cunt, trying to be a smart ass. Really, she was a star attraction, but she still got only seventy a week.

So, when the bus boy brought her a note into the kitchen, which was wrapped around half of a hundred-dollar bill, she decided it was time to emerge from hiding.

Manny McDowell sent the note back, and he held the other half of the C note. "Come out and get the rest of the bill," the note said. "In fact, come out and get a handful of papers with Ben Franklin's picture. I dare you!"

Manny could afford to pay. He was a second-generation wonder, a corporate executive who lacked the business judgment to buy a decent roll of toilet paper, but who had a title, an office, a solid hundred-thousand-a-year income, no responsibility, and a bitchy wife who had let the moss grow over her cunt.

Manny, not much in the office, considered himself to be a terror in bed. Most of his playmates agreed with him. They all liked those pictures of Ben Franklin which he threw around.

Tuesday found that she liked old Ben too, and sent Manny a note back telling him to meet her outside. If she fucked him, nobody would know it but her. She wasn't letting all the idiots in on the deal. He would spread it around, but it would only be his word, and all men lie about the pussy they get.

If she could convince two or three well-heeled guys that she was letting them have it exclusively, she'd be in the chips, and not have to fuck everybody in town.

Manny was practically slobbering when they got into the car. "Damn," he said. "I been there every night, and I thought you were never gonna be sociable!"