Heather Brown - Blow girl

I winced at his reference to my name, the blasphemy to Katrina's memory creating a knot in the pit of my stomach. But this was no time to get squeamish. I had already suffered enough humiliation to back out at this point without getting the money. Before I left to change, I asked, "When do I get paid?"

"Oh, yeah, right, a hundred twenty-five on Wednesday."

"A hundred and fifty," I said evenly, my harshness surprising me.

"Right, right," he laughed. "Twenty-five bucks extra for the blonde snatch. But, listen, don't tell the other girls or they'll all be after my ass for more bread."

The ladies' restroom was a dingy cubbyhole with a single forty-watt bulb providing the only light. There was a toilet, a grimy sink, and a shelf for stacking the clothes the dancers didn't wear. I quickly slipped out of mine, folded them, and put them on the shelf. I held the orange crotchless panties in front of me, and before I could think any more negative thoughts and talk myself out of going through with the whole thing, I held my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped into them.

After I had them on I couldn't resist staring down at them to see how they looked. As Harry had said, when my legs were together they looked like an ordinary pair of panties, but when I parted my thighs the opening between my legs spread apart, revealing the hair and ups of my cunt, framed with black lace. The vulgarity of it repelled me on the one hand, but on the other hand I had to acknowledge that there was something definitely erotic about the wispy hair and slippery lips of my cunt emerging through the lacy slit.

Before I could think any more, I heard an amplified voice booming from outside the door: "And now, gentlemen, a real treat. A new superstar at our club! Count Porno proudly presents the blonde bombshell, the fabulous Honeysuckle!" Tightening my fists and sucking in my breath, I emerged through the restroom door and marched toward the stage.

Wolf-whistles and crude remarks greeted me as I climbed up on the stage, which turned out to be covered with linoleum and sprinkled with sawdust. I stood as Harry had suggested with my legs pressed tightly together while the audience ogled me.

Suddenly the music started. It was loud rock from the jukebox, obviously selected for its heavy beat. The only way you could move to it and keep in time was to bump and grind. I began twitching my hips and slowly parted my thighs as Harry had said I should do. As I did so, I couldn't help but look down and notice the sight of my cunt emerging for all these leering men to gawk at. As Harry had predicted, the audience went wild when they saw my blonde cunt hair.

"Oh, wow!" I heard a voice from the back of the room exclaim. "She digs herself, she's looking at her own cunt! Right on, baby!"

I quickly averted my eyes from my crotch and started to concentrate on the business at hand. I listened to the rock music. Its beat was throbbing sensuously, and I made my body move with the music. But seductive as the beat and lyrics of the music were, it was still an effort to move with it. I kept my head up high with my eyes focused on one of those beer signs hanging over the jukebox. I tried not to look at the people seated and standing below me, even though in my mind I could see all of them: dozens of men under an umbrella of smoke, drinking their beer and smacking their lips, sweating in the small, crowded room-and looking straight up between my legs at my cunt.

And most of all I didn't want to look down again because I didn't want to be reminded by the sight of the parted lips of my own pussy what I was doing-which amounted to selling my body for money.

As the music throbbed on, I finally removed the panties and danced around completely nude. The audience seemed to love everything I did. Because I was elevated above them on the stage, there was no chance they could grab me, but I still felt like I was being pawed roughly by their stares, violated by their eyes and lewd comments.

As I continued bumping and grinding, I soon lost all track of time, and even of the differentiation between the records playing on the jukebox. It seemed like I had been up there dancing to one long, endless song forever when Harry jumped on the stage, grabbed the microphone, and said, "That's it! Wasn't she great? Let's give a big hand to the fabulous Honeysuckle!"

The next thing I knew I was back in the restroom putting my clothes back on and listening to the continuing applause, when there was a knock on the door. "I'm not dressed!" I shouted.

"So what?" said Harry as he burst into the room. "I can't see any more than I just did." I started to tell him something, like where he could go, but he went on talking. "Listen, sweetie, you were great, just great. No complaints. They loved you, just loved you. You're a star! How does that make you feel?"

"Pretty crummy," I blurted out.

But as I sat around at a back booth drinking coffee while the other girls danced, I had to admit that as lousy a job as this was, it still was gratifying that people were turned on by me. That seemed to be the one saving grace of this job, however, and as I continued to watch the other dancers I realized that the one positive aspect of Working at Count Porno's would probably be short-lived in its impact. The work was so demeaning, and they had to go to such lengths to win approval. The whole thing was based on how far the dancer would go-the less attractive the dancer was, the farther she had to go to please the audience.

One particularly willowly and beautiful brunette only had to tentatively dance around the stage to win the approving shouts of the crowd. But another girl, with small tits and a plain face, was subjected to their jeers until she finally dropped to the floor of the stage, spreading her lep and holding them above her head so the open hairy gash of her cunt seemed to breathe in the crowd's face. When they screamed, "More, more!" she wriggled on her back with her elbows over to the side of the stage and threw her hand down into the audience. Apparently it was a regular occurrence because someone in a ringside seat immediately handed her a lighted cigarette. She took it and placed it between the open slick lips of her cunt while she sucked in her breath. Then, pulling the cigarette out of her cunt with one hand, she used her other hand to push down on her stomach, causing a cloud of smoke to be exhaled from her cunt. The crowd loved it, but it almost made me sick. I was glad I was attractive enough that I didn't have to resort to anything like that.

The evening progressed, and I wound up dancing five or six more times. Each time it got easier in one respect, but harder in another. My feeling of queasiness about being naked on stage in front of a bunch of half-drunk men subsided, but, at the same time, a sense of irritation started to rise in me. Halfway through the evening the job had ceased to be so frightening, but it was getting to be a chore. As I danced, I started trying to make out some of the people in the audience, but no matter how hard I tried they remained a faceless, babbling mass in a haze of smoke and stale beer stench.

After my final turn of the evening, I walked down off the stage and toward the restroom, anxious to get into my clothes and out of the place, not because I was embarrassed by my nudity any more, but because I was bone tired and wanted to go home and get some rest. When I was almost at the restroom door, I suddenly became aware that someone was following me. Before I could say anything, he came up to me and said, "Could I speak to you, miss?"

He was about forty, as well as I could make out through the gloom, wore glasses, and was about five-three and weighed probably less than a hundred and twenty pounds. But he sort of appealed to me in that at least he wasn't some big gorilla, or one of the motorcycle freaks I'd seen sitting around the stage with their fellow gang members.