Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [59]
“So they’ll move good on camera,” Waboombas complemented.
Mindie blushed, and smiled shyly, again. “If that’s what they’re looking for. Good movement.”
“Are you kidding? Why do you think so many girls get the Pflemmels? They’re bank. They cost more, but he’s a genius. Still, the natural ones are—well, there’s no substitute for the real moosh factor. And they’re great PR. They can really bring in the customers when you dance.”
Mindie hesitated, not understanding. “When I dance where?”
“Wherever.”
“Like…at clubs?”
“Yeah. Any club. As long as they promote it well, you can make as much as five thousand a night.”
“Dollars?”
“I know a girl who made ten once.”
“In one night?”
“Four hours worth of work.”
“In one night?”
“For that much, you gotta do a little lap snorkeling, though. Maybe let the swimmer take a dive.”
“Lap snorkeling…” Mindie said, apparently somewhat confused, then a light seemed to dawn, and she took a deep breath. “I don’t think I could do that.”
“So you make a little less,” Waboombas shrugged. “It’s all good. Whatever gets your motor runnin’.”
Mindie studied her intently for a moment and then smiled. “Do you have a card?”
“I’ll write my number down,” Ms. Waboombas said, winking. “We can talk more about it on the ride down.”
Ms. Waboombas turned and headed toward the car, as Mindie hesitated, visibly torn. Her smile fell. I prepared to dive for cover.
“You’re going?”
Waboombas turned back to her and hesitated. “Aren’t you?”
I could see the wheels spinning in Mindie’s head, and the friction was heating them to a melting point. Finally, the combined oils of selfinterest and potential fame lubricated the grinding into submission, and her smile popped back onto her face. She held out a flattened palm indicating ‘wait’.
“Of course I’m going,” Mindie said. “Just give me a sec. I have to go potty.”
The word ‘potty’ obviously set Waboombas radar spinning. “Sure,” she said, smiling darkly. “Take all the time you need to ‘peepee and poo-poo’.” Then Waboombas laughed heartily.
Mindie hesitated a moment, looking at Ms. Waboombas, and grinning as if she’d just found a long-lost sister. Then, haltingly, my adoring fiancée turned away and raced for the bathroom, running through the door and into the foyer, where her shoe got stuck on something, and she fell face down onto the tile. Instantly—holding her nose, but acting as if nothing had happened—she leaped up happily and turned back to us through the doorway.
“I’m all right!” she said. Then looked down at her chest and back to us. “We’re all fine! We’ll still look good on camera!”
Chuckling, she bent down to retrieve the shoe. After a few moments of struggling, she gave up with a laugh and then ran off to the restroom, leaving the thing stuck where it was. Probably on some of Morgan’s Lollipop drool.
Wendy watched her go, then—shaking her head—she turned to me.
“Well,” the stately stripper said after studying me a moment. “I guess I can understand why you weren’t swayed by these.” A slight hand-wave indicated her surgically altered Waboombas.
“Of course,” she continued, walking toward the car. “In ten years, hers’ll be floppin’ down around her knees, and mine’ll still be right up here where they are.” As she opened the door, she turned and fixed me with an intensely sexual stare. “So you’d still be able to reach mine while I’m suckin’ your dick.”
GLOOP! Big time.
I nearly fainted. It was an ambush, and I wasn’t prepared for it. With Mindie’s arrival, I thought Waboombas had given up. I should have known better. The Nubian stripper was a determined juggernaut of preheated lust. She probably assumed there’d be some sort of orgy in the hotel room with Mindie, Morgan, myself, and whatever other interested comic fans we might find. And what comic fan wouldn’t be interested? Images of naked Simpsons’ Comic Book guys and their female counterparts all naked, greased up, and rolling over one another’s writhing flesh while reading out loud from the latest issue of X-Men nearly